By Hunter Perez

Merrifield finally woke up and released me from his grip. He rolled on his back, raised his arms into the air and yawned, then looked over at me with his newfound smile. I was moved by the serenity he displayed – he seemed to be completely at peace and joy with the world, so very different from the tortured man I encountered the previous evening.

“Do you…do you…have dreams?” he asked. His voice had settled into a deeply pleasant and masculine tone, although he still paused with slight uncertainty between words.

I sat up in the bed and tousled his long blonde hair. “Sometimes,” I answered. “Sometimes they’re good dreams, sometimes they’re not. Why are you asking?”

“I dreamed last…night,” he said. “For…the first time in a long time…I remembered my dream.”

“What was your dream?” I said, genuinely intrigued at what he could offer.

He stretched his big body with a yawn and sat up next to me. “I dreamed of the farm. The farm…where I grew up. I remembered the dogs and…remembered the horses. My brothers. I remembered when…we harvested…the corn. I saw it…saw it again in my dream.”

“That sounds beautiful,” I said, resting my head on the edge of his massive shoulder. I couldn’t think of what to say next, as my knowledge of Merrifield’s past was sketchy and I was afraid to raise a topic that could create stress.

“And you lived on an island,” he said.

I smiled with surprise. “Oh, that’s right, I said that yesterday. You remembered that. The island was Martinique. A beautiful island in the middle of the sea. I worked there for three years. For me, it was a paradise.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes, each in our respective memories. But then I worried that nostalgia could create a new prison for us. I got out of bed and looked through the cell bars down the corridor, listening for the tinkling of Holmgren’s spurs and hoping to detect the aroma of the breakfast he was supposed to bring.

“You know, Merrifield,” I announced. “Before I have breakfast, I like to do some exercise. Let me show you what I usually do.”

I dropped to the stone floor and started to do push-ups, counting aloud with each ascent. Merrifield looked across the bed and down to where I was exercising.

“What…what are you doing?” he said, his smile still in place.

“These are push-ups,” I said. “Have you ever done them?”

He shook his head no and I directed him to get on the floor opposite me. He got out of the bed, climbed over me and laid on his stomach across the floor about a foot in front of my face. I explained the process of the push-up and the results it would bring. I showed him how do to movement, cautioning him not to bend his knees. Then I recommended we do it together. He was a little unsteady at first, but after a half-dozen attempts he found his rhythm and could raise and lower himself without difficulty. I stopped at 10 and counted as he carried through a set of 20 without breaking a sweat.

I then bounced up and he followed, and I suggested that we try some bending and stretching exercises. I gave him a brief demonstration of my routine and he picked it up very quickly. I glanced out of the cell again in search of Holmgren and my breakfast, and realized I would have to keep exercising longer than I hoped.

“Now, I want to show you an exercise they do in China – it’s called tai chi,” I said. Again, I gave a brief demonstration of basic tai chi movements and instructed him to follow. He didn’t disappoint, as he moved his big body in graceful and fluid motions.

I became so caught up in doing tai chi with Merrifield that I didn’t hear Holmgren and Patterson’s walk down the hall to the cell. It wasn’t until Holmgren coughed to make his presence known that I realized he arrived.

“Am I interrupting something?” Holmgren said, looking a bit irritated.

“Just a little tai chi before breakfast,” I responded.

Patterson, who was holding our meals on a tray, shook his head slightly and frowned. “You’re supposed to address the sergeant properly,” he grunted.

“Sorry about that – just a little tai chi before breakfast, Sir,” I said.

Patterson leaned over to Holmgren and I could hear him whisper, “Sergeant Holmgren, what are they doing?”

I couldn’t hear Holmgren’s response, but the confused expression on Patterson’s face confirmed that his answer was not satisfactory. Holmgren opened the cell and the two men entered, with Patterson placing the tray on the bed while Holmgren picked up our waste bucket and replaced it with another.

“How are you this morning, Merrifield?” Patterson asked my cellmate.

Merrifield smiled again at the question. “I slept…well. I dream about…about my farm back home.”

Patterson turned around the look at Holmgren and flashed his own wide smile. “Do you hear that, Sergeant?”

Holmgren nodded without betraying an expression and took out his pocket watch to check the time. His indifference was ignored by Patterson; I was uncomfortable over this display of moodiness. Holmgren announced to Patterson they were running late and they quickly exited the cell, leaving us to a meal of scrambled eggs and thick slices of bacon, with a still-hot pot of coffee; a new water pitcher was also delivered. As with the previous night’s dinner, it would be easy to find fault with its preparation and presentation – but I was too hungry to play food critic.

After our breakfast, I reminded Merrifield that I promised to teach him French. He sat too close to me – as if a tight proximity would help in the absorption of his lessons – and I began with the usual slate of basic words and phrases that any newcomer to a language would need to know. As he began to navigate his way through these introductory lessons, I noticed his speech pattern became more solid and confident as he started to acquaint himself with the French words. There was no pausing or trepidation as he repeated what I was teaching him.

