Kindness for Weakness (22 page)

The guards’ radios stay clipped to their belts. The orange pin buttons remain un-pushed. And there’s no one who can help. Crupier’s still getting coffee, Mr. E hasn’t come in yet, and Samson is still recovering. I take the smallest step forward, but Wilfred is keeping an eye on me. He grabs my shirt and says, “You ain’t going nowhere.”

Freddie is whimpering now. His face is flecked with blood and tears and saliva. “I don’t care anymore!” he says. “I ain’t going to college anyway.”

He stops fighting, and his body goes limp, drained of anger, drained of the energy to fight back. But if Freddie has no more energy, then Horvath has too much; he is fueled by his own hate and blinding stupidity. He jacks Freddie’s arms up even higher, so that his chest is directly over Freddie’s shoulder blades and he is shouting directly into Freddie’s right ear.

“I don’t care anymore, either, faggot. You hear me?”

Freddie is silent now, except for the occasional sob, and I start to wonder if Horvath might actually kill him. Is it possible to kill someone in a restraint? Mr. E said a boy was killed at the place Mr. E was locked up in; maybe this is how the boy died.

I look around at the other boys to see if they notice what’s happening, but they, too, have gone into fight mode, where kicks and blows are the rule, and you don’t even need to take sides. Wilfred lets go of my shirt and pumps his arms in the air, hooting, cheering for more violence. These boys were happy enough to see Freddie trash Horvath, and they’re just as happy now that the tides have turned. Maybe Wolf Larsen was right, and life is simply a mess. Maybe the strong eat the weak so they can stay strong. Maybe that’s all there is.

Where the hell is Mr. E when I need him? Where is Mr. Pfeffer with his ice-cold root beer and his books? What good are they now? Useless, just like me and my immobile limbs, and the muscles that Samson worked so hard to help me build before he got struck down by a chair.

A deep sound fills the air around my head. It’s a low, growling note like the sound of the small-block eight-cylinder engine in Louis’s old Bronco, and it builds, growing, accumulating power, rising in pitch until it is shrill, piercing, and finally I can identify it. I know what it is—a war cry. A fucking war cry! And still it’s building, roaring above the stupid din of Horvath and Pike and Freddie’s insufferable noise.

But before I can figure out where it’s coming from, my body is in motion and I am on top of Horvath’s back, punching at his head and the side of his face. My fists are light but potent, blazing fast; I don’t even care where they land, just so long as they move and fly and blur the air between him and me, proof that I am no longer immobile, no longer inert, no longer complicit in my silence and inaction. I am not the quiet, frightened boy sitting on the sidelines watching. I am finally doing something. I have made my choice.

Horvath tucks into a ball for protection. He covers the
back of his head and neck, and I remember Tony’s advice on fighting—get in close and go for the body. So I change up my punches and beat as hard as I can on his back. I swing wildly; most of the blows glance off harmlessly, but a couple of them drive home in the soft spot below the back of Horvath’s rib cage. He howls and rolls onto his side.

At the same time, Pike gets off Freddie and grabs me from behind. He puts me in a choke hold and squeezes hard, like he really means to strangle me. I try to shake free, but he’s got me, tightening the hold every time I move. I can’t speak, either, because his arm is pressing on my throat and it hurts too much, like my Adam’s apple is being crushed.

It is surprising how quickly I become dizzy from pain and lack of air. But I have a clear view of Horvath staggering to his feet, pawing at the right side of his face, which is red and blotchy from where I hit him. This gives me grim satisfaction, and I only wish I had hit him harder.

Horvath lurches closer, and I can see that there’s something wrong with his eyes: they are looking at me and focusing, but there’s nothing inside them. It’s like Horvath himself, the angry, sweaty McDonald’s-eating guard, is gone. Even the mean part of him—that thought he could beat the gay out of Freddie or smash Pike’s dream of becoming a pilot—is gone, replaced by a staggering grunting animal who wants only to destroy me.

He’s not able to see me now as I truly am, as I have finally discovered myself to be—James, a fifteen-year-old boy who is going to get out of this place and make a life for himself. I am not James the boy who wanted to be a man
but didn’t know how. And I am no longer James the gullible boy who believed what everyone told him because it was easier than thinking for himself.

