The Last Tomorrow (13 page)

Then, after breakfast, a white-painted school bus arrived. He heard its engine’s rumble through the large holding cell’s single window.

A guard called out names and the boys were lined up alphabetically and marched to the bus. Sandy was, of course, among them. A Negro boy of fifteen or sixteen walked behind him and once they
were on the bus sat beside him. They looked at one another and nodded but didn’t speak. The boy had a cane in his hand. Sandy looked from the cane to his feet and saw polio braces jutting
from his pants, hooking under the heels of his shoes. He thought of the polio scare two years ago at the public swimming pool. Part of him had wished he would get polio. He could die and everyone
who’d been so mean to him would regret everything they’d done. They’d go to his funeral and weep and apologize. It would be incredible.

The bus continued to fill with people.

In less than ten minutes the seats were full. The doors closed with a hydraulic hiss. A guard called out names again, ensuring everyone was on his bus, then counted heads to make sure no one
answered for someone who wasn’t actually present.

After that the bus rolled out into traffic.

3

They’ve been on the road for fourty-five minutes or more now, heading east, moving further inland. The densely packed streets of downtown Los Angeles have given way to
quiet suburbs, which have in turn given way to occasional industrial buildings emitting noxious fumes and foul smells.

And finally they arrive.

They pass the front of the institution. It could almost be a normal high school or university campus, except it’s surrounded by an eight-foot fence topped with barbed wire, and there are
guards, and no one’s leaving at the end of the day – not him or any of the other boys in here with him, anyway.

The bus makes a left turn into a dirt driveway. Dust wafts into the air behind them. When the bus reaches a metal gate the driver honks his horn. A moment later the gate is pulled open by a
guard in a khaki uniform. He stands aside while the bus rumbles past him, sending dust flying into his face.

Once the bus has passed him he closes the gate.

Sandy can see the buildings before him, all brick and mortar, thick walls and small black windows reflecting no life or light. The closer they get the less it seems it could be a normal campus,
the more it seems some great inorganic beast reaching for him, reaching out to him, wanting to take him into its guts and never let him go.

He misses his mother. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes. He sniffles.

‘Don’t cry,’ the Negro boy says to him, the first words he’s spoken.

Sandy blinks several times to clear his vision and looks at him. The boy looks back with kindness and understanding.

‘You can’t let nobody see you cry around here,’ he says. ‘If you need to cry, lock yourself in a toilet stall and try not to make no noise. I’m serious.’

Sandy nods and wipes his eyes with his knuckles.

A moment later the bus comes to a jerky stop in front of the building.

The brakes hiss.

Sandy swallows. He’s arrived.

4

The bus doors sigh open. The guard standing at the front, by the driver, tells them to get off the bus in an orderly fashion, one row at a time. The boys in the front seats
stand and start out, followed by those in the seats behind them, and so on. It looks as though many of the boys have been through this before. Sandy’s glad of that. He can just watch them and
do what they do and not stand out. If he does that he might be able to make it through this.

Finally his turn to stand arrives, and he does so. Then he walks down the length of the bus, down the narrow aisle between the seats, and steps out into the light of the white morning sun.

There are four lines of boys standing in formation and more boys stepping into place. At the head of the formation a guard watches with his hands clasped behind his back, shouting orders when
necessary to get everyone squared away. After everyone is unloaded and in formation, the bus rumbles off.

A cloud of dust floats through the air.

