The Glorious Prodigal (14 page)

“Come on out of there, Winslow.”

He had to grope, reaching for the walls, as he blindly stumbled forward. Finally a voice he recognized came to him. It was Jerry Murphy’s.

“I’d like to give you breakfast, but Mr. Munger said no. You’ll have to work today with no breakfast. Show some sense, Winslow! Just say what he wants.”

As he was led out of the building across the yard, Stuart could only see through slits, for the sunlight was blinding. He could hear comments from the inmates. “That’s Winslow. He won’t make it. Munger’s down on him. I give him a week before he hangs himself.”

“Don’t pay no attention to those guys,” Murphy whispered. “Just last through today and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger.’ That’s all you have to do. Then you’ll get out of this.”

The day began, but it never seemed to end. With each trip up and down the ramp pushing the wheelbarrow full of wet concrete, his body cried out from weariness and his back
muscles wrenched in spasms from the heavy loads. The day droned on and on. At noon everyone went to lunch except Winslow. While the others filed to the mess hall, Felix Munger confronted him.

“Well, you’ve put in a good morning, Winslow. I’d like to see you go have some lunch.” Munger waited and his voice dropped. “Just say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger.’ ”

Stuart’s body cried out for rest and food, and he told himself he was insane for resisting Munger. This man could kill him if he wanted to. But something in him refused to answer. He stood there without speaking a word and stared straight into Munger’s eyes.

“All right, tough guy. You’ll go back in the hole tonight. Nothin’ but bread and water until you learn how to be polite. I like tough guys.” He smiled, then turned to Murphy and said, “Every day he goes back in the hole with bread and water. That’s all.”

“Yes, Mr. Munger.”

Munger left and Jerry Murphy stood beside Stuart. “You’re a fool, Winslow,” he said. “He’ll kill you. All you have to do is say that one thing—’Thank you, Mr. Munger.’ ”

Stuart did not reply.

“All right, it’s your funeral,” Murphy said and turned and walked away.

****

The only sound in the room was the shuffling of papers as Warden Armstrong sorted through the new inmate files on his desk. Pete Jennings was cleaning the warden’s office, keeping as quiet as possible, for he knew the warden did not like to be disturbed. Jennings was a lifer and one who had learned to survive the rigors of prison life. A quiet man of fifty with scanty gray hair and careful brown eyes, he had been the warden’s personal servant for some time. Being good with his hands, he kept the warden’s Studebaker running like
a watch. Now he moved around the office quietly, dusting and arranging the books as he knew the warden liked them.

Warden Armstrong closed the file in front of him and stared at Jennings. “This man Winslow. You met him, Pete?”

“No, sir. He’s been in the hole every night. Works on the new unit all day.”

“So he’s working on bread and water. He must be pretty tough and a pretty bad one.” Armstrong motioned to Jennings and said, “Come here, Pete.”

“Yes, sir.” Pete came over and stood in front of the warden’s desk, his eyes alert.

“What’s going on, Pete? Something’s wrong here.” The warden’s finger tapped the file on top of the pile. “He came in the first day and didn’t even get assigned to a cell before he was thrown in the hole and put on the hardest job in the prison.” The warden’s eyes penetrated Pete Jennings. “What’s going on?”

Jennings hesitated for a moment. “Well, he got on the wrong side of Mr. Munger.”

“A lot of people are on the wrong side of Mr. Munger.”

“Yes, sir, but most of us learn to bend. I don’t think Winslow’s learned that yet.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing really, Warden. Just that—well, Mr. Munger wants him to say something, and Winslow won’t say it.”

Warden Armstrong’s eyes glinted. “
Say
something! What does Munger want him to say?”

“The way I hear it, all Winslow has to do is say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger,’ and he’ll lay off him. But Winslow just won’t say it.”

