Eureka Man: A Novel (34 page)

“I don't know what's wrong with the world,”
she said. “You're so right. Many of the people I work with make
good money and have great job security, but they still want more.
And what they want is power. Thank goodness you kept good
records.”

“That and the fact that I had a boss who was
decent enough to keep looking for them.”

“I was hoping you would start off by giving
me a clearer sense of what prison life is like, Oliver. None of the
movies I've ever seen get beyond what I think are stereotypes. Like
how prisoners deal with loneliness and family relationships, when
loved ones die, how friendships are formed, and things like that.
Then later you can tell me all about your educational experiences.
Oh, and I've heard so much about your award-winning poem. You must
read it to me later. Let's see, what else is there?” She looked
down at her notes. “Also, if you would, tell me what words like
rehabilitation and remorse mean to you.”

“Okay, I'll start with loneliness. Every
prisoner deals with loneliness in his own way. It's been a long
time since I've been lonely. I keep extremely busy. Going on
thirteen years now I've had the most fantastic love affair with
higher learning and it has turned my entire prison experience into
a university. I have a few good friends in here who I wouldn't
trade for anything in the world. This is the only life we have now,
so we try to make the best of it. We've learned to appreciate
little things like the steady rhythm of a rubber ball bouncing
against the wall or a pair of dice clicking on the sidewalks, the
smell of freshly mowed grass, a clear blue sky speckled with birds.
And color. Every prisoner I know is crazy about color. Burgundy red
blood on the sidewalk, pink chips in the sky, the Kelly-green
sleeves of a secretary's blouse, any color you can think of strikes
us with awe.” He paused and took out two tea bags from his shirt
pocket. “A little birdie told me you like to drink herbal tea,” he
said, grinning at her. “How many sugars you take?”

“Two, please.”

“I'll be right back.”

Two minutes later he returned with two
steaming hot mugs of water. He set his down and moved the tea bag
up and down in B.J. Dallet's blue ceramic mug. He handed it to her
and said, “As I was saying, the thing about loneliness is that
everyone has his own way of dealing with it. Some stay busy and
active and that seems to work for them. Some go crazy and do
themselves in. And some resort to homosexuality. Men kill over that
stuff in here, and get killed too.” He paused for a few seconds and
then lowered his voice when he went on. “And in case you didn't
know it, there are real-life love affairs in this place, too, just
like anywhere else. A secretary, a teacher, a nurse, a female
guard, or any other willing woman, can ease the pain in a man's
groin and at the same time ease the I'm-so-lonesome-I-could-die
stuff in his head.” Oliver paused again to give her a chance to ask
another question and when she didn't, his serious stare turned into
a smile as he said, “Now as to your inquiries about rehabilitation
and remorse, no offense now. Those are important sounding subjects,
but addressing them in generalities won't tell you much about what
you want to know. I take it you want to hear more than some old
cliche about how every man is a road to himself, or how the most
contrite heart can never undo one's gravest wrongs, don't you?”

“You got it,” she said, her jaw hanging. She
was mesmerized.

“Okay. I don't want anyone to ever think if I
died in here tomorrow my life was a waste or in any way absent of
worth. I gotta tell you, Ms. Best, the love and support I've been
blessed with over these years has been more profound than you can
imagine. The care given to me by my family and professors and
friends has been unflinching and unconditional, and that love and
care has surrounded me so thoroughly that the dreams and
experiences I've had, the journeys I've been on in pursuit of my
goals, have made my life as fulfilling and abundant as yours or
anyone else's. You may not be able to fathom this, Ms. Best, but,
all things considered, I've led a pretty normal life these years
I've been in here. It's ironic as hell that I ended up in prison
and found my calling. I can't even begin to tell you how much I
love the art of teaching. And-”

“Let me interrupt you right there, if I may,
Oliver. What is it about teaching that you love so much? Would you
explain that to me?”