“It would really help if I could write things down for you to read,” I stated. But then, I regretted saying that because I knew nothing of his education – did his farmer family in pre-Civil War Indiana send him to school? Still, I needed to know how literate he was. “Merrifield, I have to ask – did you attend school?”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “I went to school until…I was about twelve.”

“Are you comfortable with reading and writing?” I inquired. “Please don’t think I am being rude in asking.”

“No, you’re not rude,” he said, looking concerned. “It’s been…a long time since I had something…something to read. And I used…to like writing letters. And getting letters. And reading letters.”

“Well, when the sergeant comes back, we’re going to see about getting you back into reading and writing,” I declared before launching back into our French lesson.

The morning went very fast as I further introduced Merrifield to the French language. I was impressed by his sense of recall and his pronunciation skills. I introduced him to the song “Alouette, Gentille Alouette” and he quickly became giddy by the jaunty vibe of song and the playful repetition of its lyrics. As he grasped the song, we fell into a call-and-respond routine in describing the different body parts of the song’s eponymous lark.

“Je te plumerai la tête,” I sang out, a bit too loud.

“Je te plumerai la tête,” he answered, even louder – if not exactly with perfect pitch.

With each sing-along of the tune, we went faster and faster, to the point that it became manic. His enthusiasm for this song bubbled to the boiling point, and by the eighth go-round he held his stomach and rolled over on the bed laughing, as if some invisible force was tickling him. His laughing sparked my merriment and I couldn’t contain my jollity. That was how Holmgren and Patterson found us when they came to deliver our lunch.

“What the hell is going on in there?” Holmgren demanded as he opened our cell door.

“Alouette!” Merrifield exclaimed before launching into his own rendition of the tune. “Ooooooooh, alouette, gentille alouette! Alouette, je te plumeria!” And then he kept laughing, seemingly unable to stop.

Holmgren paced over to me, bent down and whispered into my ear, “Of all things possible, why are you teaching him French?”

“Because I can…Sir,” I said, unamused by his inquiry. “It is one of the few things that I can teach without having the equipment to write something down. And I am glad you brought this up because I need materials to help in my work.”

I jumped off the bed and stretched, watching as Patterson placed a food tray on the bed.

“If possible, Sirs, I’d like you to bring us something to read,” I said to both Holmgren and Patterson. “If you have any books, newspapers, magazines, please share them with us. Merrifield can read, but it’s been a while since he’s done any reading and I want to get him back up to speed. I would also like a notebook and pencils so we can write things.”

The pair looked at each other. Patterson volunteered that he had a Bible and Holmgren recalled having a few Dickens novels in his quarters. I asked if they could share them – Holmgren was agreeable, but Patterson offered to secure a new Bible for us during the supply run he was planning in Monroeville for the next day.

“I can see about picking up other books and magazines and newspapers in the town,” Patterson added.

“If there is a chess set or a checkers set lying around, can we also get that?” I asked. “This will help immensely. Playing cards help, too – these are great memory tools.”

“I may have to get that in town, too,” Patterson told me. He looked at Holmgren and asked, “Sergeant, there is money for this?”

“It will be covered,” Holmgren answered, still in a vaguely irritated state.

“Would it be asking too much if we can get a couple of harmonicas?” I wondered aloud. “I had a musician friend who taught me how to play – it’s been a while, but if I practice I can share my knowledge with Merrifield. I was able to play ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ on the harmonica – is that song still popular?”

Patterson looked to Holmgren with worry, but Holmgren was looking around as if wondering when the Cavalry would rescue him. “Yes, that is asking too much. It’s bad enough that every cough, creak and cry in this place echoes through the halls, but I can’t imagine having to put up with days of harmonica versions of ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”

“That is my favorite song,” volunteered Patterson in a sheepish acknowledgement.

“Well, glory, glory, hallelujah – then you take these two characters home and let them serenade you on their harmonicas,” Holmgren yelled at him. “Reading materials, writing materials, playing cards, checkers and chess – yes, pick them up tomorrow in town and charge them to our account. But no harmonicas.”

Holmgren stalked out the cell, mumbling angrily to himself. Merrifield paid no attention to his outburst and began placing the lunch meal across the bed. Patterson and I looked at each other strangely, and then I broke the silence by saying, “Corporal Patterson, can I ask you a question?”

“My God, you never stop talking,” Patterson said with amazement. “I’ve never seen one man talk as much as you do. What is it now?”

“It’s hygiene, Sir,” I continued. “When are we able to bathe and brush our teeth?”

Patterson shook his head. “Oh, you have a right to ask that. Prisoners bathe and brush their teeth once a week. Merrifield is scheduled on Fridays, so the two of you will be cleaned up together. That’s two days from now.”

