there isn’t anybody decent, but as of today I take that back. By accident I met a nice fellow who knows French (reads and speaks it) so now I have someone to practice with. His name is Max Sampson, he is about my age, tall, dark-haired, and very pale. More about the pallor when I see you. He is in B-block, but I think I can visit him when I like.
Then Carter realized he had nothing more to say about Max, because he didn’t know anything more, except the bit about his French mother.
In the next days, Carter still did not learn much more about Max, but their twenty- or twenty-five minute meetings in Max’s cell were the highspots of Carter’s day. Max’s cellmate was a large, good-natured Negro, who couldn’t understand more than “oui” of their French, but he kept out of their way in the upper bunk while Carter was with Max, and read his old worn-out comic books or listened to the earphones. Carter’s letters were now full of Max, and he talked about Max to Hazel when he saw her on Sundays. To Carter’s surprise, Hazel seemed almost resentful of his new friend.
“I thought you wanted me to find someone I liked in this hellhole,” Carter said.
“Do you realize that out of nearly twenty minutes you’ve spent more than ten talking about him?” Hazel smiled, but her annoyance was plain.
“I’m sorry. It’s a dull life I lead here, darling. Had you rather I talked about—oh, say, the couple of dimwits in the ward now who nearly blinded themselves drinking alcohol from the typewriter repair shop?” Carter laughed. He laughed more easily since meeting Max. “I’d like you to meet Max. He’s— Well, I think from a woman’s point of view, he’s not even bad-looking.”
But Hazel was never to meet Max. She might have met him by asking to see him one Sunday, by stating that she was a friend, and Carter thought of this, but Max declined it. “Oh, I think it’s better if I don’t. Bad luck,” he said in English, so Carter never proposed it again. He had not proposed it to Hazel either, sensing that she would say no also. Hazel could never see Max even in the visiting room, because Max never had any visitors. He had no family, he said, and the only person who had ever visited him was his former landlord, a man who had rented a room in his house to him just before Max went to prison. He had come twice to the prison, but that had been in Max’s first year. Still, Carter thought it spoke well for Max that his last landlord had visited him twice. But Carter asked no questions about Max’s past. Max had asked none about his, but he had noticed Carter’s thumbs, knew what had caused their deformity, and had said only, “This is a cruel place,” in a tone of resignation, in French.
Max and Carter went to the movie together on Saturday and Sunday nights. It was good to have someone beside him who thought the films just as mediocre as he did. Their friendship was noticed, of course, by some of the guards as well as many inmates. Some of the inmates assumed they were homosexual, and made comments to Carter’s face and behind his back, within his hearing. Carter was not bothered by the comments, but he was a little concerned about what they might lead to. Some inmates took a pleasure in beating up men who engaged in homosexual practices. Carter was careful to look behind him as he walked to Max’s cell block in the afternoons, lest anybody jump on him. The door of Max’s cell was always open when he was there—not that one could not have seen through its bars, anyway—and the Negro was there, too. Carter realized he had never even touched Max, even to shake hands.
“Studying forgery?” the guard in Max’s cell block asked one afternoon as he let Carter by.
“Forgery?”
“I seen you writing sometimes in there.” He nodded toward Max’s cell. “He’s a good forger, Max. One of the best.” The guard smiled.
Carter waved a hand, tried to smile, and went on. He thought of Max’s slow, clear
Then Carter realized he had nothing more to say about Max, because he didn’t know anything more, except the bit about his French mother.
In the next days, Carter still did not learn much more about Max, but their twenty- or twenty-five minute meetings in Max’s cell were the highspots of Carter’s day. Max’s cellmate was a large, good-natured Negro, who couldn’t understand more than “oui” of their French, but he kept out of their way in the upper bunk while Carter was with Max, and read his old worn-out comic books or listened to the earphones. Carter’s letters were now full of Max, and he talked about Max to Hazel when he saw her on Sundays. To Carter’s surprise, Hazel seemed almost resentful of his new friend.
“I thought you wanted me to find someone I liked in this hellhole,” Carter said.
“Do you realize that out of nearly twenty minutes you’ve spent more than ten talking about him?” Hazel smiled, but her annoyance was plain.
“I’m sorry. It’s a dull life I lead here, darling. Had you rather I talked about—oh, say, the couple of dimwits in the ward now who nearly blinded themselves drinking alcohol from the typewriter repair shop?” Carter laughed. He laughed more easily since meeting Max. “I’d like you to meet Max. He’s— Well, I think from a woman’s point of view, he’s not even bad-looking.”
But Hazel was never to meet Max. She might have met him by asking to see him one Sunday, by stating that she was a friend, and Carter thought of this, but Max declined it. “Oh, I think it’s better if I don’t. Bad luck,” he said in English, so Carter never proposed it again. He had not proposed it to Hazel either, sensing that she would say no also. Hazel could never see Max even in the visiting room, because Max never had any visitors. He had no family, he said, and the only person who had ever visited him was his former landlord, a man who had rented a room in his house to him just before Max went to prison. He had come twice to the prison, but that had been in Max’s first year. Still, Carter thought it spoke well for Max that his last landlord had visited him twice. But Carter asked no questions about Max’s past. Max had asked none about his, but he had noticed Carter’s thumbs, knew what had caused their deformity, and had said only, “This is a cruel place,” in a tone of resignation, in French.
Max and Carter went to the movie together on Saturday and Sunday nights. It was good to have someone beside him who thought the films just as mediocre as he did. Their friendship was noticed, of course, by some of the guards as well as many inmates. Some of the inmates assumed they were homosexual, and made comments to Carter’s face and behind his back, within his hearing. Carter was not bothered by the comments, but he was a little concerned about what they might lead to. Some inmates took a pleasure in beating up men who engaged in homosexual practices. Carter was careful to look behind him as he walked to Max’s cell block in the afternoons, lest anybody jump on him. The door of Max’s cell was always open when he was there—not that one could not have seen through its bars, anyway—and the Negro was there, too. Carter realized he had never even touched Max, even to shake hands.
“Studying forgery?” the guard in Max’s cell block asked one afternoon as he let Carter by.
“Forgery?”
“I seen you writing sometimes in there.” He nodded toward Max’s cell. “He’s a good forger, Max. One of the best.” The guard smiled.
Carter waved a hand, tried to smile, and went on. He thought of Max’s slow, clear
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