She looked up at Tommy, this time half-lifting her arms in a pose reminiscent of the Pope, her eyes gazing worshipfully at him on the stage. Her face was flushed with the spirit in a way that Tommy had not seen in years, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with awe.
"Thank you, Reverend Tommy," she said. Her tones were soft but clear as a diction teacher's, every syllable precise.
"Thank God," said Tommy, half in wonder himself at the transformation.
"Praise be," she agreed, then, in a voice filled with tears but resonating with all the joy the Apostolic Choir strove for but never achieved, "Praise Jesus"'
Tommy stared at her in amazement as the audience erupted.
"His wonders to perform," she cried.
The audience was on its feet, yelling and screaming in appreciation.
"And his servant, Tommy R. Walker!"
Oh, they loved him then, but they loved her even more.
Nothing like seeing perfection restored. Tommy watched her hold them, lift them and shake them. At that moment she could have had their wallets just for the asking and they would have blessed her for taking them. She was the best he had ever seen.
And it was the best night he had had in months.
His punk was crying again, trying to hide it, as if you could hide anything in a cell. He was in his bunk over Cooper's head, weeping and sniffing and answering "nothing" — whenever Cooper asked what was wrong.
Cooper knew what was wrong, though. The punk was crying because Cooper was leaving in the morning.
"You'll be all right," Cooper said, not at all certain that it was true.
Swann's new cellmate might turn out to be someone not as nice as Cooper.
Or, worse, he might turn out to be someone like Swann himself, someone who could offer Swann no protection against the other predators. His punk could turn out to be free meat. Cooper had seen others in that position ripped apart, torn into bits like a piece of steak thrown in among the lions. They wouldn't show him the kind of consideration Cooper had, they wouldn't talk to him and make him feel like a human being the way Cooper had always strived to do.
But it was not just fear for his well-being that made Cooper's punk cry.
It was love, too.
"You'll forget me, won't you?" Swann asked.
"Naw."
"Yes, you will," Swann said bitterly. "You'll forget all about me as soon as you leave, I don't give it a day. You won't ever think about me again.":'Sure I will," said Cooper.
'No, you won't. I know how your mind works."
"I said I would," Cooper said, getting annoyed at the line of the conversation.
"Promise?"
"What?"
"Promise you won't forget me?"
Cooper sighed wearily. The emotional demands of the punk sometimes made it not worth the effort, but tonight he could afford to be magnanimous.
Tomorrow he was getting out of stir. Tomorrow he was going back to the world.
"I promise," Cooper said.
"What do you promise?"
"Whatever you want."
The punk was quiet for a moment and Cooper considered kicking him.
Cooper wasn't through talking yet, but he didn't want to talk about the punk, he wanted to talk about himself. He had his own concerns about his impending release, but he did not know how to bring them up without giving the punk an advantage over him. Even the weakest of them could find a way to exploit a vulnerability, even someone whom Cooper had treated as well as Swann, even now with only hours left to go.
When Swann spoke again it was in his babyish, wheedling tone of voice.
"Can I come down there?" Swann asked.
He didn't really feel like it, but Cooper grunted permission. If the punk only knew how decent Cooper was to him.
Swann slipped into Cooper's bunk and cuddled against the big man.
"Will I ever see you again?',' he asked. He sounded like he was going to start crying again.
"Sure," said Cooper.
"When?"
"Well, not till you get out, because I ain't coming back here.
"I won't be out for three years. If I can live that long without you."
"You'll be fine," Cooper lied. "They know you're my punk. They wouldn't dare mess with old Coop's punk."
Swann didn't bother to refute such arrant nonsense. For all he knew, Cooper believed it.
"I wonder if you'll even remember what I look like after three years."
"I remember everything," Cooper said. "There's nothing wrong with my memory."
"I didn't mean that."
"Ask me anything. Ask me about the Mexican."
"I know you know about the Mexican and the girls and all the rest of them…"
"And the faggot, don't forget."
"I know. I know you'll remember all of that. I'm worried you'll forget about me. Can I write you sometimes?"
"I don't write letters," Cooper said.
"No, I'd write to you. You wouldn't have to answer.
And I could call you, too, if you'd like that."
Cooper was silent.
"I could say things to you," Swann whispered. "I could talk the way you like sometimes."
"All right," Cooper said uncertainly. He was never comfortable on the phone, the other voices got annoyed with him, they wanted him to answer them back too quickly when he needed time to think.
The punk caught the uncertainty in his voice. "Everything's going to be fine," he said. "I know you're a little… " He groped for the right word. "Afraid" was not what Cooper wanted to hear. "… concerned about how it's going to go in the world."
Cooper grunted noncommittally.
"But everything is going to be just fine."
The punk began to stroke Cooper's chest as if he were petting a large beast.
"Just remember, you have two friends that you never had before when you were in the world."
"Who?"
"And you can ask both of them for help and they will always be there for you."
"Who?"
"Jesus, you have Jesus for a friend now, don't you?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You can always ask Jesus for help. You know that, don't you?"
"I know that."
"He will always answer you if you ask him, but it may not always be in a way you understand."
Cooper snorted. Fat lot of good that would do him.
"You said two friends," Cooper demanded.
"And me," the punk said. His hand slipped lower and stroked Cooper on the abdomen.
"Uh-huh."
"You can always ask me for help, you know. You do know that, don't you?
If you're in trouble, or if you're confused, you can always get in touch with me."
"I know," said Cooper, although it had never occurred to him. What good could the punk do while languishing in prison? Chances were he couldn't even help himself.
"I'll give you postcards with a stamp and my address already on them.
You can write a message if you want to, but you don't even have to. If I get the card I'll know you're thinking of me-and I'll pray for you right then. That would be good, wouldn't it?"
Cooper grunted again.
" 'Cause Jesus and I have one thing in common," Swann continued. His fingers were now brushing Cooper's pubic hair. "Do you know what that is?"
Cooper was no longer attending the punk's words. His entire focus was on the other man's hand.
"We both love you," the punk said.
Cooper arched his back, trying to draw Swann's fingers closer. If the punk continued to tease, Cooper would kill him.
"Shall we pray together?" Swann asked, his voice calling.
"After," Cooper said. He pushed the little man lower.
I could snap his head off, Cooper thought as he felt the tension rising in his body. I could squeeze hard enough so his head popped right off like a doll's. Not this time he wouldn't. He'd be caught. But starting tomorrow he could pull off all the heads he could find.
Just before he cried out with release he imagined doing it to dozens of clerks and foremen and schoolteachers, one after the other. He saw their faces, men and women, looking so surprised as their necks broke and their heads rolled away.