"That was in Pennsylvania?"
"Yeah… No. Not Pennsylvania. Can't you remember anything, you little fruiter'? It was in West Virginia."
"I'm not a fruit," Swann said.
Cooper was paying no attention. For once the facts sprang clearly to mind. Some memories were fuzzy and some clear and some so vague he didn't know if he dreamed them or lived them, But this time the pictures sprang vividly to mind.
"I did 'em in an old coal mine in West Virginia," he said proudly. "Just outside a town called Hendricks."
"Why a coal mine?"
"I needed somewhere-what do you call it? — someplace alone."
"Secluded."
"that's it."
"Why did you need a secluded place? You never did any other time, did you?"
"Because they were going to make a lot of noise."
"Why didn't you gag them?"
Cooper grinned in the darkness. He knew all the answers this time.
"Because I wanted to hear them."
"How come you did two at a time, Coop?"
"Did I say that? Did I say I did two at a time?"
"I just thought..
"Don't think, you might hurt yourself," Cooper said.
Damn, he knew so much more about this stuff than any goddamned clerk. It was a wonder anybody so stupid was allowed to live. "I did 'em six months apart I planned it good, too. I got together enough food and shit to last me a week. And a couple cartons of cigarettes. And a lantern.
And some candles. It's dark in a mine, you know, you got to have some light."
"You took a week killing them?" Swann was horrified.
"What's wrong with that?"
Swann was silent.
"Anything wrong with a week?"
"No," Swann said quietly. "I wasn't criticizing.
"I could pull your head off if I wanted."
"I wasn't criticizing."
"I hope to shit not. Ask me something else."
"Where did you find them?"
"The girls you took to the abandoned mine."
"It was a coal mine."
"Nobody was using it anymore, were they?"
"Of course not. I told you. It was an old mine."
"Where did you find the girls you took there?"
Cooper brayed. This was the best part. He loved this part because of the reaction it got from Swann. Every time.
I picked them up at church."
He could hear the little punk gasp. Every time. He had never seen such a religious nut. Coope coming next. He heard Swann shuffling off his ass and onto his knees.
"Could we pray now?" Swann asked although it wasn't really a question.
Cooper knew that Swann would pray now no matter what Cooper said or did, short of bashing his head against the wall.
" Sure. Pray," Cooper said. He rose from the bunk and knelt beside Swann, facing the crucifix that was barely visible. Cooper didn't see what harm could be done in humoring the little man now and then. It made him play his part more eagerly if he knew he got his reward at the end.
And, besides, Cooper figured the praying couldn't hurt, especially since it was Mostly about him.
"Dear Lord, Sweet Jesus, Angel of Mercy," Swann intoned, "look down on our beloved brother Cooper and bring the spirit of redemption to his soul. Pierce his hardened heart with your love, Sweet Jesus, and let him know the joy of loving his fellow man — ."
Swann enthused onward and Cooper's focus soon drifted off. Cooper had heard the little punk keep at it for hours at a time, so there wasn't any need for him to try to keep up with it all. He paid little attention to the words of the prayer, they often confused him anyway, but he liked the rhythm, the singsongy way the phrases were d "Darling Lord," as if Swann were calling out to his sweetheart.
The punk cared for him; he really did love him.
Somewhere in the midst of all the blabbing to god, Swann would get around to the fact that Cooper was being re leased soon and would need all the help the darling lord could spare when he reentered the world.
He would ask sweet Jesus to walk hand in hand with old Coop and keep him out of trouble. Cooper liked that image and in his mind sweet Jesus looked a lot like Swann himself, but with a scraggly beard. Swann already had the messianic y hair down to his shoulders and some nights Cooper would remove the rubber band that held it in a ponytail and run his hands through it. There was comfort in the idea of a Christ-like Swann, short and weak but smart in a lot of ways that were valued in the world, walking down some long dirt road with his hand in Cooper's. And, in truth, Cooper had some need for comfort. The prospect of freedom after five years of confinement filled him with trepidation. Not that he would ever admit to such anxiety to Swann or anyone else. If they saw the slightest sign of fear or even uncertainty, they would take it for weakness and swarm all over him, prying and pulling at whatever slightest chink they could find until they ripped him open and fed on his insides. But the fear was real, however well he hid it. In truth, Cooper had never done well in the world. It bewildered him with its complex rules and escalating demands. Even his pleasures had to be circumscribed or the police would be on him. In prison the rules were clear and quickly learned and if you were strong enough and vicious enough, you could make your own.
And here, at least, someone loved him and cared about his welfare.
Cooper put an arm around Swann's shoulders, feeling the knobby bones through the mottled skin. In full light, Swann's torso and legs were covered with freckles. For some reason only his face had been spared the spots. Cooper had learned to love them. His punk leaned his head against the big man's chest and continued to pray.
"Sweet Jesus," Swann implored, "bring your divine love to the heart of Darn ell Cooper the way be has brought love to mine. Let the light of your great goodness shine upon him. Deliver him from the pit. Cause him to dwell no more in the valley of the shadow, darling Lord, but lift him up to your mountaintop of light!"
"Amen," said Cooper, prematurely.
"And sweet Jesus, cleanse his mind of those thoughts which torment him.
Lift from him, Lord, those obscene fantasies that haunt his soul. Raise up his eyes so that they might dwell forever on your sweet goodness and look no more into the abyss Of the evil pit."
Swann shivered and Cooper did not know if he was cold or frightened. He himself was getting excited again.
When the punk got through praying, he was usually very receptive.,Sometimes he thought up new ways to do it.
His punk had a lot of imagination.
Karen had placed the envelope on the kitchen table for him and Becker left it there amid the crumpled napkins and the spilled remainders of Jack's breakfast cereal while he did the dishes and straightened the kitchen. Giving the table a swipe with the sponge, he worked around the letter as if afraid to soil his hands by touching it. Kitchen duty was a chore that Becker had assumed on his own; Karen had never mentioned it, he had never volunteered. On the first few mornings he had spent at her house, she had gotten Jack off to school, then departed for work herself while he was still reading the newspaper at the table.
"Just leave it," she had said, referring to the general litter while bending to give him a kiss. "I'll do it when I get home." Becker had not left it and it did not take long for her to stop urging him to do so.
The same process was at work when he gradually assumed the duties of dinner chef. He cooked the first, few times because it seemed unfair for her to have to launch into meal preparations as soon as she walked in the door. He cooked dinner a few times because he didn't like the frozen entrees and slapjack concoctions that Karen tossed together on her own.
After that he cooked because he realized he liked to, and because no one had ever told him he had to. Now, after living together for a year, Karen Still remembered every so often to say thank you, which Becker considered a surprise bonus. Jack never thought to voice his gratitude without prompting, but then Jack was ten and assumed that service was his due.