That weekend I had no new assignments. I finished the old ones and finally got down to reading the books. I didnīt know when Iīd be able to get new ones, so I decided to ration my reading to one book a week. The books were The Catcher In the Rye by J. D. Salinger, High Fidelity by Nick Hornby and a small one with black cover called Mind Games, with riddles and mathematical problems and stuff. I remembered having read the first one some time in school but didnīt recall the action. Liked the title, though, so I made it Book of the Week.
Nurse gave me a checkup on Saturday, not the ordinary nurse but another one, a skinny, elderly woman. One of the screws undressed me, I didnīt like it at all. She changed the dressing on my ass and I saw there was dried blood on the old, she put some smelly stuff on and asked if I needed painkillers. I said yes, maīam, thank you, maīm, even though the pain was bearable by now. I felt good having them around. I still had two left from last weekend and got another six from her.
On Monday morning the doctor examined me. She asked the screw about my whipping account, and he had to ask me, because he didnīt know. I told her I had 90 lashes to go, and she turned to the screw and said that in that case, the whippings were to be spread over three weeks, not more than 10 at a time and not effectuated more often than every other day. Since I was earning myself new lashes all the time I was sure by now Iīd never get out of there. I remembered that my extra assignments was due back today, and probably my weekend pages, too. I had no illusion left that Iīd given mr Jackson what he wanted, and my account may already have been doubled without me knowing it.
Then that cunt of a croaker said I was medically fit to have a tenner today. I immediately started shivering all over. I needed more time, I couldnīt take any more right now. Then I thought what the hell, if she gives me time to heal, itīll only give me a short breathing space and Iīll still be whipped skinless all over again afterwards.
I was to come back Wednesday morning for another check up. At least I got out in the open. I tried to take in as much as possible on the walk across the yard: the colour of the sky, the freshness of the autumn air, the sound of wind in the thinning leaves.
"Iīll take you back to your cell," mr Bell, the screw said. "You probably wonīt have to wait for more than half an hour."
He was wrong. Nothing happened until 11 oīclock, and I was afraid Iīd miss breakfast and lunch both. To my relief mr Jackson wasnīt present this time. I had ten rather modest paddle licks instead of another taste of the old whip, and everything went well. And I made it back in time for lunch. I had my tray and a thick bunch of papers, which I put under my bedcover not to let the sight of them ruin my meal.
When the trays were collected mr Trent told me to walk with him. Surprisingly, he didnīt cuff me. He took me to a small room with nothing inside but two chairs, a table and a telephone, and told me that from now on, I was allowed to make two phone calls a week, and that today I should call my grandparents. Which meant I wasnīt allowed to decide whom to call. I was certain that neither Chris nor Jenni ever would be on the list. Mr Trent seated himself and put a plug attached to the telephone by a thin black cord in his right ear. I preferred standing up.
I felt really odd when he dialled the number and gave me the handset, and half hoped noone would answer. But Grandpa did. My heart jumped when I heard his voice.
"Hi, Grandpa," I said. "Itīs me, Tom." I was always Tom to them. Everybody else, even Mum, called me TJ.
"Tom?" he said. "This is a surprise! How are you, my boy?"
"Allright, I guess", I said, nervously twisting the cord between my fingers. "I wasnīt allowed to use the phone until now."
"We got your letter. You didnīt have to apologize to us. Things havenīt been easy for you."
"Thatīs no excuse for bad behaviour," I said, and he laughed a little. "How are you?"
"Well, Tom", he said, and then was silent for a while, "itīs funny you should call today." Then he was silent again, and I thought, no, it canīt be and when the silence got even longer I knew it was. "I just got back from the hospital, Tom. Marjorie, your grandmother, has been very ill lately," and then he suddenly sobbed heavily, like someone close to having a real breakdown.
"Grandpa, Iīm sorry", I said, feeling very weird.
"She passed away at 10.12 this morning. She just faded away. She was unconscious for two days and never woke up." His voice was thin and very strained."Iīve tried to reach you a couple of times. I was going to call you this afternoon. Iīve already spoken to your mum. Your aunt was at the hospital, too. Sheīs here right now."
"Grandpa, Iīm really sorry," I said again, closing my eyes, picturing him by the phone in their yellowpainted kitchen. I also wondered if this was the reason why they all of a sudden let me use the phone. If theyīd known all along that Grandma was dying. If they deliberately had waited until she was dead. It couldnīt be. Nobody was that inhuman.
"I donīt know when the funeral will be. You will come to the funeral, Tom, wonīt you?"
"I donīt know if theyīll let me." I threw a glance at mr Trent. He sat with his eyes closed and didnīt move at all. "Iīll try my best. Iīm very sorry for you. And Iīm sorry I couldnīt see her before....you know.....oh god, this is awful news, Grandpa."
