Eureka Man: A Novel (33 page)

“I'm still young and pretty and I have needs,
too. My body's still alive. One day I saw a mail order
advertisement in one of Wayne's magazines. There was absolutely
nothing dirty about buying a vibrator. I once heard Dr. Ruth
talking about it on Oprah. She said it was healthy for a man or
woman to pleasure themselves when their spouse was unable to
perform sexually. Wasn't it better than having an affair? I thought
so. Well, a week ago Wayne was snooping through my things when he
found my green vibrator in the bottom drawer of my dresser. He came
into the kitchen, threw it in a paper bag and smashed it to
smithereens with a ball peen hammer. Here's your goddam sex toy,
Marge! You're so disgusting! he screamed, and right in front of the
boys. Then he slapped me so hard blood squirted out my nose.

“You'd think it would get a little easier
with each day. But it only gets harder and lonelier. I cry all the
time now. I've had two nervous breakdowns, and now I'm taking three
kinds of pills a day myself. Probably will be for a long time. I
never had to be strong before. I just never had to be strong.”

WHEN WAYNE ST. PIERRE TRIES to remember the way it
was when he and Marge and their two boys were a family, almost
nothing comes to mind. He recalls dates and events and activities,
but he can't for the life of him catch what it felt like. He can
say, “I loved them so much,” but he cannot retrieve that love. In
his mind he can replay the scenes of intimacy, fatherly tenderness,
and family devotion, but they are drained of everything but the
words to say them in. All he can do is sit in his chair remembering
every detail of his ordeal again and again, not just because the
wounds won't scab over, but because the memory is all there is to
feel:

“I don't know what started that riot, or why
it started. The fellows I work with said it started because those
animals didn't have anything better to do. That's just what they
are, too, a bunch of animals. There was a time when I didn't think
this way, but I know better now.

“That Friday morning, I went to work just
like any other morning. I knew it was going to be a busy day.
Fridays always were. Visitors coming and going all day, off-duty
officers stopping by to pick up their paychecks or to get a dollar
haircut. Fridays were downright hectic. Anyway, somewhere around
ten o'clock that morning, I went on my lunch break but instead of
eating, I went over to the hospital to see a friend of mine who
happens to be the head nurse. While I was there, Betty, that's her
name, she gave me a new first-aid kit for the front gate area after
massaging a kink out of my neck. All I remember right after that
was coming out of the hospital and hearing the call over my
walkie-talkie that an officer was down and needed help. I
immediately rushed to the scene to render assistance. That's about
the last thing I remember.

“Don't talk to me about being fair. I was
more than fair. But you know what? You can't be fair to wild
animals. You know why? Because they don't have any conscience,
that's why. Think how it is, if you can manage it. Your nose
crushed and kicked upside down. Your teeth busted off at the gums
from the boot of a white trash nigger. Seven ribs cracked. Your
testicles crushed. Splinters all through your rectum and intestines
from a broken broomstick. That's what they did to me, those
low-life animals. I got two goddamn steel plates in my face! An
artificial nose! Pulverized cheekbones!

“That young white-trash nigger, the one who
kicked my face in? He's going to get his, one day. That
son-of-a-bitch maxed out his sentence last month! Can you believe
that! But I know where he lives. I got his address and one day I
might just find that white nigger and see how bad he is without his
other nigger friends. That black nigger who broke that stick off in
me? His days are numbered, too, just as sure as I'm sitting here.
There ain't a prison in this state where he's safe.

“Nobody knows how something like this affects
your whole life. Some of my fellow officers were beaten and
tortured, too, and they're already back to work. I'm not one of
them. With all the metal in my face, I get these god-awful
headaches when it gets cold. I don't leave the house much any more,
either. It ain't safe out there. My wife Marge wanted me to go out
to dinner on her birthday last week, and I finally gave in after
she cried like a goddamn baby for two days. When we got to the
restaurant I had to sit with my back against the wall so I could
see the front door. I can't stand to have anyone behind me.

“Lately my doctor's been dropping little
hints that I might soon be ready to go back to work. He's off his
rocker. Tell me how somebody in my condition's supposed to work.
Long as I got insurance and my paycheck coming every two weeks, I
ain't never going back in that den of niggers. No, sirree.

