Davy Jones had a strange voice. A woman’s voice. He sounded like a woman, and not just any woman, but a woman Eddie knew.
Maybe he was already dead, or having one of those dying experiences people talked about on TV.
Davy Jones came nearer. “There. Just past those rocks.”
Eddie whispered: “Jack. Do you hear him?” He looked down at his brother. Jack was sleeping.
Davy Jones spoke, very close. “Oh, my God.”
Eddie turned his head. It touched something. Sand. He looked around, saw tiny waves sliding on a beach an arm’s length away. Karen was there, and behind her many black men in snappy uniforms. He was lying in six inches of water.
Karen ran splashing to him. One of her eyes was blackened and closed; the other was damp. He focused on that one and said, “You don’t look like Davy Jones.”
“Oh, my God.”
“My brother here and I, we did our jobs. I know you don’t like him, but he’s brave as a lion. Admit it, Jack.” Jack wouldn’t admit it. “He’s sleeping.”
Karen leaned down, extending her hand. Eddie saw that all the buttons on her shirt were missing.
“Where are your buttons?” he asked.
Karen put her hand on Jack’s shoulder, tried to pull him off.
“It’s okay, One-Eye,” Eddie said. “You can let go. It’s not Davy Jones.”
But Jack wouldn’t let go. It took two of the snappily uniformed men to pry him off.
“God Almighty,” said one of them when he’d had a look at Jack.
Without his brother’s arms around him, Eddie felt free and light, so light he knew he could just bounce right up to his feet. But when he tried, he found he couldn’t move at all. He could only lie where he was, letting the water lap at him.
Overhead helicopters whirred south across a blue sky.
Inside
34
They tried to make a go of it, but Karen wasn’t the same.
When Eddie got out of the hospital in Nassau, they went to another island, three or four stops down the chain from Saint Amour. They ate, drank, swam. At first, they made love often, in a nice room with air-conditioning, balcony, maid service, and private pool. Then there was less lovemaking. A nice room, but lacking love poetry on the walls and ceiling.
Soon Karen wanted to return to her job. Eddie went with her, stayed in her co-op. She worked long hours. He found a job at the NYU library. It didn’t work out. The system was computerized. He’d known that; his supervisor had assured him he’d pick it up in no time. But he didn’t. He couldn’t concentrate. He even lost his interest in reading; didn’t want to be near books. He wanted to be out. He wandered around the city, went to bars, handed in his resignation. Maybe if he hadn’t lost the backpack, things would have been different.
Karen said she wanted some space.
Maybe they had needed Jack to keep it hot.
Eddie bought a cheap ticket to L.A. and had a look at USC. He went to the pool and watched the team work out. They were very young and very fast. He tried to put himself in their place and couldn’t. He went to a lecture on nineteenth-century English poetry and left after twenty minutes.
Eddie took a bus across the country and got off in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot: the Dunkin’ Donuts on the strip with Motel 6, Mufflers 4U, Lanny’s Used Tires, Bud Lite, Pink Lady Lounge, All the Shrimp You Cn Eat $6.95, XXX Video, Happy Hour. He had a glazed honey donut and black coffee. He met some people. They found him a job in a garage, working as a mechanic’s helper.
The garage serviced all the prison vehicles. The C.O.s checked them thoroughly going out, not as thoroughly going in. Millions of men have dreamed of breaking out of jail, and some have succeeded but who wants to break in?
One day they brought in the big forklift from the prison workshop. Something about the starter, Eddie didn’t get the details. The mechanic put in a new one. That night Eddie remained behind to lock up. He locked up from the inside, went into the bathroom, removed his overalls. Underneath he wore denims. He found an old razor blade and shaved the gray hair off his head. Then he raised the seat on the forklift and wedged himself into the tool space underneath.
The mechanic sent the forklift back next morning. Trusties hauled it off the truck at the gate and drove it to the workshop. After ten or fifteen minutes, Eddie took a peek. There were lots of denim-clad men around, but no one was looking. Eddie climbed out.
He joined a line of prisoners moving toward the mess hall. Eddie didn’t stay with them all the way. He turned into the east wing and went through a scanner to the door of the library. A C.O. was on duty, someone new. He patted Eddie down.
“Got a pass?” he said.
“I forgot a book in there last night.”
“Step on it.”
Eddie entered the library. There was no one inside but El Rojo, bent over a law book. He had new lines on his face and gray roots in his hair. He didn’t look up as Eddie approached, so Eddie said, “This isn’t a bullshit macho Latin thing.”
El Rojo looked up then; and Eddie was on the move. “It’s a bullshit crazy inmate thing.”
El Rojo was quick: quick to pull a homemade knife, quick to shout for help. The C.O. was quick too. But none of it was quick enough. El Rojo died on the library table.
Eddie saw Prof in the yard a few months later. “Hey, Nails. Want your watch back?”
“Don’t need it,” Eddie said.