"Iīm sorry too, Tom", he said. "Your grandmother was very sad when you went to prison. For the first and last time, I hope. Are you treated well?"
"Donīt you worry about me, I can handle it. I miss you, though. I miss you very much."
And then I started crying and he started crying, and finally he said heīd call me about the funeral and got another phone number from the screw, and we said goodbye and take care and be a good boy now, Tom, thereīs no real harm in you. And mr Trent brought me back and locked me up and I had a pain inside far worse than that of my body. I couldnīt bring myself to read the papers. I put them upside down on the table and started writing my four pages, and they were all about my gramps and all theyīd done for me.
Some half hour before the lights went out I decided to read the _f_u_c_k_ing papers anyway. I had spent the whole afternoon writing and remembering and crying and I had to get a break because I was afraid Iīd go nuts otherwise. The papers sort of hung over me like a black cloud of doom. I read the third first, the one about the pros and cons of my lifestyle. I was fully aware of that the cons were mostly clichés, like it being illegal and me being a burden to society and that b. s., had to start somewhere, but heīd actually put "Parrot Productions Inc." right over it. Hilarious. The pros were my own thoughts, and heīd slaughtered them mercilessly. Like, I told I appreciated the freedom and he just wrote: "Feeling free right now?" Or when I wrote I took pride in doing something I was good at "Considering the number of times youīve been apprehended, youīre not very talented." By the time Iīd read it through I was steaming. I wanted to tear it all to pieces. What was he so god_d_a_m_n_ed superior about? Earning his bread as a _f_u_c_k_ing turnkey, whipping asses, writing bull_s_h_i_t_. Some superman. There was no summary in the end, which made me very apprehensive. I went on with the description of myself. That was even worse. Iīd really strained myself to be as honest as possible, within limits, of course, and he just kept putting me down, writing sarcastic stuff like "No _s_h_i_t_?" or "A pity youīre not a Catholic, the Pope would have canonized you." all over it. OK, maybe Iīd partly tried to appear at my best, but Iīd also mentioned my darker sides and shortcomings, and him disparaging me like that felt like a punch on the jaw. The last assignment, the one Iīd considered eating, was practically unmarked. One comment read: "This is what you did to the people you were stealing from", on the paragraph where I complained about having to cope with pain and huniliation and being unfairly punished. Still no summary. The last paper wasnīt hand written, though.
"Any 10 year old would have done a better job on this., which only stresses your immaturity and lack of self-knowledge. The prisons are crammed with birdbrained small-time thieves like yourself, pretending to be big shots. Without guidance and discipline youīll end up a loser like them, drowning in the crowd some career. Thereīs no point in punishing you for being ignorant. What you need first hand is education. Your next task is to rewrite ## 1 & 3, taking the comments into serious consideration. Ready on Friday. As for # 2, youīve done well in aspect of honesty. The contents, however, not very surprisingly reveal yourself as self pitying, irresponsible, naïve and too emotional for your own good. Hating wonīt help you change your life. Youīll have to work hard on your attitude in the years to come. Being a Crowmill apprentice is more of a privilege than a punishment, which hopefully youīll realize once you get on with your treatment, and pain is Godīs megaphone for the deaf. Itīs also an excellent teacher, if you accept it to be. Your first lesson on this subject is to write 500 lines of Pain is an excellent teacher. Ready on Friday."
God, I hated that mother_f_u_c_k_er! I didnīt even feel grateful for not being flogged for this. I lay awake for hours, alternately punching my pillow and crying into it. Pain had taught me _s_h_i_t_ this far. I didnīt believe in pain as a _f_u_c_k_ing teacher. I was also mad with him for throwing this at me when Iīd just lost my Grandma, which hopefully he knew nothing about when he wrote it all, but I blamed him anyway.
Tuesday morning, the breakfast trolley didnīt stop at my door.
I was sure it was a mistake. But it returned without stopping, and half an hour later the screws came for me.
I kneeled and asked if the doctorīs orders had been changed and was told that on request (I had no doubt about by whom) she had approved of me getting paddled this week instead of whipped. I was back on 10 a day by that.
