Forty Lashes Less One

6

“Boys, I tell you the Lord loves us all as His children; but you cross Him and He can be mean as a roaring lion. Not mean because he hates you boys, no-sir; mean because he hates sin and evil so much. You don’t believe me, read your Psalms, fifty, twenty-two, where it says, ‘Now consider this, ye that forget God, lest I tear you in pieces’—you hear that?—‘tear you in pieces and there be none to deliver….’ None to deliver means there ain’t nothing left of you.”

Mr. Manly couldn’t tell a thing from their expressions. Sometimes they were looking at him, sometimes they weren’t. Their heads didn’t move much. Their eyes did. Raymond’s eyes would go to the window and stay there a while. Harold would stare at the wall or the bookcase, and look as if he was asleep with his eyes open.

Mr. Manly flipped back a few pages in his Bible. When he looked up again his glasses gleamed in the overhead light. He had brought the two boys out of the snake den after only three days this time. Bob Fisher hadn’t said a word. He’d marched them over, got them fed and cleaned up, and here they were. Here, but somewhere else in their minds. Standing across the desk fifteen, twenty minutes now, and Mr. Manly wondered if either of them had listened to a word he’d said.

“Again in the Psalms, boys, chapter eleven, sixth verse, it says, ‘Upon the wicked shall rain snares, fire and brimstone and a horrible tempest’—that’s like a storm—‘and this shall be the portion of their cup.’

“Raymond, look at me. ‘He that keepeth the commandments keepeth his own soul’—Proverbs, chapter nineteen, verse sixteen—‘but he that despiseth His way shall die.’

“Harold Jackson of Fort Valley, Georgia, ‘There shall be no reward for the evil man.’ That’s Proverbs again, twenty-four, twenty. ‘The candle of the wicked shall be put out.’ Harold, you understand that?”

“Yes-suh, captain.”

“What does it mean?”

“It mean they put out your candle.”

“It means God will put you out. You’re the candle, Harold. If you’re evil you get no reward and the Lord God will snuff out your life. You want that to happen?”

“No-suh, captain.”

“Raymond, you want to have your life snuffed out?”

“No, sir, I don’t want no part of that.”

“It will happen as sure as it is written in the Book. Harold, you believe in the Book?”

“What book is that, captain?”

“The Holy Bible.”

“Yes-suh, I believe it.”

“Raymond, you believe it?”

“What is that again?”

“Do you believe in the Holy Bible as being the inspired word of Almighty God as told by Him directly into the ears of the boys that wrote it?”

“I guess so,” Raymond said.

“Raymond, you don’t guess about your salvation. You believe in Holy Scripture and its truths, or you don’t.”

“I believe it,” Raymond said.

“Have you ever been to church?”

“I think so. When I was little.”

“Harold, you ever attend services?”

“You mean was I in the arm service, captain?”

“I mean have you ever been to church.”

“Yes, I been there, captain.”

“When was the last time?”

“Let’s see,” Harold said. “I think I went in Cuba one time.”

“You think you went to church?”

“They talk in this language I don’t know what they saying, captain.”

“That was ten years ago,” Mr. Manly said, “and you don’t know if it was a church service or not.”

“I think it was.”

“Raymond, what about you?”

“Yes, sir, when I was little, all the time.”

“What do you remember?”

“About Jesus and all. You know, how they nail him to this cross.”

“Do you know the Ten Commandments?”

“I think I know some of them,” Raymond said. “Thou shall not steal. Thou shall not commit adultery.”

“Thou shalt not kill,” Mr. Manly prompted.

“Thou shall not kill. That’s one of them.”

“The one that sent you here. Both of you. And now you’re disobeying that commandment again by fighting. Did you know that? When you fight you break the Lord’s commandment against killing?”

“What if you only hit him?” Raymond asked. “Beat him up good, but he don’t die.”

“It’s the same thing. Look, when you hit somebody you hurt him a little bit or you hurt him a lot. When you kill somebody you hurt him for good. So hitting is the same as killing without going all the way. You understand that, Harold?”

