By Hunter Perez
The next three weeks swirled into a prolonged magic show, with yours truly as the unlikely Pygmalion and Merrifield as an even more unlikely Galatea. Patterson brought us a huge box full of goodies that he purchased in Monroeville: books, newspapers, magazines, a black-and-white board for chess and checkers, a pack of playing cards, and several notebooks and pencils. Everything I requested was included except for the requested harmonicas, which Holmgren nixed. But even without the opportunity for harmonica interludes, each day was filled with so much activity that there rarely a wasted minute.
We started the morning with exercising. I tried to vary the exercises to prevent the boredom and a repetition of routines. Merrifield took it upon himself to invent a new exercise by lifting and lowering the bed. Unfortunately, he was caught doing that when Patterson arrived one morning with our breakfast – the guard scolded him gently for mishandling prison property and scolded me more harshly for encouraging such shenanigans.
After breakfast, I continued to guide Merrifield through the French language. Sometimes he would read paragraphs from one of the newspapers and I would offer the French translation, which he would then absorb and repeat aloud. I also taught him French-language songs, translating the lyrics so he would understand what was being sung.
This was followed by a game of either checkers, chess, or cards. He preferred checkers and complained he couldn’t remember how each chess piece was supposed to be moved. When I saw he wasn’t grasping the rules, I staged games where I played myself, explaining why each move was being made. This helped him understand the game, to the point that during one of these matches he pointed out how I left my queen unguarded – after that, he was happy to challenge me. With cards, he liked playing 21 but found poker, gin, war, and the other games boring.
Patterson would come by with lunch, and he was always intrigued by the games. He admitted that he enjoyed chess, and soon he lingered for extended periods, happily volunteering information about his life and his work within the prison – once he offered a lengthy recollection of being at Appomattox and provided in-depth descriptions of Grant and Lee that gave more depth to the historic figures than any history book I’ve read. One of the books Patterson provided was the Bible, and he would ask if we were including it as part of our routine – he would offer suggestions on the passages that he felt were relevant to our lives, but these always involved Biblical figures in prison. His inquiries on our Bible readings were so incessant that it forced me to include a few minutes from the holy text in our daily routine, and Merrifield was always amused at some of the more astonishing and confusing miracles of the Old Testament.
“Do you think Noah…ate any of the animals on the ark?” he once asked me.
“I don’t think that’s what God expected of Noah,” I replied. “He was supposed to save the animals, not have them for dinner.”
“If I was Noah,” he stated, “I would…I would eat the elephants. I think that two elephants…would give…would give you enough to eat…for forty days and forty nights.”
What irritated me during this time was my inability to help with Merrifield’s speech, and I detected he felt unhappy when having to converse. He was still pausing and stammering while trying to communicate – except when he spoke French, where he conversed like a Parisian. My initial approach was to ask him to read aloud from the materials we were given, but I stopped doing that because it didn’t help and it seemed to frustrate him more. Recalling the lessons that Sloppy Lou taught me, I sought to replicate those vocal exercises. While I didn’t expect him to become a singer, I noticed his voice was growing stronger and I hoped this could be a stepping stone to a problem I had yet to crack.
I also worked with him on penmanship, which was jagged to the point that some words were indecipherable. On this front, he was eager to better himself and patiently worked to improve with endless rewriting of letters and words. Progress on this front came much faster.
Patterson would return with dinner and even more chatting, recounting what his day around the prison was like – I became surprised at what a gossip he was, recalling the failings of some of his fellow guards and recounting the mishaps that befell the other prisoners in his care with malicious glee. After our meal, I would read aloud from one of the books we were given and discussed the text at length with Merrifield. If neither of us was able to quickly fall asleep, he would ask me to sing a tune and I created lullaby-worthy versions of the songs I knew. For some reason, my whispery sleep-inducing rendition of Bon Jovi’s “Shot Through the Heart” was his favorite and it became our sign-off song before drifting into slumber.
Every Friday, Merrifield and I were taken from our cell prior to breakfast and escorted by Patterson to a small room where we were allowed to clean ourselves. In the room was a small tub with cold water where we could take a sponge bath, a basin where we could use tooth powder for dental hygiene, and a large, unsmiling troglodyte of a man in stained clothing who offered to shave us and cut our hair. In concept, being able wash and brush my teeth should have been a godsend – in reality, it was the one downside of the week, as the bathtub water had already accommodated more than a few occupants, the tooth powder was bitter and the barber stared at me with a psychopathic gaze that made me fear he would incorporate my jugular vein with my facial hair during his shave.
During these weeks, Holmgren was mostly absent. He joined Patterson to deliver a couple of meals and once appeared after dinner while I was reading aloud from “A Tale of Two Cities.” When I saw him approach, he motioned with his hands that I should continue reading. He sat cross-legged on the floor outside of the cell and listened intently to my recitation. In turning a page, I glanced at him quickly and I was temporarily disconcerted – looking at him through the cell’s bars, it felt like he was in his own cage watching us enjoy our private little world.
* * *
At the end of the third week, this mostly placid environment was disrupted. I looked out the cell one morning and witnessed a brigade of guards marching down the corridor in our direction. I saw Holmgren in the rear of this brigade – he was difficult to miss, given his height – and Patterson was beside him, but the others were unfamiliar. Fearing the worst (as usual), I imagined they were part of a firing squad coming to ready-aim-fire me into oblivion. But Merrifield saw something very different, and he started to jump like a child on Christmas morning.
