Part Four
Nathan Bates
8 May 1978
Gross
Roger came into his cell at the usual time, to say the usual thing. Or so Nat was sure.
He’d been napping. Without meaning to. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep. Dreaming about Jack. About working out in the gym with Jack. In the dream, Nat’s chest and arm development matched Jack’s exactly.
Nat lay on his back on his cot, careful not to get up, or sit up, or take any other action that might reflect caring.
It was such a regular event, each visiting day, that his two bad-tempered cellmates paid no attention. In fact, they focused a great deal of their attention into paying no attention. A hint of negativity hung in the air around each such occasion. Roger had several times said it was jealousy, which Nat could not imagine. Had he believed it, he would gladly have invited either of his cellmates to go sit at the table in his place. And, on their return, keep their mouths firmly shut about the thoughts of Ernest Hemingway on fishing, Albert Einstein on society, or President Carter on the fiscal realities of the country this year.
“You got visitors,” Roger said.
It was such a strange thing for him to say, such a thought out of place, that Nat honestly believed he had misspoken. He waited briefly for Roger to correct himself. To say he had meant visitor. Singular.
He never did.
“Visitors?”
“Yeah. You know what that is? It’s like a visitor. Like you always get. Only in this case it’s more than one.”
“Who?”
“Well, here’s a thought on that. Raise your ass up off your cot, take it out into the visiting room, and then your eyes will tell you everything you need to know.”
Nat sighed deeply.
? ? ?
At least it wasn’t two total strangers. At least it was only one.
Nat sat across the table from The Man and some woman he’d dragged along. Some woman the old guy’s age. She smiled at Nat. He frowned and slumped deeper into his seat.
The old man seemed to need to break the silence.
“Nat, this is Eleanor. Eleanor, this is the young man I’ve told you so much about for so long. Nat.”
“What did you tell her about me?” Nat asked.
About this time Nat noticed that Roger the guard had stationed himself too closely by. He stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed, close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation. He stood in Nat’s line of vision but behind his visitors, out of their sight.
Roger shook his head slightly at Nat’s question.
Great, Nat thought. The rudeness police.
He slumped even further in his seat, and resolved to say nothing.
The old man went on talking for a good five minutes or so. It could have been longer. It certainly felt longer. He seemed to be the only person in the room willing to talk, and so he did. He went on about how he and this old woman had first met something like twenty years ago, and how they’d met again on the day Nat got arrested, and how they’d been seeing each other for a couple of years now, while Nat was away.
While he talked, Nat occasionally felt the old woman’s eyes searching him. He was careful to look away. But it was hard to avoid her eyes and Roger’s at the same time. And Roger seemed determined to make a point with his eyes, too.
Nat briefly wondered if turning eighteen would mean walking through the world without constantly being told what to do, what to say, what to think. Where to place your gaze.
Getting out of this hellhole wouldn’t hurt those ends, either.
“So, we wanted you to be the very first to know,” he heard the old man say. Breaking through and interrupting his thoughts about freedom.
“Know what?” Nat asked. Literally not understanding if he had missed some part of the conversation or not.
“That Eleanor and I are getting married.” A ringing silence.
“You’re getting married?”
“Yes. We are.”
“Why?”
At the periphery of his vision, Nat saw Roger frown and shake his head. He also saw the old lady shift uncomfortably in her seat.
Nat looked up at the old man, who riveted him with his eyes.
“The same reason any two people get married. Because they love one another and enjoy each other’s company. And because they’ve reached a point in their relationship where they know they’re happier together than apart.”
Nat frowned and said nothing. Which created something of an awkward vacuum. Especially considering the visiting period had far more than an hour left to run.
? ? ?
“What the hell is your problem?” Roger asked as he marched Nat back down the hall to his cellblock.
“Which of my many problems would that be?”
“That guy’s given you everything. Saved your ass on the day you were born. Comes to see you every visiting day. Drives a five-hour round trip three times a week so you know you got one person cares enough for you—”
“I didn’t ask him to—”
“I wasn’t finished. How ‘bout you just listen for a change? He’s taking you in when you get sprung from here. Giving you a chance to start over. Now … would you like to explain to me why you would begrudge a man like that a little happiness from this life?”
Nat just kept walking.
Roger stopped. Grabbed him by the back of his orange prison jumpsuit. Pulled him back and, rather gently for an unsupervised authority figure, Nat thought, placed his back against the peeling paint of the hallway wall.
“I think we were having a conversation,” Roger said, his face close.
Nat rolled his eyes. “What was the damn question again?”
“Why shouldn’t he get married?”
“I never said he shouldn’t.”
“Why can’t you be happy for him? Why you gotta give them a bad time?”
“It’s just gross.”
“It’s not gross. It’s sweet.”
“They’re old.”
“They’re not that old.”
“They’re like … over sixty. I think.”
“So?”
“So you don’t think that’s gross?”
“Lots of people get married when they’re young, and then they’re still married when they’re sixty. And seventy. And eighty. Is that gross?”
“If you really stop to think about it, yeah.”
“Ah,” Roger said. “I don’t believe a word you say. You’re not telling me the truth. And you’re not telling yourself the truth. There’s a reason why this bothers you. And you don’t even know what it is yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe you’re mad because he’s getting some while you’re holed up in here with a bunch of guys?”
“Oh, God. It just got even more gross. I don’t want to think about them—”
“Or maybe you just want all his attention all the time.”
Nat actually thought about that for a minute. His grandmother had accused him of needing to be the center of attention, too. But she’d misjudged what was going on at the time. She hadn’t had so much as a clue. Still, he gave a certain weight to words he had heard twice. So he tried them on. But they didn’t seem to fit.
He wished briefly that someone would come down the hall and disturb this moment. But no one did.
“No, I don’t think it’s that,” he said.
“Tell you what …” Roger reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Peeled off a ten and held it up under Nat’s nose. “Ten dollars for an honest answer.” Then he looked both ways and quickly put the money away again.
It was against the rules for an inmate to have cash while inside. And also very sought-after and valuable. Nat knew he could buy his way out of a lot of trouble with ten bucks. And Roger knew it, too.
“How will you know if it’s honest?”
“If it has a ring of truth, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. No hurry, either. Think about it and get back to me.”
Then he took hold of the shoulder of Nat’s jumpsuit, turned him, and marched him back to his cell.