Forty Lashes Less One Read online

  He cut his own face like that?

  Fisher kept staring at the Negro as Mr. Manly said, He saw it in a Africa book I got picture of a native with these marks like tattoos on his face. I didn't tell him to do it, you understand. He just figured it would be all right, I guess. Isn't that so, Harold?

  Yes-suh, captain.

  Same with Raymond. He figured if he's a full-blooded Apache Indian then he should let his hair grow and wear one of them bands.

  We come over here to look at spears, Fisher said.

  Mr. Manly frowned, shaking his head. Don't you see the connection yet? A spear is part of a warrior's get-up, like a tool is to a working man. Listen, I told you, didn't I, these boys can run fifteen miles in a day now and only stop a couple of times to rest.

  I thought it was fourteen miles, Fisher said.

  Fourteen, fifteen here's the thing. They can run that far and go from morning to supper time without a drink of water, any time they want.

  A man will do that in the snake den if I make him. Bob Fisher wasn't backing off this time.

  Mr. Manly wasn't letting go. Inside, he said, is different than running out in the hot sun. Listen, they each pour theirselves a cup of water in the morning and you know what they do? They see who can go all day without taking a drink or more than a couple of sips. He held his hand out to R. E. Baylis and said, Let me have the pitcher. Then he looked at Raymond and Harold again. Which of you won today?

  I did, Raymond said.

  Let's see your cups.

  Raymond went into his cell and was back in a moment with a tin cup in each hand. He drank his. See, I got some left.

  Then you get the pitcher of ice water, Mr. Manly said. And, Harold, you get to watch him drink it.

  Raymond raised the pitcher and drank out of the side of it, not taking very much before lowering it again and holding it in front of him.

  See that? Mr. Manly said. He knows better than to gulp it down. One day Raymond wins, the next day Harold gets the ice water. I mean they can both do it any time they want.

  I would sure like to see them spears, Fisher said. Mr. Manly asked Harold where they were and he said, Over yonder by the wall, captain.

  Tacha watched them cross the yard. The Negro waited for the Indian to put the pitcher on the ground and she noticed they gave each other a look as they fell in behind the little man in the dark suit and the two guards. They were over by the wall a few minutes talking while Mr. Fisher hefted one of the bamboo spears and felt the point of it with his finger. Then the superintendent took the spear from him and gave it to the Indian. The Negro picked up the other spear from against the wall and they came back this way, toward the cells, at least a dozen paces before turning around. Beyond them, the group moved away from the upright board. The Indian and the Negro faced the target for a moment, then stepped back several more feet, noticing Tacha now in the doorway of her cell.

  She said, You're going to hit that, way down there? Not today, Raymond answered.

  Everyone in the yard was watching them now. They raised the spears shoulder high, took aim with their outstretched left arms pointing, and threw them hard in a low arc, almost at the same moment. Both spears fell short and skidded along the ground past the board to stop at the base of the wall.

  Raymond and Harold waited. In the group across the yard Mr. Manly seemed to be doing the talking, gesturing with his hands. He was facing Bob Fisher and did not look over this way. After a few minutes they left the yard, and now Mr. Manly, as he went through the gate last, looked over and waved.

  Well, Raymond said he stooped to pick up the tin pitcher who wants some ice water?

  Within a few days Tacha realized that, since moving to the TB cellblock, she felt better whether it made sense or not. Maybe part of the feeling was being outside most of the day and not bent over a sewing machine listening to Norma or trying to talk to the old man. Already that seemed like a long time ago. She was happier now. She even enjoyed being with the tubercular convicts and didn't mind the way they talked to her sometimes, saying she was a pretty good nurse though they would sure rather have her be something else. They needed to talk like men so she smiled and didn't take anything they said as an offense.

