Cast the First Stone (35 page)

After supper I took my typewriter up to the front of the table near the guard-stand and began composing another letter to the governor, concerning my request for a commutation of sentence. But when mail was called I received a reply from the first letter I had written. It read:

Mr. James Monroe,

Serial No. 109130,

State Prison.

Dear Sir:

The Governor directs me to acknowledge receipt of your letter of recent date making application for a commutation of sentence. He asks me to advise you that your communication will be given careful attention.

Yours very truly,

Frank J. Allison

Executive Secretary

to the Governor.

I read it over again. It sounded like the real thing. I tried to restrain my jubilance; it would make it all the harder if I was disappointed. But all my wild, urgent desire for freedom flooded back. The convicts and the prison became detestable again. I discovered that all along in the back of my mind I had been thinking about Dido. I took myself sharply to hand. This is my chance, I told myself. If I don’t get out this time I might never get out. I didn’t want to get into a jam or get involved in one of those sordid prison affairs. It was too easy to lose your sense of judgment.

Dido came up and sat down across from me. “Hello, Jimmy,” he said, smiling eagerly. He noticed the letter lying open beside the typewriter. “Good news?” he asked.

“Oh, hello,” I said, coolly. I folded the letter and stuck it into my pocket and got up and walked away before he could say anything else. I left the typewriter open on the table. I knew no one would bother it. I had started to my own bunk but changed my mind and kept on down to Candy’s instead. “How did we do yesterday?” I asked Candy. He collected from all the games and gave me half of the net take.

“We made thirty-nine forty altogether,” he said. “Johnny Brothers and Black Boy are swinging out.”

Dido passed us on the way to his bunk. He held his head high and looked straight ahead. He was sneering.

“Oh, hell, let ‘em swing out with a few bucks,” I said. I felt like a heel on account of Dido. “Let ‘em keep the whole damn take. Who am I to have a gambling syndicate?” I had started to say, who am I to pass judgments?

“I’ll look after them if you don’t want to,” Candy said.

He nodded down toward Dido’s bunk. “What’s the matter with you and him?”

I tried to look surprised. “Why, nothing.”

“He just passed and didn’t say anything and you and him were acting like long-lost brothers last night.”

“I didn’t see him,” I said, then added, “Oh, he’s all right. He’s a pretty intelligent kid. He’s straight, too.”

“Well, he’d better keep away from Dutch Henry if he wants to keep that way,” Candy said.

I went back front where I had left my typewriter, and began running through some finger exercises. My mind kept going back to Dido and I felt ashamed of the way I had spoken to him. I wanted to go down and apologize but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. For a time I banged away savagely on the typewriter keys.

The guard shift changed while I was still there and Tom threw up his hand. “G’night, Jim.” I waved. Captain Charlie stopped for a moment before he made his rounds, to ask how I was progressing on my plea for a commutation of sentence.

“I got a letter tonight from Allison.” I showed him the letter. “It’s just a form letter,” I said. He read it and handed it back. “Anyway, it means they’re keeping me in mind,” I said.

“Well, if there is anything I can do for you let me know,” he said. “You’re one boy who deserves to be released. I don’t believe you’d ever get into any more trouble.”

“I want to get you to write a letter for me later on,” I said.

“Any time you say, Jim.”

When he had gone I locked up my typewriter, went back to my bunk and changed into my pajamas and went to bed. I tried to read my story. After a time Dido stopped by. He was tremulous, undecided. His face was loose and quivering and his lower lip trembled slightly.

“Howdy,” he said tentatively.

“You caught me again,” I grinned a welcome, holding up the magazine.

“Same story?”

“Same paragraph,” I admitted, rolling over on my side to face him.

He came closer, without moving. “Was it I, again this afternoon?” he asked.

“No, it was me this time.”

He looked at me speculatively. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m trying to get a pardon and I want to stay clear.”

For a moment he was blank. And then he was instantly, completely angry. “You’re taking a lot for granted, aren’t you?” he choked, trying for control. “You couldn’t be wrong, could you? Just this once?” The sneer was back in his voice.

“The hell with it,” I said. “I apologize.”

He thawed slowly, as if half-afraid he was wrong in doing so.

