Part 9 (1/2)

AGAIN, THE WEEKEND ROLLED AROUND. That Sunday, about eleven in the morning, the Yard Man opened the gate and came into the Building, walking with that slumped shoulder way of his, his back bent, his chest caved in, his head lowered. On the porch he paused to look up at Gator from under his eyebrows and over his gla.s.ses, his false teeth clicking and moving from side to side in his jaws.

Where's Luke?

He's inside, Boss. Playin' poker.

The Yard Man went inside. Rabbit was dealing, Luke and a few others picking up their cards and studying their developing hand. Everyone else glanced up at the Yard Man as he stood there by the table. But not Luke. He was whistling a tuneless rhythm through his teeth, idly rearranging the cards in his hand.

Without a word, the Yard Man dropped a telegram on the blanket, turned and shuffled away.

Luke looked at the telegram which had already been opened and read. He stared at it, threw in his cards, got up and went to his bunk. A few minutes later we heard Luke's banjo. He was playing very softly, picking out the slow melody of an old hymn on one string.

Koko found out what was the matter. He went over to Luke's bunk and found him sitting on the floor, his bare feet tucked up beneath his drawn-up legs. He picked at his banjo, tears streaming down his face and over his bare chest. Koko looked at the telegram lying there on the floor. Luke's mother had died early that morning from a sudden heart attack.

For the rest of the day the Building was hushed. Radios were turned low, voices were subdued. There was no horseplay, no yelling, no laughter. Luke was left alone to brood by himself, the rest of us knowing what it was like to be on the inside while our families celebrated and suffered, struggled and mourned without us. Luke could send no flowers, pay no homage, convey no sense of his presence to the rest of his family.

All afternoon he sat on the ground behind the Building, seeking what little privacy he could get, slowly picking out that same church hymn on the same single string. Boss Kean was on duty that weekend, stationed on the rear gun platform beside the laundry shed just outside the corner of the fence. He sat there with his legs crossed, the double-barreled shotgun across his lap, chewing his quid as he stared at Luke with a frown.

When the new week began on Monday the whole Bull Gang was tense and anxious. Everyone moved with a clumsy and hopeless concentration on his work. At Smoking Period everyone sat or lay on the slope of the ditch, looked down at the ground, sifted sand through his fingers or played with twigs. We were actually relieved when it was time to go back to work, feeling better with our tools in our hands.

Boss G.o.dfrey walked slowly up and down the road, idly swinging his Walking Stick with the handle hooked over one finger. At the far end of the line he would pause, swing his Stick at a piece of trash or a clump of dirt and then slowly begin sauntering back again.

At the end of the day when we unloaded and lined up on the sidewalk to be shaken down we could see that the light bulb over the open door to the Box was burning. And there was a night s.h.i.+rt draped over the top of the latticework screen.

Desperately we searched our souls. Who was it going to be? Had we Eyeballed? Were we guilty of Loudtalking? Did we leave a b.u.t.t or a match on the floor by our bunk or turn in the top sheet for weekly was.h.i.+ng instead of the bottom one?

The last ones to be put in the Cooler were Loudmouth Steve and Cottontop for bickering and arguing and finally fighting out on the road. The one before that was Ugly Red who found a bottle in a ditch with an inch of whiskey in the bottom. A guard spotted him as he tried to sneak a quick drink while squatting on his knees and pretending to take a p.i.s.s. But since then there had been no fights, no arguments, no broken tool handles. We were unaware of any plots.

One by one the Walking Boss shook us down. I could hear the man next to me let out his breath as he lowered his arms, turned around and began taking the things out of his cap and putting them back in his pockets. Then the Walking Boss was poking through my own cap as I held it up. Slowly I felt his hands rub along my upraised arms, down my sides, slap at my pockets, run down both sides of my left leg and then my right leg. A second's pause. A tap on the right shoulder. Then I too let out my breath and relaxed, immediately feeling righteous and wondering who had been the naughty one, the poor, mischievous b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had to suffer for his sins.

The Captain and the Yard Man stood about twenty feet behind us, waiting and saying nothing. Behind them stood Boss Shorty with his pump repeater. One of the trustees was busy putting a gallon of water and a chamber pot inside the Box.

But Boss G.o.dfrey continued down the line until the whole squad had been shaken down. Again we held our breaths, our stomachs tightening. Slowly Boss G.o.dfrey strolled towards the Captain who took a drag on his cigarette and spit three times.

With a faint growl, Boss G.o.dfrey spoke.

Luke. Fall out.

He knew what he had to do. Without a word he stepped out of line and walked along the fence down to the Box, pulling his s.h.i.+rt and jacket off as he went. Stepping behind the laticework screen he took off his pants and shoes, the Trustee taking away all his clothes as he slipped the old-fas.h.i.+oned night s.h.i.+rt over his head. Luke knew better than to ask any questions. Nor did he expect any explanations.

He stepped inside the Box. The Yard Man slammed the door and padlocked it. The Trustee slid the heavy bar in place.

