Bayview Heights Trilogy (34 page)

Seth smiled. “Lacey Cartwright should print
those
statistics. Great job, Carolyn.”

“It’s not me. You set this whole thing in
motion by giving us the time and resources to mobilize the
kids.”

“Still, you and the staff do the work.”

“Thanks.” He saw the glimmer in her eyes.
“Since we’re doing such a great job, the student council has a
request.”

“All right.”

“It’ll cost more money.”

“What doesn’t?”

“You know that new day care that just opened
for underprivileged kids on Franklin Street?” Seth nodded and took
a bite of his sandwich. “Our students want to add it to their list
of organizations that we support.”

“Won’t we be spreading ourselves too
thin?”

“Not kidwise. Those seventy will enlist more
of their friends to do the actual work. We
will
need
another couple of adults for this group, and ninety percent of the
staff is already committed.”

“Okay. I’ll take charge of the day care,
then. We’ll find someone else to work with me.”

“We could get the community involved.”

Seth preferred that this remain an entirely
school-run project. “We’ll see.”

“We should also get more publicity for these
activities. It’s great what the kids do this time of year.”

Seth thought about his students working in
soup kitchens, delivering toys and food to needy families,
surprising a school member with a gift, doing Kris Kringles with
each other, decorating the building. Originally, the teachers
thought he was nuts when he wanted to make the holiday season “an
event” at the high school. But Seth believed that kids— even those
who didn’t celebrate Christmas at home—could benefit from helping
less fortunate people at the holidays. And camaraderie was at an
all-time high.

He glanced at the
Herald
in the
trash. “You know, Carolyn, you’re right. We
should
have
more publicity. And I think I know exactly how to get it.”

o0o

“HEARD YOU TRYIN’ to call that sister of
yours tonight, Cartwright. She sure is a looker. She gonna visit
more during the holidays?”

Kevin avoided looking into Cramden’s fat face
and fisted his hands tightly at his sides until they hurt. Without
answering, he made his way to his cell.

Kevin wanted to smash the guard’s face. For
as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to smash things. People.
Objects. Anything.
Kevin, do you remember the first time you
felt like hitting and punching someone?
The question had come
from one of a long line of psychiatrists he’d seen. Kevin had been
seven. Even then, he’d thought the doctors were stupid sons of
bitches. He’d shrugged, made up some answer and looked at the jerk
with innocent eyes.

The best of the shrinks was the lady that
tight-ass Taylor had made him see. She’d been this foxy black woman
with braid things in her hair. The school psychologist. She’d tried
to get him to talk, but mostly he remembered just wanting to rip
her clothes off.

In the end, they’d given him drugs to “curb
his violent tendencies.” When the medicine made him groggy, Kevin
only pretended to take the pills.

Inside his one-man cell, he shuddered when he
heard the heavy metal door clang shut. He had to count to ten to
keep himself from panicking, from giving in to the claustrophobia
that attacked him every time his cell was locked.

“Sweet dreams,” Cramden said as he walked by,
banged his baton on the bars and laughed. It was a mean sound, an
ugly one.

As Kevin lay down on his narrow, metal shelf
of a bunk, he thought about all the mean and ugly sounds that
haunted a prison in the dark hours. His first night here had almost
driven him mad. He hadn’t known then how the veterans initiated new
prisoners, how they waited till lights-out and screamed, “Hey,
fish, how ya doin’? Like your new accommodations? Wanna know what’s
it’s gonna be like here for you, little fishy?” They’d outlined a
litany of obscenities for almost an hour. When Kevin didn’t break,
he guessed he’d passed some kind of test because they didn’t do
that
to him again. They did other things, things he
couldn’t bear to even think about, but they left him alone at
night. All he heard now was an occasional hollering and shaking of
the bars by some jerk who was flipping out or the fanatical cries
of somebody calling out to God.

God?
Who was he kiddin’? There
wasn’t any God. Not in prison, anyway.

“Hey, Cartwright? You awake?”

