Primal

Copyright 2012 Perry Street Pictures, Inc.

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author.

* * *

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical
events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and
any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead are
coincidental.

Special thanks to our cover artist Dave Preciado.

* * *

Samuel slips the knife to Rex.

Wilkins rocks forward onto his toes, to get a clear look at
Ben, who sits in reverence with his head dropped forward, exposing the pale
smooth nape of his vulnerable neck. The air is rank with odor from damp armpits,
oily hair, and decaying gums. It’s the smell of rot. When Wilkins has guard
duty on Sunday mornings, he watches Ben Burne, because it makes him feel
hopeful here among the human scrap meat. He is drawn to the devotion on Ben’s
face, and so he doesn’t notice the jagged-edged homemade blade as it is passed
from one inmate’s hand to the next, underneath the lip of the stainless steel
pew.

Rex hands the knife to Heto.

This ascetic chapel with a plastic altar is populated every
Sunday by lifers who, if given the chance, would slash God’s throat. They
attend services as an alternative to sitting in their cells. Wilkins thinks
about how no one wants to be here, no one except Ben. Ben is enraptured. He
communes with the hanging wooden crucifix lost in a personal reverie: Hail Mary
full of grace the Lord is with thee. The lime paint of the prison’s cinder
block wall doesn’t tint Ben’s face in the same ghoulish way it colors the skin
of the other inmates. Wilkins wonders if this is a sign. Yes, he thinks it is.
Yes, God is trying to tell him something. He has cast the glory of His
forgiveness on Ben Burne.

Ben nods his head in prayer. He has lost a lot of hair for
only fifty-three years old; the penitentiary food and harsh soap are hard on
the body. Ben has managed to stay muscular by lifting weights in his cell and
using the window bars for chin-ups. He raises his face. Real tears swim in his
eyes as he swells with piety.

Ben, with his reputation, is a celebrity here; as long as
Ben is around with his superior air and his attention grabbing ways, well, it
pisses off some of the others who feel just as deserving, just as tough. And
they are just as tough — they just aren’t as smart. In any room, in every
room, Ben is the puppet master.

Heto passes the knife to Leon.

Leon is an obelisk of a man: tall, thick, and sitting
directly behind Ben. A grisly anticipation ripples through the room, knowing
glances are exchanged and eyes light up, giddy with expectation. Wilkins tilts
his head, sensing a palpable shift in the room. His eyes narrow; where is it
coming from? He scans the pews up and down. He peers underneath at the shoes
solidly on the floor. What is it? He can’t place it. At the altar, the chaplain
prays fervently for each of these men’s souls. He feels some solace in knowing
that at least he has saved one man. He has saved the soul of Ben Burne.

The inmates in Leon’s row shudder eagerly. Leon likes
holding everyone’s attention this way. They are waiting for his move. He tenses
first. Then, his jaw drops slightly open. Saliva moistens his mouth and a drop
of spit forms on his canine tooth. Right next to him, the skinny hollow-eyed
inmate giggles in a small sharp burst - the sound of caged madness. Leon’s
fingers clench around the knife. Ready. He springs up! The chaplain looks.
Leon’s knife hand juts up and then powers down toward Ben’s bare neck.
Miraculously, Ben’s hand jerks up and grabs the blade. It sinks deep into his
palm. He makes no sign of pain. He closes his fist around it and the two men
stand in a struggle of power and will. The room erupts. They are animals sprung
loose - clawing and fighting. Wilkins battles through the melee to get to Ben
and Leon who are locked eye-to-eye and motionless as blood gushes from Ben’s
closed fist. Wilkins is almost there when an inmate jumps him from behind
reaching for his weapon. With eyes in the back of his head, Ben uses his other
hand to karate chop the inmate, breaking his neck and sending him to the floor
without even a scream. Wilkins regains himself, grateful to Ben, who has not
taken his eyes off Leon. Wilkins pulls his gun out and shoots four rounds into
the ceiling. The fighting stops at the sound of the gunshots. Other guards
burst in. Wilkins moves in next to Leon where he and Ben are frozen in inert
combat with the blade closed into Ben’s fist. Wilkins levels his weapon at
Leon’s head.

Ben scolds, “Leon, this is a place of worship.”

Flooded with adrenaline, Wilkins rests his weapon on Leon’s
temple and adds, “And I hope you’ve been praying.”

Ben turns his eyes calmly to Wilkins, “Not in God’s house.”

A tremulous silence, they all wait for Wilkins’ decision:
life or death. He has the choice. He could pull the trigger and no one would
care. One less animal to feed and cage. Society might shake its head, but it would
be grateful to be rid of him. At this moment, with the muzzle of the gun at
Leon’s temple, and with everyone waiting, the choice is his. He could take this
life. He wants to take this worthless life. The muscles in his face give a
little. His blood calms. Two other guards sense it and step forward grabbing
Leon. They slam him to the cement floor breaking his jaw and his nose. They
pull his arms behind his back and cuff him. Other guards have taken charge of
the rioting rabble and order is harshly restored. Ben opens his hand. Wilkins
carefully pulls the embedded knife from Ben’s palm.

“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” Wilkins says.

Ben nods, turns to leave with him, but then stops and asks
the chaplain, “Father, are you all right?”

The shaken chaplain nods. He drops to his knees and says a
prayer for Ben’s soul. Wilkins leads Ben out of the chapel and down the hall
toward the infirmary.

Wilkins is amazed at Ben’s ability to withstand the pain and
asks, “How did you do that?”

