The suddenness
of the attack, even by an eleven-year-old behind bars, startled the man so that
he flinched backward a step, the flashlight beam tilting crazily. He wiped the
spray from his cheek.
Chester laughed. “Scared-ass
motherfucker!” he sneered.
“Okay, little cocksucker,” the
man said. “Now you’ve done it.”
Alex didn’t hear. He was blind with
fury, spinning around in the cell like a dervish, seeking anything to smash or
tear. He grabbed the toilet-washbowl fixture and tried to get it loose, but
that was futile. Then he saw the mattress. That he could destroy.
It had no holes he could get his fingers
into, so he knelt and began biting the striped material, wanting to get an
opening so he could tear it apart and throw its innards around the cell. He had
just started to gnaw when the cell gate opened and the light came on.
The fat man came first, his round face livid.
Alex scrambled to his feet, the absolute blankness of moments before now
cracked so he could see enough of reality not to attack. Yet he was still too
furious to be afraid.
The open palm slapped him off his feet,
dropping him sideways so that his head whacked into the wall. He lay stunned
for a moment and then, sobbing with fury, came up and started at the man again,
who simply grabbed him by a sleeve and slapped him again, sending lights
flashing through his brain. “Oh, you bastard! Bastard!” cursed Alex through tears, his fury increased by helplessness.
The man grabbed the boy’s hand in such a way that the wrist could be
twisted, forcing Alex down on the concrete.
The second man was in the cell now, tugging
out the mattress. “We oughta make him do it,” he said, having to
turn the ungainly object sideways to get it out the door.
“Just get it out,” the fat man
said, his temper dissipated somewhat. “Settle down, kid,” he
said. He thought to himself, This one is crazy as a
loon.
Chester was at his bars, yelling:
“Brave motherfuckers! Sure are brave… you motherfuckers!”
The second man had the mattress out and
stepped back in. “Lemme go in there on that pipsqueak nigger,” he
said to the fat man.
“Not yet,” he said, releasing
Alex and going out the door. When it was locked, he announced: “You two
better stop raising hell or you’ll wind up in straitjackets. Take it for
what it’s worth.”
“Fuck you!” Chester said.
Alex said nothing; he was too frustrated by
his helplessness. Someday he’d get even with them—all of them. He
looked around the empty cage, wanting to destroy something. Again all he saw
was the toilet-washbasin fixture, and it was mounted too well for him to tear
it off the wall.
The alcove light went out and the corridor
door closed.
“Hey, man,” Chester called,
but Alex was too overwrought to answer. He knew his voice would be choked, so
he remained silent. “Hey, white boy! You think they’re fakin’
’bout straitjackets?” The worry Chester felt was obvious. Alex was
sitting against the wall in the darkness, fighting to compose himself, the
quaking sobs slowly diminishing. But the fury in his brain ate deep into the
core. Even when he calmed down, there was an abscess in his soul.
Chapter 8
Elizabeth Noble came to see him at
eight-thirty a.m. He remained seated when he heard the outer door open, and he
smelled her perfume before he heard her voice. He went to the bars slowly. She
was still wearing her hat and carrying her purse. Her dress was black.
“Alex, what happened?” she asked
plaintively.
He shrugged and looked down.
“The superintendent sent for me when I
walked in. Yesterday afternoon he gave me permission to take you… the
funeral’s this morning. Now he changed his mind. He got a report that
you’d been fighting and causing a lot of trouble. Now he’s afraid
you’ll do something bizarre out there.”
“That’s okay,” he said
softly, his voice hoarse from all the sobbing and screaming. He’d
expended too much emotion to feel pain
of the attack, even by an eleven-year-old behind bars, startled the man so that
he flinched backward a step, the flashlight beam tilting crazily. He wiped the
spray from his cheek.
Chester laughed. “Scared-ass
motherfucker!” he sneered.
“Okay, little cocksucker,” the
man said. “Now you’ve done it.”
Alex didn’t hear. He was blind with
fury, spinning around in the cell like a dervish, seeking anything to smash or
tear. He grabbed the toilet-washbowl fixture and tried to get it loose, but
that was futile. Then he saw the mattress. That he could destroy.
It had no holes he could get his fingers
into, so he knelt and began biting the striped material, wanting to get an
opening so he could tear it apart and throw its innards around the cell. He had
just started to gnaw when the cell gate opened and the light came on.
The fat man came first, his round face livid.
Alex scrambled to his feet, the absolute blankness of moments before now
cracked so he could see enough of reality not to attack. Yet he was still too
furious to be afraid.
The open palm slapped him off his feet,
dropping him sideways so that his head whacked into the wall. He lay stunned
for a moment and then, sobbing with fury, came up and started at the man again,
who simply grabbed him by a sleeve and slapped him again, sending lights
flashing through his brain. “Oh, you bastard! Bastard!” cursed Alex through tears, his fury increased by helplessness.
The man grabbed the boy’s hand in such a way that the wrist could be
twisted, forcing Alex down on the concrete.
The second man was in the cell now, tugging
out the mattress. “We oughta make him do it,” he said, having to
turn the ungainly object sideways to get it out the door.
“Just get it out,” the fat man
said, his temper dissipated somewhat. “Settle down, kid,” he
said. He thought to himself, This one is crazy as a
loon.
Chester was at his bars, yelling:
“Brave motherfuckers! Sure are brave… you motherfuckers!”
The second man had the mattress out and
stepped back in. “Lemme go in there on that pipsqueak nigger,” he
said to the fat man.
“Not yet,” he said, releasing
Alex and going out the door. When it was locked, he announced: “You two
better stop raising hell or you’ll wind up in straitjackets. Take it for
what it’s worth.”
“Fuck you!” Chester said.
Alex said nothing; he was too frustrated by
his helplessness. Someday he’d get even with them—all of them. He
looked around the empty cage, wanting to destroy something. Again all he saw
was the toilet-washbasin fixture, and it was mounted too well for him to tear
it off the wall.
The alcove light went out and the corridor
door closed.
“Hey, man,” Chester called,
but Alex was too overwrought to answer. He knew his voice would be choked, so
he remained silent. “Hey, white boy! You think they’re fakin’
’bout straitjackets?” The worry Chester felt was obvious. Alex was
sitting against the wall in the darkness, fighting to compose himself, the
quaking sobs slowly diminishing. But the fury in his brain ate deep into the
core. Even when he calmed down, there was an abscess in his soul.
Chapter 8
Elizabeth Noble came to see him at
eight-thirty a.m. He remained seated when he heard the outer door open, and he
smelled her perfume before he heard her voice. He went to the bars slowly. She
was still wearing her hat and carrying her purse. Her dress was black.
“Alex, what happened?” she asked
plaintively.
He shrugged and looked down.
“The superintendent sent for me when I
walked in. Yesterday afternoon he gave me permission to take you… the
funeral’s this morning. Now he changed his mind. He got a report that
you’d been fighting and causing a lot of trouble. Now he’s afraid
you’ll do something bizarre out there.”
“That’s okay,” he said
softly, his voice hoarse from all the sobbing and screaming. He’d
expended too much emotion to feel pain
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