“Marge keeps bugging me too, about going back
to work. One day last week, she left a note for me on the kitchen
table. I read it and laughed like a goddamn maniac before I broke
every piece of china we owned:

Dear Wayne,

You know that I love you very much. But I
can't go on like this much longer. Please, for the sake of our
marriage and the kids, please consider going back to work. Or maybe
you could find a new job. I don't know how much longer I can go on
working two jobs and taking care of you and the boys when I get
home. I love you, Wayne, and I just want things to be the way they
used to be, that's all. Please don't be mad.Love, Marge

“That's what her note said. 'Please don't be
mad.' Well, next week that psychiatrist will be turning in his
recommendation as to whether I'm healthy enough to return to work.
If he says I got to go back, I might just drive down to the city
ghetto and turn vigilante. I might just kill me a nigger. Black.
White. It wouldn't matter to me.

“As for Marge, I'm not worried about her.
She'd never leave me. We made a pact a long time ago. Besides, she
knows I'd probably go off the deep end if she ever did.”

THE DAY THE PRISON REOPENED
, Fat Daddy
reclaimed Donnie Blossom and then proceeded to give him a vicious
ass whipping for reasons Fat Daddy called general principle. Donnie
reciprocated with a homecoming present of his own-a needle and
syringe and two fat balloons of heroin. Fat Daddy kissed him for
it, then got his last nod on.

In his mind, Donnie still watches Fat Daddy
careening backwards onto his bunk, his limbs flopping
spasmodically, as if a giant sledgehammer had hit him. Donnie backs
out of the cell sloshing the jar's last drops of liquid over the
bed sheets, the polyester rugs, and the two cardboard boxes
containing everything Fat Daddy owns. He thumbs back the lighter's
starter, touches the flame to a red bandanna and tosses it with a
deft casualness. The loud whump! blows his hair back as a ball of
flame shoots up within the cell. He stares at the ink-black smoke
freight-training from the doorway as he closes the cell door, drops
the bolt and attaches the lock. He takes the back steps two at a
time, savoring the faintly sweet smell of gasoline that trails
behind him.

DR. B.J. DALLET TRADED in her marriage and luxurious
home on a tree-lined street in the suburbs for a young sculptor
named Fiorenzo and a cozy studio apartment in the city. Resilient
and reclaimed, she is on the move again, healthy and transformed.
She still sees her star pupil, though only once a month now. Each
time, she brings him an armful of books and new friends. Now she
thinks of her simple needs: silk scarves, French manicures, a
steady lover. Now her fountain of youth is in the living, all
things in moderation.

OLIVER'S VINDICATION TOOK months but it came. He
would return to his old cell around the corner from Oyster, and two
tiers below Early. It was a glorious morning the day they released
him. For the first time in fifteen months he was able to go
outside, but the blessing was mixed. So violet was the sky that he
couldn't help contrasting its ultra beauty with the catastrophic
sight of a gutted courtyard. Gone was the little clapboard chapel,
demolished by the same yellow caterpillar that had dug up the
flowers and shrubs and sidewalks, that tore up the hundred-year-old
oak tree from its roots; that leveled the redbrick Home Block and
sliced through the sheet rock and two-by-fours of the Young Guns
Boxing Gym and the Free Yourself Law Library. The chapel steps
where the born-agains had sat on summer evenings praying and
gossiping were now lying upside down on a heap of broken walls in
the corner of the courtyard. Oliver was devastated by the
demolition of what was once a street with clean little whitewashed
buildings and a lovely church steeple for a skyline. Now the place
was nothing but a barren lot of packed dirt.

He walked down Turk's Street and stopped in
the education building to see Mr. Sommers and the others. Rhoda
Cherry welcomed him back and shocked him when she told him the news
about Mr. Sommers. Oliver's good friend and former boss had
recently accepted a position as an assistant professor at a local
college. “Mr. Sommers said he'd be in touch with you, Oliver. I'm
your new boss now. Other than that, nothing else has changed.”

At lunchtime he found Early, Oyster and
Peabo, and the four friends sat on a concrete slab where the third
base bleachers used to be. The air was cool. The pizza for lunch
was so fine. Four lifers sitting on a cold slab of concrete,
marveling over each other's presence, and startled by the gutted
landscape that used to be a neighborhood. When Oliver started
humming a Peter, Paul and Mary song, Early said, “My flowers may be
gone, but we're still here. What I can't figure out is where all
the birds have gone. Hasn't been a single blackbird fly over this
place all spring.”

