Eureka Man: A Novel (11 page)

Oliver kept his nose in the sports section of
the newspaper; his concentration countered the uneasiness he felt
while Bell was reliving his past.

“Ain't it the truth, Bell?” Peabo said, as
insouciant as a wink.

“I'm not saying I shouldn't have come to jail
for doing what I did,” said Oyster. “That's not what I'm saying.
I'm saying a crime of passion's not first degree murder and mine
was a crime of passion. Mr. Priddy.”

“Oliver.”

“Okay. Oliver. How do you define first degree
murder?”

“I don't know much about the law,” Oliver
said, “but I know that first degree murder has to do with
premeditation.”

“Exactly! And I didn't plan a damn thing! I
came home from work and found what I found and then I snapped. It
was a crime of passion. You tell me how that's first degree murder,
Mr. Oliver, and I'll never say another word about my case as long
as I live:

“I remember it was a Friday 'cause we got
paid that morning and the boss sent us home early that afternoon on
account of there wasn't any work in the shop. When I got home there
was a note taped to the back door from my wife Shirley. See,
Shirley wasn't counting on me being home until around 5:30. That's
when I usually came in from work. She was planning on stepping out
early that night and didn't plan on being home when I got there.
'Oyster,' the note said. 'Your good-for-nothing monkey shit on my
sofa for the last time. His brains are in the kitchen sink. You may
want to eat them so you can have some of your own. Love, Shirley
Bey.' Boy, I swear she was the most sarcastic woman I ever
knew.

“Anyway, I opened the back door and stepped
into the kitchen and sure enough there was my marmoset, Duke,
laying in the sink with the top of his head cut off. His brains
were floating in a Tupperware bowl. Shirley's electric carving
knife was still plugged in and sitting on the counter. Blood and
bones were splattered all over the walls, the cabinets, the
ceiling. I had to clear my head so I sat down at the table. I
wasn't crying or nothing, I was just shocked out of my mind. It
wasn't like losing a dog that was loyal and loving for a lot of
years and then up and dies. It wasn't like that at all. I'd won the
damn thing in a card game and was looking to get rid of it anyway,
only I was counting on turning a profit. So, I was sitting there
thinking about what could have made her lose her mind and that's
when I heard what sounded like a blues record playing in the back
bedroom. I didn't know if it was Shirley or a burglar, so I took
out my little .38 and tip-toed down the hall. My bedroom door was
ajar when I got there and it only took one look to see it wasn't no
burglar or blues record I was hearing. It was Shirley Bey singing
and moaning under the high-yellow Blue Sheen Cosmetics lady. I
stood there for a minute as frozen as a lawn jockey watching the
two of them writhing and moaning all over my king-sized bed. The
police said I fired all six rounds; I don't remember firing one.
All I remember is standing there blinking and squinting, you know
the way you do when you're coming out of a bad dream? Only this
wasn't no dream. One of the bullets passed right through Shirley's
left eye. That yellow bitch was hit twice, but she lived to tell
about it.”

Oyster paused and just when Oliver thought he
was through he started up again.

“They gave me life. She killed my monkey and
shared my bed with a woman, and they gave me life. Now you tell me,
Mr. Oliver Priddy, you tell me that was first degree murder and
I'll never say another word about my case.”

Oliver didn't know if he could open his mouth
without bursting into tears. It was one of the most pitiful stories
he had ever heard. “There's no way that was premeditated, Oyster.
No way. You must have had one sorry-ass lawyer, that's all I can
say.”

Oyster didn't answer and this time the
silence washed over them like warm rain. Oliver had heard other
prisoners' stories before, but this one had to be the sorriest one
he had ever heard. As he sat there thinking about Oyster and the
way he had told his story, it occurred to him just how theatrical
prison life really was. They told stories to one another in order
to have something to feel and what they did to others they did in
order to make them feel. One day the sun was rising over yellow
irises dripping with the blood of someone who needed to know what
it felt like to be crossed, and the next day its golden rays were
announcing the arrival of some young buck who didn't know which way
was up and had to let somebody know it.

Early broke the silence. “Oyster, ain't it
your turn to treat?”

“As I recall you just lost a bet,” Oyster
said. “Besides, I bought all last week. You must be getting senile,
Early.”

