Sleepers

'No,' Carlson said, stepping away from the blackboard. 'I don't. No one does.'

'There you go,' the inmate said.

'Then I'm just wasting your time,' Carlson said. 'Is that what you're saying to me?'

'You wastin' everybody's time,' the inmate said, hand slapping a muscular teenager to his right. 'Give it up and keep it home. Ain't no place for what you got here.'

Fred Carlson pulled a metal chair from behind the center of the desk and sat down, both hands on his legs, his body rigid, his eyes on the inmate.

He stayed that way until the whistles sounded the end of the period.

'See you Friday, teach,' the inmate said on his way out the classroom door. 'If you still here.'

'I'll see you then,' Carlson said. 'If you're still alive.'

I was walking down a row behind four other inmates, a black-edged notebook in my hand, a dull pencil hanging in my ear flap.

'You got a second?' Carlson asked as I passed by his desk.

'I do something wrong?' I asked.

'No,' he said, shaking his head and smiling. 'I just want to talk to you.'

I stood my ground, waiting for the classroom to empty, hands in my pants pockets.

'You did a great job on your book report,' Carlson said.

I mumbled a thank you.

'How come you were able to find the time to do the work?' Carlson asked, with a slight hint of sarcasm. 'Aren't you worried about staying alive?'

'I worry about it all the time.' I said. 'That's why I read and write. It keeps my mind off it awhile.'

'You really seemed to like the book,' Carlson said. My report had been on The Count of Monte Cristo.

'It's my favorite,' I explained. 'I like it even more since I been in here.'

'Why's that?'

'I told you why in the report,' I said.

'Tell me again.'

'He wouldn't let anybody beat him,' I said. 'The Count took what he had to take, beatings, insults, whatever, and learned from it. Then, when the time came for him to do something, he made his move.'

'You admire that?' Carlson asked, reaching across the desk for a brown leather bag stuffed with books and loose papers.

'I respect that,' I said.

'Do you have a copy of the book at home?'

'No,' I said. 'I've only got the Classics Illustrated comic. That's how I first found out about it.'

'It's not the same thing,' Carlson said.

'There's a librarian in my neighborhood, she knows how much I like the story,' I said. 'She makes sure the book's always around for me. It's not that big a deal. Not many people look to take it out.'

Carlson had his head down, rummaging with both hands through his bag.

'I gotta get goin', Mr. Carlson,' I said. 'Can't miss morning roll.'

'One more minute,' Carlson said. 'I've got something for you.'

'What is it?' I asked.

'This,' Carlson said, a hardbound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in his hand. 'I thought you might like to have it.'

'To keep?'

'Yes,' Carlson said.

'Are you serious?' I asked.

'Very serious,' Carlson said. 'You love a book that much, you should have a copy of your own.'

'I can't pay you,' I told him.

'It's a gift,' Carlson said. 'You've received gifts before haven't you?'

'It's been a while,' I said, opening the book, flipping through its familiar pages.

'This one's from me to you,' Carlson said. 'My way of saying thanks.'

'Thanks for what?' I asked.

'For not making me think I'm just spinning my wheels in here,' Carlson said. 'That somebody, even if it is only one student, listens.'

'You're a good teacher, Mr. Carlson,' I said. 'You're just stuck with a bad bunch.'

'I can't imagine being locked in here,' Carlson said. 'For one night, let alone months.'

'I can't imagine it either,' I said.

'It's not what I thought it would be like,' Carlson said, with a slow shake of his head.

'I don't think it's what anybody thought it would be,' I said.

'No, I suppose not,' Carlson said.

'Listen, I've got to run,' I said. 'Thank you again for the book. It means a lot.'

'Will the guards let you keep it?' Carlson asked.

'They won't know I've got it,' I told him.

'We can discuss the book in class on Friday,' Carlson said. 'That's if you think The Count can hold their attention.'

'He's got a shot,' I smiled.

'Any special section I should read from?' Carlson asked, snapping his leather bag shut.

'That's easy,' I said, moving toward the door, book in my hand. 'The part when he escapes from prison.'

TEN

It was my first time inside the guards' quarters, a series of lockers, couches, bunks, shower stalls, soda machines and coffee makers spread through four large rooms at the back end of C block. The rooms smelled of old clothes and damp tile and the floors were dusty and stained, cigarette butts scattered in the corners. Floor lamps, covers torn and smeared, cast small circles of light, keeping the quarters in a state of semidarkness. Dirty clothes were tossed on the floor and on the furniture. A large framed photo of the Wilkinson Home for Boys, taken during a snowbound winter many years earlier, hung in the main room.

Nokes sat behind a desk, its top cluttered with memos, open binders, a tape recorder, two phones, a handful of magazines and open packs of cigarettes. A thick toaster-size cardboard box, its center slit open, rested in the middle.

'You asked to see me?' I said, standing in front of him.

'Hang on a second, soldier,' Nokes said. 'I wanna get the other guys for this.'

Nokes lifted the phone off its cradle and pressed a yellow intercom button.

'Get off your asses,' he shouted into the speaker. 'He's here.'

Addison, Styler and Ferguson walked in from a side room, each in various stages of undress. Ferguson had shaving cream along his face and neck, a straight razor in his hands. Styler, naked except for a pair of white briefs, was smoking a cigar with a plastic tip. Addison held a folded paper in one hand and a slice of pepperoni pizza in the other.

They stood behind Nokes, their attention more on the box than on me.

'You know the rules about mail?' Nokes asked, looking up at me, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. 'About what you can get and what you can't?'

'Yeah,' I said. 'I know them.'

'You can't know 'em too fuckin' well,' Nokes said, a finger pointing to the open box. 'Havin' your mother send all this shit.'

'That box's from my mother?' I asked.

'I mean, look at this shit,' Nokes said to the three guards surrounding him, ignoring my question. 'Where the fuck she think her son is at, the army?'

'What the fuck is this?' Styler asked, his hand pulling out a small jar filled with roasted peppers in olive oil.

'The warden is supposed to clear the mail,' I said. 'Not the guards.'

'Well, the warden ain't around,' Nokes said. 'And when he ain't around, we clear it.'

'None of the shit I see would get past the warden,' Styler said. 'Ain't none of it on the approved list.'

'I'm sure your mama got a copy of that list,' Addison said. 'It gets sent to all the parents.'

'My mother doesn't read English,' I said.

'Don't blame us for her being stupid,' Nokes said, tossing a jar of artichoke hearts to Styler.

'Those are things she made,' I said. 'Things she knows I like. She didn't look to do anything wrong.'

'Other than have a jackoff for a son,' Styler said, opening the jar and putting it to his nose.

'Can I have the box?' I asked. 'Please?'

'Sure,' Nokes said. 'The box is yours. What's in it is ours. That seem fair?'

'Is there anything in there other than food?' I asked, my hands bunched in fists by my side.

'Just this.' Nokes held up a brown set of rosary beads. 'Mean anything to you?'

'More than they would mean to you,' I said.