Miscarriages Chapter 17. He barracks for his boy no more
17. He barracks for his boy no more
“When you joined the army, I thought you’d make something of yourself,” said Eddie.
“You sound just like my father,” said James, unable to look Eddie in the eye.
“I am your father.”
“I know. You’re just like he was before he hit the booze.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill myself.”
“It’s no joke, Jimmy. You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“You asked for it,” muttered James, burrowing down under the covers where he had been for the last two days.
Eddie looked across to Iris. In a frantic phone call she had pleaded with him until he finally agreed to drive up to see if he could talk James out of his slump, as she had called it.
“I can’t get him out of bed and Frank said he’s going to fire him if he does not come down for work tomorrow.”
“What is it? Is it about the money he borrowed from me? If that’s all it is, forget it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Counter, Dad, I mean. I spent a lot of it on fixing up the Yarraville house.”
“I don’t think any of this is your fault.”
“It is. If I hadn’t jumped out the window…”
“But Frank said something to me about the house?”
Iris sniffed, trying to hold back a tear. “Studs, you know him?”
“Skeeter, you mean, that’s what he called himself down at Norlane.”
“That’s him. He tricked Jimmy into betting our house on the Melbourne Cup.”
“What?”
“The stupid bugger. He ought to kill himself, if you ask me! Was Frank in on all this?”
“I think so, but he says he wasn’t, that Studs scammed him as well.”
“Have you gone to the police? They know all about him, you know. They’ll have him locked up in no time.”
“But there’s the IOU. He claims he now owns the house unless he gets paid all the money he laid out on James’s behalf.”
“How much?”
“Frank said $20,000.”
“I don’t know what I can do, except call the police.”
“But you can’t. They’re already sniffing around, reckon they are going to lay charges against James for killing The Preacher.”
“You said he didn’t, though.”
“It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t climbed out on to the roof. I was so angry with him though. He’d bet our house! The stupid bastard.!”
“So, he did kill the Preacher?”
“It was an accident. But the cops, you know what they are, and there’s this detective Striker, he’s been talking to Frank and Studs, and he’s been trying to question me, but I made myself scarce.”
“Jimmy! Jimmy! Wake up! Are you listening to all this?” Eddie grabbed what looked like Jimmy’s shoulder and shook him. “Come on! Out you get!” He beckoned to Iris and they both grabbed the covers and ripped them off the bed, leaving James stark naked, curled up into a ball. “Where are his clothes?” Iris rummaged in a drawer and threw some clothes on to the bed.
They had managed now to reduce James to a helpless, pitiful state. He began to whimper, even sob, something that Iris had never seen before. It reduced her to tears as well. “Oh, my sweetie! I’m sorry!” She threw herself on the bed and tried to cuddle him. She lay beside him, hugging his curved back, her chin pressing on his shoulder, kissing his neck. “Mr. Counter, I think you had better go,” she said, twisting her head to look at him, tears trick¬ling down her cheeks.
“I see. What you both need is a lawyer. I’ll phone Grimesy.”
*
“He’s still in bed?” asked Grimesy, incredulous.
“It’s been three days.” Iris looked down, then glanced at Grimesy, wishing he were Jimmy, standing confidently in his dark striped suit, and Geelong football club tie.
“He must be hungry.”
“I took him cups of tea, that’s all. I’m scared he’ll hit the booze again.”
“Can you get him out of this hole?”
“I already have, I think,” grinned Grimesy.
“You’ve told the cops to fuck off, then?”
“Tut! Tut” We mustn’t speak ill of the dead,” he joked.
“I mean…”
“I know what you mean. Now is your boss around?”
“Frank Highlands, you mean?”
“He’s the licensee of this place, right?”
“Yair. I’ll get him. I think he’s in the kitchen having lunch.”
“I’ll sit over here, is that all right?” Grimesy pointed to Studs’s table.
“I s’pose so. It’s where Studs usually sits.”
“Good. He should be here any minute. I already spoke with him.”
“I’ll get Frank.” Iris left, just as the Saloon door opened and in walked Studs, Dolly hanging on his arm, her lipstick smudged, eyes red-rimmed, her hair coiffed up even higher than usual.
Grimesy stood, smiling. “Thank you both for coming. Have a seat.”
