Tim Green - Exact Revenge

I was in jail eighteen years before I came here. I spent six months in the box. It’s been just over a year since we started to drill. The final week passes like a blink. Lester encourages me not to eat much. The thinner I am, the easier it will be to fit through the hole. That’s not a problem. I’m not hungry anyway.

It’s time.

MY HEART POUNDS against my ribs. I glance over my shoulder and up at the window. I see nothing but the faint reflection of bars. The moon is dark. Lester and I always whisper, but tonight our hissing can barely be heard. Our bunks are stuffed with quietly crumpled newspaper. We have saved our own hair clippings and stuck them onto the papier-mâché masks that Lester has painted to look like us. In each of our pockets is a small Ziploc bag that contains some cash Lester has hoarded over the years as well as a detailed road map of central New York.

I hear the quiet snap of metal, Lester twisting our escape hatch free from the thin mooring that held it in place. The other edges we have filed smooth. We have bailed out the toilet, draining it into the sink. The pipe lies on the floor in the corner.

Lester squirms through the hole and waves to me. I am naked, glazed in Vaseline. I pass my clothes through, then slip my head into the hole along with my right arm. My left shoulder gets stuck and I feel the bite of the steel. A bead of sweat falls from my nose. I squirm and a small noise sneaks out of my throat. Lester hushes me quietly and whispers that it will be all right. Relax.

I feel his twisted hands on my head and back. He turns me gently, the way a doctor will deliver a child, easing me through the hole. My hips stick, but only for a moment. I am out. I stand with my bare feet on the narrow iron grid of the catwalk. The stink of sewage rises up on the back of the exhausted heat, but my spirit soars. I stand there, greased and naked in this new world. I want to raise my hands over my head and cry out, but instead, I quickly pull on my clothes.

Lester has a black piece of paper that he tapes over the hole. We are in complete darkness now, but only for a few seconds. In his hand, Lester has a small bulb, taped and wired to a D battery. In this pitch, it sheds just enough light for us to see the twisted labyrinth of pipes and wires and ducts protruding from the cells on either side. The tangle of mechanical veins rises five stories.

Lester starts to lower himself through the space between the narrow catwalk and the cells. I follow him, and he guides my ankles as he said he would so that I will find the footholds that will quietly bear my weight. Even though Lester warned me against it, I look down. It is a long way to the oily filth, and I wonder if I will be able to keep from retching once I lower my feet into its murk.

Soon I hear Lester swishing around. My footing is fine, but with five feet to go, I grab a hot water pipe that burns my hand. I stifle a cry, but drop down, splashing back into the sewage. I jump up with my hands plastered over my mouth, but the vomit finds the seams in my fingers and my quiet retching continues for another ten seconds before I am finally able to subdue it. Lester stares at me with those big eyes magnified under their lenses even more in the thin light. He blinks and I shake my head apologetically. He looks up toward the empty catwalk, shrugs, and begins to wade through the mess toward the other end of the cellblock.

The going is tricky with the sediment below the filth sucking on my shoes. Lester is taking long steps that bring his knees briefly clear of the oily stink. My stomach begins to turn again. Beads of sweat tickle my forehead. I think I cannot hold down another convulsion when I see a brick tunnel at the edge of Lester’s homemade light.

Lester stops and dips down into the scum. He comes up with his claw hammer and holds it out for me to see. He is grinning. We climb up into the tunnel and crawl along in the gritty crap that lines its belly. I search for a manhole, but see only the long smooth stretch of sediment. Lester stops suddenly and turns around.

“What are we doing?” I say.

“I must have gone past it,” he says.

My head spins with that same familiar fear. My heart thumps even harder. The tunnel walls seem suddenly tighter.

“What do you mean?” I say. “How?”

“It’s here,” he says. “I missed it.”

“I thought you dug it up.”

“It’s been two years, kid,” he says. “The water rises up down here in the winter and leaves fresh sediment. Right behind you, there. Dig.”

I spin and start to claw at the soft muck, scrabbling like a dog until my fingers rake the bricks below. The stink presses in on me.

“It’s brick,” I say, my voice rising in pitch.

“Keep going.”

Scraps of mud fly through the tunnel and spatter the crumbling walls.

My fingers are numb. They strike something harder than brick.

“I think I got it,” I say.

“Here, use this,” Lester says, handing over the hammer.

I claw at the edges of the old steel plate. My heart starts to slow and my breath is coming easier now. In minutes, I have exposed the entire manhole cover. Using the claw on the hammer, I lift it up and shove it aside. Cool air lies beneath us in a vast empty space that echoes with the sound of dripping water.

“There are ladder rungs,” Lester says, his voice laced with giddiness as he dips the light into the hole.

I see more black water down below. The stench is richer down there, but not as sharp. I see the corroded metal rungs protruding from the brick wall. As I descend into the cistern, the hairy rust flakes off in my hands, leaving them dusty brown.

The water is cold and comes up to my knees. Lester eases himself slowly down and we wade the length of the aging cavern. The walls are alive with spiders that creep and sway under the glow of our dim light. A rat squeaks and scrabbles along a ledge above us, kicking free a swirl of dust into the halo of light.

When we reach the end of the cistern, there is another set of rungs that lead up to the large dark hole of the overflow pipe. The cistern collected water to be used for the women’s bathrooms. When the tank filled up during the wet season, the overflow let the excess water run out into the Owasco Outlet. When the prison was rebuilt in 1930, Lester claims the new wall had to be built around this overflow pipe because the women’s prison wasn’t razed until 1934.

We climb up and in. The pipe is wooden. Narrow, but smooth with only a small deposit of grit on the bottom. Two feet in diameter. Just enough for me to get through without jamming my shoulders. We crawl for a good ways. The only stench now comes from my clothes. The air is stale, but cool. In the thin light from Lester’s bulb, I can see a few feet in front of my face, so I don’t bump into the pile of broken brick and dirt, but when I see it, my heart constricts.

“It’s blocked,” I say in a hiss.

“I told you it was,” Lester says. “We have to dig.”

“How far?”

“Not far,” he says.

I begin to pull at the pieces of brick, pushing them under my belly, then moving the mound back toward Lester with my knees and feet. After a time, the pipe behind us is nearly blocked. Lester moves backward, spreading the refuse beneath him, giving me more room to dig.

A battle rages between panic and hope in my mind. I try to reinforce my will with sweet images of freedom. A walk on the beach, cold sand in my toes. Moonlight dancing on water. The taste of a thick steak, red wine, and a Cuban cigar. But it’s hatred that wins the day and propels me on. The bullet I will put into Frank Steffano’s head. The sound of Rangle’s whimper. Villay’s squeal. Exact revenge.

I work on.

We must be twenty feet farther than the original blockage. Our muffled coughs are snuffed out by the pipe and the dirt. My arms and hands are numb from their work.