  In the afternoon the Apache and the Zulu would come in through the gate, walking slowly, carrying their shirts. One of the tubercular convicts would yell over, asking how far they had run and one or the other would tell them twelve, fifteen, sixteen miles. They would drink the water in their cups. One of the convicts would fill the cups again from the bucket they kept in the shade. After drinking the second cup they would decide who the winner would be that day and pour just a little more water into his cup, leaving the other one empty. The TB convicts got a kick out of this and always laughed. Every day it was the same. They drank the water and then went into the cell to lie on their bunks. In less than an hour the TB convicts would be yelling for them to come out and start throwing their spears. They would get out their money or rolled cigarettes when the Apache and the Zulu appeared and, after letting them warm up a few minutes, at least two of the convicts would bet on every throw. Later on, after the work crews were in for the day, there would be convicts over from the main yard watching through the gate. None of them ever came into the TB yard. They were betting too and would yell at the Apache and the Zulu calling them by those names to hit the board, cut the son of a bitch dead center. Frank Shelby appeared at the gate only once. After that the convicts had to pay to watch and make bets. Soonzy, Junior, and Joe Dean were at the grillwork every day during free time.

  Harold Jackson, the Zulu, walked over to the gate one time. He said, How come we do all the work, you make all the money?

  Junior told him to get back over there and start throwing his goddamn spear or whatever it was.

  Harold let the convicts get a good look at his face scars before he walked away. After the next throw, when he and Raymond were pulling their spears out of the board, Harold said, Somebody always telling you what to do, huh?

  Every place you go, Raymond said.

  They were good with the spears. Though when the convicts from the outside yard were at the gate watching they never threw from farther than thirty-five feet away, or tried to place the spears in a particular part of the board. If they wanted to, they could hit the board high or low at the same time.

  It was Tacha who noticed their work shoes coming apart from the running and made moccasins for them, sewing them by hand calf-high Apache moccasins she fashioned out of old leather water bags and feed sacks.

  And it was Tacha who told Raymond he should put war paint on his face. He wasn't scarey enough looking.

  Where do you get war paint? Raymond asked her. At the store?

  I think from berries.

  Well, I don't see no berries around here.

  The next day she got iodine and a can of white enamel from the sick ward and, after supper, sat Raymond on a stool and painted a white streak across the bridge of his nose from cheekbone to cheekbone, and orange-red iodine stripes along the jawline to his chin.

  Harold Jackson liked it, so Tacha painted a white stripe across his forehead and another one down between his eyes to the tip of his nose.

  Hey, we waryers now, Raymond said.

  They looked at themselves in Tacha's hand mirror and both of them grinned. They were pretty mean-looking boys. Harold said, Lady, what else do these waryers put on?

  Tacha said she guessed anything they wanted. She opened a little sack and gave Raymond two strands of turquoise beads, a string for around his neck and another string, doubled, for around his right arm, up high.

  She asked Harold if he wanted a ring for his nose. He said no, thank you, lady, but remembered Mr. Manly talking about the Zulus putting chunks of sugar cane in their ear lobes and he let Tacha pierce one of his ears and attach a single gold earring. It looked good with the tribal scars and the mustache that curved into a short beard. All I need me is a lion to spear, Harold said. He was Harold Jackson the Zu
lu, and he could feel it without looking in the mirror.

  He didn't talk to Raymond about the feeling because he knew Raymond, in a way of his own, Raymond the Apache, had the same feeling. In front of the convicts who watched them throw spears or in front of the two guards who took them out to run, Harold could look at Raymond, their eyes would meet for a moment and each knew what the other was thinking. They didn't talk very much, even to each other. They walked slowly and seemed to expend no extra effort in their movements. They knew they could do something no other men in the prison could do they could run all day and go without water and it was part of the good feeling.

  They began to put fresh paint on their faces almost every day, in the afternoon before they threw the spears.

  Chapter 10

  The evening Junior and Joe Dean came for them they were sitting out in front of the cells with Tacha. It was after supper, just beginning to get dark. For a little while Tacha had been pretending to tell them their fortunes, using an old deck of cards and turning them up one at a time in the fading light. She told Harold she saw him sleeping under a banana tree with a big smile on his face. Sure, Cuba, Harold said. With the next card she saw him killing a lion with his spear and Harold was saying they didn't have no lions in Cuba, when Junior came up to them. Joe Dean stood over a little way with his hands in his pockets, watching.