“What was that, captain?”

Mr. Manly swiveled around slowly to look out the window, toward the convicts standing by the main cellblock. Close to a hundred men here, and only a handful of them, at the most, understood the Divine Word. Mr. Manly was sixty years old and knew he would never have time to teach them all. He only had a few months here before the place was closed. Then what? He had to do what he could, that’s all. He had to begin somewhere, even if his work was never finished.

He came around again to face them and said, “Boys, the Lord has put it on the line to us. He says you got to keep His commandments. He says you don’t keep them, you die. That doesn’t mean you die and they put in a grave—no-sir. It means you die and go straight down to hell to suffer the fires of the damned. Raymond, you ever burn yourself?”

“Yes, sir, my hand one time.”

“Boys, imagine getting burned all over for the rest of your life by the hottest fire you ever saw, hotter’n a blast furnace.”

“You’d die,” Raymond said.

“Only it doesn’t kill you,” Mr. Manly said quickly. “See, it’s a special kind of fire that hurts terrible but never burns you up.”

They looked at him, or seemed to be looking at him; he wasn’t sure.

He tried again. “Like just your head is sticking out of the fire. You understand? So it don’t suffocate you. But, boy, these flames are licking at your body and it’s so hot you’re a-screaming your lungs out, ‘Water, water, somebody give me just a drop of water—please!’ But it’s too late, because far as you’re concerned the Lord is fresh out of mercy.”

Raymond was looking at the window again and Harold was studying the wall.

“Hell—” Mr. Manly began. He was silent for a while before he said, “It’s a terrible place to be and I’m glad you boys are determined not to go there.”

Harold said, “Where’s that, captain?”

After they were gone Mr. Manly could still see them standing there. He got up and walked around them, picturing them from the back now, seeing the Negro’s heavy, sloping shoulders, the Indian standing with a slight cock to his hip, hands loose at his sides. He’d like to stick a pin in them to see if they jumped. He’d like to holler in their ears. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you understand plain English? Are you too ignorant, or are you too full of evil? Answer me!

If they didn’t understand the Holy Word, how was he ever going to preach it to them? He raised his eyes to the high ceiling and said, “Lord, if You’re going to send me sinners, send me some with schooling, will you, please?”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. In the silence that followed he hurried around the desk to sit down again.

Maybe that was the answer, though, and saying it out loud was the sign. Save somebody else, somebody who’d understand him, instead of two boys who couldn’t even read and write. Sixty years old, he didn’t have time to start saving illiterates. Somebody like Frank Shelby. Save him.

No, Frank was already trying. It was pretty clear he’d seen the error of his past life and was trying to correct it.

Norma Davis.

Get Norma in here and ask her if she was ready to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as her saviour. If she hadn’t already.

No, something told Mr. Manly she hadn’t yet. She was in for robbery, had shot a man, and had been arrested for prostitution in Wichita, Kansas. It wasn’t likely she’d had time to be saved. She looked smart though.

Sit her down there, Mr. Manly thought.

He wasn’t sure how he’d begin, but he’d get around to picking some whores out of the Bible to tell her about—like that woman at the well. Jesus knew she was a whore, but He was still friendly and talked to her. See, He wasn’t uppity about whores, they were just sinners to him like any other sinners. Take the time they’re stoning the whore and He stops them, saying, Wait, only whoever of ye is without sin may cast a stone. And they had to quit doing it. See, Norma, we are all of us sinners in one way or another.

He kept looking at the way her top buttons were undone and the blouse was pulled open so he could see part of the valley between her breasts.

Where the soap had run down and over her belly.

She was sitting there trying to tempt him. Sure, she’d try to tempt him, try to show him up as a hypocrite.

She would undo a couple more buttons and he’d watch her calmly. He would say quietly, shaking his head slowly, “Norma, Norma.”

She’d pull that blouse wide open and her eyes and her breasts would be staring right smack at him.

Sit back in the swivel chair then; show her he was at ease. Keep the expression very calm. And kindly.