Thereīs no need telling more about my following sessions on the frame. Letīs just say there was a fast reduction of my account, and that was the benefit of the whole thing. I never want to be put through anything even resembling my time in Step One again. Did it turn me into a better person? The outer me, to use mr Jacksonīs expression, learned a useless thing or two from it, like if I started yelling with the first stroke, they often went easier on me, not all of them, but it was as good a strategy as any. The inner me turned blacker with every day. I started thinking of killing myself, facing the prospect of another 34 months of this. Sometimes I was all rage and hate and wish for revenge, getting even being too _f_u_c_k_ing tame. Other times I just cried my heart out. No, it didnīt turn me into a better person. It didnīt make a man out of me, either. Letīs say I adapted. The outer me adapted. I saw nothing of mr Jackson these two weeks, but he still blackened my papers with an endless stream of new assignments. No more punishments, though, but there was a sharper, even brutal tone to his comments. That old say about sticks and stones is pure bull_s_h_i_t_. I honestly canīt say Iīd preferred him to whip me, but he hurt me all the same, deep inside where I was more vulnerable than Iīd ever imagined, during a time when I went through hell anyway, emotionally and physically. Iīd never thought of myself as a loser, but he kept using that word so frequently that I finally figured he had a point. The more I thought of it, the more sense it made. I mean, I was locked up in here, being treated like _s_h_i_t_, having my ass spanked like a kid, being curbed like a dog. Even if I eventually would get out of here it probably would haunt me for the rest of my life. That wasnīt exactly the script of a winner.
They allowed me to attend Grandmaīs funeral. I was lent a way too big black suit that made me look like a scarecrow and shoes that were one size too small. I was still on Step One and still had 30 to go, and Iīd been in constant pain for the past six weeks. Mr Morales drove me home and sitting down was pure hell, I had to use analgesics to bear it. I wore irons in the car and was cuffed wrist to wrist with mr Morales the rest of the time. Anyway, I was grateful for getting there. As soon as Grandpa opened the door I broke down crying, and he patted me on the back and then started crying, too. My aunt was there and some relatives I hardly knew, but I didnīt see Mum until we were in church. Sheīd lost weight and had her hair dyed and fixed and looked OK, and her new guy Barney was there and all the kids, too, the younger ones didnīt recognize me but Gloria did, and she came over and chatted some before Mum did. At 14, sheīd grown up quite a cute girl except her teeth were crooked and she talked funny, like she had something in her mouth all the time. Being a bit foggy from the painkillers I asked her about it, and she clenched her teeth and her eyes turned black, and then she turned her back on me and left, really pissed off. Mr Morales said I was being very insolent and forced me to apologize to her, but she refused to speak to me again.
Mum didnīt even mention the letter I wrote to her. Maybe sheīd forgotten all about it. She was kind of distant and New Barney didnīt seem too pleased meeting me. He looked like another stupid _f_u_c_k_er, big jaw, squinty eyes, pot belly and silly whiskers to go with that. He even had the guts to tell me Mum and him were glad I was behind bars, as he said, not getting myself into any more trouble. Like it was his _f_u_c_k_ing business, I hadnīt even met the asshole before. I was really sad afterwards. I didnīt get much chance to talk to anybody. Going around like hand in hand with a screw made mingling tough, anyway. Right after the services we drove back again. I asked mr Morales if I could see Grandpa at home before we went back, and he said I couldnīt. On the return trip to Dopemill I just stared out of the window most of the time but managed to keep from crying until I was locked up again. I hadnīt thought much of Grandma at the funeral, concentrating too much on other stuff, and that made me even sadder.
The last weeks on Step One were a real drag. Except for the assignments I had no more punishments once the account was emptied, and that was nice for a change, but I was locked up all the time, except for going to the showers three times and making phone calls twice a week. One call was always to Grandpa. I hadnīt spoken to him that often ever and the conversations were rather short and awkward, him not being very talkative and me not having much to tell, that is, not much I could tell about without upsetting him. The other calls were to my aunt, to Al Clarke he kept squeaking about how much heīd appreciated the letter, maybe it was his first one ever, and he even threatened to pay me a visit, I didnīt get down to asking him about a prison transfer and to Mum, who still was distant and even said I didnīt have to call her again, Grandpa briefing her on the development of things all the time. She told me a couple of other things I donīt want to remember, but she wasnīt exactly proud of me and expressed something like that her life was the garden of Eden right now and she wanted no snake _f_u_c_k_ing up the peace. Even if I remind myself six thousand _f_u_c_k_ing times that I donīt give a _s_h_i_t_ about her and that Iīm not a kid and donīt need a _f_u_c_k_ing mother anymore, I still donīt like the way she keeps putting me down. Itīs unnatural. I mean, you canīt just screw around and get a kid and then change your mind, like oops, stupid mistake, well the hell with him. Heīs still there, for _f_u_c_k_īs sake. You canīt really resign as a parent. If I ever have kids of my own, Iīll at least make sure they feel wanted.
To get on with the story, I finally had my transfer Monday, November 25th, having spent 8 weeks of my life getting abused in a way I thought belonged to the Middle Ages. When I went to bed Sunday night I was scared this would turn out to be another bummer. I lay awake until 4.20 a. m., then I dozed off, and nothing happened until the bell woke me.