Kevin lay still. His next-door neighbor in
cellblock D was Donny Sharp. He was an okay guy and had helped
Kevin out some, but Kevin didn’t trust him, of course, and most of
the time didn’t want to talk to him.

“Cartwright?”

Tonight he decided to answer. He felt
lonelier than usual. When he’d finally gotten a turn tonight at the
one phone in this twenty-eight-man pod where he was housed, Kevin
hadn’t been able to reach Lacey. “Yeah?”

“You get that stuff to Markham?”

“Yeah. Came in with a delivery and I put it
in his sheets.”

“Black Eyes says you doin’ good, man.”

Kevin snorted. Black Eyes ran the Market; you
went to him if you wanted something from the outside that you
either couldn’t get from a visitor—only about half of the two
hundred prisoners had visitors—or if you wanted something that was
banned. Much of the contraband was delivered through laundry
distribution, and since Kevin had been assigned to work in the
laundry area, he’d been approached. Kevin hadn’t really wanted to
get involved with Black Eyes, mainly because there were two groups
in this place, and they were always dissin’ each other. Black Eyes,
a thirty-year-old guy with alabaster skin and the darkest eyes
Kevin had ever seen, headed one faction. And Brazil, a bulky Latino
with a Rambo tattoo on his arm, headed the other.

But Kevin had learned fast that you had to
take a side. You wouldn’t make it through your stay if you didn’t.
And Kevin kind of liked the irony of doing illegal things in
prison. He laughed at the thought. He was more of a criminal in
here than he’d ever been on the outside.

“What so funny, boy?” Sharp asked.

“Life, Donny. Life is real funny.”

“You crazy, you know that?”

“Yeah, so they tell me,” Kevin said.

He remembered his grandfather staring down at
him. His words had been hollow then.
You’re just like everyone
else, son. You just need some help behaving. That’s all
.

Kevin scanned the eight-by-eight cell, his
eyes having adjusted to the darkness and a small sliver of light
coming from the guard station.

He was just like everyone else, all right,
Kevin thought bitterly as he rolled over and blocked out the images
of his family. Here.

o0o

AS LACEY FELL into a smooth stride on the
newly finished indoor track at Bayview Heights High School, she
thought about Kevin. She’d missed his phone call last night, and
he’d sounded so sad on the answering machine. Her heart broke
listening to it. It was ironic that in some ways he’d let her get
closer to him after he’d gone to prison than he’d allowed for years
before.

Life was full of these kinds of ironies, she
thought. For instance, she’d lost her parents at a young age, but
she’d been given the chance to know and love her grandfather.
Later, her job at the
L.A. Times
had been exciting and
interesting, but the pace in the big city had been wearing. In
Bayview Heights, some aspects of putting out a small-town newspaper
were less exciting, but life was slower, easier, and she had time
to run every day.

She missed running with Dani—Danielle S.
Kendall. The two of them had started out together as cub reporters
at the
Times,
and Dani was still there, writing some
incisive articles on urban violence.

And you’re covering high-school
fights.

Stop it. You made your choice. Besides,
it’s not forever.

As she circled the spanking-new track, Lacey
felt the familiar aura of peace come over her and she tried to
settle into it. Usually, she just cleared her mind and let the
endorphins flow. But today she kept thinking of her conversation
with Dani yesterday afternoon.

As usual, Dani wanted to know when Lacey was
coming back to California. Dani had warned her against sacrificing
her life for her family. Lacey shook her head and closed her eyes.
No one understood what had brought her back home. It was love.

She loved Philip Cartwright. He’d given up so
much for her and Kevin. Personally, he’d forgone any semblance of a
private life for a healthy, attractive man of fifty-six.
Professionally, he’d given up a career that many people felt would
have earned him a Pulitzer Prize. Lacey wanted to give something
back to him. She believed in family loyalty and taking care of
those you loved. And of course, she had to be near Kevin when he
needed her the most.

As she rounded the track, she noticed someone
else had come to run. Not many people in Bayview Heights were up
this early on a Saturday morning. His back to her, the runner
stretched, the long lines of his body encased in a navy blue nylon
sweat suit. As she neared him, she crossed lanes to be on the
outside. Dedicated runners usually greeted each other, recognizing
a kindred spirit.