She’d get up and lean over the desk then so they’d hang down. Great big round things with big reddish-brown tips. Then she’d jiggle them a little and he’d say in his quiet voice, “Norma, what are you doing that for? Don’t you feel silly?”

Maybe he wouldn’t ask her if she felt silly, but he’d say something.

She’d see she wasn’t getting him, so then she’d take off her belt and slowly undo her skirt, watching him all the time, and let it fall. She’d back off a little bit and put her hands on her hips so he could see her good.

“Norma, child, cover your nakedness.”

No, sir, that wasn’t going to stop her. She was coming around the desk now. She’d stepped out of the skirt and was taking off the blouse, all the way off, coming toward him now without a stitch on.

He had better stand up, or it would be hard to talk to her.

Mr. Manly rose from the chair. He reached out to place his hands on Norma’s bare shoulders and, smiling gently, said, “Child, ‘If ye live after the flesh ye shall die’—Romans, eight, thirteen—‘but if ye mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live.’ ”

From the doorway Bob Fisher said, “Excuse me.”

Mr. Manly came around, seeing the open door that had been left open when the two went out; he dropped his hands awkwardly to the edge of the desk.

Bob Fisher kept staring at him.

“I was just seeing if I could remember a particular verse from Romans,” Mr. Manly said.

“How’d you do with Harold and Raymond?”

“It’s too early to tell. I want to see them again in the morning.”

“They got work to do.”

“In the morning,” Mr. Manly said.

Bob Fisher thought it over, then nodded and left the office. Walking down the hall, he was thinking that the little preacher may have been trying to remember a verse, but he sure looked like a man about to get laid.

Lord, give me these two, Mr. Manly said to the window and to the yard below. Give me a sign that they understand and are willing to receive the Lord Jesus Christ into their hearts.

He didn’t mean a tongue of fire had to appear over the two boys’ heads, or they had to get knocked to the ground the way St. Paul did. All they had to do was show some interest, a willingness to accept their salvation.

Lord, I need these two to prove my worthiness and devotion as a preacher of your Holy Writ. I need them to show for thirty years service in your ministry. Lord, I need them for my record, and I expect You know it.

Sit them down this time. Maybe that would help. Mr. Manly turned from the window and told them to take chairs. “Over there,” he said. “Bring them up close to the desk.”

They hesitated, looking around. It seemed to take them forever to carry the chairs over, their leg chains clinking on the wooden floor. He waited until they were settled, both of them looking past him, seeing what there was to see at this lower angle than yesterday.

“I’m going to tell you something. I know you both had humble beginnings. You were poor, you’ve been hungry, you’ve experienced all kinds of hardships and you’ve spent time in jail. Well, I never been to jail before I got sent here by the Bureau”—Mr. Manly paused as he grinned; neither of them noticing it—“I’ll tell you though, I’ll bet you I didn’t begin any better off than you boys did. I was born in Clayburn County, Tennessee—either of you been there?”

Raymond shook his head. Harold said nothing.

“Well, it’s in the mountains. I didn’t visit Knoxville till I was fifteen years old, and it wasn’t forty miles from home. I could’ve stayed there and farmed, or I could have run off and got into trouble. But you know what I did? I joined the Holy Word Pentacostal Youth Crusade and pledged myself to the service of the Lord Jesus. I preached over twenty years in Tennessee and Kentucky before coming out here to devote the rest of my life to mission work—the rest of it, five years, ten years. You know when your time is up and the Lord’s going to call you?”

Harold Jackson’s eyes were closed.

“Harold”—the eyes came open—“you don’t know when you’re going to die, do you?”

“No-suh, captain.”

“Are you ready to die?”

“No-suh, captain. I don’t think I ever be ready.”

“St. Paul was ready.”

“Yes-suh.”

“Not at first he wasn’t. Not until the Lord knocked him smack off his horse with a bolt of lightning and said, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecuteth me?’ Paul was a Jew-boy at that time and he was persecuting the Christians. Did you know that, Raymond?”