“Okay. Who wants ice cream?”

“Get me a Nutty Buddy,” said Oyster.

“I'll have one too,” said Peabo. Bell wanted
an ice cream sandwich.

“What about you, Oliver?”

“'Preciate it, but I've got to go take care
of something. I enjoyed hanging out with you cats. Nothing beats
good company.”

“You're welcome back any time,” said
Peabo.

“A friend of Early's is a friend of ours,”
said Oyster.

Bell waved goodbye. As he walked beside Early
down the third base line, Oliver listened to the crickets chirping
in the ivy that crawled over the walls of the Home Block and the
pastoral sound reminded him of spring evenings long ago on his
grandfather's farm. He recalled the game he and his brother Skip
had made out of seeing who could silence the last cricket in the
patch of ivy that grew along the main pasture's fence line. The
boys' methods couldn't have been more different. Oliver would run
along a path that was parallel to the fence while clapping his
hands and shouting, “Shut it up! Shut it up!” Skip's tactic had
been to step inside the pasture and run beside the fence while
sharply rapping a tobacco stick against the wooden fence posts. How
Oliver missed those days now.

He looked over his shoulder as the pitcher
released the ball and was braced to protect Early and himself from
any foul balls coming their way. A tall, stocky prisoner in a green
cap pushed Early in an effort to get past him and Oliver grabbed
his arm. “Hey, what's the big hurry?” Oliver asked.

“Get the fuck off my arm,” the prisoner
snapped, moving on through the crowd.

Oliver left Early standing in the ice cream
line and headed for the auditorium. He stood inside the doorway and
checked his watch. It was almost time. Through the glass in the
door he watched the door to the little St. Regis and at eight
o'clock sharp Fat Daddy came strutting down the ramp dressed in his
apple green hospital uniform and shiny brogans, just as he had for
the last three nights Oliver had been watching him. When he passed
by the auditorium doors, Oliver followed him from a distance.
Prisoners were returning from the evening medication line and Tom's
Way was crowded with Thorazine shufflers and other drug-induced
prisoners walking in Oliver's direction. At the intersection of
Turk's Street and Tom's Way he stopped and watched Fat Daddy cross
Main Street and head up the hospital driveway. When he saw Fat
Daddy enter the lobby, Oliver fell in with the crowd that was
moving back toward the cellblocks.

Inside the little St. Regis, he took the
front stairwell all the way to the fifth tier and started down
E-tier, walking slowly and reading each name tag as he went along.
When he reached the divide, he stopped and draped his arms over the
railing to watch a speedboat racing down the river. Behind him, two
prisoners were emptying their trash into fifty-five gallon barrels;
another was washing clothes in the deep sink. There was only one
other prisoner on the tier at the far end, but there were several
men moving up and down the four stairwells at the divide, so he
waited. After a while he realized no one was paying any attention
to him and headed down the back half of the tier.

He only had four cells to go when he noticed
that the prisoner who was hanging out on the tier was now watching
him curiously. Oliver read him fast. He was dressed in tight white
shorts and a tank top and he had shoulder length hair that looked
as if it had just been brushed a thousand times. His eyebrows were
plucked and shaped in a high arch, his legs were tan and hairless.
Except for the protruding knot in his throat, he could have passed
for a girl. His cell door was open and Oliver read his name on the
door card.
Blossom, Donald, E-63
.

“Hello,” Donnie Blossom said, leaning against
the black iron railing with his slender arms spread out.

Oliver nodded as he passed by.

At the next cell Oliver found what he was
looking for.
Petaway, Winfield, E-64
. He turned the corner
and hurried down the back steps all the way to the flats. An
excellent arrival and escape route, he thought. And right there was
the shower room. He could go right in, strip down, wash the blood
off his body and out of his clothes, wipe his prints off the nail
and drop it down the drain. He would chuck the wooden handle in one
of the trash barrels at the divide. He returned to his cell and
started to put on his water stinger for a cup of coffee but stopped
short and squeezed his balls with his right hand in anticipation of
the relief he would feel once he annihilated Fat Daddy. When Early
had first told him about Fat Daddy's success rate in turning out
white boys, Oliver had taken little heed to the warning. After all
he had dealt with this kind of threat before and he was confident
his reputation would work to his advantage now. It wasn't until his
new neighbor told him he'd seen a “skinny yellow coon” coming out
of his cell two mornings in a row last week that fear had run
through him like an Indy car race. He knew then that only a
preemptive strike would quell his fear.

