Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

Seeking the escape of unconsciousness, Al lay on his bunk and covered his head with his blanket before rolling over to face the wall.

The sound of a key turning in the chuck-hole lock snapped Al out of a dream, though he remained on his bunk with his eyes closed. He had been dreaming of the past, a long-ago sentence in another prison. He no longer dreamed about the free world.

“Breakfast time, pops,” Martin said, stepping off his bunk.

“I know what time it is. I been doing this since you was on the titty.”

“Trays!” called a voice from the hall as a brown plastic food tray slid through the open slot. Martin handed it to Al and then took the next one and retreated back to his bunk.

Still foggy with sleep, Al set his tray on the edge of the sink and unsteadily crouched down by the chuck-hole. “Hey,” he said. “I need to see the warden.”

“I’m busy here, all right?” came the gruff reply from the guard who was already at the next cell.

“Look,” said Al, louder, “I want a request form. I’ll write him myself.”

“ You look!” snapped the guard. “The warden knows what’s going on. He’ll get here when he gets here. Now give it a rest.”

“It’s fucking pointless,” muttered Al. He rose, knees popping, and retrieved his tray from the sink. Two steps later he was seated on his bunk sporking lukewarm grits into his mouth. Grits and a piece of cake almost every morning. Looking up he noticed Martin staring at him. “What?”

“You got anything to read?” Martin asked.

The nerve of some people, Al thought. He waved his hand over the food that remained on his tray. “You mind if I finish eating?”

“No, finish eating. My bad.”

Al swallowed a bite of cake. “What do you want to start a book for anyway? You’re gonna be out of here today and you ain’t takin’ one of my books.”

“I’ll read as much as I can.”

The old man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pointed to his modest stack of books beneath the foot of his bunk.

Al followed Martin with his eyes as the guy moved toward the end of the bunk and began picking through the volumes. Al watched as Martin passed over a copy of the Koran, the Gita, some westerns. . three translations of the Bible, a spy novel, some thrillers. . and Al’s lone Danielle Steel book for those private times.

“You get lost?” Al asked, though he wasn’t really asking.

Martin stood up, a thick, tattered book clenched in his hand. “ Call me Ishmael ,” he quoted.

“ Moby-Dick ,” said Al. “Everyone wants to write the great American novel, but they’re too late; it’s been done.” He stared off in thought for a short time. “ Gatsby ’s a close second, but that’s number one,” he added, pointing at the book with his spork before flicking it onto the tray. He tore off a piece of toilet paper, wiped his mouth with it, and tossed it into the toilet. The cell was so small that he was able to complete the task without leaving his bunk.

“You got the trays?” he asked Martin. The trays would need to be handed back out through the chuck-hole when the cart returned. Usually, Al fumed until they were collected, cursing the laziness and stupidity of whichever guard was working the unit. He was ever impatient to climb back under the covers and vanish into his only refuge — sleep.

“Yeah,” replied Martin, “I’ll get ’em.”

With no clock in the cell, Al kept time by the meals that were served. So, when a tiny square of pizza crust coated with a thin layer of red sauce and a sprinkling of a crumbly meat-like substance arrived, he figured it was close to eleven a.m. He sniffed at the undercooked white rice, overcooked green beans, and a soggy oatmeal cookie.

“They treat us better than we deserve,” moaned Al, inspecting his tray.

Martin said nothing, lowering his head and shoveling food.

Al, balancing his tray on his knees, took his time eating. He chewed with his mouth closed and wiped the corners of his mouth with toilet paper after each swallow, as if he was dining in a fine restaurant instead of a seven-by-ten prison cell. He glanced at Martin who was already finished with his lunch. Next to him, Moby-Dick was facedown.

“Hey!” He pointed to the volume. “Use a fucking bookmark, for fuck’s sake.” Annoyed, he balled up his makeshift napkin and threw it down on his tray. Placing the lid over the top, he set the tray on the floor. In three short steps, he was at the sink, toothbrush in hand. “You past all that homo shit with the native?” he asked.

“Yeah,” replied Martin. “They’ve already shipped out, killed their first whale—”

“You know that book was based on a true story, don’t ya?” Al asked, cutting Martin off.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well, did you hear that in the end they all turned into murderers and cannibals? In the lifeboats they drew lots to see who would get eaten and who would do the killin’. The captain drew the straw to do the deed and the cabin boy drew the shortest straw.”

Martin shrugged, picked up Al’s empty food tray off the floor, and placed it in the chuck-hole. “I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.”

A smile spread across Al’s face. “Well, the cabin boy just happened to be the captain’s nephew.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“When the captain got home with two other survivors, he had to tell his sister that he’d eaten her son. The other two knew, so he had to tell her. There’s always someone who knows what you’ve done.” He muttered the last part more to himself than to Martin.

“I know what you’ve done.” Martin looked Al dead in the eyes. “You’ve got experience with killing family.”

Al felt an immediate shift of power in the air as the color drained from his face. “Shut your mouth, you don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“I know all about it.”

Al pointed a trembling finger in Martin’s face. “I did what I had to do.”

“You beat your father to death with an axe handle while he slept.” Martin shook his head, his face screwed up in disgust.

“The motherfucker was molesting my kid.”

“But that’s not why you killed him.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re the one who was gettin’ fucked and that’s why you killed him. Don’t lie. Not to me and not to yourself. You didn’t kill him for your kid. You did it for you.”

“I did it for my kid,” Al replied evenly. Saying it out loud made it so and he held on to that for all it was worth.

“For what he did to you,” Martin challenged.

“For what he did to my kid,” Al’s voice rose an octave.

“You’re a liar.”

Out in the hall, the other convicts, hearing the commotion, began pounding on their doors.

Martin continued, his voice low despite the ruckus outside the cell. “Come on, Al. It’s just me and you in here. Admit it. You killed him because he hurt you.”

“I killed him for my kid!” Al roared. He lunged at the door and latched onto the chuck-hole, knocking the empty tray into the hall. “CO!” he screamed through the hole. “CO! Get him out of here. Get this son of a bitch out of my cell! CO!”

Up and down the range the other convicts howled and banged on their doors, calling out in falsetto, “ CO, get him out of my cell ,” and, “ I did it for my ki-ii-d .” Their laughter, like that of hyenas, carried and bounced off the prison walls.

Al turned to Martin, his face twisted in panic and rage. “See what you’ve started? You’re the Devil.”

With a serene smile on his face, Martin replied, “You’re not that lucky.”