Studs sat at the table, pulling Dolly with him. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, he sniffed and wrinkled his nose.
“The IUO. Would you hand it over, please?”
Studs elbowed Dolly in the ribs. “Give it to him,” he muttered. Dolly made a great show of opening her sequined bag, searching as though she could not find it.
“Come on, you fuckn bitch, give it to him,” growled Studs.
“Now, Miss…”
“Dolly.”
“Dolly who?”
“Just Dolly.”
Grimesy turned a page of his legal notepad. “That’s not enough, Miss Dolly. I must have your full name. The law requires it,” said Grimesy. There was no such law, of course.
“Doris Farmer, J.P.” she answered as she retrieved the IOU.
Grimesy perused the note. “I see your JP stamp. Could I see your JP certificate, please?”
“Oh, I don’t have it with me, Mister what’sya name.”
“Grimes, Paul Grimes, and I’m Jimmy’s solicitor. “Miss Far¬mer. I have checked the records. You are not a JP and never have been. It’s a fake stamp, am I not correct?”
Studs squirmed in his seat. It was times like these that he always had one very strong urge, and that was to run away. He did it with the cops down at Norlane and the Corio Shire pub, and he would do it again now. He made a grab for the IOU, but Grimesy snatched it away just in time. “You don’t need to run, Mr. Mackerel. I’m not the police.”
“You’re just as fuckn bad,” growled Studs as he jumped up, pulling Dolly with him.
“You acknowledge that this IUO is worthless?”
Dolly clung to the table, Studs trying to pull her away.
“And if you beat her again, I’ll call the cops,” warned Grimesy.
“It was a fair deal. I laid out thousands of dollars for that little snot. I have a right to collect it from him.”
“What evidence do you have of that?”
“Dolly, show him the betting slips.”
“What slips?” she asked, confused. “I’ve just got my record book.” She looked across at Grimesy. “I’m Mr. Mackerel’s accountant, you know,” she said proudly, still gripping the table, her brightly painted nails scratching the surface.
“Shut up, you silly bitch!” cried Studs. “Give me that book!” He tried to pull it away but Dolly held tight, scratching his hands with her long nails.
“Here, Mr. Grimes, it’s all in here.”
She threw it across the table and Grimesy deftly caught it. It was the final straw for Studs. Time to run. And he did, leaving Dolly holding the bag as it were.
Dolly produced a small mirror and makeup case from her bag and began to touch herself up. She fixed the smear of her lipstick, and carefully pushed her mountain of hair into place. “I have to go to the toilet,” she said apologetically.
“By all means,” said Grimesy, leaning back in his chair. He did not expect to see her again.
At this moment Frank, who had watched the proceedings from the doorway to the kitchen, emerged, fidgeting with his watch, He waddled across the Saloon bar, and stood looking down at Grimesy. He nervously tried to lick off a brown smudge of gravy that clung to the corner of his mouth. “You must be Paul Grimes?” he asked.
“I am indeed. Pleased to meet you. James has told me what a great publican you are.”
“What do you want from me? I see that you have settled everything with Studs, that cunning bastard.”
“This IOU. You were the witness to this? I see your signature.” Grimesy waved the note at him.
“Yes, I did it to humour Studs. I always try to keep my cus¬tomers happy, even if they are a nuisance.”
“So, you agree that this was a complete scam and that you have no part of it?”
“Absolutely. Why would I want to do anything that would get one of my employees into trouble?”
“Indeed. Why would you?”
“Well I mean, I just thought it was a joke. You know, customers in a pub like this. They’re always playing jokes on each other. Aussie sense of humour, you know.” Frank forced a grin in an effort to make the obvious foolishness of what he was saying more convincing.
“Sure. All in good fun. So now I’m going to keep this note and will file it away in my office drawer and it will never be seen again.”
“So everything’s honky dory now with Jimmy? You’ve saved his house?”
“It’s like none of this happened, though, I tell you, you could have lost your liquor license if this had got out.”
Frank shifted uneasily on his feet. “Yair, I know that, Mr. Grimes. I know that.” He turned to see Iris standing right by him, then looked back at Grimesy. “Iris and James will be OK here for as long as I’m licensee,” he said.
“That’s very good to hear. And now I’d better go up and see James. What do you think Iris?”
