Mockingbird (17 page)

DAY ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN

It has been eleven days since I have written anything about my life. I would have lost count of the days if I had not thought to make a crayon mark on the wall every evening after supper. The marks are under the huge TV screen that fills up most of the back wall of my cell, and which my chair, bolted to the floor, permanently faces. I can see the marks now when I raise my head from the paper on the drawing board in my lap; they look like a design of neat gray stripes on the wall, under the TV.

I am losing interest in writing. I feel, sometimes, that if I do not get my books back or see any more silent films I will forget how to read and will not want to write.

Belasco has not been back since the first night. I suppose it is because the computer has not forgotten to lock the doors after supper. After I make the mark on the wall I always check the door and it is always locked.

I do not think of Mary Lou all of the time, as I once did. I do not think of very much at all. I take my sopors and smoke my dope and watch erotic fantasies and death fantasies in life-sized three dimensions on the TV and go to sleep early.

The same shows are repeated every eight or nine days on the TV, or I can watch Self-improvement and Rehabilitation shows from a file of thirty recorded BB’s that are issued to each prisoner at his orientation. But I do not play the BB’s. I watch whatever is on. I am not interested in watching television 
shows;
 I only watch television.

This is enough writing. I am tired of it.

DAY ONE HUNDRED NINETEEN

There was a storm this afternoon, while we were at work out in the field. For a long time the robot guards seemed confused by the wind and the heavy rain and they did not call to us when we found ourselves standing at the edge of the cliff with rain blowing on our bodies, staring at the sky and ocean. The sky would go quickly from gray to black and back to gray again. Lightning kept flashing in it almost constantly. And below us the ocean pounded and roared. Its waves would inundate the beach and slap heavily at the base of the cliff and then recede for only a moment before they would be back—dark, almost black, foaming, loud.

All of us watched, and no one tried to speak. The noise, of thunder and of the ocean, was deafening.

And then, as it began to quiet down a bit, we all turned and began to head back toward the dormitory. And as I was walking through the Protein 4 field and the rain, gentler now, was still hitting my face and my drenched clothing, I realized that I was cold and shivering and suddenly these words came into my mind:

 O Western wind, when wilt thou blow,

 That the small rain down can rain?

 Christ! That my love were in my arms

 And I in my bed again!

And I fell down on my knees in the field and wept, dumbly, for Mary Lou and for the life that I had, for a time, lived, when my mind and my imagination were, so briefly, alive.

There were no guards near. Belasco came back for me. He helped me up silently and, with his arm around me, helped me back into the dormitory. We did not speak to each other until I was at the open door of my cell. Then he took his arm away from me and looked me in the face. His eyes were grave, and reassuring. “Hell, Bentley,” he said, “I think I know how you feel.” Then he slapped me gently on the shoulder and turned and walked to his cell.

I stood leaning against the cold steel bars and watched the other prisoners, their hair wet and their clothing drenched, walk back to their cells. I wanted to put my arm around each of them. Whether I knew their names or not, they were, all of them, my 
friends
.

DAY ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE

I got into the boarded-up building today.

It was simple. I was out in the gravel yard between buildings during the exercise period after lunch. I saw two robot guards walk up the steps to the building, unlock the door, and go inside. After a few moments they came out, each carrying a box of the kind our toilet paper comes in. They carried their boxes over toward the dormitory building. The door stayed open. I went in.

Inside, the floors were of Permoplastic. The walls were of some other material, filthy and crumbling, and there was very little light since the windows were boarded up. I walked quickly through dark hallways, opening doors.

Some of the rooms were empty; others had things like soap and paper towels and toilet paper and food trays, stacked up on shelves. I took a stack of paper towels, for this journal. And then I saw a dim and faded sign over a pair of double doors at the end of a hall. It was the only other sign with writing I had ever seen except for the ones in the basement of the library in New York.

I could not make out the words at first; they were faded and covered with dirt. And the hallway was dark. But when I got up close and looked carefully I made them out: EAST WING LIBRARY.

I almost jumped at the word “Library.” I just stood there, staring at the sign, and felt my heart pounding.

And then I tried the doors and found that they were locked. I pulled and pushed and tried to twist the knobs, but I could not make anything budge. It was horrible.

I became overwhelmed with anger and beat my fists against the door. But it did not move and I only hurt myself.

I slipped out of the building after I heard the guards return and go into one of the storage rooms.

I must get inside that library! I must have books again. If I cannot read and learn and have things that are worth thinking about, I would rather immolate myself than go on living.

Synthetic gasoline is used in the harvesting machines. I know that I could get some and burn myself.

I will stop writing now and watch TV.

DAY ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO

For eleven days I have been despondent. In the afternoons I have not bothered to go to look at the ocean when I get to the end of my row, and I have not tried to write in the evenings. My mind is as blank as I can make it while I work—I concentrate only on the thick, rancid smell of the Protein 4 plants.

The guards say nothing, but I still hate them. It is all I really feel. Their thick, slow bodies and their slack faces are like the synthetic, rubbery plants I feed. They are—the phrase is from 
Intolerance—an
 abomination in my sight.

If I take four or five sopors it is not unpleasant to watch TV. My TV wall is a good one, and it always works.

My body no longer hurts. It is strong now, and my muscles are firm and hard. I am suntanned, and my eyes are clear. There are tough calluses on my hands and on the soles of my feet, and I work well and have not been beaten again. But the sadness in my heart has come back. It has come to me slowly, a day at a time, and I am more despairing than during my first days in prison. Ev-erything seems hopeless.

Days pass, sometimes, without my thinking of Mary Lou. Hopeless.

DAY ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE

I have seen where the synthetic gasoline is kept. It is in the computer shed at the edge of the field.