“No, I never knew that.”

“Yes, sir, before he became Paul he was a Jew-boy name of Saul, used to put Christians to death, kill them in terrible ways. But once he become a Christian himself he made up for all the bad things he’d done by his own suffering. Raymond, you ever been stoned?”

“Like with rocks?”

“Hit with big rocks.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Harold, you ever been shipwrecked?”

“I don’t recall, captain.”

Mr. Manly opened his Bible. “You boys think you’ve experienced hardships, listen, I’m going to read you something. From two Corinthians. ‘Brethren, gladly you put up with fools, because you are wise…’ Let me skip down. ‘But whereas any man is bold…Are they ministers of Christ?’ Here it is ‘…in many more labors, in lashes above measure, often exposed to death. From the Jews’—listen to this—‘five times I received forty lashes less one. Thrice I was scourged, once I was stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I was adrift on the sea; on journeyings often, in perils from floods, in perils from robbers, in perils from my own nation…in labor and hardships, in many sleepless nights, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness.’ ”

Mr. Manly looked up. “Here’s the thing, boys. St. Paul asked God three times to let him up from all these hardships. And you know what God said to him?” Mr. Manly’s gaze dropped to the book. “He said, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee, for strength is made perfect in weakness.’ ”

Now Mr. Manly sat back, just barely smiling, looking expectantly from Raymond to Harold, waiting for one of them to speak. Either one, he didn’t care.

He didn’t even care what they said, as long as one of them spoke.

Raymond was looking down at his hands, fooling with one of his fingernails. Harold was looking down too, his head bent low, and his eyes could have been open or closed.

“Strength—did you hear that, boys?—is made perfect in weakness.”

He waited.

He could ask them what it meant.

He began thinking about the words. If you’re weak the Lord helps you. Or strength stands out more in a weak person. Like it’s more perfect, more complete, when a weak person gets strong.

No, that wasn’t what it meant.

It meant no matter how weak you were you could get strong if you wanted.

Maybe. Or else it was the part just before which was the important part. God saying My grace is sufficient for thee. That’s right, no matter what the temptaion was.

Norma Davis could come in here and show herself and do all kinds of terrible things—God’s grace would be sufficient. That was good to know.

It wasn’t helping those two boys any, though. He had to watch that, thinking of himself more than them. They were the ones had to be saved. They had wandered from the truth and it was up to him to bring them back. For…‘whoever brings back a sinner from the error of his ways will save his own soul from death’—James, five-something—‘and it will cover a multitude of sins.’ ”

That was the whole thing. If he could save these two boys he’d have nothing to worry about the rest of his life. He could maybe even slip once in a while—give in to temptation—without fear of his soul getting sent to hell. He wouldn’t give in on purpose. You couldn’t do that. But if somebody dragged you in and you went in scrapping, that was different.

“Boys,” Mr. Manly said, “whoever brings back a sinner saves his own soul from death and it will cover a multitude of sins. Now do you want your souls to be saved, or don’t you?”

Mr. Manly spent two days reading and studying before he called Raymond and Harold into the office again.

While they were standing by the desk he asked them how they were getting along. Neither of them wanted to answer that. He asked if there had been any trouble between them since the last time they were here. They both said no, sir. He asked if there had been any mean words between them. They said no, sir. Then it looked like they were getting somewhere, Mr. Manly said, and told them to bring the chairs over and sit down.

“ ‘We know,’ ” he said to Raymond, “ ‘that we have passed from death unto life because we love the brethren. He that loveth not his brethren abideth in death.’ ” Mr. Manly looked at Harold Jackson. “ ‘Whoever hateth his brother is a murderer, and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.’ James, chapter three, the fourteenth and fifteenth verses.”

They were looking at him. That was good. They weren’t squinting or frowning, as if they were trying to figure out the words, or nodding agreement; but by golly they were looking at him and not out the window.