They were about to go upstairs together when a tall, slender, dapper young man, dressed in a tightly buttoned double breasted grey suit stepped into the bar.
“Is the licensee around?” he asked.
“That’s me,” answered Frank.
“Detective Striker, C.I.D. I’d like to speak with you and also one of your employees, James Henderson.”
“About what?”
Iris moved towards the door.
“Stay right here, miss,” ordered Striker, “I’m investigating the death of a police officer who I understand fell off the roof of this establishment while trying to rescue a young lady and I’m guess¬ing that the young lady is you?” He nodded at Iris.
Frank looked at his watch and coughed nervously. “James is upstairs in bed, recovering from the accident. He’s been in shock ever since it happened.”
“I’d like to speak with him none the less.”
“You can try, but he won’t speak to any of us, he’s so upset.”
“Perhaps you should come back at another time,” said Grimesy.
“And you are?” asked Striker in his most officious manner.
“Paul Grimes, solicitor, of Grimes and Buttersmith. Here’s my card.”
*
Things might have turned out differently had Flo not entered the Saloon bar at that very moment.
She stood at the door and took a long draw of her cigarette. Her grey eyes, grey face and loose hanging cheeks were the epitome of death. It was in her eyes, her raking smoker’s cough, and her skeleton frame, thin flesh covering the bones beneath.
“Where is he? Where is the devil?” she sneered.
“Mum!” cried Iris. “For Christ sake!”
“Look at you! You disgusting piece of trash!” Flo looked up, as though seeing right through the old stamped tin roof of the bar, up to Heaven itself, her hands clasped together. “Oh God! Damn her soul! Damn them both!” she cried, dropping to her knees. “Lead me to him! The devil must be vanquished!”
“Take care of your mother,” ordered Striker, agog at such a display of what he considered insanity.
“You mind your own business,” said Iris, stepping towards Flo.
“Mister Highlands. You are the licensee. Escort this woman out of the bar,” ordered Striker.
Frank looked at his watch. But remained rooted to the spot. Then he swayed from side to side and suddenly found himself mumbling, “The bedroom is that way, through the kitchen and up the stairs.”
Striker took one step towards the kitchen when the door from the street flew open revealing Tank’s silhouette, his huge body, a gorilla framed in the doorway. “Flo! Ya silly bugger, come on, get up!” He grabbed her by the hair, hair that was wound up and held by a hair net and started to drag her out. Flo clawed at his hands,
“Slaves to the devil, all of you!” she screamed.
“Let her go!” ordered Striker, “in the name of Her Majesty’s police!”
“Fuck you and fuck her Majesty. She’s my wife and I’ll do what I like!”
Striker stepped forward. Flo was now hanging grimly on to Tank’s wrists. Striker took another step forward, reaching out to grab Tank’s arm. Iris took the opportunity to sneak away and run upstairs to warn James. Tank let go of Flo and she flopped to the floor. He then swung a haymaker at Striker, his huge fist connecting with Striker’s square, closely shaven jaw. Striker col¬lapsed in a pile. Flo scrambled up and staggered towards the kitchen, gaining speed as she went, looking for James. Tank lumbered after her, but she was nimble and managed to keep just ahead. And then they heard the most horrible scream, thin and piercing. It was Iris’s thin sharp voice. “Oh God! Help! He’s hung himself!”
Frank, with difficulty, stepped over Striker’s prone body and half ran half skipped to the kitchen, leading the way up the stairs. Tank followed, taking the stairs two at a time, his huge bulk slowing him down. Striker stirred and was now on his knees, spewing blood and saliva on the floor. Iris stood at the stop of the stairs, her hands to her mouth, screaming. Frank was first in the room and saw James, naked, hanging from the ceiling, a belt twisted around his neck and tied to the light cord. Tank pushed Frank aside and grabbed James by the legs, lifting him up to relieve the weight. The legs felt warm to his cheek. It was likely James was still alive. “Someone undo the belt or get something to cut him down” he growled.
“Leave him alone!” cried Flo, “It’s God’s work! He’s sending him to Hell where he belongs!”
“Shut up you stupid bitch!” screamed Iris, tears streaming down her cheeks. She clutched Flo’s shoulders with both hands and shook her so hard, it was a wonder that Flo’s neck didn’t snap. “It’s your fault! It’s all your fault!” She looked around the room and added, “and mine too,” and kept shaking and shaking.