I lit a cigarette and extended him the pack. “Smoke?” He took one and lit it and held it in his mouth.

“Are you disappointed in me?” he asked, his head tilted, talking around the cigarette and squinting one eye against the smoke.

“I’m not decided,” I replied.

Our gazes met and we got charged from each other, full and violently. Our faces were less than a foot apart before he broke his eyes away.

“Remember the pardon,” he said, sounding gaspy.

I felt choked myself. “Damn the pardon.”

“You wouldn’t mean that in the morning.”

“I know I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t ever do anything you wouldn’t mean the next morning. It’s never worth it.”

“I don’t know, it depends—”

“Anyway, I don’t go up for five years yet, so it would be better if it never came to that. I’d be here so long after you left.”

“Maybe I’d make it worth it.”

His eyes struck up. “That’s a hell of a lot of loneliness. Is anything worth it?”

“Want a couple of bucks?”

Everything went then. “Now you’ve gone and done it,” he said, going dopey-faced. “I had so hoped you wouldn’t.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m a gambler,” I said.

“Just to think,” he said, “a moment ago you were rather grand. It would be better if I hated you, better for both of us.”

“That’s better than your being indifferent, anyway,” I said. “My old grandpa used to say, son, if you can’t make ‘em love you—”

“I could hate you very easily,” he said, leaving me.

That was Monday.

23

T
UESDAY WAS BATH
day and the first section was called right after breakfast. Our company was too large for all of us to bathe at once so it was divided into two sections. Those with the oldest numbers went first. I was in the first section. The second section was waiting outside the bathhouse when we came out. I located Dido and called, “Catch!” I threw him my bar of soap. He smiled delightedly.

There was a light kidding waiting for me back in the dormitory but I denied everything. “You guys got me wrong,” I said. “I’m not making any play. I’m going to get a pardon and I’d be a fool to get involved in something like that.”

“That ain’t nothing,” Signifier said. “That ain’t no more than you’ve always been.”

I didn’t like that. After a bath I always massaged and brushed my hair to keep it from coming out. Just as I had finished Dido came up. His hair was meticulously combed and brushed and his skin looked scrubbed. He didn’t have his uke hanging from his neck and he looked almost civilized.

“Why, you look nice and shiny, like something new,” I said.

“I washed behind the ears and when we go to the barbershop I’m going to get a haircut. And guess why?” His eyes were radiant.

“I give up. Why?”

“So I can look good to you. Aren’t I brazen?”

“I should say so,” I said.

“Thanks for the soap,” he said. “You’re thoughtful. I can’t repay you until the first of next month. My mother only sends me two dollars a month and I’ve spent it.”

“Smoke?” I offered him the pack. He took one. “Where is your mother?”

“In Los Angeles.” His voice was different when he talked of her.

I began getting down my typewriter. Although I had long since ceased mailing the exercises in my law course, I still worked on them occasionally. I had come to the place in case law where we were required to write an opinion in a hypothetical case involving water rights and I was anxious to tackle it. I gathered up some typing paper, carbon paper and copy sheets.

“You type well,” Dido remarked. “Did you learn it here?”

“When did you see me typing?”

“Oh, I see everything you do,” he said. “Yes, I taught myself. Do you type?”

“A little, but not as well as you.”

“You can practice on it sometimes when I’m not using it,” I offered.

“Oh, can I? Thanks, darling.” My head jerked up. “
Darling?
”

He was suddenly flustered and blushing. “That slipped out. It’s a habit of my mother’s I took from her.”

“Listen,” I said, putting the typewriter back on my bunk. “You haven’t been in here long, have you?”

“About a year. Are you going to lecture?”

“Yes.”

“Must I listen?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I’ll listen. Who’s the first heel you’re going to tell me about?”

“Me,” I said. “I’ve been in here five years and I’m rather lousy. It won’t do you any good to be seen with me. I’ve got a kind of a bad reputation that I don’t really deserve. They’ll swear you’re a fag and keep after you until it breaks you down. If they can’t do that they’ll team up on you and give you a really tough way to go. If you’ve been here a year, you know how it is. You’ll have the name without the game.” I paused.

