They whispered to each other in the night.
"Are you saying when you kill them, they multiply?"
"I'm saying you can't kill them. Some things too small."
"Sleep on top of the blanket," Oswald told him.
"They get on through. They bore through."
"That's termites, that bore."
"Hey, Jim, I live with these things for years."
"Put the blanket on the floor. Sleep on the floor."
"Half the floor is white lines, like they foreseen. Which anyway the lice jump down on top of me."
A nearly bare place, simple objects, basic needs. Oswald's senses were fearfully keyed. He tasted iron on his tongue. He heard the voices from the chicken wire, guards grumbling like heavy dogs. When they hosed down the floor of the cell block he smelled the earth embedded in concrete-pebbles, gravel, slag and broken stone, all distantly mixed with ammonia, like contempt blended in.
Dupard was from Texas.
"Leads the nation in homicides," Oswald said.
"That's the place."
"Whereabouts?"
"Dallas."
"I'm from Fort Worth, off and on, myself."
"Neighbors. Ain't that something. How old is a kid like yourself?"
"Eighteen," Oswald told him.
"You a baby. They throw a baby into prison. How much time you bring with you?"
"Twenty-eight days."
"What's the charge?"
"First I accidentally shot myself in the arm, which they court-martialed me for, but suspended the sentence."
"If it's accidentally, what's their point?"
"They said I used an unregistered weapon. I had a private weapon."
"Which they never handed out."
"Which I found. But that doesn't matter in their eyes as long as the weapon is not registered."
"But they suspend the sentence, so then what?"
"Then there was a second court-martial."
"Sound like somebody push his luck."
"Based on an incident. That's all it was." "I believe it."
"There's a sergeant, Rodriguez, that's been giving me mess duty all the time. Doesn't like me, which I guarantee it's mutual. So we had words more than once. I let him know how I felt about being singled out. He told me it's the court-martial that's keeping me out of the radar hut, plus general standards, which he's saying I don't dress or behave up to standards. I saw him at a local bar and went right over. I told him. I said get me off these menial jobs. We were standing jaw to jaw. He thought I'd say my piece and back off. But I stood right there. There were people pressing close. My mind was already working. Potential witnesses. I told him what I thought. That's all. I didn't wise off. I was simple and clear. I said I wanted fair treatment. I told him. I didn't bait him. He said I was baiting him. He said I wouldn't get him to fight. More trouble than it was worth. Lose him a stripe or something. Some guys egged us on. They told Rodriguez whip him good. But I wasn't trying to get him to fight. I was stating my case in the matter. He called me maricon. He whispered to me, maricon, with a little sweet smile. I told him I know what that means. I heard Puerto Ricans use those words. I know those words. He said he was no Puerto Rican. I told him don't use Puerto Rican words. It was heated then. They were all around us. Somebody shoved me and I spilled my beer all over Rodriguez. Accidentally spilled. I said you saw I was pushed. I told him. I didn't apologize or make an excuse. It wasn't my fault. There was shoving all around. I was only standing up for my military rights."
"Regulate the voice," Bobby whispered.
"So that was the second court-martial. But I defended myself this time. I questioned Rodriguez on the stand. I was proved not guilty of throwing my drink on him, which is technically an assault charge."
"How come here we are, having this talk?"
"They said I was guilty of a lesser charge. Wrongful use of provoking words to a staff noncommissioned officer. Article one seventeen. Bang."
"Slam the gate," Bobby said.
He wore faded utilities that still carried the imprint of long-gone sergeant stripes and he worked in the fields, clearing stones and burning trash. The guard wore a.45 and kept his gun side turned away from the prisoners. There was no talking or rest. They worked in the rain. There were great billowing rains that first week, rain in broad expanses, slow and lilting. Smoke drifted over the men, smelling of wet garbage, half burnt. Their useless work trailed them through the day. He thought there was a good chance he would go to OCS. He'd passed the qualifying exam for corporal before shipping out. He'd be in good shape if it wasn't for the shooting incident and the spilled-drink incident. He could still be in good shape. He was smart enough to make officer. That wasn't the issue. The issue was would they let him. He cut brush and cleared fields of heavy stones. The issue was would they rig the thing against him.
"I landed here like a dream," Dupard whispered that night. "I figure I'm already dead. It's just a question they shovel the dirt in my face."
"What did they charge you with?"
"There was a fire to my rack, which they accused me. But in my own mind I could like verbalize it either way. In other way of saying it, the evidence was weak."
"But you did it."
"It's not that easy to say. I could go either way and be convinced in my own mind."
"You're not sure you really wanted to do it. You were just thinking about doing it."
"I was like, Should I drop this cigarette?"
"It just seemed to happen while you were thinking it."
"Like it happened on its own."
"Did the rack go up?"
"Scorch some linen was all. Like you fall asleep a tenth of a second, smoking."
"Why did you want to start a fire?"
"It's a question of working it out in my own mind, the exact why I did it. Because the psychology is definitely there."
"Then what?"
"Mainly one thing. I deserted."
"Why?"
"Because I want to book on out of here," Bobby said. "I am not a Marine. Simple. They ought to see that and just call a halt. Because the longer it goes on, there's no chance I deal with this shit."
In the prison literature he'd read, Oswald was always coming across an artful old con who would advise the younger man, give him practical tips, talk in sweeping philosophical ways about the larger questions. Prison invited larger questions. It made you wish for an experienced perspective, for the knowledge of some grizzled figure with kind and tired eyes, a counselor, wise to the game. He wasn't sure what he had here in Bobby R. Dupard.
The next day he came back from a work detail and found two guards in the cell pummeling Dupard. They took their time. It looked like something else at first, an epileptic fit, a heart attack, but then he understood it was a beating. Bobby was on the deck trying to cover up and the two men took turns hitting him in the kidneys and ribs. One guard sat on Oswald's bunk, leaning way over to throw short lefts like a man trying to start an outboard. The other guard was down on one knee, biting his lip, pausing to aim his shots so they wouldn't catch Bobby's crossed arms. Bobby had a look on his face like this is bound to end someday. He was working hard to keep them unfulfilled.
They called him Brillo Head. He showed a little smile, as if only the spoken word might perk his interest. They went back to pounding.
Oswald stopped at the white line outside the cell. He thought if he stood absolutely still, looking vaguely right or vaguely left, waiting patiently for them to finish what they were doing so he could request permission to cross the line, they might be inclined to let him enter without a beating.