Dirt Road Home
Authors: Watt Key
BY WATT KEY
Dirt Road Home
Alabama Moon
DIRT ROAD HOME
WATT KEY
Farrar Straus Giroux
New York
Copyright © 2010 by Albert Watkins Key, Jr.
All rights reserved
Distributed in Canada by D&M Publishers, Inc.
Printed in June 2010 in the United States of America
by RR Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia
Designed by Jay Colvin
First edition, 2010
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Key, Watt.
Dirt road home / Watt Key. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: At Hellenweiler, a reformatory for second-offenders, fourteen-year-old Hal Mitchell will soon be free if he can avoid the gang violence of his fellow inmates, but the real enemy may lie elsewhere.
ISBN: 978-0-374-30863-6
[1. Reformatories—Fiction. 2. Gangs—Fiction. 3. Violence—Fiction. 4. Correctional personnel— Fiction. 5. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 6. Alabama—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K516Dir 2010
[Fic]—dc2
22010011319
For Albert. A good boy.
Special thanks to my wife, Katie, for her patience and encouragement, Chip Klinkow for his “insider” perspectives, and David Klass for being a good friend to a writer. Thanks to my daughters, Adele and Mary Michael; I couldn’t be prouder of my two beautiful little girls. Thank you to my parents, Craig and Albert Key, and all my siblings—Betsy, Alice, Reid, Murray, Thomas, and David—for being interested in and supportive of my writing over the years.
DIRT ROAD HOME
Late Sunday morning Officer Pete delivered me in chains to the Hellenweiler Boys’ Home in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I was officially “property of the state” and sentenced to live there until I was eighteen. This place would be hard time, especially since I was considered a problem case and an escape risk. But I figured I could handle it. I’d already done two years in the Pinson Boys’ Home. Besides, I didn’t plan on sticking around long.
There were two places a ward of the state could go after Pinson: Live Oak and Hellenweiler. Everybody talked about Live Oak like it was a vacation. Nobody talked about Hellenweiler. It was for the repeat offenders and trouble kids. I was both and I’d known for a long time that Live Oak wasn’t in my future. The only reason I was three months late was because it took them that long to catch me after my escape. And the only reason they caught me was because I turned myself in to help out a friend. Now he was gone and I had to face a whole new set of friends and enemies. Except this time I was no longer the biggest, oldest boy at the home. I was a new fish.
I shuffled toward the guardhouse ahead of Officer Pete, the leg shackles restricting my steps and bruising my ankles. In the distance I heard a church bell. Sundays were supposed to be the beginning of the week, but they’d
always felt like the end of it to me. All I could think about were the days ahead as dread puddled in the pit of my stomach. This time the dread was so strong it made me dizzy. I blinked my eyes and swallowed against the awful feeling. Then I took a deep breath and savored the smell of the pines and honeysuckle in the spring air. I listened to the robins calling and rustling in the hedge beside me. It would be a while before I’d sense any of these things again.
When we got to the front gate I heard a buzz and then a click as the electronic lock released and the gate slid open. Hellenweiler sat in the middle of a five-acre yard of mostly bare dirt and a few small oak trees. Beyond the ten-foot wire fence was a field where nothing was planted. I guessed it was plowed to bare dirt to give the guards a clear view of anyone trying to escape. There was almost two hundred yards of open ground before you got to the trees.
You would never hear an adult call Hellenweiler a prison. It was always referred to as a “boys’ home.” But to look at the one-story cinder-block compound from the outside, there was no question what the place was modeled after. I had an idea what I’d find on the inside as well, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I already had the feeling that Pinson had been a preschool compared to this place. This was a high-security jailhouse to lock down eighty bad boys.
I won’t tell you that I wasn’t nervous. I was, but not because I was scared of how they would treat me. I’d been through bad and I could go through worse. I was worried about my attitude. I knew I had it in me to be a problem. I knew I was hardheaded, with a temper set on a hair trigger.
If I wanted to get out of there before I was eighteen, I had to play it cool. Real cool.
We passed through two more electronic gates before arriving in the receiving area. The sickening smell of disinfectant and bleach hit me like it did the first day I walked into Pinson. But I would get used to it again. I would get used to the hospital-blue walls and the rotten food and the buzzers and the snapping of wall clocks marking time in the silence. There was nothing natural about the place.
Officer Pete guided me to the counter.
“This the Mitchell kid?” the receiving guard asked.
“Yeah,” Officer Pete replied. “Henry Mitchell, Jr.”
The guard put some forms on the counter and Officer Pete completed them and slid them back. Then he turned to me and began removing my restraints. When he was done he tucked the chains under his arm and studied me. He was stern, but I knew there was a lot of good in him that he didn’t like to show. “Keep your chin up,” he finally said.
I nodded.
He stared at me a few seconds more like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. There wasn’t anything left to say. Finally he turned to the guard. “All yours,” he said.
I watched Officer Pete leave until the door shut behind him. As soon as the lock clicked my new life began.
