'I still don't see what harm it does.'
He gave me a thin little smile. 'It's not about harm, it's about the rules. What would life be without rules? Paulie, Paulie, Paulie.' He shook his head, as if just looking at me made him feel sorry to be alive. 'You probably think an old fart like you doesn't have to mind about the rules anymore, but that's just not true. Paulie.'
Smiling at me. Disliking me. Maybe even hating me. And why? I don't know. Sometimes there is no why. That's the scary part.
'Well, I'm sorry if I broke the rules,' I said. It came out sounding whiney, a little shrill, and I hated myself for sounding that way, but I'm old, and old people whine easily. Old people scare easily.
Brad nodded. 'Apology accepted. Now go hang that back up. You got no business out walking in the rain, anyway. Specially not in those woods. What if you were to slip and fall and break your damned hip? Huh? Who do you think'd have to hoss your elderly freight back up the hill?'
'I don't know,' I said. I just wanted to get away from him. The more I listened to him, the more he sounded like Percy. William Wharton, the crazyman who came to the Green Mile in the fall of `32, once grabbed Percy and scared him so bad that Percy squirted in his pants. You talk about this to anyone, Percy told the rest of us afterward, and you'll all be on the breadlines in a week. Now, these many years later, I could almost hear Brad Dolan saying those same words, in that same tone of voice. It's as if, by writing about those old times, I have unlocked some unspeakable door that connects the past to the present - Percy Wetmore to Brad Dolan, Janice Edgecombe to Elaine Connelly, Cold Mountain Penitentiary to the Georgia Pines old folks' home. And if that thought doesn't keep me awake tonight, I guess nothing will.
I made as if to go in through the kitchen door and Brad grabbed me by the wrist again. I don't know about the first one, but this time he was doing it on purpose, squeezing to hurt. His eyes shifting back and forth, making sure no one was around in the early-morning wet, no one to see he was abusing one of the old folks he was supposed to be taking care of.
'What do you do down that path?' he asked. 'I know you don't go down there and jerk off, those days are long behind you, so what do you do?'
'Nothing,' I said, telling myself to be calm, not to show him how bad he was hurting me and to be calm, to remember he'd only mentioned the path, he didn't know about the shed. 'I just walk. To clear my mind'
'Too late for that, Paulie, your mind's never gonna be clear again!' He squeezed my thin old mares wrist again, grinding the brittle bones, eyes continually shifting from side to side, wanting to make sure he was safe. Brad wasn't afraid of breaking the rules; he was only afraid of being caught breaking them. And in that, too, he was like Percy Wetmore, who would never let you forget he was the governor's nephew. 'Old as you are, its a miracle you can remember who you are. You're too goddam old. Even for a museum like this. You give me the f**king creeps, Paulie.'
'Let go of me,' I said, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. It wasn't just pride, either. I thought if he heard it, it might inflame him, the way the smell of sweat can sometimes inflame a bad-tempered dog - one which would otherwise only growl - to bite. That made me think of a reporter who'd covered John Coffey's trial. The reporter was a terrible man named Hammersmith, and the most terrible thing about him was that he hadn't known he was terrible.
Instead of letting go, Dolan squeezed my wrist again. I groaned. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. It hurt all the way down to my ankles.
'What do you do down there, Paulie? Tell me.'
'Nothing!' I said. I wasn't crying, not yet, but I was afraid I'd start soon if he kept bearing down like that. 'Nothing, I just walk, I like to walk, let go of me!'
He did, but only long enough so he could grab my other hand. That one was rolled closed. 'Open up,' he said. 'Let Poppa see.'
I did, and he grunted with disgust. It was nothing but the remains of my second piece of toast. I'd clenched it in my right hand when he started squeezing my left wrist, and there was butter - well, oleo, they don't have real butter here, of course - on my fingers.
'Go on inside and wash your damned hands,' he said, stepping back and taking another bite of his Danish. 'Jesus Christ.'
I went up the steps. My legs were shaking, my heart pounding like an engine with leaky valves and shaky old pistons. As I grasped the knob that would let me into the kitchen - and safety - Dolan said: 'If you tell anyone I squeezed your po' old wrist, Paulie, I'll tell them you're having delusions. Onset of senile dementia, likely. And you know they'll believe me. If there are bruises, they'll think you made them yourself.'
Yes. Those things were true. And once again, it could have been Percy Wetmore saying them, a Percy that had somehow stayed young and mean while I'd grown old and brittle.