  Frank wants to see you, Junior said. Both of you. He took time to look at Tacha while he waited for them to get up. When neither of them moved he said, You hear me? Frank wants you.

  What's he want? Harold said.

  He's going to want me to kick your ass you don't get moving.

  Raymond looked at Harold, and Harold looked at Raymond. Finally they got up and followed them across the yard, though they moved so goddamn slow Worley Lewis, Jr. had to keep waiting for them with his hands on his hips, telling them to come on, move. They looked back once and saw Joe Dean still over by the cells. He seemed to be waiting for them to leave.

  Soonzy was in the passageway of the main cellblock, standing in the light that was coming from No. 14. He motioned them inside.

  They went into the cell, then stopped short. Frank Shelby was sitting on his throne reading a newspaper, hunched over before his own shadow on the back wall. He didn't look up; he made them wait several minutes before he finally rose, pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. Junior and Soonzy crowded the doorway behind them.

  Come closer to the light, Shelby said. He waited for them to move into the space between the bunks, to where the electric overhead light, with its tin shield, was almost directly above them.

  I want to ask you two something. I want to know how come you got your faces painted up like that. They kept looking at him, but neither of them spoke. You going to tell me?

  I don't know, Raymond said. I guess it's hard to explain.

  Did anybody tell you to put it on?

  No, we done it ourselves.

  Has this Mr. Manly seen it?

  Yeah, but he didn't say nothing.

  You just figured it would be a good idea, uh?

  I don't know, Raymond said. We just done it, I guess.

  You want to look like a couple of circus clowns, is that it?

  No, we didn't think of that.

  Maybe you want to look like a wild Indin, Shelby said, and him, he wants to look like some kind of boogey-man native. Maybe that's it.

  Raymond shrugged. Maybe something like that. It's hard to explain.

  What does Mr. Jackson say about it?

  If you know why we put it on, Harold said, what are you asking us for?

  Because it bothers me, Shelby answered. I can't believe anybody would want to look like a nigger native. Even a nigger. Same as I can't believe anybody would want to look like a Wild West Show Indin 'less he was paid to do it. Somebody paying you, Raymond?

  Nobody's paying us.

  See, Raymond, what bothers me how can we learn people like you to act like white men if you're going to play you're savages? You see what I mean? You want to move back in this cellblock, but who do you think would want to live with you?

  We're not white men, Raymond said.

  Jesus Christ, I know that. I'm saying if you want to live with white men then you got to try to act like white men. You start playing you're an Apache and a goddamn Zulu or something, that's the same as saying you don't want to be a white man, and that's what bothers me something awful, when I see that going on.

  There was a little space of silence before Harold said, What do you want us to do?

  We'll do it, Shelby said. We're going to remind you how you're supposed to act.

  Soonzy took Harold from behind with a fist in his hair and a forearm around his neck. He dragged Harold backward and as Raymond turned, Junior stepped in and hit Raymond with a belt wrapped around his fist. He had to hit Raymond again before he could get a good hold on him and pull him out of the cell. Joe Dean and a half-dozen convicts were waiting in the passageway. They got Raymond and Harold down on their backs on the cement. They sat on their legs and a convict stood on each of their outstretched hands and arms while another man got down and pulled their hair tight to keep them from moving their heads. Then Joe Dean took a brush and the can of enamel Tacha had got from the sick ward and painted both of their faces pure white.

  When R. E. Baylis came through to lock up, Shelby told him to look at the goddamn mess out there, white paint all over the cement and dirty words painted on the wall. He said that nigger and his red nigger friend sneaked over and started messing up the place, but they caught the two and painted them as a lesson. Shelby said to R. E. Baylis goddamn-it, why didn't he throw them in the snake den so they would quit bothering people. R. E. Baylis said he would tell Bob Fisher.