‘My name is Mr Fisk, but you can call me sir,’ the guard at the front of the formation says. ‘Welcome to the East Los Angeles Juvenile-Detention Facility and Reform School.
I’m your chief monitor here while you await arraignment and trial. I expect good behavior at all times. There will be no cursing. We will march to all destinations. When I say left, you step
with your left foot. When I say right, you step with your right. When I say right face, you turn right. When I say left face, you turn left. When I say attention, you stand straight with your arms
at your sides and your heels together. When I say at ease, you may have your feet eighteen inches apart and your hands clasped behind your back, as I’m standing now. You swing your arms at
your sides when we march. Your hands will not be in your pockets. Your fingers will be curled, your thumbs pressed against your fists. There will be no fucking around. Is all of that
clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’

After that they’re marched past a fenced-in recreation yard littered with basketball courts, handball courts, and benches. Marched to a red-brick building with

‘A’ COMPANY

painted in white letters on its side. The windows are covered in wire grates. The dull gray metal doors look like they’d be difficult to swing. Two elderly women stand
just to the right of them. They’re both thick in the middle and look as though they must stink of stale cigarettes and mothballs. They have large canvas laundry sacks at their feet.

‘Group . . .
halt!
’

Mr Fisk turns and faces the boys. ‘You are now a part of Alpha Company and will remain so until you’ve gone through trial and, if convicted, been assigned to one of the resident
companies. But for now you don’t need to worry about that. What you need to worry about is this. One of them ladies over there by the door is about to call each of your names. When your name
is called, you are to collect two pairs of pants and five shirts and head into the barracks. Just inside, the desk monitor will tell you your room number. The hall monitor will then ensure you get
into your room. You are not to leave. Once in your room, you are to change clothes. There will be socks and underwear waiting for you in a chest under your bunk. Your bunk will have your name on
it, so unless you’re so stupid you can’t read your own goddamn name there shouldn’t be any confusion. Your chest is the one that isn’t yet padlocked. You will find the
padlock inside. You’re to use it. You’re responsible for your facility-issued belongings. Once you change clothes you will wait. The hall monitor will then collect your civilian
clothes, with the exception of your shoes, which you will continue to wear.

‘Enjoy your stay.’

Soon enough his name is called. He walks to the two women standing by the door. One of them hands him two pairs of khaki slacks. The other hands him three white T-shirts and two heavily starched
khaki shirts with the facility’s initials stenciled on the back in block letters. He walks into the building.

A young man sitting behind a desk says, ‘Name?’

‘Sandy.’

‘Full name.’

‘Sanford Duncan.’

He scans a sheet of paper. ‘Room one-sixteen.’

He walks toward the hallway, where another young man sits, his arms crossed in front of him, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

‘Room?’

‘One-sixteen.’

‘Third door on your left.’

Sandy walks down the hallway to the third door, pushes it open, steps into his room. There are four bunks, two on the left wall, two on the right. Two chests sit on the floor beneath each bunk
bed. The walls are white. There’s a small metal desk at the back of the room, and a chair. Above the desk, a single window covered on the outside by a wire grate. A cool breeze blows into the
room through the open window. It feels good on his skin, which is hot and covered in nervous sweat. His stomach feels sour as well, like he might have diarrhea, and there’s no toilet in this
room. He wonders where a toilet might be. He doesn’t want to ask. He’s afraid to ask.

He reads the name tags on the bunks. The top bunk on the left wall has his name on it, so he tosses his new clothes onto the thin mattress. The other three bunks are covered in thin white sheets
and green wool blankets, but his mattress is bare. It’s off-white but lined with blue pinstripes. It’s stained yellow in places with sweat or urine, dark orange salt-crusted lines
marking the edges of each island splotch.

He reaches under the bed and pulls out one of the trunks. It’s padlocked, so he replaces it and pulls out the other. This one’s unlocked. He unlatches the lid and opens it. Inside
are five pairs of white socks and five pairs of white underpants, as well as a sheet, a pillow, and a neatly folded green blanket. The underpants look like they’re about two sizes too big,
but he supposes that’s just the way it is. Next to the clothes, a bible, and on top of that a padlock with the key still in it. A long chain is threaded through the key so that it can be worn
around the neck.

