Father Bobby was sitting on a fold-out chair in the center of the large visitors' room. He had placed his black jacket over the back of the chair and kept his hands on his lap. He was wearing a short-sleeved black shirt with Roman collar, black pants and a shiny pair of black loafers. His face was tense and his eyes looked straight at me as I walked toward him, not able to hide their shock at what he saw.
'You lost some pounds,' he said, a trace of anger in his voice.
'It's not exactly home cooking,' I said, sitting down across from him, at the long table.
Father Bobby nodded and reached out his hands to touch mine. He told me I looked tired and wondered if I was getting the sleep I needed. He asked about my friends and told me he was scheduled to see each of them later in the day.
I didn't speak much. I wanted to tell him so many things, but I knew I couldn't. I was afraid of what Nokes and his crew would do if they found out. I was also ashamed. I didn't want him to know what was being done to me. I didn't want anybody to know. I loved Father Bobby, but right now, I couldn't stand to look at him. I was afraid that he would be able to see right through me, see past the fear and the shame, right through to the truth.
'Shakes, is there anything you want to tell me?' Father Bobby asked, moving his chair closer to the table. 'Anything at all?'
'You shouldn't come here anymore. I appreciate it. But it's not a good thing for you to do.'
I looked at him and was reminded of everything I missed, everything I couldn't have anymore. I needed to keep those thoughts out of my mind if I expected to survive. I couldn't fight through those feelings with every visit. If I was going to come out of Wilkinson, I was going to have to come out of it alone.
Father Bobby sat back in his chair, then pulled out a Marlboro and lit it with a butane. He blew a line of smoke toward the chipped ceiling, gazing over my right shoulder at a guard standing at rest. 'I stopped over at Attica on my way up here,' he told me. 'To see an old friend of mine.'
'You have any friends not in jail?' I asked.
'Not as many as I'd like,' he answered, smiling, cigarette still in his mouth.
'What's he in for?' I asked.
'Triple murder,' Father Bobby said. 'He killed three men in cold blood fifteen years ago.'
'He a good friend?'
'He's my best friend,' Father Bobby said. 'We grew up together. We were close. Like you and the guys.'
Father Bobby took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. I knew he had been a troubled teenager, a street brawler with a bad temper who was always being dragged in by the cops. I felt that was part of the reason he went to bat for us. But it wasn't until this moment that I knew he had served time in Wilkinson.
'We were both sent up here,' Father Bobby said, his voice lower, his eyes centered on me. 'It wasn't easy, just like it's not easy for you and the guys. This place killed my friend. It killed him on the inside. It made him hard. Made him not care.'
I stared away from him, fighting off the urge to cry, grateful that there was one person who cared about me, cared about us, who knew what we were going through and who understood and would respect our need for silence. It was not surprising to me that the person would turn out to be Father Bobby.
It was also a comfort to know it hadn't killed or weakened him, but that somehow, in some way, Father Bobby found the courage to take what happened and place it behind him. I knew now that if I could get out of Wilkinson in one piece I had a chance to live with what happened. Maybe I would never be able to forget it, just like I was sure Father Bobby had visions of his own hell every day. But I might be able to live my life in step with those painful memories. Maybe my friends could too. All we needed was to find the same strength that Father Bobby found.
'Don't let this place kill you, Shakes,' he told me, the bottom of his hands squeezing the tops of mine. 'Don't let it make you think you're tougher than you are.'
'Why?' I asked. 'So I can come out and be a priest?'
'God, no,' Father Bobby said with a laugh. 'The church doesn't need another priest who lifts from the poor box.'
'Then why?' I asked.
His voice softened. 'The road only leads back to this place. And it's a road that will kill you. From the inside out. Just like it did my friend.'
Father Bobby stood up from his chair, reached his arms out and gave me a long, slow hug. I didn't want to let him go. I never felt as close to anyone as I felt to him at that moment. I was so thankful for what he had told me, relieved that my burden and that of my friends could be placed, if we needed to, on his sturdy shoulders.
I finally let go and took three steps back, watching him put on his jacket and button it, a Yankee cap folded in his right hand.
'I'll see you in the Kitchen,' I said.
'I'm counting on it, Shakes,' Father Bobby said before turning away and nodding for the guard to open the iron door leading out.
SIX
Once a year, in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the Wilkinson Home for Boys sponsored a touch football game. Local residents were invited to huddle in the bleachers surrounding the football field, at a price of two dollars a ticket, with the money going back to the town. Children under ten were allowed in free.
But it was never about football. It was about the process of breaking down an inmate. First, the body was taken, ripped apart as if it were a tackle dummy, toyed with as if it were a stage prop. Next a young man's mind was molested, hounded until all he saw was a guard's face, all he heard was a prison whistle, all he feared was to break an unknown rule. Then, to complete the process, the guards would parade their creations onto a football field in front of the good people of a small town and play a game against them. A game they were too sick, too beaten up, too mentally ruined to compete in. All this to show off the perfect picture of a perfect institution.
The breakdown didn't work with all the inmates. But it worked with enough of them to keep the portrait intact.
The guards assembled their team much in advance, practiced as often as four times a week and had full use of the fields. The inmates' team was chosen the Monday before the game, eleven reluctant players selected randomly from the various ethnic groups, placed together and told to play as a unit. They were allowed one two-hour practice, held under strict supervision. It wasn't meant, in any way, to be a fair or equal match. It was just another chance for the guards to beat up on the inmates, this time in front of a paying crowd. And the way those games were played, you didn't need a ref; you needed a doctor.
Nokes was captain of the guards' team during my months at Wilkinson. Addison, Ferguson and Styler were players. My friends and I knew, without having to wait for a roster sheet, that we would be chosen for the inmates' team. Even Tommy, who had a badly swollen left ankle, the result of a recent battering he received from Styler. The guards were on our case for days, talking football, asking if we played it in Hell's Kitchen, asking who our favorite players were. It was just their way of telling us to get ready for another beating.
We were twenty minutes into practice, surrounded by guards on the four corners of the field, when I was tackled from behind by a black kid with braces and wine-barrel arms. My face was pushed into the dirt, grass covering my nose and chin. I turned my head and stared at him.
'It's touch football,' I muttered.
'I touch hard,' he said.
'Save it for the guards,' I told him. 'I'm on your side.'
'Don't need nobody on my side,' he mumbled, moving back to the huddle.