“Iris, you better let her go. You’re hurting her,” wheezed Frank.
At that moment, Striker appeared at the door, butcher’s knife in hand. He staggered in, pushing Iris and Flo aside, and stepped up on the chair that James must have used to launch himself. Tank’s legs were getting tired and he was swaying back and forth. He would have to let go any second. “Hang on,” said Striker, “I think I can undo the belt.” He dropped the knife to the floor and fiddled with the belt buckle.
“Come on! Hurry! I can’t hold him much longer!”
At last, the belt came loose and Tank took the full weight of the body, falling forward, and James landed with a thump on the bed. Iris jumped on the bed, pulled the belt away from his neck, and lay close to him, hugging his naked body. “I’ll keep him warm,” she sobbed.
Frank grabbed the bed sheet and covered them both. “Is he still alive?” he asked meekly.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” sobbed Iris.
*
Iris took over James’s job as head barman of the Saloon bar. Frank was most impressed with her work, she was so dependable, so thorough. The glasses had never been so clean, the entire Saloon bar spotless. And the customers, contrary to all dire predictions that a woman could never tend a bar in an Australian pub, were most appreciative, and amazingly well behaved and respectful. For a while, blokes would come into the bar just to experience the spectacle of a woman barman. But there were no snide jokes about women in bars, only polite please-and-thank-you’s. For her part, Iris had found her place, she thought. She enjoyed the bar routine, the cleaning and preparing more than anything else, but now that the customers had got used to her, enjoyed their company too. The regulars came in each day, she had their drinks ready, learned their names, they smiled, occa¬sionally told her of their troubles. And gradually, some of them began to bring in their lady friends or even wives, something everyone had predicted would never happen.
And now, she was well settled in her house at Yarraville. She had decided in the end to keep the lace curtains and enjoyed sitting at the little table with the lace tablecloth that auntie Connie probably made, sipping a cup of tea in the early mornings, watching the cars go by on the Geelong Road. Later in the day there would be hammering and sawing as the builders got to work on the new Commission house next door. It would be good to have neighbours to replace the nests of tiger snakes that hid away among the scotch thistles and rough old rocks covered in lichen. James would be pleased with that, she thought with satisfaction.
*
On some days Flo would catch the train up to Footscray and stay for a day or two. They had come to an unstated arrangement, which was basically to observe and appreciate a silence between them, Flo having learned to keep her mouth shut, never to proselytize with Iris. If she could talk to her, she would tell her daughter, born in such terrible sin, that she had prayed so hard to Jesus who in the end had appeared to her one morning as she was stubbing out a cigarette at her kitchen table. He did not speak, but she heard Him, His faint image appearing in the steam of her kettle that sat on the gas stove boiling and whistling. He had forgiven Iris for she knew not what she had done by being born. He held out his hand to Flo, His thumb bent across his palm, the fingers slightly curled up as though He were beckoning to her. Foolishly, she had, through habit, reached for her Garrick cigarette box and held it out to Him. “You are a foolish woman,” he said, “she is your life, made in your image, go to her, comfort her, forgive her the sin that you put upon her.” The image became clearer and with it, Flo weaker. She wanted to stand before Him, but knew that she must not stand, but kneel. She felt all the life drain from her body, slid off her old chrome chair and fell listless to the floor, like a drunk slides away under the table. The table obstructed her view of the kettle which whistled loudly. Jesus had departed. Had Tank been there, he would have abused her, “what the fuckn hell are you doing under the fuckn table?” Or maybe he would have supposed she had kicked it, thought Flo. Either way, she had no need to worry. Tank had got three years for assaulting a police officer and was languishing away in the Geelong gaol. Good riddance to him. She could lie here under the table and die in peace, in her own kitchen, which was her life anyway.
