A Sharp Intake of Breath. Джон Миллер

them “sir.”

      Each person had a different way of interrogating me. The doctor, for instance, had a habit, whenever he spoke, of taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes with the thumb or forefinger, nearly scooping out his eyeballs each time. He would heave a sigh as he did it, just before he posed a question, and it gave the impression that he was weary of having to ask it at all, that you were the umpteenth person he’d examined that morning, and that you might help him by answering quickly and by not going on and on.

      Sigh. “Any history of lung disease-polio-influenza-measles-scarlet fever?” he asked, jabbing his thumb into his eye socket.

      “No, sir. I had a baby sister who died of the influenza.”

      He then turned to the warden and said, as though I weren’t there, “I see the judge indicated there is likely mental retardation. If you’d like me to do an assessment, I’ll need to see him separately, and we may need to call in Dr. Sherman.”

      “No, that’s fine,” said Warden Craig. “He understands our questions and can answer them readily enough. Can’t you, son?” He peered at me through his monocle.

      “Yes, sir. If I may, sir, I just have trouble speaking. I was born with a split palate.”

      Sigh. “Mental retardation often goes hand in hand with that,” said Dr. Platt. Then he wrote a whole paragraph down in his notebook. I was going to mention my lip but stopped myself for fear he would write several pages. I’m sure he noticed the deformity anyway. The notch was only slightly covered by my wispy attempt at a moustache.

      Dr. Platt finally stopped scribbling and asked me to stand with my hands clasped on the top of my head and my chest puffed out, chin up, legs apart. He examined my physique. It’d been a long day; I hadn’t been allowed to shower yet and I was embarrassed by my body odour. He circled, inspected me up and down, then took my pulse and listened to my heartbeat. I was grateful for his strong cologne. A scratchy tongue depressor was shoved in my mouth, and when I said “Ahhh,” he murmured, “Yes, I see. I see.” After the examination, he declared to the others that I was healthy enough to participate in the construction project (meaning Collins Bay Penitentiary) or in any other activity Overseer Jagninski saw fit.

      Jagninski asked me questions leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen with his fingers and tapping his foot against the table leg.

      “Ever done any carpentry, son?”

      “No, sir, but I could learn.”

      “Any farming?”

      “No, sir. I’m from Toronto.”

      He checked his notes to confirm that I wasn’t lying. “Oh yes, I see that now. Well, we also have a smithy, we do masonry and stone-cutting, repair engines, then there’s the laundry, the leather goods workshop, the mail room, and the shoe and clothing shop.”

      “I don’t have any experience with any of those.” It wasn’t a complete lie—my parents’ store sold bulk fabric, but it was retail nonetheless and I didn’t want to end up handing out clothes. “But I’d like to try carpentry if that’s possible.”

      “This isn’t a summer camp, kid,” said Chief Keeper Flaherty.

      “We may need him for the construction, Mr. Jagninski,” said Deputy Warden Fowler, perusing his notebook the whole time. “I’ll check over the work schedule and let you know.”

      Warden Craig then went into a long speech about reforming the convict and asked, did I want to be reformed, or did I want to end up a lifelong criminal?

      “No, sir,” I said, “I mean, yes, I want to be reformed.” Was this the time they expected the defiant outburst? His question was hardly enough to make someone crack.

      Warden Craig considered me then, squinted a little more through his monocle, and paused a few seconds as though to assess my sincerity. “Well, you have eleven years in here to work on that then,” he said, cheerily, as though this might be something to which I would look forward.

      Very slowly, Deputy Warden Fowler wrote one word in his notebook, paused to lift up his pen and cock his head, then wrote a second.

      What did he write? I considered the possibilities:

      Eleven years.

      Stupid retard.

      Dirty liar.

      Watch him.

      There were several more questions, including one about my faith. Father MacDonald asked if it were true that I was “of the Hebrew persuasion,” and I confirmed that I was.

      “You’ll no doubt want to be observing the Sabbath with the other Hebrew inmates, then. I’ll make sure you find out about that.”

      Warden Craig asked if I could read, and when I said I could, he handed me a mimeographed list of the prison rules and a separate list of punishments, said a few more words about discipline in these four walls, etcetera, etcetera, and the guard came back to escort me to my cell.

      That evening, as we were lined up, waiting for the inspection before lockdown, I hummed a tune very quietly to calm a nervous stomach. I assumed I could barely be heard by the guy next to me, and besides, the guard, who had the droopy eyes of a basset hound, was standing twenty men down the line. He must’ve had a hound’s hearing to match the droopy eyes because he jerked his head in my direction. He walked slowly, ominously towards me, stopping inches from my face and staring, close enough to smell his sour breath. Instinctively, I let my vision go out of focus.

      “I’m assuming they gave you a list of the prison offences, new boy?” I felt his spittle.

      I’ve never concentrated that hard, before or after, on calming myself in order to make my words come out clearly. Every inmate was waiting to hear what I was going to say and I’d found that if my speech impediment was too strong the first time people heard me, they didn’t usually give a second chance.

      “Yes, sir.” It sounded clear, almost.

      The guard smirked. Maybe he hadn’t put his finger on what was different. Maybe he’d assume I was French-Canadian, which probably wouldn’t help much, but at least it wouldn’t be as bad as if people thought I was stupid.

      “And what do they say about singing?”

      I closed my eyes and retrieved the image. “They say, ‘A convict shall be guilty of an offence against Penitentiary Regulations if he sings, whistles or makes any unnecessary noise, or gives any unnecessary trouble,’ sir.”

      “Yes, Offence Number Ten. No singing. And what did I just hear you doing?”

      “I was humming, sir, not singing. And it’s Offence Number Eleven, sir.”

      He cracked my left shin with his truncheon and I heard chuckles. I knew it wasn’t wise to contradict him, but I couldn’t help myself. It was worth it to be cheeky, to risk it just to show people I could be clever. I closed my eyes and waited for the pain to pass.

      “Are you trying to be smart with me?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Well then, why don’t you tell me what Offence Number Four says about being smart with an officer?”

      I knew it was Offence Number Three, but I didn’t say so this time. “Treats with disrespect any officer of the penitentiary, or any visitor, or any person employed in connection with the penitentiary, sir.”

      He cracked my other shin. “Then don’t contradict me, new boy.”

      “I’m sorry, sir.” My legs felt wobbly.

      He considered my apology, then said, “You think reciting the rules verbatim is gonna impress me?”

      “No, sir.”

      He smiled, stepped back, and stood there, arms akimbo. His truncheon jutted out like a sword in a scabbard. “Okay,