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Mr. Sparks by SF Johnston
(Installment FOUR of FOUR)
Fay's old Model A Roadster had seen better days, but it ran pretty well, and as Joe drove through the rain-slicked streets to the prison, Bobby pulled out the turkey sandwich that Fay had stuffed in his bag on the way out. He unwrapped it and took a bite. It was as good as Joe had promised, but his stomach rebelled, and he realized he didn't have it in him to eat anything. He re-wrapped it and slipped it into his bag.
Joe parked in the street about 100 yards from the prison's main gate. High brick walls lined the entire block, and Bobby could see that a small crowd had gathered by the entrance, held back by an iron fence. He slowed his steps, but Joe put a hand gently on his back to keep him moving forward.
"It's alright, Bobby," he said as he scanned the crowd. "Just keep moving."
Bobby didn't see Henry Black anywhere. As they approached the entrance, Joe put himself between Bobby and the crowd. Bobby heard a man's voice shout something unintelligible, and then a glass beer bottle crashed at their feet. Joe grabbed Bobby's arm and quickened his pace to take them to the door.
The entrance to the prison consisted of a massive iron door with a small window about three-quarters of the way up. An officer was watching the crowd, and let them in as soon as they arrived, looking warily at the mob before closing the door and locking it with the biggest key Bobby had ever seen. They were in an anteroom between the outer walls and the prison proper.
"Phew!" said Joe. "You okay?"
Bobby nodded. They entered the main prison building through a normal set of doors, and walked over to the main desk.
"Mitchell," Joe said to the man on duty.
"You're late."
"No I'm not. Warden Hoyt told the Chief that we could see him between 9:30 and 10:30. It's 9:15."
"Change of plans. Mr. Sparks was in worse shape than they thought. Execution's at the same time, but it's going to take longer to get things ready. Things are really messed up. Nobody really wants to be here today."
"You know what, Mitchell? Robert doesn't really want to be here either," said Joe.
Mitchell looked up sharply from his desk. "What the hell does that mean?" He pointed a chewed, yellow pencil at Joe. "You reap what you sow in this world, Joe. You could have told Robert that yourself if you had been here on––hey, who's the kid?"
Joe sighed. "This is Robert's son."
"You brought Robert's son here? Are you––?"
Joe held up a hand to silence him and brought Bobby over to a chair in the corner. "Sorry, Bobby. I'll be right back."
Joe returned to Mitchell's desk and leaned in close. But the hard tile floor and bare concrete walls only served to magnify their whispers. Bobby heard every word.
"Are you nuts?" said Mitchell. "I suppose you're gonna let him watch, too?" He shook his head.
"Of course not," said Joe. "But he hasn't seen Robert in four years. Please."
Mitchell threw his pencil down on the desk harder than he needed to, and picked up the receiver of his telephone. Once he was connected, he explained the situation to the person on the other end.
"Uh huh….yes…I know, but…yes…uh huh…that's what I told him…uh huh…yeah." He looked at Joe and shook his head. "Okay, I'll tell him." He put the earpiece back in its holder.
"I'm sorry, Joe," he said. "They've already started getting things ready. It's too late."
"This isn't right," said Joe. "God damn it, this isn't right." But he knew there was nothing he could do. "Afterwards?"
Mitchell stared at them. "Isn't there anyone you can leave the kid with?"
Joe shook his head.
"I dunno, Joe. I would have kept him the hell away. You can't stay here with me."
"I know, I know," said Joe, looking back at Bobby with a frown. "Mitchell. Please. There must be some place we can wait."
Mitchell scratched his ear, and contemplated his desk for a moment.
"Look. We have a room in the back that we play cards in. We rigged up some lighting ourselves, it's not the Grand Hotel, but go ahead and put him in there. He looks beat. There's a couch."
"Thank you," said Joe, relieved. He walked back over to Bobby. "I appreciate it."
"Wait!" said Mitchell, as Joe and Bobby walked over to a door at the back of the room. " I don't want this getting around. Don't tell anybody I let you do this."
"Mitchell," said Joe, going through the door, "nobody talks to me in this town anymore. Who am I going to tell?"
***
The makeshift guardroom was exactly that––unadorned brick walls, a card table, four old wooden chairs from the prison's woodworking shop, and an old couch pushed up against the back wall. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, its wire looping across the room and down the wall, patched into an outlet beside the couch. Joe sat Bobby down the couch, and Bobby took his jacket off. He reached into his bag and took out the picture of his father.