“One other thing, Sir,” I added. “I have not looked in Merrifield’s mouth – I hope that only brushing his teeth once a week will not create problems with his teeth.”

Patterson was surprised and his stern tone softened. “We had a dentist here a few months ago and he examined him. There were no problems. But thank you for showing concern over something like that – I don’t know anyone who ask about that. You really are concerned about him, aren’t you?”

Patterson took his lunch tray and slowly walked out of the cell, locking it behind him. I joined Merrifield at the bed for lunch and recognized our meal as the same offering we had for breakfast. I wolfed down the scrambled eggs and bacon while Merrifield ate with less impatience, humming the “Alouette” between his bites of lunch.

After lunch, Merrifield fell into a deep nap while I tried to meditate. I couldn’t make sense of where things were going – Merrifield was progressing much faster than I expected while Holmgren seemed to detour into a sour trajectory that was very different from the wacky screwball who gleefully tormented me in the pillory. To my surprise, Patterson showed up with a handful of books – the Dickens novels “A Tale of Two Cities,” “Great Expectations” and “David Copperfield.” He informed me that they were from Holmgren, although he didn’t explain why Holmgren didn’t bother to deliver them himself.

When Merrifield awoke, I showed him the books. He began to thumb through them, but he seemed concerned when deep diving into the pages. I told him we would read the books together and that mollified him. We spent the rest of the afternoon exercising, with Merrifield being introduced to the concepts of sit-ups, jumping jacks, and jogging in place. Only Patterson showed up at dinnertime and his tray contained the same scrambled eggs and bacon with coffee meal we had for breakfast and lunch.

“Your cook is consistent, Sir,” I said to Patterson as he laid out the meals on the bed.

“Don’t think the guards have it better, son,” he confided in me. “I always volunteer for the supply run into town because I can get something to eat at the cantina.”

After dinner, I did a casual retest of Merrifield’s absorption of the French lessons. He was able to recite every phrase exactly as I taught him. He started asking me about Martinique and I tried to keep my recollections as time-generic as possible – talking about the shorelines and the ecosystem and the local food while keeping my 21st century experience out of my anecdotes. He got confused about “Lady Marmalade” being about Martinique and I had to correct him that it was about New Orleans, which allowed me to describe that locale – also in time-generic terms.

“What was the French part of…of that song?” he asked. “What does it mean?

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” I said. “Oh, that? Well, the rough translation is ‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’” Merrifield nodded, unaware that I scrubbed up the sentence’s migration into English.

We were starting to prepare to go to sleep when I heard footsteps coming down the corridor. It was Patterson, walking somewhat faster than he usually moved. He came to the cell, quickly unlocked the door and pointed at me.

“Come with me, now,” he said, looking unwell.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I said to Merrifield. “Go to sleep, don’t wait up for me.”

I stepped outside the cell and he locked it quickly, then motioned with his head for me to move a few steps down the corridor and out of sight of the cell’s opening.

“Put your hands behind your back, son,” he said unhappily.

“Is something wrong, Sir?” I asked.

“Just do as I say and don’t talk,” he breathed. I obeyed him and he stepped behind me, locking my wrists in handcuffs. “The sergeant wants to see you.”

“What about…” I began to say.

“I said not to talk,” he blurted.

We walked down corridor after corridor. I had no clue where I was going until we came to a hallway that looked familiar – this was the place I was brought when I first arrived at the prison. Patterson pulled me to the wall and held his face close to mine.

“If anything happens to you, just yell out for me,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I am going to be a few doors down from you, but the door will be open and I can hear you.”

“You’re confusing me, Sir,” I said. “If I am with the sergeant, why do I need to yell for you?”

“Would you be offended if I prayed over you?” he asked. Before I could answer, he bowed his head, put his hands on my shoulders and muttered, “Dear God, look after this good man and protect him from any evil that may encircle him. Amen.”

I started to have chills and nausea. “What’s going on here, Corporal Patterson?” I said. “If I have to see the sergeant, why are you praying to God to protect me? What is he going to do to me?”

Patterson chewed his lower lip and hurried me down the hall. He knocked at a door and I heard Holmgren beckon Patterson to enter. Patterson opened the door and walked me inside.

“The prisoner is here, Sir,” Patterson said. “Should I remove the restraints?”

The room was the same place where I first awoke after being brought from the town. Holmgren sat behind a desk, a half-full whiskey bottle and a water glass filled with the bottle’s contents before him. His elbows were on the desk and his head was cupped in his hands.

“No, corporal, leave them on – I can’t trust him,” Holmgren said. “Please wait at your station down the hall. I will call you when I’m done here.”

Patterson walked backwards out of the room, closing the door behind him. Holmgren lifted his head from his hands and stared at me with contempt.

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