“Brethren means brother,” he said. “You know that. It doesn’t mean just your real brother, if you happen to have any brothers. It means everybody’s your brethren. You two are brethren and I’m your brethren, everybody here at Yuma and everybody in the whole world, we are all brethren of Jesus Christ and sons of Almighty God. Even women. What I’m talking about, even women are your brethren, but we don’t have to get into that. I’m saying we are all related by blood and I’ll tell you why. You listening?”

Raymond’s gaze came away from the window, his eyes opening wide with interest.

Harold said, “Yes-suh, captain.”

“We are all related,” Mr. Manly said, watching them, “because we all come from the first two people in the world, old Adam and Eve, who started the human race. They had children and their children had children and the children’s children had some more, and it kept going that way until the whole world become populated.”

Harold Jackson said, “Who did the children marry?”

“They married each other.”

“I mean children in the same family.”

Mr. Manly nodded. “Each other. They married among theirselves.”

“You mean a boy did it with his sister?”

“Oh,” Mr. Manly said. “Yes, but it was different then. God said it was all right because it was the only way to get the earth populated. See, in just a few generations you got so many people they’re marrying cousins now, and second cousins, and a couple hundred years it’s not even like they’re kin any more.”

Mr. Manly decided not to tell them about Adam living to be nine hundred and thirty and Seth and Enoch and Kenan and Methuselah, all of them getting up past nine hundred years old before they died. He had to leave out details or it might confuse them. It was enough to tell them how the population multiplied and the people gradually spread all over the world.

“If we all come from the same people,” Raymond said, “where do niggers come from?”

So Mr. Manly had to tell them about Noah and his three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth, and how Ham made some dirty remark on seeing his daddy sleeping naked after drinking too much wine. For that Noah banished Ham and made his son a “slave of slaves.” Ham and his family had most likely gone on down to Africa and that was where niggers came from, descendents of Ham.

Harold Jackson said, “Where does it say Indins come from?”

Mr. Manly shook his head. “It don’t say and it don’t matter. People moved all over the world, and those living in a certain place got to look alike on account of the climate. So now you got your white race, your yellow race, and your black race.”

“What’s an Indin?” Harold said. “What race?”

“They’re not sure,” Mr. Manly answered. “Probably somewhere in between. Like yellow with a little nigger thrown in. You can call it the Indian race if you want. The colored race is the only one mentioned in the Bible, on account of the story of Noah and Ham.”

Harold said, “How do they know everybody was white before that?”

Mr. Manly frowned. What kind of a question was that? “They just know it. I guess because Adam and Eve was white.” He said then, “There’s nothing wrong with being a nigger. God made you a nigger for a reason. I mean some people have to be niggers and some have to be Indians. Some have to be white. But we are all still brethren.”

Harold’s eyes remained on Mr. Manly. “It say in the Bible this man went to Africa?”

“It wasn’t called Africa then, but they’re pretty sure that’s where he went. His people multiplied and before you know it they’re living all over Africa and that’s how you got your different tribes. Your Zulus. Your Pygmies. You got your—oh, all different ones with those African names.”

“Zulus,” Harold Jackson said. “I heard something about Zulus one time.”

Mr. Manly leaned forward on the edge of the desk. “What did you hear about them?”

“I don’t know. I remember somebody talking about Zulus. Somebody saying the word.”

“Harold, you know something? For all you know you might be a Zulu yourself.”

Harold gave him a funny look. “I was born in Fort Valley, Georgia.”

“Where was your mama and daddy born?”

“Fort Valley.”

“Where was your granddaddy born?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or your great-granddaddy. You know, he might have been born in Africa and brought over here as a slave. Maybe not him, but somebody before him, a kin of yours, was brought over. All your kin before him lived in Africa, and if they lived in a certain part of Africa then, by golly, they were Zulus.”

Mr. Manly had a book about Africa in his collection. He remembered a drawing of a Zulu warrior, a tall Negro standing with a spear and a slender black and white cowhide shield.

He said, “Harold, your people are fine hunters and warriors. Oh, they’re heathen, they paint theirselves up red and yellow and wear beads made out of lion’s claws; but, Harold, they got to kill the lion first, with spears, and you don’t go out and kill a lion unless you got plenty of nerve.”