Sandy undresses, checking his underwear to make sure there are no skid marks in them. He knows he has to hand them over and doesn’t want to be embarrassed. He once had to spend the night
at a schoolmate’s house because their mothers were friends and forgot his underwear there. The boy brought them to class the following Monday and showed everyone that they were stained.
Little baby made a shit-shit. If there were skid marks he might find a place to hide them instead of handing them over, but they’re clean, so he folds his clothes neatly and puts on a
facility-issued outfit. He tosses the blankets and pillow onto his mattress, and closes his trunk. He locks it and slides it under the bed. Hangs the key around his neck.

Makes his bed.

Then he turns in a circle, lost. Everything around him is alien and he’s alone in this alien place. There are rules and procedures, but he doesn’t yet know what most of them are.
Nobody’s thought to tell him. He’s no longer a person. He’s only an object to be moved from one place to another, preferably without incident.

He walks to the desk and opens the drawers and, but for the nub of a pencil and some pencil shavings and a smell that reminds him of school, a sort of waxy crayon smell, finds them empty. He
looks out the window.

The sky’s very blue and cloudless. The grass is green but for a few dead patches. He can see the fence that surrounds this place in the distance. He wants more than anything to be on the
other side of it. To be anywhere but here, to be any when but now.

He sits at the desk and wonders what’s next.

But nothing much is next.

The hall monitor comes and takes his clothes. He gathers the courage to say he has to use the bathroom and is permitted to. There’s a large bathroom with four toilet stalls, six urinals,
and a shower area at the end of the hall. After using the toilet, he heads back to his room. He stays there till later in the afternoon when his roommates return from their classes. School is from
eight till three. Everybody awaiting arraignment or trial goes to the same classes regardless of age or grade, but his roommates are all within a year or two of him. He learns their names but
immediately forgets them. They sit on their beds and draw in their notebooks, or talk, or read books they checked out from the library. He does nothing until dinnertime, which is six o’clock,
at which point they are marched to the cafeteria. They eat chicken and boiled potatoes and peas. They’re marched back to their rooms. At nine o’clock the overhead lights go out. But
there are still bright lights outside, illuminating the yard, and of course there’s the light of the moon, which is almost full.

Sandy stares at the ceiling.

And, after a while, closes his eyes.

1

Next morning, nine o’clock, Candice sits on a chair in the corner of the living room, her back straight, her hands resting flat on her thighs. She wears a gray wool skirt
and a white blouse with ruffles running down the front, conservative when compared to her work attire, and her blonde hair is pulled back and twisted into a tight bun, making her look severe. She
wears no makeup. Someone used to seeing her at the Sugar Cube with lips smeared red, eyes shaded blue, and blush on her cheeks wouldn’t recognize her. Compared to that woman this one is
thin-lipped and terribly sad.

She stares at the couch, at the bloodstains on the floor in front of it. It’s a strange thing, a thing she doesn’t understand at all, but despite the fact she misses Neil very much,
there’s a part of her that is angry with him. Angry with him for dying, yes, and angry with him, too, for being the reason her innocent boy is no longer innocent. The reason he’s no
longer here. Neil’s the one who filled him with so much violence he could no longer contain it. Neil’s the one who taught him what violence was through demonstration. The lessons we
remember are the ones that hurt us. She knows Neil thought he was doing right. She knows he wanted Sandy to be strong and good and was trying to make him that way. But he was wrong, and now
he’s dead.

And Sandy’s locked away.

There’s no logical reason for it to be so, but she believes she can feel the distance between her and her son, a great sucking hollow. Some antediluvian instinct, some primordial
soul-nerve, feels her son’s absence, and there is within her a great urge to get him back, whatever the cost, to get him back to fill that empty space.

She thinks she’s going to take the couch out to the curb later today or tomorrow morning. She can’t stand to sit on it. She knows that’s where Neil was killed and can’t
stand even to be near it.

Then there’s the pity and hatred in her neighbors’ eyes. They pity her for her loss, of course, poor thing, but there’s something in people that makes them also hate someone
who’s been the victim of a tragedy. Part of them believes she must have had it coming. She must have had it coming because nothing like that could ever happen to them.

They’re safe. They’re secure. They need worry neither about God’s indifference nor the unlocked door.