It’s okay if Horvath doesn’t notice how I’ve changed, how I am changing. Why would he? He’s stupid, and blinded by rage. His mind has been turned upside down by a fake gay love letter, and beatings by two people he underestimated as being soft and weak.

He grabs me roughly from Pike and barks, “Leave him.”

Pike sees the craziness in his partner’s eyes and lets Horvath take over the choke hold. The big man’s hands are hot, too hot, like there’s some kind of terrible energy in them. He grabs my wrist with one of his big hot hands; I try to throw him off, but he is too strong, too crazy. He wrenches me around and hooks my arms so violently that it feels like they’re going to pop out of their sockets. Then he wrestles me over his hip, and I hit the floor on my face. He presses his weight down on my back, pinning me. I try to fight, but I can only move my face from side to side, rubbing it raw on the coarse gray carpet.

I try to speak before
all
the air leaves my chest. “Stop! I can’t breathe!”

Horvath presses down even harder on my back, which I didn’t think was possible. How much does he weigh? How strong is he?

“Fucking liar!” He slurs into my ear. “You’re breathin’ enough to talk,” he says, “you fucking liar.”

I want to tell him that it’s not true, that I’m not a liar. I might be naïve, but a liar I’m not. It’s true that I’m not getting enough air; little inky dots are floating across my
eyes. It’s true that there’s a weird pressure noise inside my head, like the sound a teakettle makes when you shut if off and the steam is tapering. It’s also true that I deserve this, because I didn’t do anything when Samson, a great man who was my friend, got struck down by a punk kid who believed in nothing.

I stop fighting so I can focus on breathing, but Horvath is too strong. He is too heavy. It’s like I am being pressed in one of Mr. Goldschmidt’s woodworking vises, the steel faces of the vise squeezing out my life as the big wooden handle turns slowly around. Freddie’s a few feet away curled up on his side crying. And I can see a row of white canvas sneakers, the boys of Bravo Unit playing out their roles, standing, watching, being pushed and pulled by the invisible waves of hate and anger that keep surging through the facility.

I gasp one more time for air.

And then, nothing.

I awaken to a guard’s voice. “Is he faking?”

Now a woman’s voice, maybe the nurse’s. “He’s got a pulse and he’s breathing.”

“But is he faking?”

“I don’t know, Byron. Probably. You know how these kids are.”

She waves something sour-smelling in front of my nose. I shake my head slowly back and forth to drive away the smell that shoots into my nose with a sharp pain.

“Put him in the shower for a minute,” she says. “Then you’ll know if he’s faking. Bring him to the clinic when you’re done.”

Hands are touching me but not in a violent way. I am being rolled onto my side; it feels good, easier to breathe. But something isn’t right, and it’s hard to get things in my eyes to focus. A large shape that must be Horvath paces in the background, looking agitated. Another dark shape leans close and whispers into my ear. It is Mr. Eboue, and I am happy he is here. Now everything will be okay.
Nobody gets hurt when he and Samson are around. I wonder where Mr. Samson is. Maybe he’s on vacation or pass days. I should know, but I can’t remember, just like I can’t remember what happened for me to be lying on the floor. Maybe I was restrained again, or maybe I got into another fight with Antwon. Yes, that’s what must have happened.

“James,” Mr. E says, all calm and nice. “You okay, my man?”

I want to answer him, to tell him yes, I’m fine, just tired. But I can’t get the words to form, and then the Horvath shape is shouting at the Mr. Eboue shape, something about it being his restraint and he’ll finish it, not nobody else. Pike jumps in and yells at Mr. Eboue, too. Mr. E backs off, saying, “Take it easy, bro.”

“I ain’t your brother,” says Horvath.

“I know, I know. Just take it easy, okay?”

Next thing I know, I am being lifted to my feet by Horvath and Pike and guided across the dayroom to the showers.

“Cold water?” Pike says.

“Yeah,” says Horvath.

The cold spray against my face feels good, like rain, and I smile. I close my eyes and open my mouth to taste it. I haven’t felt rain since the day I got arrested, and that was more like mist than rain.

“See? He’s faking,” Pike says. “He thinks it’s funny.”

“Keep laughing, asshole,” Horvath says.

They pull me out of the rain and drag me across the dayroom floor, toward the door and the hallway beyond.