  The next morning after breakfast, Shelby came out of the mess hall frowning in the sunlight and looking over the work details forming in the yard. He was walking toward the supply group when somebody called his name from behind. Bob Fisher was standing by the mess hall door: grim-looking tough old son of a bitch in his gray sack guard uniform. Shelby sure didn't want to, but he walked back to where the turnkey was standing.

  They don't know how to write even their names, Fisher said.

  Well Shelby took a moment to think maybe they got the paint for somebody else do to it.

  Joe Dean got the paint.

  Joe did that?

  Him and Soonzy and Junior are going to clean it up before they go to work.

  Well, if they did it You're going to help them.

  Me? I'm on the supply detail. You know that.

  Or you can go with the quarry gang, Fisher said. It don't make any difference to me.

  Quarry gang? Shelby grinned to show Fisher he thought he was kidding. I don't believe I ever done that kind of work.

  You'll do it if I say so.

  Listen, just because we painted those two boys up. We were teaching them a lesson, that's all. Christ, they go around here thinking they're something the way they fixed theirselves up somebody had to teach them.

  I do the teaching here, Fisher said. I'm teaching that to you right now.

  Dumb, stone-face guard son of a bitch. Shelby said, Well, half-turning to look off thoughtfully toward the work groups waiting in the yard. I hope those people don't get sore about this. You know how it is, how they listen to me and trust me. If they figure I'm getting treated unfair, they're liable to sit right down and not move from the yard, every one of them.

  If you believe that, Fisher said, you better tell them I'll shoot the first man that sits down, and if they all sit down at once I'll shoot you.

  Shelby waited. He didn't look at Bob Fisher; he kept his gaze on the convicts. After a moment he said, You're kneeling on me for a reason, aren't you? You're waiting to see me make a terrible mistake.

  I believe you've already made it, Fisher said. He turned and went into the mess hall.

  Scraping paint off cement was better than working in the quarry. It was hot in the passageway, but ther
e was no sun beating down on them and they weren't breathing chalk dust. Shelby sat in his cell and let Junior, Soonzy, and Joe Dean do the work, until Bob Fisher came by. Fisher didn't say anything; he looked in at him and Shelby came out and picked up a trowel and started scraping. When Fisher was gone, Shelby sat back on his heels and said, I'm going to bust me a guard, I'll tell you, if that man's anywhere near us when we leave.

  The scraping stopped as he spoke, as Junior and Soonzy and Joe Dean waited to hear whatever he had to say.

  There is something bothering him, Shelby said. He wants to nail me down. He could do it any time he feels like it, couldn't he? He could put me in the quarry or the snake den that man could chain me to the wall. But he's waiting on something.

  Joe Dean said, Waiting on what?

  I don't know. Unless he's telling me he knows what's going on. He could be saying, 'I got my eye on you, buddy. I'm waiting for you to make the wrong move.'

  What could he know? Joe Dean said. We don't know anything ourselves.

  He could know we're thinking about it.

  He could be guessing.

  I mean, Shelby said, he could know. Norma could have told him. She's the only other person who could.

  Junior was frowning. What would Norma want to tell him for?

  Jesus Christ, Shelby said, because she's Norma. She don't need a reason, she does what she feels like doing. Listen, she needs money she gets herself a forty-four and pours liquor into some crazy boy and they try and rob a goddamn bank. She's seeing Bob Fisher, and she's the only one could have told him anything.

  I say he's guessing, Joe Dean said. The time's coming to move all these convicts, he's nervous at the thought of it, and starts guessing we're up to something.

  That could be right, Shelby said. But the only way I can find out for sure is to talk to Norma. He was silent a moment. I don't know. With old Bob watching every move I got to stay clear of the tailor shop.

  Why don't we bring her over here? Junior said. Right after supper everybody's in the yard. Shoot, we can get her in here, anywhere you want, no trouble.