“With a spear, huh?” Harold said.

“Long spear they use, and this shield made out of cowhide. Some of them grow little beards and cut holes in the lobes of their ears and stick in these big hunks of dried sugar cane, if I remember correctly.”

“They have sugar cane?”

“That’s what it said in the book.”

“They had a lot of sugar cane in Cuba. I never see anybody put it in their ear.”

“Like earrings,” Mr. Manly said. “I imagine they use all kinds of things. Gold, silver, if they got it.”

“What do they wear?”

“Oh, just a little skimpy outfit. Some kind of cloth or animal skin around their middle. Nothing up here. Wait a second,” Mr. Manly said. He went over to his bookcase. He found the book right away, but had to skim through it twice before he found the picture and laid the book open in front of Harold. “There. That’s your Zulu warrior.”

Harold hunched over the book. As he studied the picture Mr. Manly said, “Something else I remember. It says in there these Zulus can run. I mean run. The boys training to be warriors, they’d run twenty miles, take a little rest and run some more. Run thirty-forty miles a day isn’t anything for a Zulu. Then go out and kill a lion. Or a elephant.”

Mr. Manly noticed Raymond San Carlos glancing over at the book and he said quickly, “Same with your Indians; especially your desert tribes, like the Apaches. They can run all day long, I understand, and not take a drink of water till sundown. They know where to find water, too, way out in the middle of the desert. Man told me once, when Apaches are going where they know there isn’t any water they take a horse’s intestine and fill it full of water and wrap it around their bodies. He said he’d match an Apache Indian against a camel for traveling across the desert without any water.”

“There’s plenty of water,” Raymond said, “if you know where to look.”

“That’s what I understand.”

“Some of the older men at San Carlos, they’d take us boys and make us go up in the mountains and stay there two, three days without food or water.”

“You did that?”

“Plenty of times.”

“You’d find water?”

“Sure, and something to eat. Not much, but enough to hold us.”

“Say, I just read in the paper,” Mr. Manly said. “You know who died the other day? Geronimo.”

“Is that right?”

“Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Died of pneumonia.”

“That’s too bad,” Raymond said. “I mean I think he would rather have got killed fighting.”

“You ever seen him? No, you would have been too young.”

“Sure, I seen him. Listen, I’ll tell you something I never told anybody. My father was in his band. Geronimo’s.”

“Is that a fact?”

“He was killed in Mexico when the soldiers went down there.”

“My goodness,” Mr. Manly said, “we’re talking about warriors, you’re the son of an Apache warrior.”

“I never told anybody that.”

“Why not? I’d think you’d be proud to tell it.”

“It doesn’t do me any good.”

“But if it’s true—”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I mean since it’s a fact, why not tell it?”

“It don’t make any difference to me. I could be Apache, I could be Mexican, I’m in Yuma the rest of my life.”

“But you’re living that life,” Mr. Manly said. “If a person’s an Indian then he should look at himself as an Indian. Like I told Harold, God made him a nigger for a reason. All right, God made you an Indian. There’s nothing wrong with being an Indian. Why, do you know that about half our states have Indian names? Mississippi. The state I come from, Tennessee. Arizona. The Colorado River out yonder. Yuma.”

“I don’t know,” Harold said, “that spear looks like it could break easy.”

Mr. Manly looked over at him and at the book. “They know how to make ’em.”

“They fight other people?”

“Sure they did. Beat ’em, too. What I understand, your Zulus owned most of the southern part of Africa, took it from other tribes and ruled over them.”

“Never got beat, uh?”

“Not that I ever heard of. No, sir, they’re the greatest warriors in Africa.”

“Nobody ever beat the Apache,” Raymond said, “till the U. S. Army come with all their goddamn guns.”

“Raymond, don’t ever take the Lord’s name in vain like that.”

“Apaches beat the Pimas, the Papagos, Maricopas—took anything we wanted from them.”

