"Nothing, nothing," Frank said.
He pictured Rudy in his mind, walking along with them, fighting the wind.
Do it, Frank, do it,
Rudy said in a mental voice.
Get off the fuckin' dime
.
Up ahead Frank saw the docks of Sweeper Cove and the Roberts Housing Area.
He was almost back to Downtown.
This tragic death had put an end to the passivity so encouraged by prison.
He was a different man now.
He was Frank Villa.
He was no longer Frank Villa, Inmate #108392.
He remembered Sister Mary Andre in the third grade telling him that when he was baptized and confirmed, the spirit of God filled him.
That's the way he felt now.
The spirit of God - or was it the spirit of Williwaw? - had filled him on Razorback Ridge and changed him into a man who would not allow any more deaths to happen.
Suddenly Marty took his hand and asked in a timid voice, "Where's Jesse now?"
"With God."
"What's he doing?"
Frank thought of all the pious answers he'd heard in church, but decided to just tell the boy what came into his mind.
"I think he's probably stealing beer and climbing a mountain."
Marty let go of his hand and walked on.
The boy was silent.
Had it been the right thing to say?
He didn't know.
Frank found Jack Heinz's house first.
Jack's mother, tears streaming down her face, clutched her son.
Next Frank knocked on the Robinson's door.
Mrs. Robinson answered the door almost immediately. She saw Marty. "Where's mah Jesse?" she cried as she hugged Marty.
"Where's mah Jesse?"
Frank put his arms around the woman.
"I'm sorry. The boys were on top of Razorback Ridge and the wind took your son. They were just being boys up there, exploring things.
Your Jesse died doing what all boys do.
I'm very sorry."
He held her for several moments.
He couldn't imagine anything worse than a mother facing the death of her child.
"As soon as the weather clears, I'm going to send someone to get his body," he said.
She thanked him and took Marty inside.
Frank stood out in the street, the wind whistling around him.
Where could he go?
His heart was full, he had to talk.
Jesse, flying, actually flying, past him, sailing over the cliff; Williwaw, killing the boy and at the same time blowing spirit power into his own soul.
Was it evil that he felt this new strength, occasioned by the death of Jesse Robinson?
He had to talk to someone.
Rudy, Rudy, you there?
Go get some sleep, Frank.
You've been up for a day and a half.
Doc?
He would make jokes.
Judy?
She would lecture on why boys should not climb mountains. Latisha, that's who he wanted to talk to.
Where would she be?
First of all he had to
remember what day of the week it was. He tried to click the date up on his watch, but couldn't.
Rudy's advice was right.
He needed sleep.
He was acting like a drunk.
Yesterday
- a lifetime ago - yesterday was primary election day, a Saturday.
Today is Sunday.
Latisha will be in her apartment on Bering Hill.
Frank walked up the hill.
Rain started and whipped across his face as he went on. He knocked on her door, a small apartment across the hall from Joe and Maggie's and in the next building from his own apartment.
She came to the door, wearing the sweater with the swirling colors. "The boys?" she asked immediately.
"One of the Robinson boys - the williwaw got him."
"Oh, Frank.
Come in." She pointed down to his pant leg.
"Your leg is all bloody.
Let me look at it."
She sat him down at her kitchen table and pulled the shreds of his pant leg away from the gash.
"This is deep, Frank.
I'm going to clean it up, but you better have Doc look at it."
He watched her as she washed his leg. She looked tired, too.
"Did you get any sleep?"
"No.
I went with Mrs. Robinson.
We searched a lot of abandoned houses. I just got home a half hour ago."
She wrapped gauze around his leg.
He had a sudden urge to reach down and pull her up and hug her and then, after they had hugged for a long, long time, he would tell her what was in his heart.
But such urges were to be repressed.
"For sure you have Doc look at this."
He stood up.
"Yes, I will.
Thank you for looking after me."
He moved toward the door and put his hand on the knob.
He turned back to her.
She stood by her stove, the overhead kitchen light shining on her swirling color sweater.
He wanted to stay with her and talk and talk.
She looked tired, but something in her eyes invited him to stay.
He opened the door, hesitated, then shut it.
"I learned something up there."
"What?"
He stood for a second, his hand still on the door.
Then, without saying anything, he walked over to her by the stove and put his arms tight around her. A minute passed, then another.
He pressed her close to himself.
"So what did you learn?" she asked.
He relaxed his hold.
"The wind is powerful."
"Yes," she replied.
"I don't want you to leave this island."
She looked at him sadly.