"I'm sorry, Bobby," said Joe. "We can't ––
"I heard."
"Oh. Sorry. Do you need anything?"
Bobby shook his head. Joe went over to the card table and sat down heavily. He picked up a worn deck of cards, laid out a game of solitaire, and then just sat there, staring at the cards. Bobby stayed on the couch, numb.
What was wrong with the people here? Bobby knew that some people were mean––Ralph had taught him that. He also knew that some people were weak, and maybe his mother had taught him that. But these people in Carmine, they seemed to be both. Bobby didn't understand that. His father was still alive, still breathing, in this very building. And he wasn't allowed to see him. Like Joe said, that wasn't right.
He suddenly felt the full weight of his eyelids and curled up into a fetal position on the couch. Joe was still sitting there doing nothing. Bobby felt his breathing grow deeper and deeper, but he fought against closing his eyes, and held the picture of his father up to his face. He was looking into his own eyes.
After a while, the bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered twice and then went out, plunging the small room into darkness. In a second or so, it flickered on again. Joe was still at the card table, but his hands were up at his face, rubbing his eyes. When he took them away, he looked about as sad and tired as Bobby had ever seen anybody look.
Bobby's chest heaved once, but he didn't cry out. A tear rolled down his left cheek, and Bobby wiped it away angrily, pushing the hard feeling in his throat away. I will not cry. And then he was asleep, the picture of Robert Drake falling from his limp hand to the dirty tile floor.
***
When he awoke to the sound of voices outside the door, Bobby thought he was back on the bus. Then he remembered. Carmine.
He sat up groggily, saw the picture on the floor and picked it up, then looked around for Joe. Joe was gone. He walked over to the door and put his hand on the doorknob. Two men were talking outside, and one of the voices was Joe's.
"…shouldn't have brought him here, are you…"
"…know what else to do, you didn't… "
"I thought…a kid yourself…"
Bobby opened the door and the two men in the hallway stopped talking. He looked down at the photograph in his hand, and then back up again. This time, there was no mistaking it. He was looking at Robert Drake.
Bobby's mouth started to work, but no sound came out. His eyes traveled from his father to Joe and then back to his father again, looking for answers, and then the room started wobbling, and it took all the effort he could muster just to keep standing.
"They killed you!" he shouted, stumbling forward. His eyes filled with tears, and his voice was raw and strained, older than it's eleven years. "Joe said they killed you, they all killed you!" The sound of his anguish and relief bounced from wall to wall in the tiny hallway.
Robert Drake strode over to Bobby and swept him up into a great bear hug. Bobby could smell sweat, aftershave, and something else smoky that he couldn't quite place, and then he lost himself in great wracking sobs, burying his face into his father's neck.
"It's okay, Bobby. It's all right," said Robert. He lifted Bobby's tear-lined face, and kissed him hard on the forehead. Then he turned to look at Joe. Joe's eyes were wide with shock and he looked like he was having trouble breathing.
"Bobby…no, no I…" He ran his hand quickly through his hair. "Robert, I didn't...oh Jesus Christ, Bobby, did you think...?"
Robert walked back into the room and sat on the couch with Bobby still clamped to him. And Bobby cried. Bobby cried like he didn't know it was possible to cry, a primal and unstoppable torrent, while Robert Drake rocked and rocked him, tears in his eyes too. When his sobs started to subside, he moved from his father's lap to a sitting position on the couch, but kept his head pressed against his father's chest. Robert looked up at Joe, who was now standing helplessly by the card table.
"Robert, I...I guess I wasn't clear enough. I assumed...oh sheesh, I never thought…Oh, Jesus Robert, the things people were saying to him. If he thought..."
Bobby sobbed again, and gripped his father tighter around the torso. Robert glared at Joe, and then took Bobby by the shoulders, holding him at arm's length and looking into his eyes.
"There has been a misunderstanding."
Bobby shook his head, uncomprehending.
"A man was executed tonight Bobby. The man used to be a policeman here in Carmine. People liked him a lot. But he did a bad thing."