Oliver smiled again and shook his head and
said, “Yes, well, it has to do with the feeling you get inside when
you present a new slice of knowledge to someone and you see the
light come on when they get it. That's one thing. The other has to
do with the professional challenge of presenting information that
is completely foreign to someone in such a way that he or she gets
it, you know? And that's what moves me the most, this challenge.
Okay, I'm in prison, but being in prison does not prohibit me from
learning these things, and living life to its fullest. I think it's
nobody's loss but our own if we go through life failing to discover
that life is inside ourselves, not just in the world that surrounds
us. We can still discover all of its splendor, even in a place like
this filthy, dilapidated prison.” He stopped, surprised by what he
had said and how. Then, as if he knew her and her philosophy, he
spoke intimately to her, his voice soft and animated. “You know,
your name says it all. Hope Best. That's just what I do. I hope for
the best every day of my life. It's strange. I feel I know a lot
about you just from knowing your name. Like you couldn't possibly
go through life with that name and see the glass any other way but
half full all the time, could you?” He didn't give her a chance to
answer. “And if you yourself, as lovely and dainty as you are, if
you were a prisoner like me, you'd still be hoping for the best,
wouldn't you?”

“I'd like to think so,” she said in
wonder.

He paused to bask in the sunshine of her
smile. “I know you would, and you know how I know? Because I can
tell that you know that life is life everywhere, don't you? You get
it, don't you?”

“I get it, Oliver Priddy.” She was singing
her words again.

Once upon a time he had bragged to himself
over and over about his good fortune. Couldn't wait each week to
find her sitting in his classroom waiting for him to lead her into
his office for their private dance. He was thirty-four now and his
feet shivered for a two-step like never before. He wondered if this
Hope Best was the kind of woman who was free enough to snatch a
moment of privacy with him in the middle of a stupid, blind prison.
Would she two-step with him? “You know what?” he said. “I'm going
on sixteen years in this place, and I still sing and dance every
chance I get. Do you dance?”

“All the time,” she said.

“Slow or fast?”

“Whatever the occasion calls for.”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Sure. Any time.”

“Come on. I've got music in my office. And
after we dance you can sit cross-legged on top of my desk it you
want.”

INSIDE HIS OFFICE SHE watches him close the door with
a skillful backswing of his foot. He moves quickly to the window
and pulls down the Venetian blinds, angles the slats so there is
just enough natural light and privacy. She glances at the rows of
books on the shelves behind his desk and grows excited by the
names: Emerson. James. Frankl. Dickinson. Husserl. Frost.
Whitehead. Nietzsche. And so many more. Someone has fed his mind
well. The sparkling fringes of her electric blue and yellow skirt
swish and glide to the music that has already begun to play in her
head. He picks up a shoebox of cassette tapes, says, “How about a
little Otis Redding?” She answers, “Excellent choice.” He inserts
the tape, presses fast forward and stops before his favorite song,
“Try a Little Tenderness.”

The horns begin and she imitates blowing a
slide trombone. When her arm is fully extended, she curtsies like a
little girl and closes in on him. He embraces her, his footwork is
flawless, his hold on her firm and confident. Never mind the tinny
tone of the speaker, they are dancing alone. She is floating
inwardly, remembering other such joys. Boardwalks and stuffed
tigers. Purple asters she left unpicked in her garden so others
passing by could enjoy them too. Bicycle rides and spinning
bottles. Breathing into the pocket of his shirt, she hears him
whisper, “Here we go.” Just then the tempo of the song picks up
and, hand in hand, they two-step, balance and twirl in perfect
timing. A slow jitterbug. “You're fantastic,” she says, and winks.
They are inward toward the other now, bound and joined by the sheer
fun of it all, a knowing glance, a winking eye. This is what is
beneath their private dance.

It's more than serendipity when a grown woman
who has seen it all, had it all, finds leaf-sigh rapture in a
private dance with a prisoner. Her sagacity tells her he is not in
that class of shifty-eyed criminals depicted in novels, with cagey
hearts and misanthropic motives, bent on assuaging their luckless
existences by hook or crook. Nor does he seem to be one of those
unfortunate casualties of fate who avoid complete self-annihilation
just so they can taunt the memory of a missing father or a
neglectful mother. She knows he is cut out for better things than
this. He has so much to offer the world. Not merely a prisoner in
prisoner's clothing, but a mind-free man in a drab brown uniform.
Graceful. Tattooless. Refined. A gentleman in every way. And
handsome to boot.

When the dance is over she says to herself
what she has no need to say out loud. That I have made friends all
over the world. Have touched lepers on a leper colony, bathed with
strangers on a Greek island, eaten roots with a tribe of Zulu
warriors. And now I have seen the bright promise of hope shining in
the eyes of a condemned man. And, oh the way he dances! How close
and loose he holds me, his fingers in my hair.

What she says out loud is how enjoyable that
was and would he read his prize poem to her now. Goose pimpled, she
sits cross-legged on his desk, blowing gently into her mug of hot
herbal tea. She sucks at the cup rim, closes her eyes and sighs in
pleasure. She can hear him breathing close to her as he begins to
read: “And up/ with the sun/ comes/ two four six/ purple irises
/swaying/ in the morning breeze./And there!/ one two three four
five/sparrows singing/in the rain gutter/ high above/ the red gun
tower.”

Thank you to Judith Trustone, my editor for ten
years, without whom the mentor-a-prisoner concept would not be the
success it is today. Judith, you are so sagacious. I am eternally
grateful to have worked so closely with you over the years. And to
my typists and early readers, those lovely Swarthmore seniors,
Satya, Melanie and Erika, I thoroughly appreciate all you did to
make this book a better read.

Thank you to: Cheryl Simo, Donna Stewart, Kim
Passione, Albert Benaglio, Theodore “Champ” Brown, Chuckie Redshaw,
John Minarik, Robert Faruq Wideman, Billy Boy Murray, John Pace,
Dave Myrick, George Halter, Michael Anwar Dukes, Earl Rahman Box,
Anthony “Big Jake” Jacobs, Little Charlie Block, Vincent Sharif
Boyd, Roger Button, Gary Gunn, John Mayfield, Tony Dunlap, Donnie
Wilson, Theodore Anwar Moody, Luis “Suave” Gonzalez, Chris
Reddinger, Wayne “Weezy” Kightlinger, Van, Doza, B.J. Withall and
the entire Withall family.

Thank you to everyone at the University of
Pittsburgh-Dr. Jean Winsand, without whom this book would not
exist; Dr. Fiore Pugliano, Dr. Harry Sartain, Dr. Bob Marshall, Dr.
Robert Sattler, Dr. Louis Pingel, Dr. Don McBurney, Dr. Alice
Scales, Dr. Shirley Biggs, Dr. Ray Garris, Dr. Ogle Duff, Dr.
Anthony Nitko, Dr. Maxine Roberts, Dr. Norman Graves, Dr. Janet
Gibson, and Professor John Manear. I also owe a special debt of
gratitude to Dr. Stanley Jacobs, my former boss at Villanova
University, and that awesome red-headed professor, Kathy Blood, my
“supervisor”, as well as to Mr. Rob Bender, my former DOC
supervisor.

Thank you to everyone at Acer Hill Publishing
and Amazon for their enthusiasm and dedication to this project. And
many special thanks to the truly brilliant Swarthmore student,
Christine Song, who created a spectacular website for this book and
my other works:
www.authorpatmiddleton.com

Finally, my deepest passion and thanks to my
Marta, for everything.

By Patrick Middleton

1. Who was you favorite character? Why?

2. Why do you think Oliver killed Jimmy Six? Did he
lose his temper or was there more to it than that?

3. Oliver's mother is a prime example of someone
deeply flawed yet somewhat sympathetic. After her second marriage
fails and her children are living with relatives, she ends up in a
sanitarium for alcoholics. Yet she shows great resilience. She
stops drinking, she remarries, and her life goes on. Do you think
Oliver's mother is as sympathetic or unsympathetic character?
Explain your answer.

4. Social scientists generally agree that a person's
character is shaped to a large extent by the environment in which
he or she is raised. To what extent do you think this is true for
Oliver? Also, do you think Oliver's character is altered, or
changed, by the environment he found at the training school?

5. Do you believe Champ is justified for his hatred
of white people? Do you think racism is inherent or taught?

6. Many of the characters in the book are deeply
flawed and at the same time sympathetic. Who is the least
sympathetic character of all?

7. There are also strong characters in the story who
possess both grace and wisdom. Who do you feel is the strongest
character?