“Well, I don’t hold with raiding and killing,” Mr. Manly said, “but I’ll tell you there is something noble about your uneducated savage that you don’t see in a lot of white men. I mean just the way your warrior stands, up straight with his shoulders back and never says too much, doesn’t talk just to hear himself, like a lot of white people I know. I’ll tell you something else, boys. Savage warriors have never been known to lie or go back on their word, and that’s a fact. Man up at the reservation told me that Indians don’t even have a word in their language for lie. Same thing with your Zulus. I reckon if a boy can run all day long and kill lions with a spear, he don’t ever have to lie.”

“I never heard of Apaches with spears,” Raymond said.

“Oh, yes, they had them. And bows and arrows.”

Harold was waiting. “I expect the Zulus got guns now, don’t they?”

“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Manly answered. “Maybe they don’t need guns. Figure spears are good enough.” A smile touched his mouth as he looked across the desk at Raymond and Harold. “The thing that tickles me,” he said, “I’m liable to have a couple of real honest-to-goodness Apache and Zulu warriors sitting right here in my office and I didn’t even know it.”

That evening, when Bob Fisher got back after supper, the guard at the sally port told him Mr. Manly wanted to see him right away. Fisher asked him what for, and the guard said how was he supposed to know. Fisher told the man to watch his mouth, and headed across the compound to see what the little squirt wanted.

Fisher paused by the stairs and looked over toward the cook shack. The women would be starting their bath about now.

Mr. Manly was writing something, but put it aside as Fisher came in. He said, “Pull up a chair,” and seemed anxious to talk.

“There’s a couple of things I got to do yet tonight.”

“I wanted to talk to you about our Apache and our Zulu.”

“How’s that?”

“Raymond and Harold. I’ve been thinking about Frank Shelby’s idea—he seems like a pretty sensible young man, doesn’t he?”

Jesus Christ, Bob Fisher thought. He said, “I guess he’s smart enough.”

Mr. Manly smiled. “Though not smart enough to stay out of jail. Well, I’ve been thinking about this boxing-match idea. I want you to know I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

Fisher waited.

“I want Frank Shelby to understand it too—you might mention it to him if you see him before I do.”

“I’ll tell him,” Fisher said. He started to go.

“Hey, I haven’t told you what I decided.”

Fisher turned to the desk again.

“I’ve been thinking—a boxing match wouldn’t be too good. We want them to stop fighting and we tell them to go ahead and fight. That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

“I’ll tell him that.”

“You’re sure in a hurry this evening, Bob.”

“It’s time I made the rounds is all.”

“Well, I could walk around with you if you want and we could talk.”

“That’s all right,” Fisher said, “go ahead.”

“Well, as I said, we won’t have the boxing match. You know what we’re going to have instead?”

“What?”

“We’re going to have a race. I mean Harold and Raymond are going to have a race.”

“A race,” Fisher said.

“A foot race. The faster man wins and gets some kind of a prize, but I haven’t figured that part of it out yet.”

“They’re going to run a race,” Fisher said.

“Out in the exercise yard. Down to the far end and back, maybe a couple of times.”

“When do you want this race held?”

“Tomorrow I guess, during free time.”

“You figure it’ll stop them fighting, uh?”

“We don’t have anything to lose,” Mr. Manly said. “A good race might just do the trick.”

Get out of here, Bob Fisher thought. He said, “Well, I’ll tell them.”

“I’ve already done that.”

“I’ll tell Frank Shelby then.” Fisher edged toward the door and got his hand on the knob.

“You know what it is?” Mr. Manly was leaning back in his chair with a peaceful, thoughtful expression. “It’s sort of a race of races,” he said. “You know what I mean? The Negro against the Indian, black man against red man. I don’t mean to prove that one’s better than the other. I mean as a way to stir up their pride and get them interested in doing something with theirselves. You know what I mean?”

Bob Fisher stared at him.

“See, the way I figure them—” Mr. Manly motioned to the chair again. “Sit down, Bob, I’ll tell you how I see these two boys, and why I believe we can help them.”

