Terrence
November 1, 1942
Mr. Blake’s question kept coming back to haunt Terrence. Yeah, the Japs killed his father, and he never thought he could hate like he’d hated that day he found out. Still, if he’d known that man he beat up—killed—in the park that day was Nobu’s father, would he still have hated him?
No.
So maybe Blake was right. It was a lot harder to hate someone when you knew something about them. Had something in common.
You could say he’d tried to get to know something about Carter, sort of. They were hardly friendly to each other, but somehow in the last month, they’d settled in on their territories in the cramped cell and pretty much kept to themselves. Didn’t hurt none that they both disliked the guards enough that neither would give the weasels something to hoot and holler over.
But in the cautious few words they did exchange, he’d learned a few things. He knew Carter graduated from high school. That was more than Terrence could say. And Carter grew up without a daddy. Not Terrence. Didn’t have that in common neither. Terrence’s daddy had always been around.
Though Carter didn’t mention it, the week before Terrence had learned Carter had a sister when a guard announced his mother and sister were waiting in the visiting area. A sister. Now there was something they had in common.
But when Terrence asked about the visit, Carter ignored him. Walked straight to the toilet, undid his pants, and pissed. Only when he zipped his pants back up, did he mumble, “That ain’t none of your business.”
So they’d gone another week, talking to each other only when they had to. Sure, it was better than the day Carter first arrived and said all those hateful things. But Terrence still had a knot in his stomach from the tense quiet. The kind when you know there’s things that gotta be said. But those things don’t get said—just keep building up behind a wall of silence that gets taller and thicker. You know one day it’s gonna explode from everything built up, but still nobody says a word. And more bricks keep getting added.
It wasn’t helping that they’d been in lockdown since two troublemakers fought in the yard. When other inmates got in on the action, the guards ran waving their clubs to break it up. Terrence and Carter just stood and watched, but everybody suffered for the brawl. Lockdown. No yard time. They even had to eat their meals in the cell.
So if he couldn’t figure out a way to talk to Carter, there’d be no one to talk to. That made the silence even worse.
Damn. He’d been staring at the same old algebra problem on that page for over an hour. Couldn’t make sense of it. His mind was too full of wondering when that brick wall was gonna come tumbling down and what it was gonna take to set it off.
It was time. Time to see if Mr. Blake was right about finding common ground. Way past time.
He scribbled out the hundredth math calculation he’d attempted then blurted, “I got two sisters.” He inhaled deep to slow his pounding heart. Okay, that’s a start. Now keep going. “Patty. She’s eleven going on sixteen.”
“Hey, man,” Carter said, “what do I care about your dumbass colored family?”
Terrence’s fist clenched. Stay calm. He scooted his chair out and put his feet on the table. Let out a long, slow breath. “Then, there’s my little Missy, she’s three. She loves to sit on my lap and listen to stories.”
“Man, are you deaf?”
Terrence fought to keep his voice steady. “What about your sister? What’s she like?” He wove the pencil through his trembling fingers.
“I told you, my family ain’t none of your business.” Carter flipped over on his bunk and faced the wall. “Now leave me alone.”
Time to push harder. “Guess your white-ass family ain’t worth talking about then.”
Carter bolted up. If his eyes could’ve shot bullets, Terence would be on the floor bleeding.
He fought the urge to up the aggression—shoot back. He grinned and forced a laugh as he folded his arms. “Aw, come on man. I’m just kidding around with you. Don’t be telling me you like this silent treatment we been giving each other no more than me.”
Carter turned his angry eyes toward the pillow he clutched.
Rocking his chair back and forth on its back legs, Terrence continued. “What’s it gonna hurt to tell me about your sister? I told you about mine.” Don’t stare at him. No eye contact. He watched the pencil weaving through his fingers. Come on, man. Talk to me.
Carter threw his pillow.
It hit Terrence and he lost his balance. He and his chair fell to the floor.
Carter burst into laughter. Laughed so hard he fell back on his bunk, holding his belly. “Sorry, man. I couldn’t resist,” he said, wiping tears from his cheeks.
Terrence picked up the chair and sat again, holding the pillow in his lap. “Yeah, that’s okay, ’cause now I got me two pillows.”
Carter sat up, alarm on his face. “Gimme back my—”
Terrence laughed. “Gotcha!” He threw the pillow back at Carter.
The sound of silverware clanking against dishes rattled toward the cell. “Supper time,” called the guard. “You boys are lucky. Tonight, round 2 of Lucille’s Meat Loaf Surprise.”
“Great,” said Terrence. “Round 1 was bad enough.” He figured Lucille’s Meat Loaf Surprise was a mixture of all the leftovers scraped from everyone’s plate the night before.
Carter jumped from his bunk and pulled out the other chair. “Hey, smarty-pants, you gonna clear off your mess so we can eat?”
That was about the most civil thing Carter had said. Least he didn’t call him a smart-ass nigger this time.
“Why you in such a hurry for Lucille’s Meat Loaf Surprise?” Terrence shoved papers in his books and stacked them on the floor. “You like it or something?”
“No way, man. But lunch was so awful I’m about to starve to death.”
One guard carried in a tray with two plates and dropped it on the table. Another blocked the doorway. “Enjoy, boys.”
Terrence stared at the lump of dried, brown mystery meat and the shriveled peas with cubes of orange carrots next to it. He poked his fork in the yellowish glop of mashed potatoes and it stood straight up on its own. What he wouldn’t give for one of Momma’s home-cooked meals. He’d never complain about having to eat her turnip greens again. Least they were fresh and hot.
Carter stared at his plate. “Don’t even know what bite to take first.” He tore at the meat with his fork. “I’d give just about anything for some of Ma’s cooking.”
“Just what I was thinking.” Terrence smiled. Maybe Carter wouldn’t talk about his sister, but he’d found another thing they had in common. They both missed their mothers’ cooking.
He took a bite of potato. Man, it was cold. Needed salt, too. “So what do you miss most about your ma’s cooking?”
Carter sneered as he chewed a piece of meat. “Aw, come on, man. Why do you wanna talk about my family so bad?” He spit the mushy clump out and put his fork down, plopped against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. “Fried chicken. I miss her fried chicken.”
Terrence’s tongue tingled with the taste of it. “Oh, yeah. My momma’s fried chicken sure is something to miss, too. But I gotta say I miss her pot roast the most. Shoot. In here I even miss the oatmeal she used to make me eat every morning, and that stuff used to make me gag.”
“Man, Jenny hates oatmeal. Wasn’t nothing Ma could do to get her to eat it.”
Jenny. Must be his sister. Terrence hid a smile that swelled from inside. Didn’t want to scare Carter off. “Heck. I don’t know anyone who likes oatmeal. Patty and Missy like Momma’s pancakes for breakfast best. Me? Give me ham and scrambled eggs.”