Eureka Man: A Novel (16 page)

Champ shook Rhoda Cherry's hand until she
frowned and said, “You better show me some love.” Then she all but
disappeared when Champ wrapped his arms around her. The sight of a
prisoner embracing a female staff member was enough to make
Superintendent I.M. White pull on his necktie and fidget in his
seat.

“That woman there,” Champ said, turning and
pointing to the still tearful Rhoda Cherry, “is a real saint,
another Mother Teresa. She puts up with more of our crap than
anyone I know. I want to thank you, Ms. Rhoda, for taking me back
in your room after all those times you threw me out for not doing
my homework. I also want to thank my tutor, Oliver Priddy, for
spending all those hours up in the school showing me how to break
down algebraic equations. If it wasn't for that man, I would never
have gotten a grip on learning algebra. Thanks, Priddy. You're one
hell of a tutor, Jack.” Champ pointed to the back of the
auditorium.

Oliver nodded. Why did he have to mention me?
he thought. Oliver had deliberately held back taking his last
college course so he wouldn't have to walk down the aisle this
night and draw attention to himself. It wasn't that he didn't want
to be acknowledged by his family and peers and professors for all
his accomplishments and scholarship. He did, and they had, at every
milestone along the way. What he didn't want was to be recognized
publicly by Champ or anyone else for the same reason he didn't want
to be up on that stage and called the next prison scholar to be
heading for a master's program. He didn't want the story getting
out before he could get in and finish it. It would only take one
uninformed citizen to complain that his tax dollars were being used
to finance a murderer's graduate school tuition and then for some
politician to pick up on the story and stump with it. Better to not
be seen or heard from until it was all over. Oliver was a little
embarrassed as several members of the audience looked over their
shoulders and smiled at him. A little embarrassed, but proud
nonetheless.

“I also want to thank the school
administration for giving me this award,” Champ went on. “I never
thought in a million years I'd be student of the year. Thank you
very much.”

The graduates whistled and cheered while the
rest of the people clapped for Champ as he returned to his
seat.

Now it was the keynote speaker's turn. When
Mr. Sommers introduced Dr. B.J. Dallet, she approached the podium
as if she owned the real estate underneath her feet. Oliver's heart
pounded as he watched her look across the audience, smile
radiantly, and wait. He tried to guess her age. Thirty-five? Forty?
Whatever it was, she was exquisite. Her blue eyes were still
intoxicating from thirty yards away.

When she began, she looked directly at the
graduates as if they were the only people in the room. “Good
evening, graduates. Hopefully, each of you has a favorite writer
whose words and ideas have affected you in some significant way.
One writer whose writings have always moved me is that lovely sage,
Maya Angelou. The words on the banner above and behind me are, as I
am sure you are aware, her words. Tonight, as we celebrate each of
your successes, I think it would be appropriate to take a few
minutes of your time to talk a little about why the caged bird
sings.

“Simply put, the caged bird sings because it
can. It sings because without a song there is no inspiration.
Without a song there is no hope. By a song, I do not mean one on
the radio or the eight track. Though surely those songs are
important, too. The kind of song I am referring to is the one in
your heart. The song of your daily lives. Like the song on the
radio, the song in your heart has a beat and a rhythm, too. The
rhythm can beat fast or slow, smooth or rough, hard or soft, loud
or quiet. And just like the song on the radio, there is a tone and
a mood to the songs of our daily lives. Dark or bright, happy or
sad, cowardly or courageous, forgiving or resentful. We all write
our own songs. You write yours and I write mine.

“Let the lyrics of your song represent your
goals and dreams. Let the lyrics of your song define how you treat
others and yourself. And let those lyrics be a testimony of change
for the better. If you write your lyrics well, they will comfort
you when life gives you the trombone blues and life surely will,
for the blues is an integral part of life. When the blues plays, it
tests the quality and arrangement of our own individual songs, it
reveals our characters.