When she awoke, she knew she was not in Heaven or Hell, but still under her table. She scrambled out, looked for her cigarettes and threw them into the fire of the kitchen stove. Jesus had spo¬ken and this was her answer. She quickly packed a small bag, walked down to the station and caught the train to Footscray and she was sitting on the front step of Iris’s house when Iris got home from work. Both of them, without thinking at all, ran to each other and hugged in silence. Iris did not ask what had happened, Flo seemed so genuinely happy to be with her. Occasionally on week¬ends, Linda and the brat came with her, only now the brat wasn’t ever called the brat, but Sylvy or her full name Sylvia when she was naughty, which now was not that often. Linda had started her at school and to everyone’s amazement, she learned to read in no time and loved going to school. Iris looked forward to her visits and enjoyed reading books along with her. When Flo went off to church, Linda regaled Iris with stories of her clients, many of whom Iris could remember, some of whom she had probably slept in their house when she was as free as the wind, she liked to say, the wind of “window.”
*
On Monday, her day off, Iris would take the train into Flinders Street, do a little shopping, then catch the tram up to Pentridge. She searched for things to take James, but always, if she happened to buy something for him, he rejected it. He wanted for nothing, he insisted. All he wanted was her, and she, he could not have. Grimesy had done his best to get him off. Striker had charged James with murder, which Grimesy managed to beat, but the secondary charge of manslaughter had stuck. The image of an upright moral preacher being squashed to death by an uncouth ill-tempered youth was too much for the jury. Grimesy tried to convince the jury that James was suffering from severe mental trauma from his tour of duty in Vietnam, but this hurt rather than helped, because the Vietnam war was not popular, many of those returning from military service spurned and derided. And his attempted suicide was viewed paradoxically by the jury as some¬thing that he had brought on himself. In the end, the judge sentenced James to ten years in the notorious Pentridge prison, with mandatory psychotherapy for the first year, eligible for parole at the Governor’s pleasure. During the trial and for some time afterwards at Pentridge, James was placed on suicide watch, but gradually this surveillance loosened as it became apparent that James had quieted down and adjusted well to the routines of prison life. He had his own cell, not that much smaller than the rooms he had slept in over the years, his room at the old Corio Shire was smaller, he thought, the one at the Newmarket not much bigger, and if you counted Iris into it, smaller. It was just Iris that he missed, but even there, as he thought about the years they had been together, he wondered whether they really did love each other like they said. It was mainly sex, after all, followed maybe by a bit of love, but really, what was it? He was starved of it in prison, for there was no love there, it was just rough sex if you were so inclined and wanted it. And now he did not want it. It came with too many complications and come to think of it, when he was with Iris, it too came with endless complications. So, he had settled down to a kind of happiness with himself, alone in his cell, taking his food with regularity, writing in his note¬book, although that had tapered off too. There didn’t seem any point to it. The first few months or so, when Iris came to visit, they talked a lot. He insisted on giving her the house, which at first, she resisted, firmly stating that owning a house and living in it went against her whole way of life. It would make her into something that she was not. But James would not listen. He insisted on signing over the deed to her. Grimesy had strongly objected, pointing out that, among other things, it would be considered a sale so there would be stamp duty and all kinds of expenses to pay, and could Iris afford it anyway? She would have to borrow money to pay for the transfer. And who knows? With good behaviour, argued Grimesy, he might get out on parole within a couple of years. Then he might have nowhere to go. What then?
*
Iris would remember forever the day they met in prison and James signed over the deed. Grimesy made one last attempt to stop him, charging that it was tantamount to committing suicide. She saw James’s tell-tale anger rise up, his ears and cheeks bright red. “Then fuck off,” he said to Grimesy, “I don’t need you or the house.”
Iris reached over, grabbed Jimmy’s hand and said, “Jimmy, sweetie, don’t say that. Grimesy has been such a good friend.” She took the deed and looked at Grimesy, then back to James. “I promise I will look after it, and it will be there for you when you get out.”
Grimesy took both their hands. “All I want is what’s best for you both,” he said with a faint smile, then added with a bigger smile, “talking as a friend, not as your lawyer.”
James squeezed Grimesy’s hand hard. “Have you told Eddie?” he asked. Eddie had not come near him ever since the Newmarket incident.
“I have. He was none too pleased. After all, he passed the house on to you.”
“Fuck him!”
“You don’t mean that. He’s done a lot for you, I’m sure you appreciate it.”
“You’re starting to sound like one of my fathers,” mumbled James.
“I promise I’ll keep in touch with him,” said Iris.