“Is that all?” he asked. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“That isn’t all I’d like to say, but that’s all I’m going to say. And I just said that because you remind me a little of myself when I came in.”

“Aren’t you going to say anything about Dutch Henry?” he asked. “Dutch told me never to smoke behind you or get too close to you while you were talking. He said you had t.b. and syphilis. He said you caught syphilis from a habit you have of wetting pencils in your mouth.”

We both began laughing at the same time. “Dutch is all right,” I said. “That kind of a knock is a boost.” Then I became serious again. “But I mean what I said.”

“It’s a new approach to me,” he said.

“Now it’s you who’s taking a lot for granted,” I said. I ran my hand in my pocket and skinned off a ten-dollar bill. I held it palmed and said, “We’re friendly strangers. Let’s shake on it.”

“So I’m not being given a say,” he protested. His shoulder’s sagged a little more than usual and his smile was forced, I thought. But he put out his hand.

I pressed the bill into his palm, squeezed his hand and took my hand away. “It’s only ten dollars,” I said. “It won’t break me. Consider it as a gift from me to myself. I’ve always wanted to be as big as a ten-dollar bill. Remember, we’re strangers.”

Turning away quickly, before he could reply, I carried my typewriter down front and planked it on the table. Signifier came up and sat down beside me. “How’re you and the kid making out?” he asked.

“He won’t go,” I said. “I’m cutting out.”

“I wouldn’t argue with you,” Signifier said.

Dutch and Dew Baby came up and sat down across the table from me. “You got the best go, James,” Dutch said. Dew Baby looked on, blinking his lids.

“You’ve got the wrong fellow,” I said.

Dido came up and sat down on the other side of me. “It’s all right to talk to you out here, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Sure, as long as I’m out here it’s all right.” I turned to the others and said, “I just told Dido it wouldn’t be advisable for him to talk too much to me because someone might get the idea that he was my kid.”

“What did he tell you about me?” Dutch asked Dido.

“He didn’t tell me anything about you,” Dido said, lifting his head in the beginning of a sneer.

“Now, take you, for instance, Dew Baby,” I went on. “You and Dutch. If you saw Dido hanging around my bunk all the time and talking to me, the first thing you’d say was that he was mine, wouldn’t you? Of course you would,” I went on before Dew Baby could deny it. “But if you never saw him talking to me you couldn’t say it, could you?” They didn’t answer. “Could you?” I insisted.

“Aw, Jimmy,” Dew Baby said. “Old Jimmy.”

Dutch stood up, red and angry. “You’re not so slick,” he said. I knew I had made an enemy.

“Wait a minute,” Dido stopped him as he was turning away. “Here’s the fin I owe you and another fin for interest. Thanks.” He tossed the ten-dollar bill onto the table. His lips were curled.

Dutch picked up the ten and tossed it back. “Keep it and buy yourself some panties,” he said. He was in an ugly mood.

Dido went red. He snatched up the ten and hurled it at Dutch’s face. Dutch turned sheet-white and started over the table and Dido scrambled to his feet. Signifier jumped up to stop Dutch and I grabbed Dido by the arm and pulled him away. When Signifier noticed that Dutch had a knife, he jumped out of the way. Dido snatched a wooden name plate from a bunk frame. I stepped in between them, weak from that sickening fear of knives I’ve always had. Captain Tom came up and jerked Dutch away.

“We don’t want any fighting in here.” Tom puffed, then he saw the knife and said. “You know better than that, Dutch. Give me that knife.” Dutch gave him the knife.

“Now cut that out,” Tom said, looking at me. He wanted me to finger the fall guy but I was no rat.

“Just a mistake, Tom,” I said.

Turning away, he glanced at Dido. He turned back and looked at him squarely and then we all turned to look at him. He appeared wild and reckless and sneering and disdainful but what struck me was that he did not look in the least afraid.

“We don’t want any of that in here,” Tom said to him, then turned and looked at me, enquiring.

“He’s a ball player, Tom,” I said, grinning. “Got five more years, too.”

Signifier laughed and the tension went out of us. Tom ducked his head and returned to his seat. A crowd had collected by then and Signifier said, “Who got my ten?

I closed up my typewriter and went down to the poker game where Candy was playing.

“What was the matter with Dutch?” he asked.