“I understand that you messed with the wrong man.”
“Thought I told you: not another word.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
Ward reversed his grip on the shotgun and swung its stock. Ornazian looked away.
They drove south on Route 1, stopped at an IHOP in College Park, and had breakfast among nightcrawlers and University of Maryland students eating off their highs and drunks. Back out in the car, Ornazian counted out the money below the sight line of the dash.
“Eight thousand each, give or take,” said Ornazian, handing the shoebox to Ward. “After my expenses. I’m going to give a thousand dollars to Monique.”
“What else you gonna give her?”
“Say what?”
“You tappin that ass?”
Ornazian shook his head. “I’m spoken for.”
“Mr. True Blue,” said Ward. “Call me if you got something else. That was easy money right there.”
“It’s four mortgage payments,” said Ornazian. “That’s what this is about for me.”
“That’s not all it is. You like it. You ’specially like when we out here saving someone. Like that woman and her kids got kidnapped by that crew on Kennedy Street? You were all fired up on that one.”
“So were you.”
“Least I admit it,” said Ward.
“It was a job.”
“Nah, Phil. I knew dudes like you in the Nam. Had that hero thing goin on. Couldn’t keep their heads down, even though they knew better. Had to run to the action. Not for nothing, some of those guys didn’t come back.”
“That’s not me.”
“No?”
“I’m just trying to take care of my family.”
“You didn’t enjoy it tonight?”
“Not like you.”
“You talking about Theodore? You think I liked that?”
“A little,” said Ornazian.
“It was about respect. I told him not to run his gums. Boy couldn’t help hisself.”
Ward ignitioned the car. They drove back into Northeast, saying nothing further, the silence between them not uncomfortable in the least, as it is for certain kinds of men. Ornazian was thinking of his wife and children. Ward had planned a dinner with his daughter for later that day. He’d order food in. Maybe they would watch a game on TV.
Five
The book club was held in the jail’s chapel and available to the Gen Pop and Fifty and Older units. The first ten inmates to sign up for the club were admitted. The session ran for sixty to ninety minutes and was always full. Even if the attendees were not particularly book lovers, the session filled up quickly, as it was something to break the numbing routine of incarceration. Once a book was assigned, the inmates had three weeks to read it before the discussion. The meetings were led by Anna, the jailhouse librarian.
Anna provided a reader’s guide to the attendees complete with questions, similar to the guides found in the back of some trade paperbacks. The guide was just an aid to help them think about what they were reading and how to discuss it. When she passed out the guides she stressed that answering the questions was optional. She meant for the club to be enjoyable. The last thing she wanted to do was give them homework.
The chapel was not ornate but it was low lit and a quiet place to meditate, away from the cell blocks and common rooms. There was a lectern and chairs, and audiovisual equipment could be brought in if needed. A local nonprofit, the Free Minds Book Club, ran a reading and writing program in the chapel for incarcerated juveniles who had been charged as adults and were waiting to transition into the federal prison system. The juvenile inmates, who were housed in their own unit, read books, discussed them with visiting authors, and wrote essays and poems that were eventually published in a glossy magazine that was sold in coffee shops throughout the city. The group also produced a lively newsletter.
Anna’s book club was less formal, did not involve writing, and was strictly a program to promote an appreciation of reading. She had no illusions that she was positively affecting the inmates’ lives as a group. But she wasn’t sure that she was failing to do that either. She hoped to reach someone. Maybe just one. Like many teachers and counselors, all she could do was try to pull someone through the keyhole in the end.
She had chosen Of Mice and Men for this group of inmates, who were housed in the Gen Pop unit. It was a linear tale, cleanly told, and, with its overt symbolism, easily taught. She knew there would be much to discuss. The novel was too short to sustain a three-week read, and subsequently many of the men had read it twice.
In picking the material, Anna had to remember that the inmates had varying degrees of education and intellect. A good many of them had not graduated high school. Most were inexperienced readers. Material that was difficult or dense could frustrate an inmate and permanently turn him off to reading. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter had been notably unpopular. One inmate claimed that reading the McCullers novel had driven him to thoughts of suicide, and he was not entirely joking.
The men in orange jumpsuits sat in a circular arrangement of chairs, Anna a link in the circle. Among the group were Antonius Roberts, who had recently come out of the hole, Donnell, and Michael Hudson. The inmates held their paperback books in their hands or kept them on the floor beneath their chairs. Two armed guards were in the room in radio contact with additional security at all times, but the men in the book club were generally pleased to be there. Conflict was not on their minds.
“We should start,” said Anna.
“Let’s have our minute,” said an inmate named Larry who was up on felony manslaughter charges and had recently given himself over to God.
Most of them bowed their heads for a silent prayer. There were Muslims, a variety of Christians, some agnostics, and a few atheists in the room. Some closed their eyes, mouthed words, others just sat respectfully and waited out the silence. One of the guards said a personal prayer while the other kept watch.
“Okay, then,” said Larry, and the session started.
“Let’s begin with one of the questions on the reader’s guide,” said Anna. She had copied many of the questions from the Penguin edition in the back of the novel and added a few of her own. “Why does the book begin and end at the pond?”
“It’s a nice place,” said Donnell. “Like, a perfect place. The way the writer describes it. Lennie like to go there because it’s a peaceful place. He can dream in that environment and shit.”
“It’s like Eden,” said Larry. “In Genesis.”
“It ain’t all perfect like it is in the Garden of Eden,” said Antonius. “Bad stuff happens there. In the end part, that little snake gets snatched out the water by that bird. Remember?”
“That’s just nature,” said a heavy-lidded man who spoke very softly. “The strong survive. Just like on the streets.”
“The very first line of the book,” said Anna, “places the setting a few miles south of Soledad. I think that the author locates it there intentionally. Soledad is the Spanish word for ‘solitude.’ Does anyone have any thoughts on what this means with regard to the novel?”