The fact was, Eddie had given up on James. It seemed that every time he did something to help him, he messed it all up, got himself into big trouble. Giving him the house just created an opportunity for James to show how messed up he was. Betting it on a horse! For God’s sake! The boy has no sense. He was a danger to himself and others, that was what the judge had said when he delivered his sentence, and he had to agree. And marry¬ing that hopeless little cunt Iris who didn’t know who or where she was a lot of the time, what kind of future could you expect? It was a very sad circumstance. He had gone to the wedding in an effort to show his support, but it was such a ramshackle affair, he came away disgusted and decided for his own peace of mind, to give up on them, sever all ties. Maybe he just didn’t know how to be a good father. He thought he had done everything he could to help him, to make up for the lost years. Maybe he did too much.
“Me too,” said Grimesy.
The prison guard hovered above them. Time was up. James wanted dearly to hug Iris, but hugging was not allowed. There were no tears in his eyes, though. His whole body was stiff with resolve. He would take his punishment like a man and enjoy his days and months of solitude. As he walked back to the cell, he muttered, “well Dad, wherever you are, this is where you’ve put me. Being here will be just like sitting on your old stool at the pub.”
“What’s that, son?” asked the guard, quite a bit older than James, probably near retirement.
“I’m not your son,” answered James, grinning at the guard as he was let into his cell. And as the key turned in the lock, he lay down on the stiff mattress, his hands behind his head, thinking of the life that awaited him. The past now was well and truly over, from here in his cell, in his solitude, he could create his future, which, given the space of his cell, he knew rested entirely within himself. He must not allow the past to dictate his future.
*
That I accidentally on purpose killed an asshole like the Preacher was probably something I should be punished for, but the bastard deserved it, especially as he and I knew—and we are the only ones besides the brat— that he had killed Millie in a horrible murder. At least my murder was an accident. His was a disgusting horror of a killing. And then to try to get me hanged for it. That was the end. The bastard I hope is roasting in hell right now for his filthy crime. Poor Millie. OK, so the Preacher had a family, or so they said. Don’t know how anyone could put up with him or would even acknowledge him as a relative, he was such an asshole. Anyway, what’s done is done and I can’t bring him back. I don’t have anything to make up for, although I would, if they brought them in, apologize to his family, if he has any, and tell them that I’m sorry. They wouldn’t believe me, though, would they? I mean, how else can I convince them I am sorry except by suffering here in prison for ten years? And how can that make them feel any better? It doesn’t bring the Preacher back, does it? All it does is remind them of the so-called crime. The only way they can forgive me is to forget that the crime ever happened, and how is that at all possible? I could get on my knees, lash myself with a whip, even cut off my fingers before them, but that would not bring the Preacher back, would it? It would only cause them to remember the so-called crime all over again and demand more punishment for me. Even if they tortured me until I died, would that erase the so-called crime?” I’d say it would etch the so-called crime into their brains, so they would never forget and never forgive. Anyway, if they’re good Christians, they should love me as well as forgive me. It’s all impossible.
The December sun beamed its limitless energy through the small barred window of his cell. He quickly dismissed any thought of Iris climbing through it. Instead, he reached for one of the three books he had managed to keep in his cell, Plato’s Republic, the Bible and Ovid’s Love Poems. All three books reminded him of his past failures. The day he signed up for the army was a clear sign of failure in his opinion, given that he was injured and did nothing at all to stop the atrocities of which he was a part. His ridiculous idea that he was a star Latin student, so gullible, so easily taken in by that poofda professor Pulcher. I should have beaten the shit out of him when I had the chance. Those uni people. Grimesy was the only good bloke among them. And don’t talk to me about Kate, that slut. And the bible, what use was it? Look at Flo, the poor stupid woman, getting beaten up by Tank every other day. Why did Jesus allow that? Dad? Are you listening to me? But I tell you Dad, I’m not dwelling on the past, I’m going to read and read these three books and by the time they let me out I’ll know them off by heart. I’ll recite every page. It’s an endless future, Dad, don’t you see? Are you there?
James closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax. “I’m serving Time, Dad. Time. Here, I’m suspended in it. You’re doing the same thing, where you are, just like you did when you sat on your bar stool, spoke to no one. Just sipped your beer and plonk, no thoughts, just a simple feeling of satisfaction, nothing to think about, nothing to look forward to except where the next lot of booze will come from. A life at peace with itself. Don’t you think Dad? Dad?