The warden opened Winslow’s file again and stared down at it. Pete Jennings knew exactly what the warden was thinking. The warden was a smart man, and he knew that Munger had a sadistic nature that made him hard beyond belief. It took a hard man to run a prison, but more than once Pete had picked up something from Armstrong. He knew the warden
was troubled when a guard’s pride caused him to cross the line into cruelty. The inmate stood waiting.

Finally Armstrong looked up and said briefly, “Thanks, Pete.”

“Sure, Warden.”

As Pete gathered his cleaning gear and turned to leave the room, he heard Armstrong say to a guard, “Taylor, have this new man Winslow come in to talk with me.”

****

There were still three hours of work time left, and Munger had come over to make one of his periodic visits to torment Stuart Winslow. Winslow put his wheelbarrow down and turned to face him.

“Having an enjoyable day, Winslow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be pretty nice to get those hands seen to again. They’re looking pretty ugly. You been actin’ a fool for a week now. Are you feebleminded as well as being a woman chaser?”

“I suppose I must be, Mr. Munger.”

“Look”—Munger’s face grew red—”all you have to do is say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger,’ and then you can get out of this.” He waited but saw there would be no surrender in the face of the tall man across from him. “You think you’re tough, but I’m tougher than you are, and I’ve got you where you can’t cry. It won’t do you any good. One last chance. Say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger.’ ”

Stuart stared at Munger and said, “When you do something for me, I’ll be glad to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger,’ but until you do, you won’t hear that from me.”

Munger’s face flushed with anger, and he raised his stick, but at that moment a voice said, “Munger, the warden wants to see Winslow.”

Munger turned quickly. “What’s that you say, Taylor?”

The guard, a tall thin man with black eyes and hair to match, said, “The warden . . . he wants to see Winslow.”

“What for?”

“I wouldn’t know, Munger. But he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“All right, Winslow. You go see the warden, then you come right back.”

Stuart did not answer. He silently followed the tall guard away from the construction site to the warden’s office. His mind was so bleary and stunned with the manual labor and the lack of food that he could barely think. He stumbled along, intent on not falling, until he found himself inside an office with a rug and a huge walnut desk in the middle of the room. The man behind it rose and said, “I’m Warden Armstrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stuart wondered what the warden was doing as he came around the desk and approached him.

“Let’s see your hands.” The warden studied the bloodstained bandages, then said, “What’s the trouble, Winslow? It seems you’ve gotten off to a bad start.” Stuart merely shook his head.

“Look, we get tough ones up here all the time, but there’s no point in making things harder on yourself than they have to be.” He waited for an answer and got none. “I have a letter from Reverend Charles Fields. We get lots of letters asking us to make things easier for prisoners, mostly from females. Quite frankly, I don’t usually pay much attention to them, but my brother was in school with Charles Fields. I met him a couple of times. He’s a fine man.”

Stuart nodded. “Yes, sir, he is one of the best I ever met.”

“You’re a Christian, then?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

Warden Armstrong stood silently studying the face of the man before him. It was a handsome face, but worn, and the eyes were sunk back into the sockets. The hands had appalled him, and he remembered once what his brother had said:
“If Charles Fields tells you something, George, you can go to the
bank with it.”
The letter had been simple enough. Fields had stated that although Winslow was guilty, there was something in him that he felt God would use someday. He had asked the warden to watch out for Stuart and help him find his way back. He had asked no other favors, which had impressed the warden. Now Armstrong said briefly, “I’m assigning you to a new job. You’ll be working with Pete Jennings. He’ll be your new cellmate.”

Stuart blinked with surprise. A faint ray of hope came to him, and he said, “What about Mr. Munger?”

“I’ll take care of him. You’re a musician, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. A little.” Stuart looked down at his hands. “I used to be, but now I’m nothing.”

“Whose fault is it that you’re in here, Winslow?”

“Mine, Warden. All mine.”

“All right. I’m going to go over the head of one of my guards. It’s only about the third time I’ve ever done that in my ten years here. See that you don’t make me sorry for it. I’d like to see you do better.”