“Or a pigeon, either,” said Oyster, “thank
the good Lord. We thought maybe your gallbladder operation had
something to do with it, Early.”

“That's the stupidest thing I ever heard,”
said Early, turning to Oyster and frowning.

“Why? You wasn't around for six months. Who
else was going to feed them? Hambone couldn't.”

“Hambone was in the riot too?”

“No,” said Peabo. “He tried to get pussy from
that she-cat he was feeding. The cat damn near scratched his eyes
out.” They all laughed hysterically.

After he took a deep breath, Oliver said,
“Maybe the stench of death is keeping the birds away.”

“That's as good a guess as any,” Early
answered.

To their right, manning the number one gun
tower, Sergeant Mervis Dewey eyed the glistening swirls of
concertina wire circling along the top of the wall, placed there no
doubt to discourage any would-be copy-cats. Better late than never,
Oliver thought. Standing beneath the tower was blind Milo tapping
his red and silver cane back and forth against the concrete. Oliver
stood and wiped his hands on a little paper napkin. “Think I'll go
say hello to Milo,” he said.

“Don't get mad if he calls you Knuckle Head
Smith or something worse,” warned Oyster.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“When was the last time you talked to
him?”

“I don't know. It's been a good while.”

“I thought so. Nurse Blanche say he's got
that old-timers' disease.” Oyster said, laughing.

“Goddammit, Oyster! How many times do I have
to tell you? He's got Alzheimer's disease, Oliver,” Early said.
“Oyster, that shit isn't funny one bit.”

“Who said it was? All I'm saying is he don't
know you or me from a can of paint.”

“Hey, lighten up, Early,” Oliver said.
“Sometimes a man has to laugh to keep from crying, doesn't he,
Oyster?” They sat in silence for a while, still appraising the
landscape, or lack of one. After a few minutes, Oliver said, “Any
good news you can give me, Early?”

“Yeah. I.M. White's black ass got
canned.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

HE MOVED BACK AND FORTH in front of the mirror to
catch a glimpse of himself. He was grinning. His green eyes were
shining and he was as eager and happy as he had ever been.

Fifteen minutes later he was wishing he had a
box of bonbons for the attractive journalist who strolled into his
classroom, swinging a tote bag at her hip, her canary yellow and
electric blue paisley skirt swirling around her legs. “Hello,
Oliver Priddy,” Hope Best said, setting her bag on the desk and
gliding toward him like an ice skater. “Someone we both know asked
me to give you a hug. Is it okay?”

Oliver glanced at the prisoners who were on
the trail of her scent and curves outside his classroom door. “I'll
let you know when it's safe. How's that?” Oliver said. He sat at a
desk in the front of the room and watched her tan legs disappear
under her long skirt as she sat cross-legged in the comfortable
chair he had arranged for her to sit in. She placed her notebook in
her lap and opened it to a page of handwritten notes. Oliver lifted
the back of his hand to his mouth and squeezed the soft flesh into
his teeth. He didn't want to derail her in any way-shake her out of
proportion to her naïveté. He smiled and said in a matter of fact
tone, “I hate to say this, but if a certain person sees you sitting
on their precious furniture like that I'm going to hear about it
later, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, my. Really? I'm sorry. I wasn't
thinking.” She smiled and gracefully placed her feet on the floor
and Oliver said, “You were just being yourself.”

For the next ten minutes, riot discussion
mingled with questions about his ordeal and exoneration, the
chitchat of daily life, and a shopping list of questions she had
written on her note pad. “You don't seem bitter about the frame-up
job they tried to pull on you,” she said.

“Well, the fact is, Ms. Best, this place is
run by a bunch of ruthless people who lie and oppress and swindle
the same way people who run your world do. I learned a long time
ago not to take things too personally because when you do, that's
when they really slam their foot on your neck. The trick is to keep
your eyes open and stay one step ahead of them at all times.”
Oliver grinned at her until she turned her head to the side and
smiled again. He thought it was the sweetest gesture.