James rolled off his bed and kneeled beside it. He stared up at the small barred window, the sun’s rays striking his face. “Dad? Can’t you answer me just this once?” He called, his hands clasped together in the manner of prayer.
A voice inside his head boomed, “son! Save yourself!” He clasped his head in his hands as though he had a terrible headache and cried, “I’m not your son!” and threw himself on his bed, burying his head in the pillow, crying inconsolably, his whole body convulsing with sobs. And then, against his will, a memory penetrated his sobs; he remembered the Preacher in his dying moments calling for his bible, and he, James, of all people, reciting psalm 23, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” he said to himself, and said it over and over again, until he fell peacefully into a deep sleep, from which he hoped he would not awaken.
*
The next morning, or more like midday, he awoke in a sweat. The unrelenting summer sun pierced through the bars and filled his cell with an oppressive, overbearing heat. Faint noises of traffic wafted in on the breeze, carrying the high-pitched voices of children. Embarrassed, he awoke to thoughts of Kate.
Iris, I know you’re there. I’m sorry for everything, truly I am. I did everything for you I always said, and I’m sorry. I did it all for myself now I see. I didn’t know. I never thought at all. I drank too much. I gave it up. I did God’s work, though. I killed that devil The Preacher, I know the Lord will forgive me, for I did his work for him. Presumptuous I know. You probably don’t know that word, Iris my love. Never mind. I’ll keep talking to you. You’re the only one left for me now. Tell Flo I love her too, though I haven’t much room in my heart left for anyone else, but you. I will serve out my time and every day pray to you. I’m used to not having you. I know you’re happy alone and apart from me. I brought only misery on you. And you risked your sweet little life on me. I look forward to my full ten years, praying for you every day, why shorten it? The longer I am here the more time I will have to pray for you.
The guard appeared with a lunch tray in hand.
At Jimmy’s insistence, Grimesy had petitioned for his time to be served in solitary confinement, with exercise in the common yard for only 30 minutes every Monday. He received all his meals in his cell. He had become convinced that his own company was the only company that could be trusted. For was it not clear that, when he lived with others, he inevitably got into trouble? The sensible thing to do was to be alone. It did not stop him from thinking of others and in that way their lives were part of his. Maybe it would take all of ten years of thinking alone with himself, his memories of others, and his favourite books, to come to terms with his past life. Thinking is a way of making amends, saying sorry a million times over, it surely will work. He looked at the lunch tray and did not feel in the least bit hungry.
He rolled off his cot and began to do push-ups. He had never exercised in his life, except when forced to in the army. It just seemed like something that he had to do. He was unable to do many and quickly the sweat poured in great streams from his neck, armpits and everywhere else. He reached to the lunch tray and drank the cup of water. Then turned the tray back.
Each day the guard would come by, find the cup empty, but most of the food untouched. And each day James did more and more push-ups, now counting them and writing the tally on the wall. At this rate, the entire wall would be full in ten years. As he grew thinner, his mind grew clearer, or more precisely, uncluttered. He refused visitors, viewing them as a distraction from his single-minded pursuit of redemption. Soon, his mind was free of most all memories, he had successfully starved them out. So that he would not forget Iris, he counted his push-ups in Irises (“one-Iris, two Iris,”). She would stay with him for as long as he lived, and he with her even after that, he was sure.
*
The heat wave passed and for a while the sun stopped shining through his cell window. His daily routine had come to him naturally. Read, sleep, exercise, water, sleep, read, sleep, exer¬cise, water, sleep. So immersed was he in this routine that one day began to blend in with another, night into day, day into night. It was not a rhythm of light and darkness, but a trance-like state of enlightenment. He counted his push-ups with difficulty, stopped trying to think and found this to be incredibly liberating. Free of thought, his body became a haven of peace. His mind had become his body. James was now beyond knowing. Redemption was not something that you could achieve through good deeds or confessions. It had to be felt, it had to descend on one. All one could do was to prepare the body to accept it when redemption came down.
When the sun finally appeared again through the bars of his cell, his eyes remained shut, yet he saw every sunbeam. But on this morning, he did not roll off his cot, and did not begin his push-ups. He heard his mother call, or was it Iris? He called out, but his lips did not move, no sound entered his cell. He reached for his cup of water, but no hand or arm moved.
The water in the cup had run over.