“Wait!” Mr. Eboue runs over with a pile of something
in his hands. “Dry clothes,” he says, but Horvath swipes at them and knocks them to the ground. Now we’re moving down the hallway toward the clinic. They have me firmly by my shoulders. My right foot drags behind me like an anchor, and I laugh a little bit because it reminds me of Wolf Larsen’s ship, the
Ghost
, when it wrecks toward the end of the story on Endeavor Island, masts and rigging dragging over its side. Maybe I’m like a ship, only one with torn rigging and a cracked compass. The liquid is leaking out, and the needle is spinning wildly, because I don’t know where I am going or what is happening to me.

In the clinic a small white shape—who must be the nurse—pops off a few pictures of the side of my face. Maybe I’ve got another rug burn, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, really, and I want to tell her this so she’ll know I am okay. Maybe then I can go back to my room and go to sleep.

“You learned your lesson yet?” she says.

I don’t understand what she means, but I am so tired. I am too tired to ask her to explain, so I just agree.

“Yes,” I say.

“Don’t be smart,” a male voice says. But I am closing my eyes to get some rest, and I can’t see who the voice belongs to. Horvath again, probably.

“Why is he in wet clothes?” she says.

“ ’Cause he was faking. Manipulating,” says Pike.

She sighs, hands me a pen, and says, “Sign right here.”

I try to write my name, but it’s like I don’t have full control of my hand; it only does half of what I want it to. I drop the pen and look at a spot of scribbles.

“That’s not your fucking name,” Horvath says. He picks up the pen and puts it in my hand again. “Last chance before you hit the floor again.”

“It’s okay, Roy,” the nurse says. “It’s legal. Take a seat and we’ll get this over with.”

Horvath drops heavily into a chair. The nurse starts the post-restraint interview.

“James, do you know why you were restrained today?”

“No. I mean yes. I don’t know.” I close my eyes again to rest. So sleepy.

Strong hands grip my shoulders and shake me awake. “Listen!” says a rough voice.

“Okay. Listening.” But I’m not sure if I’ve said it in my head or out loud.

A quieter voice, the nurse’s, says, “Tell me why you were restrained, James.” She sounds angry, though. I don’t think she likes me.

“Why was I restrained?” I honestly can’t remember.

“You have to tell us, James.”

I think hard, but all that comes up is Wolf Larsen’s ruined ship. “I have a cracked compass,” I say. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

“What is he talking about?” the nurse says.

“He’s full of shit,” says Pike.

“Yeah, I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Byron, gimme a hand; we’re done here.”

But the nurse interrupts. “Wait, guys. Let me finish.” She says, “James, do you have any injuries from this restraint?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

The nurse drops her clipboard and pen with a loud sigh. She’s frustrated, but I don’t know why. I’m pretty sure I answered all of her questions.

“Bullshit!” Horvath shouts. He grabs me by my arms and takes me to a small empty room. It has bare white walls, and a white linoleum floor. I think it’s the place Freddie told me about. What was it called? The tune-up room. I can’t remember what he said about it, though, other than it’s a bad place. It’s so hard to think, but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be here. I need to get out of here.

“Is this the tune-up room?” I say.

“There
is
no tune-up room,” Horvath grunts as he hooks my arms and takes me down to the floor.

“Yeah,” says Pike. “Because you’re still in the clinic. With the nurse.”

Falling, I feel as light as a child. I want to put my arms out like I did on the handlebars of Louis’s BMX bike. I want to yell, “I am king of the world!” But I can’t, because the air rushes out of me when I hit the floor. I gasp for breath. My head is spinning, and I am overcome with a feeling that, inside me, something terrible is happening, but even that doesn’t last, because the weight on top of me crushes it, crushes everything, crushes me into the floor like the whole world is on my back and is going to drive me down through the floor and into the earth. What will become of me when I am pressed into the earth? My face twitches once. Twice. I close my eyes to sleep.

White-clad paramedics run alongside the gurney, guiding me through the electric gates of the facility and across the parking lot, to where a helicopter waits. They are careful even though they’re in a hurry, and I want to thank them, maybe tell them not to go to so much trouble for me, because I feel fine despite what has just happened. I am not worried, or afraid. One of the men puts his hand on mine and says, “Hang in there, buddy. You’re going to make it. I swear you’re going to be okay.”