“Never stop writing new verses to your songs,
people. And never stop revising the old ones, for that is what life
is truly about. Arranging and rearranging so that, in the end, our
song, our contribution, is the best it can be. Make your song one
of hope and inspiration and endurance, for you alone have the
freedom to do that. It is your choice and no one can take that away
from you. No judge, no jailer, no prison walls.

“I want to leave you tonight with these words
from one of my favorite songs on the radio: Keep your heads to the
sky. Never stop believing in yourselves, for each of you is a
mighty, mighty person. Each of you can be all you dream of being.
Thank you and congratulations!”

At that very moment every prisoner in the
building rose from his seat; the cheers and clapping went on for
five minutes, and Dr. B.J. Dallet was a star among thieves. Oliver
was mesmerized by her maternal aura and her elocution, and couldn't
wait to stand beside her.

After the last diploma was handed out and the
closing remarks were made, the prisoners pushed and pulled one
another to be the first to shake Dr. B.J. Dallet's hand and thank
her for coming. Oliver waited patiently. Kept his composure and
waited. The more the line thinned out, the closer he got to her and
the more his heart raced. As the prisoner in front of him shook her
hand and walked away, Victor Lejeune, a fellow tutor, stepped in
front of him. “I'm waiting to talk with her, Victor,” Oliver
said.

“So am I. You're after me.”

“I've been standing here-”

“Excuse me, Dr. Dallet. My name's Victor
LeJeune. That was a great speech.”

“Why, thank you.” Dr. Dallet smiled
warmly.

“I was wondering if you can help me. I'm
trying to get some information on a graduate program.”

Oliver smiled and held his countenance in
check. He moved a little closer to Dr. B.J. Dallet, but not so
close as to be rude or intrusive.

“In what department?”

“Criminal justice.”

“I'm sorry but criminal justice is not my
area. I'm in the School of Education. The best I can do is try to
pick up a brochure from our criminal justice department and bring
it over here the next time I come. I can leave it with the
principal, Mr. Sommers. I'm sure he can get it to you. Your name
again?”

“Victor LeJeune. And I work for the
principal. I'm his head tutor. I'd really appreciate it if you
could do that for me. Do you know when you'll be coming back?”

“I have to come over on Monday for
orientation, but I may not have the information for you by then.
We'll see.”

“Well, I'll be looking for you. It was nice
meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you, too, Victor.” She smiled
genuinely and then turned to Oliver. “Mr. Priddy, is there a
quieter place where we can talk?”

“Yes, ma'am, but first, would you like
something to drink, something to eat?”

“How about coffee? A little cream, no
sugar.”

They got in line and one graduate's mother
told her how stunning she looked in the Yves St. Laurent suit she
was wearing. Dr. Dallet smiled and thanked her.

The refreshment line was long and moving
slowly. While she stood in front of him receiving wonderful
comments about her speech, Oliver leaned over her shoulder and told
her he would be right back. Then he walked to the front of the line
and behind the serving tables.

“Priddy, grab me a couple packs of those
napkins from the box under the table,” said Big Jake.

Oliver got on his knees and dug into the box.
“Here. Need anything else?”

“No. How 'bout you?”

“Yeah. Fix me two coffees with just a little
cream, would you? And put three or four of those ladyfingers on a
plate for me.”

“Got you.”

“ 'Preciate that.”

Dr. Dallet was watching as he made his way
toward her juggling a plate of pastries and two styrofoam cups of
coffee and weaving gracefully through the crowd. He motioned for
her to follow him, but no sooner did she step out of line than
Victor LeJeune appeared again.

“Just one more thing, Doc.”

“Yes?”

“What if I decide to apply for my Master's in
the School of Education? Would you be willing to be my
advisor?”

“We can talk about that sometime,” she said.
“I'm not really sure at this point the extent to which I'm going to
be involved in the program here. I do know I'm scheduled to teach
an introductory linguistics course over the summer.”

“Linguistics? Isn't that about where language
originated and all that?” Victor asked.

“Well, yes, but there's more to linguistics
than the history of language.”