“Face forward!” the guard shouted.
I jumped to attention.
“You in my face, boy?”
I shook my head.
“You better stand back behind that red line!”
I looked at the floor and saw the red tape. I backed up until I was behind it.
“And you better get rid of that attitude before Mr. Fraley gets rid of it for you,” the guard said.
“I don’t have an attitude.”
“I’ll bet you don’t,” he said. “I’ve read your file. Mister tough guy. We’ll see about that.”
I didn’t respond. I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere. I took a deep breath and stared at a spot on the wall just over his head.
“Strip down.”
I quickly took off everything except my briefs and socks and faced him again.
“I said strip down!”
I pulled down my briefs and peeled off my socks and straightened up.
He pointed to a trash barrel against the wall. “Throw it all in there.”
I scooped them off the floor and tossed the wad of them into the trash barrel.
“Put your forehead on the wall, turn around, and spread your cheeks.”
I did as he said while he inspected me for contraband and scratched information on my receiving forms.
After what seemed like forever he said, “Follow the yellow line through that door to your left.”
I entered cleanup, where another guard was pouring some liquid from a jug into a chemical sprayer that he set down in the center of the room. Four showerheads stuck out of the wall to my right. Against the opposite wall were
four stools and the same number of electric razors hanging overhead. Another door exited the rear of the room.
“Tommy, get the fleas off this boy,” the reception guard said over my shoulder as he guided me onto one of the stools. He left and I heard the door lock behind him.
It took less than a minute for the second guard to give me what the boys called an onion head. Then he made me stand up and wait while he fiddled with the sprayer in silence. He screwed the top on and began pumping it full of pressure.
“Into the shower,” the guard finally said. “Do not turn it on until I tell you to. Face me, close your eyes, and cover them with your hands.”
I walked under the first showerhead and covered my eyes. After a few seconds I heard the hiss of the sprayer and felt the cold insecticide mist over me. Then he told me to turn around and I felt the same sensation on my back. After the chemical had time to work, he told me to turn on the shower and scrub myself. I opened my eyes just in time to see a bar of state soap tossed at my feet.
When I was done showering the guard gave me a small towel to dry off. Then he gave me a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and shower slides. I was issued an orange jumpsuit with H.J.H. stenciled on the back and #135 on the front. The instant I was zipped up he ordered me to stand on the yellow line again.
“Walk the yellow brick road into the hall,” he said. “When it stops you’ll be at a set of double doors. Go through those doors and you’ll be home. Keep on and you’ll come to the mess room. Lunch is almost over but you might be
able to pick up a bite before they run you out. After lunch a guard will take you through orientation and tell you what you need to know. Understand?”
I nodded. I was stunned and couldn’t reply even if I’d wanted to. Everything was happening so fast. But I guess that’s what they wanted. They didn’t want you to have time to think about anything but what they told you.
I followed the yellow line out into the hall. I soon came to the large set of double steel doors. When I pushed through them fifty more feet of hall lay between me and a second set of doors. I could suddenly hear the noise of the mess room. I took a deep breath and kept moving, pushing through the second set of doors.
When I stepped into the mess room, I expected everyone to stop what they were doing and stare at the new fish. That’s what they’d do at Pinson. But I noticed only a few boys glance my way over all the commotion. I walked against the wall, around to where the food trays were. When I slid my tray in front of the server, she handed my plate over the counter and watched me.
“Better be quick about it,” she said.
I took the tray, set a paper cup of red juice on it, and went to look for an open seat. There were five long columns of tables. The tables on the outside of each column, the ones against the walls, were mostly full. Then the next column of tables was completely empty and only two boys sat at the middle table. One of them was a giant white kid with crew-cut hair and a cookie-dough face. He was hunched over his tray, eating slowly and keeping his eyes down. The other was a black kid with wide eyes and kinky
hair. Something in the way he looked at me told me I was welcome to join them.
As I started for the middle table I saw Preston sitting with some older boys against the wall to my left. He’d come from Pinson eight months before. We’d never had much to say to each other. He was a sneaky little arson and I’d never had any respect for him and he knew it. Back then he would have been scared of me. Back then I would have called him a wuss to his face.
“Find a seat, new boy!” somebody yelled.
I didn’t look to see who it was.
I can do this,
I thought.
I can do this.
But the words didn’t make me feel any better.
I approached the big white boy sitting closest to me at the middle table. “Mind if I sit down?” I asked.
He kept eating and didn’t answer me.
“You can sit with me,” the black kid said. He was bigger than me. Most of them were. By now it was instinctive for me to size people up.
I kept walking and sat across from him.
“How much time I got?” I asked him.
“About two minutes.”
I looked at my plate. State meat patty, some kind of boiled greens, and macaroni and cheese. I knew from Pinson that none of it would have any taste. It was food designed to keep you alive and nothing more. I started stuffing it down.
“You’re new here,” he said.
I kept chewing and nodded.