All prisoners have electronic cigarette lighters, for smoking marijuana.

DAY ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX

Last night Belasco came to my cell again, and at first I did not want to see him. When I found the door to my cell was unlocked I became nervous. I did not want to leave, and I did not want anyone coming in.

But he walked in anyway and said, “Good to see you, Bentley.”

I just looked at the floor at my feet. My TV was off, and I had been sitting like that for hours, on the edge of my bed.

He was silent for a while and I heard him seat himself in my chair, but I still did not look up. I did not feel that I could even raise my head.

Finally he spoke again, softly. “I seen you in the fields the last few days, Bentley. You been looking like a robot.” His voice was sympathetic, soothing.

I made myself speak. “I suppose so,” I said.

We were quiet again. Then he said, “I know how it is, Bentley. You get to thinking about dying. Like they do in the cities, with gas and a lighter. Or here we got the ocean. I seen guys go out all the way. Hell, I used to think about it myself: just swim as far as I can and not look back. . .”

I looked up at him. “
You
 felt like that?” I was astonished. “You seem so strong.”

He laughed wryly and I looked up toward his face. “Shit,” he said, “I’m like everybody else. This kind of living ain’t much better than being dead.” He laughed again, shaking his head from side to side. “And it ain’t much better on the outside, to tell the truth. No real work to do, except the same kind of crap you do in here. At the Worker Dormitories they told us, ‘Labor fulfills.’ Horseshit.” He took a joint from his pocket and lit it. “I was stealing credit cards the first blue after I graduated. Been in prison half my life. Wanted to die the first two or three stretches, but I didn’t. Nowadays I got my cats, and I sneak around a little . . .” Then he interrupted himself. “Hey!” he said. “You want to have Biff?”

I stared at him. “For my own. . . pet?”

“Sure. Why not? I got four more. Pain in the ass to find food for sometimes, though. But I can teach you how.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that. I’d like to have a cat.”

“We can go get her now,” he said.

And I found myself leaving my cell easily. As we went out the unlocked door I turned to Belasco and said, “I feel better.”

He slapped me lightly on the back. “What are friends for?” he said.

I stood there a moment, not knowing what to say. And then, almost without thinking of the gesture, I reached out and put my hand on his forearm. And I thought of something. “There’s a building I want to get in. Do you think it might be unlocked?”

He grinned at me. “That’s more like it,” he said. And then, “Let’s go see.”

We left the building. It was simple and there were no guards in sight.

We got into the deserted building with no trouble, but inside it was too dark to see, and we stumbled over boxes in the hallways. Then I heard Belasco say, “Sometimes these old places have a switch on the wall,” and I heard him fumbling, heard him trip and curse, and then there was a 
click
 and a big overhead light came on in the hallway. For a moment I was frightened that the guards might see the light, but then I remembered the boarded-up windows and was relieved.

But when I found the library door it was still locked! I was tense enough already, and I could have screamed.

Belasco looked at me. “Is that where you want to go?”

I said, “Yes.” Without even asking me what I wanted to get in the room for, he began to examine the lock. It was of a kind I had never seen before, and didn’t even appear to be electronic.

Belasco whistled quietly. “Wow!” he said. “This bastard is 
old
.” He began feeling in his pockets until he found his prison-issued lighter. Then he put it on the floor and stamped on it two or three times with his heel, until it was broken. He reached down, picked up the mess of wires and glass and plastic, and, after studying it a moment, pulled out a piece of stiff wire about as long as my thumb. I watched him silently, having no idea what he was doing this for.

He bent to the lock on the door carefully, placed the end of his wire into a slot in it, and began probing around. Every now and then a little clicking sound came from inside the lock somewhere. He cursed a couple of times, quietly, and continued. And then, just as I was about to ask him what he was trying to do, there was a softer sound inside the lock and Belasco grinned, took the doorknob in his hand, and opened the door!

It was dark inside, but Belasco found a switch on the wall again and two somewhat dim overhead lights came on.

I looked around me eagerly, hoping to find the walls lined with books. But they were empty. I stared for a long time, feeling almost sick. There were ancient wooden tables and chairs, and a few small boxes along one wall, but there were no shelves and the pockmarked walls were empty even of pictures.

“What’s the problem?” Belasco said.

I looked at him. “I was hoping to find . . . books.”

“Books?” He apparently didn’t know the word. But he said, “What’s in those boxes over there?”

I nodded, without much hope, and went over to look at the boxes by the wall. The first two I opened were filled with rusty spoons—so badly rusted that they were all frozen together in a reddish mass. But the third box was filled with books! I began taking them out eagerly. There were twelve of them. And at the bottom of the box was a pile of sheets of blank paper that was hardly yellow at all.

Excitedly I began to read the titles. The biggest was called 
North Carolina Revised Statutes: 1992
. Another was called 
Woodworking for Fun and Profit
 and a third, also very thick, was called 
Gone With the Wind
. It felt wonderful just to hold them and think of all the writing inside.

Belasco had been watching me with mild curiosity. Finally he spoke. “Are those things books?” he said.

“Yes.”

He picked one up from the box and ran his finger through the dust on the cover. “Never heard of such a thing,” he said.

I looked at him. “Let’s get the cat and get these back to my cell.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

We got Biff and carried the books back without any trouble at all.

It is very late now and Belasco has gone back to his cell. I will stop writing now and look through my books. I have them hidden between my water bed and the wall, near where Biff is sleeping.

DAY ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE

I am very tired because I read almost all night last night and had to work all day today. But what excitement I have found! My tired mind was busy all day, with all of the new things I had to think about.

I think I will make a list of my new books: