Seven

James pressed his ear to the iron door’s peephole, listening, though this could be dangerous, for guards and even other prisoners had been known to play cruel surprises with pencils. But he wanted news. Probably everyone on the block was doing the same, whenever they heard footsteps.

He’d been transferred back to his cell from the infirmary to make room for the riot’s wounded. Today a total lockdown was in effect. James was still very sore, with a bandage winding round and round his abdomen. Walking was difficult; he hobbled laterally as if doing a curious, slow-motion dance. Upon his return, he eased himself with a little doglike yip onto his bunk, surprised not to be greeted by Mr Nice Guy. Where was that doofy fellow? As he fingered his bandage, hoping he had torn no stitches, he began to worry.

He fell asleep while praying, and slept as if dead.

The next day the lockdown was lifted at lunchtime.

When he danced out of his cell toward the dining hall, annoyed by a young prisoner who imitated his sidewise canter and mocked, Wooo, James, get down! (which, more than personally disrespectful, was nonsense, for Keepers of the Word did not dance), when he took his tray and joined the serving line, he was shocked at the signs of destruction, of smoke and water damage—puddles standing stagnant on the floor, tiles hanging precariously from the ceiling. Only then did the scale of the uprising become apparent. Word circulated (James did not hear it so much as absorb it through his pores) that inmates on the west wing, where the riot had started, were still restricted to their cells and would get no lunch. Meanwhile James and his cohorts were allowed cold sandwiches and Kool-Aid. In addition to the structural damage to this part of the building, there was the conspicuous presence of imported national guardsmen, standing along the walls as reinforcements to the usual guards. Many were scared-looking kids, with eyes moving from side to side and sweaty palms on gunstocks. The prisoners tried not to see them.

James helped himself to mustard, wondering who among the prisoners here today clinking silverware knew who’d stabbed him (all he remembered was being pushed on his face, then the first stab in his right side—so hot); maybe the one who did it was watching him now. The coward. He would find out sooner or later and when he did, he would confront that person, he would tell him that he was weak. Yes, he would discover his attacker, and he would not back down. Whoever it was would have to look him in the eye. And that person, regardless of what he said or did next—he could finish the attack, slay him on the spot—would have to answer to Yahweh.

He had other matters to settle, too, despite the pains still stabbing in his sides.

His tray full, James approached Myler’s table, and eased carefully into a seat. For the first time in years, he spoke to him:

“You seen Jerry? Did he get mixed up in all the ruckus? What happened to him? Where’s Jerry?”

Myler looked back at him, blinking through his wire-rimmed glasses, folding his sandwich into a triangle before biting off the corner. “Who?”

“Jerry!” James insisted. “White boy, a mush head! You know who I’m talking about.”

Myler shrugged. “I thought you were his keeper.”

Other inquiries proved as futile. It soon became obvious that inmates were reluctant to admit to knowledge of Mr Nice Guy or anyone else, nervous about the inevitable upcoming interrogations. It would be days, months maybe, before the various versions of the previous night got around and James could piece together a reasonable sense of what’d happened. “How many dead?” he asked.

This was the only question no one refused, though their answers were not all the same. Surely they were exaggerating.

“Tell the truth!” he exclaimed, and listeners, embarrassed, ashamed and exasperated, shrank from him.

After lunch, back in his cell, James listened at the door each time the guards’ steps came closer. When his trained ears recognized the six-step trudge of three people approaching, he thought: Jerry, is that you coming back?

The steps came closer, closer.

Then passed by.

James hobbled back to his bunk. He sat on the metal edge and for a moment couldn’t even muster the concentration to pray. He sank his teeth into his palm. Eventually he managed, “Help me, Lord. Oh help me!”

When Mr Nice Guy had been in the cell with him, he had never felt more crowded upon in his life. Now, he had never felt more alone.