"I have to."
He gently stroked her hair with his right hand.
Then he touched her face.
"I'm not sure I ever told you.
You're a very beautiful woman."
She smiled.
Her eyes shone with the pleasure of his compliment.
Suddenly he pulled her tight again and kissed her.
The kiss was deep, it was intense. But he did not press his lips hard on hers.
Somehow he felt he had communicated his whole experience on Razorback, everything he wanted to tell her, his feelings, his admiration for Williwaw, his pain at watching the boy sail over the cliff, everything.
Or had she somehow reached inside him and pulled this information from him?
He wasn't sure.
Minutes passed.
His lips lingered on hers.
"You're different," she said finally.
"You helped me.
It's that business of
taking charge
.
In prison they want you to do what they tell you, to go along with their programs.
They kept us as children.
I'm glad you pointed that out to me."
"You're welcome." She smiled at him and touched her lips to his.
"I'm going to make us a cup of tea.
Sit down."
He watched her as she filled the kettle, turned on the stove, took cheese from the refrigerator and cut it up in little slices.
Nothing would be so wonderful as to spend the rest of his life watching her motions.
"This taking charge
-
I can remember one time in prison a Presbyterian group put on a program, I think it was called 'Overcoming Violence' or something.
Even though it was a required course, the guys really liked it.
It taught you how to deal with all kinds of negative emotions, not just anger.
Anyway, I was telling a guard about the program and he said he'd like to take a program like that.
I asked to see the warden to persuade him to let guards attend.
The warden couldn't get over the fact that I was not there to bitch about something.
He said he'd check around and eventually the Presbyterians put on a special program for the guards."
"Yes," she said gently.
"You were not acting like an inmate there."
"Right.
No
us
against them."
She took some crackers from a box and spread them on a dish with the cheese. The kettle whistled and she poured the hot water into a little teapot.
She sat across from him.
The tea steeped.
They looked at each other in silence.
He took a sip of tea and said,
"When I was in grade school, I think it was the third grade, I was not one of the
tough
guys.
I wore glasses and kids made fun of me.
One day the kids spread the rumor that I said I could beat Tommy Corcoran in a fight.
Corcoran was the weakest member of the tough guys' gang.
I never said I could beat him, but the word was all over the third grade.
Corcoran came up to me at lunch and pushed his finger into my chest.
"I'll see you after school, Villa," he said, some of his buddies looking on.
In fact I think it was the buddies who promoted the fight.
Tommy probably needed a victory.
Anyway I thought about leaving school early, but I didn't.
I showed up at the corner after school.
All the kids gathered around and urged the two of us to fight.
I took my glasses off and started to trade punches with Corcoran.
I'm not sure I could even see him.
Neither of us got so much as a bloody nose and a teacher came along and broke up the fight.
But the amazing thing - from that day on, I was no longer "Four Eyes," or "Pancho Villa."
I was
"Villa."
The tough guys never asked me to join their group, but they tolerated me from then on."
"I like how you look with glasses on."
She reached across the table and touched his hands.
For a minute he lost himself in her shining eyes, then he stood up and raised her up with himself.
He moved around the table and took her in his arms. Their lips touched, separated, touched again and stayed together. They kissed gently, lovingly. He searched for her.
He felt Adak in her, green tundra, beautiful lakes and the wild wind.
"Latisha," he said.
"Oh, Frank," she said and then she smiled. "Listen to the two of us.
We sound like a soap opera."
He put his finger over her mouth.
"Shh."
He kissed her again.
His wounded leg hurt him and he shifted his weight to his other foot.
She noticed and said,
"Frank, sit down.
No, lie down on the bed."
He stretched out and she lay down next to him.
They turned toward each other and gazed deeply into each other's eyes.
The wind howled, the rain pelted the windows. They made love and then fell asleep in each other's arms.
Gilmore checked his appearance in his office mirror.
Should he wear a tie for his interview with John Graham, the assistant director of the Bureau of Prisons?
No, the man had been on Adak for two days and had surely seen that no one dressed formally.
On the other hand, a tie would mark him as someone special.
Graham would subconsciously place him in a higher category than ordinary criminal, indeed in a higher category than prison boss.
Yes, a tie was the way to go, especially since Big Jim reported to him that Graham always wore a tie.
As long as he didn't pick a tie or blazer that was better than Graham's.
Gilmore chose a polyester tie and a blue blazer from his gear.
It was vital to create a strong impression on Graham and make sure that the reduced sentence Congressman Murphy had promised him came through.