“God did that - saved us both - you and me. But evidently he
has turned his attention to other things because it hurts like a motherfucker
now.” These two men almost smile at each other. How strange, Wilkins thinks, to
see the budding of humanity in a man with this kind of history. What was it
that turned Ben Burne?

* * *

Harbor Hills Elementary School blends in with the serene
suburban neighborhood: sweet two-story homes of white, yellow, and blue, stand
in neat lines on both sides of the street. The roads have been recently paved
so the asphalt is coal black and makes the green of the grass yards and the
colorful fall flowerbeds bitingly vibrant. The streetlamps have an
old-fashioned oblong glass that suggests folks have been raising their families
here for a long time. The damp earthy smell of fallen leaves hangs in the air
along with the dying honeysuckle. In this traditional Midwestern town with its
huge oak and sugar maple trees life feels settled and yielding, as if it knows
where it is going; the path is trodden and soft on the feet.

Inside Alison Kraft’s classroom with its dangling solar
system made out of Styrofoam balls, and its encouraging aphorisms pasted to the
walls, the majority of the third graders are listening to her. She considers
the majority a victory. This generation is accustomed to sensory deluge; they
splash through the rising tech tide with instincts the generation before them
just don’t have. Her generation debated the efficacy of multitasking; these
kids never do one thing at a time. They carry the world electronically in the
palm of their hands: they text, and shop, and do homework, watch movies, and
download music all at the same time. She feels successful if half of the class
pays attention to her at one time since she is limited by not being a multimedia
purveyor. Alison is a popular teacher. And when this year’s crop of scruffy
boys and American Doll girls look at her, she sees their potential. These are
the faces of tomorrow and she is aware of that truth every day she teaches
them. She knows that one of them will do something special. There is no way to
know which one, so she committed years ago to teach each child as though
they
were the one. Her students sense
her belief in them, and they love her for it. She has “cheery eyes” they say.
Their parents like her because she’s tender, and even with all the inherent
lunacy of grammar school, impatience is not in her nature.

Alison and Hank moved here to Hank’s home after college.
They married here and he started a business with his high school buddies. Alison
likes this little midland town in Minnesota, but she does wander the streets
sometimes wishing the donut shop were a pâtisserie, and that the movie
selection at the fourplex would try something without gunfire, and she jokes
that she would give her right arm for a piano bar. She misses the city world
she grew up in, but she knows this is the ideal place for Hank and her to raise
their son, Jimmy, and that’s the priority. Life comes in phases. This is
Jimmy’s time to learn and run free. Watching him is fulfilling. It is the most
fulfilling and joyful experience of her life. The piano bar will wait for her.
She assumes there will be time.

Moving down the aisle between the school desks, Alison
points to the large colorful poster of predators all along the wall: coyotes,
bears, and cheetahs. “A mom animal will use her teeth, horns, hooves, stingers,
whatever. Some mothers divert predators from their babies by using elaborate
movements or by changing their appearance.” She turns down the aisle in a
deceptive stroll toward one particular boy. “Others rely on speed or surprise!”
She yanks the iPod earphones out of Tanner’s ears. He looks startled and a
little scared for having been caught. They look at each other for a moment. She
holds his eyes.

“Uh…oh…sorry, Ms. Kraft.”

“Okay, Tanner, but one more time and I’m keeping these for
myself. They’re really cool.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She hands him back the earphones. “Now,”
addressing the entire class, “for your homework for the next few days while the
substitute is here.” Loud groans from the instantly gloomy children. Howie
Hunter drops his forehead down on the desktop in despair. She tries not to
smile at him, so cute, so bereft, his shaggy blond hair covering his face. “Oh,
right” she teases then, “these substitutes really are creatures from the Black
Lagoon.”

“Where is the Black Lagoon?” Sarah asks Joey.

“France.”

“Oh, Mrs. Kraft!” Sarah whines, “I don’t speak France.”

Keeping a straight face with difficulty, “I’m quite certain
the substitute speaks English.”

Howie adds, “I knew a kid who spoke France. He was
annoying.”

“Howie, just because someone is from France does not mean
they’re annoying. France has a beautiful language, lovely museums, pretty
countryside, and the biggest erector set right in the middle of the city.”

“Really?” Howie asks excited.

“Yes. We can see some photos of the Eiffel Tower and learn
more about France when I return. Now, the homework. I want each of you to pick
a book from the library, absolutely any book, even a comic book, if you want,
and read - that’s all - just read and then tell the class about the story when
I return. Okay?”

The bell rings and gleefully the kids fly out of the
classroom. The room empties in seconds leaving a sudden complete silence after
the last fleeing footstep. Alison remembers being their age and watching the
clock as is ticked toward freedom. She was, and still is, a daydreamer. Her
imagination has always had a wanderlust. She scans the room for a moment, and
sees the usual: orphaned hair ties on the floor, several lunch boxes (mold
experiments by tomorrow) and inexplicably one pink sock. She muses there is
something exceedingly poignant about an empty classroom. One empty classroom
feels so much more forlorn than an entirely vacant office building. As she
straightens up the room, she thinks that must have something to do with the
impermanence of childhood itself - the moving on: the seventh grader who
becomes the teenager who becomes the college kid and leaves the toys behind.
Closing up her desk, Alison wonders if at night, when the janitor sweeps his
way through the silence of these rooms, if the echoes of thousands of
children’s voices keep him company as he pushes the broom. They call the
janitor Old Man Tinker, even though he’s only forty years old. She wonders how
old she looks to them. It makes her grin as she collects up her purse and a few
papers. She flips off the classroom lights, steps out into the school hallway.