We were regarded, from the beginning, as a group that could be toyed with, partly because of our ages, partly because of the simple nature of our crime and partly because we didn't belong to an already existing gang. With other inmates, other groups, the guards drew a line and waited for that line to be crossed before they attacked.
With us, there never was a line. With us, Nokes and his crew could go on the attack at any moment, for any reason.
For us, there were never any rules.
It was the morning of my thirteenth birthday.
Our first month at Wilkinson had passed without further incident. Except for Butter – Tommy – my friends and I had lost a few pounds, due to the quality of the food and our inability to sleep through the night. My father had warned me that the noise inside a prison was, initially, the hardest adjustment, and he was right. The moans and groans, the constant coughs, the occasional screams, the flushing toilets, the music from hidden radios – none of it ceased until sun-up.
I was walking in the middle of a line of eight, coming out of a morning math session taught by a sleepy-eyed former drug addict named Greg Simpson. The classes at Wilkinson were, at best, mediocre. Most were overcrowded, often numbering close to forty students, the majority of them as openly bored as the teachers. English and history were still my favorite classes and, while neither of the teachers could hold a torch to Father Bobby, they at least attempted to get some points across. My friends and I welcomed the homework assignments since they gave us something to do in our cells besides stare at the walls or listen to the constant cries.
We were on the first tier, Michael in front of me, John bringing up the rear, all heading for the Tomaine Tavern, as the inmates had nicknamed the mess hall.
'Hold the line,' Nokes barked out from my left.
'Carcaterra, Sullivan, Reilly step out. The rest of you, mouths shut and eyes forward.'
We had, ever since the beatings John and I had taken, kept our distance from Nokes and his cohorts. We had withstood their steady barrage of verbal abuse, ignored their nudges, slaps and taunts. It was certainly our safest play and, as we saw it, probably our only play.
We stood at attention, arms brushing the sides of the iron rail, eyes straight ahead.
Nokes eased his body in alongside mine and, with a broad smile on his face, ordered the three of us back to our cells. He knew it was my birthday and began to tease me about it. He told me his was coming up later in the week and Styler's was soon after that. I tried to avoid his gaze, his breath coming on me heavy and strong. He looked drunk, his footing unsteady, his face red, eyes slightly glazed. Whatever was going to happen, I knew it wasn't going to be good.
Nokes stepped away from me and moved toward Michael. He stared at him for a few seconds and then tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the end of his baton, the smile still on his face. He told us he had planned a birthday party, a special celebration we would all enjoy. While Nokes talked, his speech slurred by the booze, a few of the other inmates on line began to giggle.
John and I were too 'scared to move and had to be pushed along by Nokes. John turned to look at me, his face pale with apprehension. Michael walked with his head down, hands at his side, powerless to help the friends he had always been there to protect.
We didn't know what Nokes had in store for us, but we knew enough not to expect a cake, balloons and party hats. The four of us had been locked inside the walls of Wilkinson long enough to expect nothing but the unimaginable.
I walked into my cell, Michael still in front of me, and found Styler, Ferguson and Addison sitting on my bunk, two of them smoking cigarettes. In the corner, wedged in between the bowl and sink, Tommy stood at attention.
Ferguson had his shirt off and kept his back against the wall. He patted Addison on the shoulder and winked, eager for the fun to begin. Ferguson seldom initiated any of the acts against us, but once they began he joined in with a viciousness that belied his size and demeanor. He fancied himself a comic and was known to slap and kick inmates until they laughed aloud at one of his stories.
I looked around the room, heard the door behind me slam shut and watched Addison, Styler and Nokes undo their shirts. My body was wet with sweat and I felt weak enough to faint. I saw Michael open and close his fists and Tommy shut his eyes to all movement. I heard John start to wheeze, his breath coming in small bursts.
Nokes pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and asked me if I liked surprises. When I answered no, they all shared a long, loud laugh. Ferguson came off the cot and rubbed the palm of his hand across my face as he asked how old I now was.
'Thirteen,' I said.
Addison pointed a finger in Tommy's direction and ordered him to turn and face the wall. Tommy, moving slowly, did as he was told.
Ferguson moved away from me and ordered both John and Michael to do the same. They walked to the wall furthest from the bunk and turned their faces to it.
Nokes, cigarette dangling from his mouth, tossed one arm casually over my shoulders. Addison put out his cigarette and checked his watch, moving back, closer to my bunk, leaving Nokes with all the free room he wanted.
My eyelids moved like shutters, trying to block out the droplets of sweat falling into them. My voice cracked from fear and nerves. 'What do you want?' I managed to ask.
'A blow job,' Nokes said.
I don't remember much more about that day. I remember being forced down to my knees, closing my eyes, my consciousness, to all but the laughter and jeers. I remember Nokes' sweaty hands holding the back of my head. I remember feeling numb and wishing they would kill me before the night was over.
I never spoke to my friends about it, nor did they ever mention it to me. We tried as best we could to annihilate those moments – which occurred with dulling regularity after that birthday morning – as deep inside ourselves as possible. To this day, no clear picture of the sexual abuse we endured at the Wilkinson Home for Boys has surfaced in my mind. I have buried it as deep as it can possibly go. But it is there and it will always be there, no matter how hard I work at blocking it out. It occasionally surfaces, not during my most violent nightmares, of which there have been many, but in softer moments. It will show itself across more innocent images – a glimpse of a uniform, the sounds of a man's laugh, a darkened room, the clanging of a fence. It lasts for the briefest of seconds. Just long enough to once more send a chill.
The details of those forced sexual encounters have been relegated to a series of stop-action blurs.
I see hands slap bare skin. I see pants torn and shirts ripped apart. I feel hot breath against my neck and strong legs wrapped around mine. I hear groans and frenzied laughter, my back and neck wet from another man's sweat and spit. I smell cigarette smoke and hear mute talk once it's over, the jokes, the comments, the promises to return.
In those blurry visions I am always alone and crying out against the pain, the shame and the empty feeling the abuse of a body leaves in the tracks of the mind. I am held in place by men I hate, helpless to fight back, held by fear and the dark end of a guard's baton.
What I remember most clearly from that chilly October day was that it was my thirteenth birthday and the end of my childhood.
FOUR
I was walking next to Michael in the outfield of Wilkinson Park, facing empty wooden stands. It was nearing Thanksgiving and the weather was taking a cold turn. We wore thin pea-green jackets above our prison issues, hands shoved inside the pockets of our pants.
We had been inside Wilkinson for two months. Ten months of our sentences remained. In that short span of time, the guards at Wilkinson had beaten our bodies and had weakened our minds. All that was left was the strength of our spirit and I knew it wouldn't take much longer for that last part to go.