If he couldn't get off Adak one way, he'd get off another.
He got in his car and drove up to the Bering Building where Graham was conducting interviews.
Alexander Duban, the owner of the factory, and Graham had helicoptered in from a Coast Guard ship at the end of October as promised and had been inspecting the factory and the various facilities of Downtown.
Gilmore had met with Duban the first day and learned of his big plans for Adak - another factory and a mini-mall.
Gilmore parked in front of the building.
Big Jim stood out front, smoking, waiting for Graham to finish here and go elsewhere.
Gilmore smiled.
Graham had hired
Big Jim as his spy, but Gilmore had made a further deal with Big Jim to report everything Graham did.
At precisely one minute to 3 PM, Gilmore knocked on the office Graham was using, Villa's office.
"Come in," Graham called out.
Gilmore entered and looked around.
This was the office of
the president of Adak?
Dirt streaked the only window, looking out, not to the majesty of Mount Moffett as his window did, but to the Marine Barracks across the street.
Stacks of papers and government forms littered the floor.
The press-board desk looked as if it had been on Adak since the war with the Japanese.
While Graham sat in an old captain's chair, the chair for the interviewee was a battered auditorium chair.
If he won the general election, things would be different.
"Sit down, Gilmore."
Graham took a pencil from Villa's pencil cup and began to tap on the edge of the desk.
He was a small man with a rat-like face.
He wore an expensive patterned tie and Gilmore knew he had made the right decision about his own tie.
"Alexander Duban's pretty happy with the output of his factory," Graham said.
"He thinks you're responsible for that."
Gilmore smiled easily.
"Thanks."
Graham swiveled his chair and faced sideways to his desk.
He continued to tap the pencil on the edge.
"Congressman Murphy called me about you."
Gilmore tried for the proper expectant, but subservient look.
He felt it best to say nothing and let Graham take the lead.
"He was pleased with the resolution you got passed, calling for more inmates.
Your request for more inmates caused a dust-up in the Bureau, but we worked it out.
The director was afraid of closing prisons,
losing jobs, but we've subcontracted some prison guards to the Coast Guard and we've set up a new Adak Administrative division in our office to deal with this place."
Gilmore glanced around at the stacks of government forms and imagined what the office would look like in a few years.
If he won the election, he would hire an office staff.
There was a lot to learn from Graham.
More employees meant more power.
Gilmore didn't want the discussion to wander from sentence reduction.
"I'm trying to live up to the promises I made."
Graham eyed him.
"And so are we, Gilmore.
I know what you're talking about.
We're considering it."
Considering it.
That wasn't very much.
But he might as well play this line out. Reduction of sentence looked like a better option than escape.
Certainly safer.
"I see you're running for president," Graham said, tapping his pencil and eyeing him sideways.
Big Jim had told him that Graham was very interested in the campaign. Here Gilmore was on familiar ground - leadership.
He'd had this kind of discussion before with 'the Man' in prison.
The text of the discussion would be about democracy and working together, but the sub-text would be, "Gilmore if you keep things quiet, we don't give a damn what you do.
You leave us alone, we'll leave you alone."
He guessed that the Bureau of Prisons would find Villa a pain in the ass.
Not going along with Duban's need for more workers.
Demanding things.
Arguing.
If he, Gilmore, could portray that smooth prison relationship, maybe the Bureau could help him get elected.
Maybe they would include some steaks in the next food shipment, marked Attention James Gilmore.
Maybe some Thanksgiving care packages for him to pass out.
Gilmore shifted in the folding chair, trying to find a position that said 'equality.'
He tried sideways, he tried crossing his legs.
Nothing worked. What could a man do with an auditorium chair?
He'd have to depend on his words and his presence.
"Yes, I have a good chance of winning this election," he said.
"Add up the opposition votes in the primary and it comes within a few votes of beating Villa."
"What are the issues?"
"Basically a dispute about how this place should be run. My idea is that we're dealing with a wild bunch of - well, animals."
He glanced quickly at Graham, who was nodding in agreement.
Parrot The Man's thoughts back to him to get what you want. "I think we have to be brutally tough.
It's the way I've made the factory work.
If a guy don't show up for work, well, he's liable to find himself clocked, if you know what I mean."
"And Villa thinks?"
For a disturbing moment, Gilmore realized that his ideas of running Adak were exactly like those of the prison authorities.
How many guards had he heard say exactly what he had said, "They're animals and should be treated like that."?
But back to the issue at hand.
How to portray Villa in a bad light, without overstating the case?