Bobby sniffed, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
"Bobby, he became a very bad man. What he did…well, the law said he had to be put to death. A lot of people don't understand that, and hell, even I'm not sure I agree with it. But this town has twisted wrong into right somehow, and––"
"Ralph always did that," said Bobby softly. "When he was hitting me. He kept saying it wasn't his fault. That I was making him do it."
Robert drew his breath in sharply and pulled Bobby close again.
"Bobby," said Joe. "Ralph was wrong. But the fact of the matter is that this town hates your father for what happened tonight."
"Why?" Bobby asked. It was a simple question, but Robert thought a moment before answering.
"I helped with the execution, Bobby." He let the information sink in. "I used to be a prison guard near Atlantic City. Years ago, before you were born." A shadow passed behind his eyes, and then he continued.
"I didn't like it. So I became a cop. But when things started happening here, some people knew about me, and––"
"He knows what to do," said Joe. "They brought in the state executioner from Sing Sing. But Robert was the only person around here who knew how to help."
"But I'm a cop."
"And a cop should never have to kill another cop," said Joe. "That should never have to happen."
Robert shook his head sadly. "Believe me, Bobby, I almost didn't do it. But it can get really bad for the person if things aren't done right."
"I heard about that at the police station," said Bobby.
Robert shot Joe another glance, but it faded quickly when he saw his pained expression. He turned back to Bobby.
"Bobby, if I hadn't helped, it might have gone wrong." He paused. "Do you understand that?"
Bobby nodded. "I think so."
"Well, the people here in Carmine don't," said Joe. "And Bobby? I'm a real jerk. I am so sorry that you thought your father was…"
Joe didn't have to finish. Bobby got up, walked over, and hugged him. "It's okay, Uncle Joe."
Joe's relief was palpable.
"Although you know I'm going to call you Uncle Jerk from now on, right?"
They smiled. Then things got quiet for a minute, the three of them adjusting to how quickly things had changed. Bobby's eyes were red and swollen, and his nose was running, but he felt better––quieter––than he could ever remember feeling in his short, difficult life.
Robert checked with Mitchell at the front desk, and confirmed that the crowd had gone. Henry Black had tried to smash his way through the viewing glass during the execution and had been removed to a holding cell while he cooled off, and when Bobby heard that he felt sorry. Whatever problems Henry had, and whatever his brother had done, Bobby knew that it must have been so hard for him to come to this town and watch his brother die.
Then it hit him.
"How are we going to live here?" he said. "With these people?"
"Well, we were just talking about that," said Robert. They've taken Joe's badge, and the Chief won't let me keep mine for long."
"So we can't stay here," said Joe.
Bobby took this in. "Do we have anywhere to go?" he said uneasily.
"Well, let's see," said Robert. "Bobby just came from Atlantic City, so what happens if we take route 20 the other way? West."
"Takes us to Buffalo," said Joe.
"Well, now," said Robert. He tousled Bobby's hair. "That is quite the coincidence. I do believe I have an interview lined up in Buffalo with a security company. They're looking to hire two ex-cops for their private division."
"Fay still going to sell you her old tin can, Joe?"
"You bet," said Joe. He winked at Bobby. "It's right out front."
"Son?" said Robert, and Bobby's heart soared at the word. "Does that sound all right to you?"
Bobby smiled, and looked around at the small, ugly room.
"Long as it gets me out of the Big House."
They all laughed at once, filling the bare room with hope and promise.
"Right," said Robert, putting his arms around Joe and Bobby's shoulders. "Does anybody want to stay here one more minute?"
***
Bobby led Joe and Robert Drake out of the Carmine Sate Prison and into the night, where the storm clouds were lifting over Carmine. Stars blanketed the sky overhead, millions of sparks, millions of miles away.
As they walked down the shining street to the car, he pulled Fay's turkey sandwich out of his bag and started to eat. Bobby Drake was hungry.
THE END SF Johnston © 2007/2008 |
SF
Johnston was President of the Short Mystery Fiction Society from July 2006 to
July 2008. He has published works in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine,
Mouth Full Of Bullets, Amsterdam Scriptum, Web Mystery Magazine, and
the short story anthology Doses of Death. His story Jimmy Crick
recently won both the First Place Prize and the Reader's Choice Award in the
Midnight Road Contest. Although originally Canadian, SF lives with his wife
and two children near Amsterdam in the Netherlands. For more information, visit