Victor LeJeune ignored Oliver's glare. It was
every man for himself and Victor was armed. Not with a shiv or a
lead pipe or a shard of glass, but armed just the same. He was
armed with a superiority complex. But Oliver wasn't threatened, he
was irritated. He knew Victor didn't have a chance. His posture was
wrong. His tongue slithered and his lusterless black eyes were
uninviting.

“Victor, you're going to have to excuse us,”
Oliver said, finally. “There's not a lot of time left before Dr.
Dallet has to leave and we've got things we need to discuss.”

“Yeah. One more thing, Doc. All the fellows
think you're wonderful and beautiful and classy and we all hope to
see you around here on a regular basis. Thanks for coming!”

Victor extended his hand and pumped hers
several times before letting it go.

Dr. Dallet followed Oliver to the front left
corner of the room and sat down. She sipped her coffee and said,
“You handled that so well, Oliver. Is he always that
persistent?”

“Yes ma'am, he is.”

“Oh, please don't call me ma'am, Oliver,” she
said, with a light chuckle. “I'm too young for that. Call me
B.J.”

The lilt of her laughter pleased him and
instantly reminded him of his mother June.

“Before we get started,” she said, “I want
you to know my schedule is clear this coming Monday afternoon. I
have to come over for orientation in the morning, and then I'm
having lunch with Mr. Sommers. I can come back in the afternoon and
meet with you and have you fill out some forms and applications.
Will you be free then?”

When she said the word “free” they both
laughed. There was no uneasiness between them, the kind that often
accompanies first meetings. She smiled like a friend.

“Sorry, Oliver. Poor choice of words.”

“Actually, free is a great word. And, yes,
I'll be free on Monday afternoon.”

“Good. Now why don't you tell me a little
about yourself? I know you're a lifer. I've seen your academic
transcripts and I've read the brilliant essay you wrote for the
C.S. Award you earned. So I already know you're a scholar. Tell me
some other things you'd like me to know about you.”

“Where would you like me to start,
Doctor?”

“Wherever you'd like.”

He set his cup down and licked the sugar from
his fingertips. She was waiting and studying his eyes while he
swallowed the last of the ladyfinger. He wondered if she noticed
his left pupil was slightly larger than the right one, and if she
thought that flaw was remarkable. He wasn't sure where to begin.
Being too easy on himself would be just as embarrassing as being
too hard, so he thought he would balance the good with the bad. He
was from the state of Maryland, he began. He had three siblings and
a father he didn't know until a few years ago. His mother June was
a horticulturist and a recovering alcoholic. Bicycles, marbles and
spin-the-bottle had all been staples of his youth. His first love
was a gaggle of Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, followed
by his mother's girlfriends. Juke boxes, Nehi sodas, and pool halls
had been his haunts after school; the movie theater on Friday
nights; dance halls and drive-ins after he reached puberty. He had
been incorrigible from day one and enjoyed just about every minute
of it. His favorite movie was “Cool Hand Luke,” his favorite
president, LBJ, and his favorite poet, Langston Hughes. What he
despised the most in life were bigots and a stepfather named Ernie
Boy the Second. He would save that story for another time, he said,
as well as the one about how he wound up in Pennsylvania. He ended
by telling her that discovering higher learning had saved him from
wolves and himself and he was hoping she would help him continue
his quest for higher learning and another college degree.

He paused and looked at his watch. “It's
getting close to that time,” he said.

“Oh, my. How much time do we have?”

“A few minutes.”

Her face was animated even when she frowned.
“I'm so glad I got to meet you tonight, Oliver. I feel honored that
you shared a part of your life with me. Now let me share with you
that one of my reasons for accepting the invitation to come over to
this prison and help you with your graduate studies is that one of
my own two sons could have very well been your next door neighbor a
few years back.” She leaned into him and lowered her voice. “He had
a serious drug problem. Cocaine,” she whispered. “I'll tell you
more about it some other time. I just want you to know before we
have to leave that I'll do anything I can to help you further your
education. I understand you only need one last course to finish
your bachelor's degree.”

“And I'm taking it now, Dr. Dallet.”