"Villa thinks he's dealing with educated, middle class people.
That's why we've had trouble with law and order here."
"What would you do?"
"Hire not one cop, but a police force.
Ask the Bureau for training."
"Hire somebody like Larson?"
Someone had told him about Larson.
Best to cut his losses.
"I made a mistake there.
Britt makes a good cop.
A few lights burned out up top, but a good man."
"Three guys tried to escape - did you organize that?"
An aggressive reply needed.
"Mr. Graham, would I walk up to the prison gate and say, 'Open up, I'm coming through.'
And then open fire. Would I?"
Graham tapped his pencil and said nothing for a minute.
Finally he turned directly to Gilmore.
"Good luck in your campaign."
"I could use some help."
"Couldn't we all?"
Graham looked at his watch.
"I've got another appointment, Gilmore.
Good luck."
As Gilmore left, he held the door for Judy Villa.
She always looked like a straight mama and not much fun, but he felt a momentary sadness for Villa losing his woman.
There was another woman waiting in the hall.
It was Big Jim's wife.
She must have had enough of his 'fuckin' and fuckin.'
He walked down the hall toward the door, his shoulders slouched.
He had failed to get his sentence reduced or to get some help in his campaign.
As he walked down the stairs toward the entrance, the door opened and Latisha walked in.
She pulled off her parka hood and shook the rain off herself.
He looked at her in admiration.
God, what a woman she was, thin, exciting, alive and very black.
The brothers would whistle and say she was a 'slimmy.'
"Latisha, what's you be doin' here?"
He had to get black dialect out of his head.
He didn't talk that way and neither did she.
But what did it hurt to remind her who she was?
"Gil,
I'm… I'm going to see Graham.
I'm leaving when the new cons come."
She walked up the stairs past him.
*
*
*
Latisha walked down the narrow hallway to wait for Graham. Big Jim's wife, Monica, waited there as well. She had seen Monica at Gilmore's party and at the factory, but she had only spoken to her briefly.
She was a big-boned woman, late thirties, tall, brown hair, a smooth, attractive face and a shy manner.
"Hi," Latisha said.
"Hi." She gave a little nervous laugh.
"I guess we're here for the same reason." "Going back?"
"Yes.
It just hasn't worked out with me and Big Jim. I thought we could be, you know,
a couple again.
You, too?"
"Yes.
Gilmore's in another world."
Monica pointed to Frank's office, where Graham was.
"Judy Villa's in there now."
Latisha shook her head.
How sad it was that all these families were breaking up.
She remembered Frank talking about visiting day in the prison.
"It's the saddest day in prison.
You see a man with his family.
The kids sit on his knee, they show him their drawings, his wife hugs him and then the guards come along and snatch the man away from the very people that could help him - his family.
"I'm sorry you're leaving,"
Latisha said.
"It wasn't the whoring around.
Jim's always done that.
It's about welding."
"Welding?"
"Yeah, see my father was a welder and he taught me how.
I guess he wanted a son, but all he had was me.
Anyway I got into welding and a lot of nights when Big Jim
was playing football and he didn't come home, I'd go to our big garage and weld.
Mostly art pieces.
Look at my hands."
Latisha took the woman's hands.
They were rough and cracked and a scar sliced across her left hand.
"What's the problem with welding?"
"I wanted to start welding here, on Adak, after my shift in the factory.
Art pieces again, but also some work for Frank's mechanics.
Big Jim said no.
He said a football star's wife is supposed to be feminine and it ain't feminine to weld."
Latisha let out an exasperated breath of air.
"Hell with him," Monica said with tears in her eyes.
"I'm going home."
Graham's door opened and Judy Villa walked out.
She didn't say anything as she passed. Monica went in and Latisha stared quietly out the window at the buildings of Downtown.
What a lot of work there was to do here.
Monica needed consciousness raising, Big Jim needed sensitivity training, Joe needed to curb his anger, Skeeter O'Donnell needed AA, dozens of
men and women needed skill training, families needed day care.
Education, health care, housing, government - every system needed help.
A sudden squall smashed rain into the window opposite her and then the rain stopped, just as suddenly.
She put her hands behind her and leaned against the wall.
All her life she'd been a passenger, going to the schools her parents suggested, following Gilmore wherever he went, eventually finding a nice safe job with Sears.
She'd never done what she told Frank to do - take charge.
Adak presented a chance to create something new, a chance to get in the driver's seat.
She could make a difference in the lives of these inmates and their spouses, people society had neglected.