By the time Fisher got down to the yard, the women had taken their bath. They were back in their cellblock and he had to find R. E. Baylis for the keys.

“I already locked everybody in,” the guard said.

“I know you did. That’s why I need the keys.”

“Is there something wrong somewhere?”

Bob Fisher had never wanted to look at that woman as bad as he did this evening. God, he felt like he had to look at her, but everybody was getting in his way, wasting time. His wife at supper nagging at him again about moving to Florence. The little squirt preacher who believed he could save a couple of bad convicts. Now a slow-witted guard asking him questions.

“Just give me the keys,” Fisher said.

He didn’t go over there directly. He walked past the TB cellblock first and looked in at the empty yard, at the lantern light showing in most of the cells and the dark ovals of the cells that were not occupied. The nigger and the Indian were in separate cells. They were doing a fair job on the wall; but, Jesus, they’d get it done a lot sooner if the little squirt would let them work instead of wasting time preaching to them. Now foot races. God Almighty.

Once you were through the gate of the women’s cellblock, the area was more like a room than a yard—a little closed-in courtyard and two cells carved into the granite wall.

There was lantern light in both cells. Fisher looked in at Tacha first and asked her what she was doing. Tacha was sitting on a stool in the smoky dimness of the cell. She said, “I’m reading,” and looked down at the book again. Bob Fisher told himself to take it easy now and not to be impatient. He looked in Tacha’s cell almost a minute longer before moving on to Norma’s.

She was stretched out in her bunk, staring right at him when he looked through the iron strips of the door. A blanket covered her, but one bare arm and shoulder were out of the blanket and, Jesus, it didn’t look like she had any clothes on. His gaze moved around the cell to show he wasn’t too interested in her.

“Everything all right?”

“That’s a funny thing to ask,” Norma said. “Like this is a hotel.”

“I haven’t looked in here in a while.”

“I know you haven’t.”

“You need another blanket or anything?”

“What’s anything?”

“I mean like kerosene for the lantern.”

“I think there’s enough. The light’s awful low though.”

“Turn it up.”

“I can’t. I think the wick’s stuck. Or else it’s burned down.”

“You want me to take a look at it?”

“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”

Bob Fisher brought the ring of keys out of his coat pocket with the key to Norma’s cell in his hand. As he opened the door and came in, Norma raised up on one elbow, holding the blanket in front of her. He didn’t look at her; he went right to the lamp and peered in through the smoky glass. As he turned the wick up slowly, the light grew brighter, then dimmed again as he turned it down.

“It seems all right now.” Fisher glanced at her, twisted bare back. He tried the lantern a few more times, twisting the wick up and down and knowing her bare back—and that meant her bare front too—wasn’t four feet away from him. “It must’ve been stuck,” he said.

“I guess it was. Will you turn it down now? Just so there’s a nice glow.”

“How’s that?”

“That’s perfect.”

“I think you got enough wick in there.”

“I think so. Do you want to get in bed with me?”

“Jesus Christ,” Bob Fisher said.

“Well, do you?”

“You’re a nervy thing, aren’t you?”

Norma twisted around a little more and let the blanket fall. “I can’t help it.”

“You can’t help what?”

“If I want you to do it to me.”

“Jesus,” Bob Fisher said. He looked at the cell door and then at Norma again, cleared his throat and said in a lower tone, “I never heard a girl asking for it before.”

“Well,” Norma said, throwing the blanket aside as she got up from the bunk and moved toward him, “you’re hearing it now, daddy.”

“Listen, Tacha’s right next door.”

“She can’t see us.”

“She can hear.”

“Then we’ll whisper.” Norma began unbuttoning his coat.

“We can’t do nothing here.”

“Why not?”

“One of the guards might come by.”

“Now you’re teasing me. Nobody’s allowed in here at night, and you know it.”

“Boy, you got big ones.”

“There, now slip your coat off.”

“I can’t stay here more’n a few minutes.”

“Then quit talking,” Norma said.