Shuffling back to the gate, the Yard Man swung it open, his false teeth clicking as we counted through. Everything went on as usual. There was nothing for anyone to do or say. There were no questions to ask. For we all knew that Luke had been put in the Box because he might try to escape in order to attend his mother's funeral.

That night, when any of us got up to use the john, we took a quick peek through the bars and the screens on the windows before lying down again. Outside, the light was burning.

We all knew about the Box. We knew what Luke was feeling as he lay there on the rough wooden floor, s.h.i.+vering in the cold night air, slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed in, attracted by the light outside the grating. We knew that he was stiff and cramped and unable to sleep. He was tired and dirty from his day on the Road. He was hungry and wanted a smoke.

But we still didn't know Luke. We didn't know him at all.

One of the cooks told us what happened. Early the next morning, before the First Bell, the Yard Man went out with the cook and a guard and opened the Box in order to give Luke a few catheads, to dump his slop bucket and give him some fresh water. But when the door was unlocked and swung back, they saw Luke lying there fast asleep, his head towards the door.

The Yard Man flew into a rage and began kicking Luke in the face.

You son of a b.i.t.c.h! Stand up! Stand up when I come in! You hear me? Stand up back there like you're s'posed to!

Luke sprang to his feet, shaking his head, groping for the wall of the Box, blood trickling from a cut on his lip and streaming down the front of his night s.h.i.+rt. Swaying and blinking his eyes, he stood there, the Yard Man scowling at him, his false teeth moving back and forth and clicking in his jaws. Without a word, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

All that day Luke was left in the Box as we went out on the Road. After work we came back in, ate our supper, showered and went to bed. All night the bulb was still burning on the front of the Box.

Wednesday morning the Yard Man went out with a trustee and a guard. When they swung back the door they found Luke standing at the rear of the Box, his arms folded across his chest. The Yard Man started to grin but Luke cut him short with a growl- Shut the G.o.d d.a.m.n door, Boss. You're lettin' in a draft.

The Yard Man didn't move. He just stood there looking at Luke from under his eyebrows. Then his false teeth started clicking again and he slammed the door as hard as he could.

We went to work that day and also the next. Still the bulb burned on the front of the Box.

The morning after that the Yard Man opened up the Box, Boss Kean standing behind him with his shotgun aimed right at Luke's belly, one eye squinted tight, the double muzzles wobbling and jerking as the old man quivered, trying to concentrate and chew his plug of Red Mule at the same time.

Luke was standing at the rear of the Box, his arms crossed over his chest in exactly the same posture as they had left him two days before. Except that his eyes weren't quite right and his face was dirty and bearded.

Rudolph, the bloodhound puppy which the guards used for a pet was running all around, his long ears flopping loosely, barking and crouching, sniffing at Boss Kean's heels while he tried to kick him away without losing his aim or his chew. The Yard Man grinned. In his hand he held a single, heavy biscuit. He tossed it up and down, weighing it in the palm of his hand.

You hongry Luke? How 'bout a nice, hot cathead? Big eater like you must be hongry. Been four days. Ah reckon this would taste mighty good right about now. But d.a.m.n. Wait a minute. Little ole Rudolph here looks pretty hongry too. Cain't mistreat a pore, innercent hound that a-way. Tell you what. Why don't we split it with the pooch? O.K.?

The Yard Man grinned and broke the biscuit in half. He held one piece in his left hand. He held the other up over Rudolph as he barked and wagged his tail, sat on his haunches and gazed up at the tempting tid bit.

Come on, Rudolph. Speak to me, baby. Come on now. Be good. Speak to me. Speak! Speak!

Rudolph barked, turned his head and gazed sideways up at the biscuit. Then he stood up as the Yard Man fed it to him, eagerly gulping it down as he was patted on the ribs with hollow slaps.

The Yard Man turned to Luke.

Well, Luke. Here's your piece. Better eat it slow. There won't be no more till tomorrow.

Squinting his eyes into narrow, concentrated slits, Luke growled in a low, even voice.

Might as well give Rudolph the other half too, Boss. I just ain't much hungry.

The Yard Man pushed the side of his lower plate deeply into his left cheek.

Gawd d.a.m.n you! Ah'll fix yore f.u.c.kin' a.s.s! But good! Rudolph! Here. Here, boy. Boss Kean? You watch this man close. He's a trouble maker and has been known to be plannin' escape attempts. If he tries anything a-tall, you know the Law.

Furiously, the Yard Man slumped away towards the Captain's Office, his shoulders hunched forward, his head down. In five minutes he came back with an aluminum bowl of Epsom salts. He stood a minute looking at Luke, his dried and wrinkled face grimaced into a mask.

Drink this, b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And don't tell me you ain't thirsty. Ah know you're thirsty. And Boss Kean here knows you're thirsty too.

Luke drank the salts straight down with no expression at all and handed back the bowl. Then they locked the Box again. For three more days.