Harry looked down at his feet. “I think the mud’s setting. Help me out of here,” he said, holding out his arm as if it were for sale. I helped him out and he collapsed on a small mound of grass.
“Get me something to wear, and a beer if you’ve got it. Hurry up,” he said.
I went inside and sneaked into my father’s closet; he was sleeping facedown on the bed, a deep drunken sleep with such a shattering snore I almost stopped to check his nose for an amplifier and lead. I picked out an old suit, then went to the fridge for beers. When I returned, Harry was ankle deep in mud again.
“First thing I did was fake an illness: stabbing abdominal pains. What else was I going to use? Back pain? Middle-ear infection? Was I going to complain that I saw a drop of blood in my urine? No, they needed to think it was a matter of life and death. So I did it and found myself sent to the infirmary, at three in the morning, when only one man was on duty. So I’m in the infirmary, doubled up in pretend pain. At about five the guard on duty goes out for a piss. At once I leap out of bed and break the lock of the medicine cabinet and steal all the liquid tranquilizers I can. I jab the guard when he comes back and then go around looking for another guard to help me get out of there. I knew I’d never get out without a guard’s help, but these bastards were unbribable, for the most part. Not that they weren’t corrupt, they just didn’t like me. But a couple of weeks before, I called in all my old favors and got one of my cronies to supply me with information about a certain guard’s family. I chose one of the newer guys- Kevin Hastings is his name, he’s been with us only two months, so he was less likely to know his arse from his elbow. It’s hilarious how these bastards think they’re anonymous in prison. You can really freak them out when you tell them you know precisely what positions they use with their wives, duration, et cetera. Anyway, Hastings turned out to be perfect. The man has a daughter. I wouldn’t have done anything, but I had to scare the life out of the bugger. And even if he didn’t bite, what did I have to lose? Would they really bother giving me another life sentence? I already have six!” Harry paused here a moment, reflecting, and said quietly, “I’ll tell you something, Marty, there’s freedom in forever.”
I nodded. It sounded true.
“So anyway, I go right up to Hastings and whisper in his ear, ‘Get me out of here now or else your lovely little daughter Rachael will enjoy the pleasure of a very diseased man I know.’ His face went white and he slipped me the keys, let me bang him on the noggin so he wouldn’t be under suspicion, and that’s all there was to it. I don’t feel proud of myself, but it was just a threat. When I’m safely hidden away, I’ll call him and ease his mind that his daughter is safe.”
I said, “Good one.”
“So what’s next for you, Marty? I don’t suppose you want to come with me? Be an accessory. What do you say?”
I told Harry about the bond I’d made with my mother that prevented me from leaving town at present.
“Wait, what kind of bond?”
“Well, it was more like an oath.”
“You made an oath with your mother?”
“Well, what’s so strange about that?” I asked, annoyed. What was the big deal? It’s not like I had confessed to sleeping with my mother, I merely pledged allegiance not to leave her side.
Harry didn’t say anything. His mouth was half open and I could feel his eyes tunneling deep into my cranium. He slapped his hand on my shoulder. “Well, can’t talk you out of an oath, can I?”
I agreed that he couldn’t.
“Well, good luck, old boy,” he said before turning and disappearing into the dark bush. “See you next time,” his disembodied voice called out. He left without even asking after Terry.
A week later my mother came into my room with big news. “Your brother’s coming home today. Your father’s gone to collect him,” she said, as if he were a long-awaited parcel. Terry had become a sort of fictitious character to us in the year he’d been gone, and the psychiatrist, by reducing him to a catalogue of psychological symptoms, had robbed my brother of his individuality. True, the complexity of his psychosis impressed us- he was collateral damage in a war waged between his deeper instincts- but it posed a question that plagued us: which Terry would be coming home? My brother, my mother’s son, or the impotent destroyer desperate for transcendence of the self?
We were all on pins and needles.
I wasn’t prepared for the sight of him walking through the back door- he looked so happy you’d have thought he’d been in Fiji sipping margaritas out of a coconut. He sat at the kitchen table and said, “So what kind of welcome-home feast you got planned for the prodigal son? Some fattened calf?” My mother was in such a state she cried, “Fattened calf? Where am I going to get that?” and Terry jumped from the table and hugged her and spun her around the room and she almost screamed in terror, she was so frightened of her own son.
After lunch Terry and I walked the narrow dirt road that led into town. The sun beat violently down. All the flies in the district came out to greet him. He brushed them away and said, “Can’t do that strapped to a bed.” I related the story of Harry’s shifty escape and his appearance that night in the mud.
“And have you seen Caroline?” he asked.
“Now and then.”
“How is she?”
“Let’s go see.”
“Wait. How do I look?”
I gave him the once-over and nodded. As usual, he looked good. No, better than good. Terry was already looking like a man, whereas I, more a man in age than he was, looked more like a boy with an aging disease. We moved silently toward town. What do you say to someone who’s just got back from hell? “Was it hot enough for you?” I think in the end I blurted out something like “How are you?” with an emphasis on the are, and he muttered that the “mongrels couldn’t break me.” I knew he’d suffered through an experience he’d never be able to communicate.
We reached town and Terry gave every person on the street a challenging stare. There were bitterness and anger in that stare. Clearly the hospital “treatment” had done nothing to quiet his anger. He had it in for everyone. Terry had chosen not to blame our parents for his sentence but had fixed his fury on everyone who followed the word of the suggestion box.
Except one. Lionel Potts came bounding up, waving his arms wildly. “Terry! Terry!” He was the only person in town happy to see my brother. It was a welcome relief to feel the force of Lionel’s childlike enthusiasm. He was the sort of man you talk to about the weather and you still walk away smiling. “The Dean boys, together again! How are you, Terry? Thank God you got out of that hellhole. Cunt of a place, wasn’t it? Did you give that blond nurse my phone number?”
“Sorry, mate,” Terry said. “You’ll have to get committed yourself if you want that action.”
So Lionel had been up to see Terry.
“Maybe I will, Terry. She looked worth it. Hey, Caroline’s in the café, smoking. She pretends to hide it from me and I pretend to be fooled. Have you seen her?”
“We’re on our way now,” Terry said.
“Excellent! Wait here!” Lionel pulled out a packet of cigarettes. “These are lights. See if you can wean her off the Marlboro full-strengths, would you? If it doesn’t bother you, a little collusion.”