During the past week, Stuart Winslow had given up on men, on kindness, and on generosity. To him the world had become a place of cruelty, but now he said, “Thank you, Warden.” The words came hard, but he knew this man that stood before him was fair.

“All right. You put yourself into a bad situation, Winslow. Don’t let it sour you.”

A knock sounded gently on the door, and the warden said, “Come in.”

When the door opened, Taylor stuck his head inside and said, “Mr. Munger’s here, sir.”

“Send him in.” The warden waited until Munger came in. With a blunt tone, he said, “Mr. Munger, I’m reassigning Winslow. He’ll be a cellmate to Pete Jennings, and he’ll work on the janitorial detail.”

A flush of anger suffused Felix Munger’s face. He started
to protest, but one look at the warden’s face, and he choked it back. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“Mr. Munger, I’ll expect you to follow my wishes in this.”

Munger knew he was being told to keep his hands and his stick away from this inmate. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You can take Winslow to his cell now.”

Without another word, Munger walked to the door. He opened it and stood back to let Winslow pass.

Instead of walking out the door, Stuart turned and faced Munger. The warden watched this carefully, expecting trouble, but Winslow suddenly smiled.

“Thank you, Mr. Munger,” he said quietly, then turned and walked away.

Warden Armstrong waited until the door was closed, and then a smile broke across his face. He had been seeking some way to put Felix Munger in his place for some time. Now it seemed that it had been taken care of better than if he had planned it himself. He sat down, stared at the papers before him, then nodded, as if making a decision.

Without a word, Munger stepped outside the warden’s office, then turned to a guard and said stiffly, “Take Winslow to Pete Jennings’ cell.”

“Yes, Mr. Munger.”

Sullenly, Munger stalked away while Stuart followed the new guard out of the administration building. It seemed like a long walk, and they had to pass through many checkpoints, but finally he stood before a cell and the door slid open.

“Pete, this is your new cellmate,” the guard said.

Winslow stepped in and found a slight man lying on the lower bunk, reading a book. He sat up and swung his feet around.

“Hello. I’m Pete Jennings.”

“Stuart Winslow.”

“Maybe you’d like the bottom bunk?”

“No. The top’s fine.” Exhausted, Stuart climbed up into the top bunk and, without even taking off his shoes, fell into a deep sleep.

He was awakened when a voice said, “Time for chow, Stuart.”

“No. I just want to sleep.”

“Come on now. You can go back to sleep afterward, but you’ve got to be hungry.”

Stuart knew Jennings was right. He came down off of the top bunk slowly and joined a line that went down the cold gray corridors. The men made not a sound as they marched lockstep toward the chow hall, but once inside, Jennings guided him through the dinner line to pick up their food, then to a table.

“Right over here.”

Stuart found himself sitting at a long table with eight other men. He had had nothing but bread and water for a week, but now, strangely enough, he was not hungry. While the other men fell on their food like famished wolves, he simply toyed with his. Then he felt a nudge from Jennings.

“Come on, Stuart, put it down. I went through this once. Bread and water for a week. You’ve forgotten how to eat, but you need to get your strength back.”

A tall, burly man with a bald head across from Winslow was staring at him. He looked like a brute, but there was a lively expression in his green eyes. “Hey, I hear you put Munger down. Good for you, guy.”

Stuart looked up and down the table and saw that everyone was watching him—even from the adjoining tables.
I’ve become some kind of a celebrity,
he thought wryly.
If I’d let him kill me, I guess they would have made a martyr out of me.
He said nothing but shrugged and began eating the food. The act of eating made him suddenly ravenous and he downed everything on his plate. All around him men were talking, but he himself said nothing.

****

Prison life improved for Stuart with Pete Jennings as a cellmate. Jennings was a kind and compassionate man, and he knew all about prison life. He gladly taught Winslow what he needed to know about surviving at Tucker Farm without getting himself in trouble. He also talked to him about God.