When Lacey got closer, her heart rate speeded
up.

This wasn’t a kindred spirit.

This was Seth Taylor.

He turned just as she closed in on him.

Surprise flickered across his face. In the
morning light filtering through the high gym windows, she could see
evidence that he was not sleeping well— Lacey saw the same signs in
her own mirror—a pale cast to the skin, brackets around the mouth.
She slowed, touched by the vulnerability she saw in him. “Good
morning.”

“’Morning.”

She sped up again, but as she rounded the
corner, she thought of how Taylor—a former track coach—had pushed
for this facility. Indoor track was a new varsity sport in New York
State: most high schools used their existing gyms for practices and
meets. But Seth had campaigned for a whole addition to the school,
believing the more space for activity, the healthier the kids would
be—physically and emotionally. Lacey had considered getting behind
the endeavor in her editorials, but Philip had been appalled at the
idea of her supporting Taylor. The measure had passed narrowly in a
close budget vote eighteen months ago, anyway, so it didn’t matter.
The construction had been completed this fall.

Circling the track, she kept her eyes
straight ahead, though it was impossible not to notice him when he
came into her peripheral vision. He ran like a pro. Some runners
had a natural, graceful, loping stride, their long legs eating up
the ground, their arms swaying at their sides.

Lacey had it, too.

He’d removed his sweat suit and wore simple
navy jock shorts and a white T-shirt. His dark blond hair was
shorter than when he was a teacher. She remembered the girls
drooling over him.
Sexy Mr. T
. Several of her friends had
contemplated moving down a level just to get into his English
class. Women teachers were always in his room. Surreptitiously she
watched him.

He was still attractive, if you liked a lean
runner’s body.

Lacey did.

When she realized the direction of her
thoughts, she was so horrified that she missed taking a curve soon
enough and she stumbled. The action broke her stride and her foot
twisted. Righting herself, she kept going for another quarter mile.
When her ankle began to ache, she slowed to a walk. Another few
paces and she limped off the track.

Damn. She recognized the injury.

From behind her, she heard, “Are you all
right?”

Lacey turned. Though his words indicated
concern, his voice was cool, his blue eyes narrowed.

“I twisted my ankle.” She matched his
impersonal tone, then took another step and winced.

“So I see. Sit over there.” He pointed to a
padded bench provided for runners.

“No, I’ll just go home.” Lacey knew from
experience that her ankle would swell painfully.

“Sit. I’ll get some ice.”

His tone irritated her, but since her foot
was throbbing, she did as she was told. Icing the ankle down would
preclude later problems and she’d be back on it faster.

Seth returned in minutes with a blue,
prepackaged ice pack. By then Lacey had removed her shoe and sock.
Propping her foot on his bare knee, he felt her instep. “Does it
hurt here?”

She shook her head, watching his long, lean
fingers probe her skin. He had a scholar’s hands, and the sight of
them reminded her of his enthusiasm for reading and his love of
literature. His students had often teased him about it.

“Here?” He flexed her toes.

“No.”

“Good. It’s just your ankle.”

“I know, it’s an old injury. I should have
worn my brace.”

His forehead creased. “Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t find it. And I didn’t want to
wake Grandpa by rummaging around downstairs.”

When Seth still seemed puzzled, Lacey said,
“He sleeps on the first floor now. It’s easier than climbing that
winding staircase.”

The sad look she’d seen at his office the
other night when he talked about her grandfather’s illness crossed
his face again. It made him appear older. But he simply nodded and
adjusted the ice pack.

“Listen, I can do this,” she said, trying to
escape the tension between them. “I don’t want to interrupt your
run.”

“Sit still. How’d you hurt this just
now?”

Lacey felt her face flush. “I was thinking
about something else and lost my stride.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with the track is
there?”

“No.” She scanned the arena, taking in its
half-mile track, stations for vaulting and shot put, plenty of
spectator seating. “It’s beautiful.”