Excited and restless now, he walked out on
the tier and watched more speedboats go by while he tried to
imagine how it would feel when the ten-penny nail entered the side
of Fat Daddy's neck for the first time. The second time. He
pictured the purple-red blood gushing out of the holes and wondered
if the nail punctures would distort Fat Daddy's voice when he
called out for help or to say you white motherfucker. His
imagination was suddenly interrupted by the flip-flop of sandals on
the stone floor down on the flats. He looked down and saw Donnie
Blossom walking at a fast pace to the front of the cellblock.
Oliver leaned over the railing and watched as Donnie pulled up at
the end of the phone line and folded his arms. Oliver quickly
closed his cell door and hustled to the back of the tier and up the
three flights of stairs. He eased around the corner of E-tier,
pulled open Fat Daddy's door and stepped into his cell.

The first thing he noticed was the squadron
of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling by various lengths of
thread. Each one was beautifully painted with a decal tag affixed
above it that identified the kind of plane it was. A B-17, a P-51
Mustang, an F-86 Sabre, an F-4 Phantom II. The only one Oliver
recognized was the F-4 Phantom II that had been so superior against
the Soviet Mig-17s in the Vietnam War. There were stars and a half
moon covered in glitter hanging strategically between and around
the planes. The overall look was aesthetically pleasing. A freak
with a seventh grade hobby, Oliver thought.

He took a good look around the room and
stopped when he saw the iron bed frame standing from floor to
ceiling in the front corner of the cell. The frame was covered with
a navy blue mover's quilt and made a perfect privacy panel. And a
perfect place to hide behind. Oliver turned his body sideways and
eased between the wall and the frame. He pictured the point of
attack, the angle of the blows. He was excited.

He opened Fat Daddy's cell door and stepped
out on the tier.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Donnie Blossom
asked. He was standing there with his lips apart, eyebrows arched,
one hand on his hip.

“I was looking for a friend's cell,” Oliver
said, “I think I'm on the wrong tier.”

“You're the same guy who passed by here
fifteen minutes ago.” Donnie didn't say it accusingly. “I remember
your face. And those green eyes.”

“Sorry, man. I got the wrong cell. Do you
live here?”

“I live next door. It's okay. Everybody makes
mistakes. You didn't take anything, did you? Maybe I should frisk
you.” Donnie smiled salaciously when he said maybe I should frisk
you.

“No, I didn't take anything. I wouldn't steal
from another convict.”

“Okay, then. No harm done.”

Oliver slid his hands into his front pockets
and walked away. “No harm done,” he repeated. “See you around.”

“I hope so.”

Oliver descended the back stairs two at a
time. When he got to his cell he let out a heavy sigh of relief. He
had started smoking a couple of months after quitting the boxing
team to go to school full time and now he reached for the Camel
package. He stretched out on the bed letting his long fingers rub
his shirt pocket where his lighter should be. Everything's cool, he
thought, before he lit up. He closed his eyes and threw his arm
over his face to keep the light coming through the bars from
overexposing his thoughts. In the darkness he could see a rain of
ten-penny nails coming down faster than hail pellets had when he
had tried to catch them in his hands as a boy. Ten-penny nails that
would puncture holes in everything he had going for him. His runway
model, the job he loved so much, his friends and all his books and
new ideas were about to go south.

AT EIGHT O'CLOCK
in the morning, the setup
committee for Prisoner Appreciation Day was putting up a canopy
over the outdoor grills, and Little Freddie the sound man was
wiring the outdoor stage for the live bands that would play all
day: Paul Savoy's Motown Memories; Faruq Wideman's jazz quartet,
Mellow Mood; and Al Byna's classic rock band, Red Licorice. In two
hours the yard would be transformed into one big festival complete
with hidden wine stands, reefer parties and an array of scheduled
activities: sack and bicycle races, softball throwing and pass,
punt and kick contests, handball and chess tournaments, and a game
of softball played on the backs of ten rented donkeys.