“Uncle Daniel!” he yelled through the cell bars. “Uncle Daniel! Here I am!” He then turned to me and declared, “It’s my Uncle Daniel. I haven’t seen him since – oh, I don’t know, since I became ill. He’s here, he’s here. I am so glad you can meet him.” He then turned back and kept yelling “Uncle Daniel” into the corridor.”
“Isn’t your uncle the warden here?” I asked.
“Yes, he is, and I missed him so much,” he answered.
And then, I realized that something strange was going on – Merrifield was speaking in complete sentences, with no pausing or stammering. Was his love for reuniting with his absent uncle so strong that it broke him of his speech impediment?
As the guards approached, one man moved quickly from their formation and rushed to the cell. He was much older than the others, or at least he seemed that way thanks to his snow-white beard, lined face and solid military bearing. He held his hands out as if preparing to catch a ball.
“Merrifield, my nephew,” he yelled out in a deep tenor. “My boy, you’re better. You’re talking and you’re smiling.”
“Uncle Daniel, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” Merrifield cried, reaching his arms through the cell bars.
The warden reached the cell and held Merrifield’s hands. “My boy, you’ve come back to us. This curse was lifted.” He then turned to the guards who caught up to him. “Sergeant, open the cell door immediately.”
Holmgren elbowed Patterson, who scurried to the door and hastily unlocked it. Merrifield grabbed my arm and hurried out of the cell, releasing me to grasp his uncle in a hug.
“Oh, you are a strong boy,” the warden marveled in Merrifield’s clutch. Once freed from the hug, the warden eyeballed Merrifield head to toe and shook his head in wonder. “This is how I remembered you before the war. My God, I am speechless.”
“It’s been so long, uncle,” Merrifield exclaimed. “I’ve missed you. I wished you would come, but I was afraid to ask for you because I knew I disappointed you.”
Merrifield then reached for me and pulled me before the warden. “Uncle, this is my friend who helped me.”
Holmgren quickly stepped forward and pointed to me while addressing the warden. “Yes, Sir, this is the prisoner I told you about. When I discovered that he did work helping those in your nephew’s condition, I assigned him to the rehabilitation duties.”
I stepped before the warden and extended my hand. “It is a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Sir.”
The warden’s joyful expression at Merrifield’s condition switched abruptly to a stern and unapproving glare at me. With my extended hand floating unwanted between us, I gave the warden a quick salute and stepped backward.
“My boy, you look so much healthier,” the warden said to Merrifield.
“Yes, Sir, he’s made a great deal of progress over the past few weeks,” added Holmgren.
I looked at Holmgren strangely and wondered what he was doing – he had barely been around for the last three weeks and suddenly he was the expert on Merrifield’s well-being?
“Sergeant, how much longer do you feel that my nephew’s rehabilitation will require?” the warden asked Holmgren.
Before Holmgren could answer, I stepped forward. “Begging the warden’s pardon, but I can say as an expert on the rehabilitation process that we could achieve much faster results if we were in a setting that was conducive to his healing and wellness. While you can see the progress that we achieved here, our work has been limited because our days are spent inside of a cell – having your nephew in the fresh air, with sunshine and all the sensory stimulation provided by nature would bring positive changes very quickly. And having more space for movement would certainly add to his physical strength – we can only go so far in a small cell. Also – and this is no slur to your cook – but I am an expert in nutritional health and if I had the ability to prepare your nephew’s meals, that would further enhance his road to recovery. I don’t know if such requests can be easily fulfilled, but I am willing to go that extra mile if I had the proper setting and materials to complete this work.”
If Holmgren’s looks could kill, I would be in a coffin. The other guards stared at me with astonishment, though Merrifield smiled and nodded. The warden’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped slightly before he mechanically turned his head to Holmgren and said, “I’ve never been spoken to by a prisoner in such a bizarre and impudent manner. Sergeant, where did this prisoner learn his manners?”
“Well, Sir, he is from New York City,” answered Holmgren, who quickly switched his angry look at me to a more unctuous expression for the warden. “But while our prisoner might be a bit too familiar in addressing you, Sir, I must confirm that much of what he is saying is correct. Having more outdoor activity for exercise would benefit Merrifield. However, I am not certain that our cook would appreciate having a prisoner taking over his food preparation.”
Patterson stepped forward between the warden and Holmgren. “Begging your pardon, Sirs, but there is the visitor cottage on the grounds. It hasn’t been used for some time, and unless we have guests arriving soon we could enable Merrifield and his cellmate to use the cottage, which has its own kitchen.”
The warden frowned and stroked his beard. “This is highly unusual, of course. I don’t think this goes against our rules, but having prisoners in the cottage is without precedent.”
“Well, Sir, look at this way,” Holmgren said. “If this can help speed Merrifield’s full recovery, then it would be to his benefit and yours. Indeed, Sir, we could document the methods used in Merrifield’s recovery and share it with the Department of War on how they can help other soldiers who are in a similar situation the befell your nephew. And if it doesn’t work, then no one outside of this prison would be aware.”
The warden nodded despite maintaining a sour look. “As an experiment, we can proceed with this,” he said with a tinge of reluctance. He then turned to the other guards and directed them to clean the cottage while tasking Patterson to inform the cook that I was to be provided with whatever foods I requested for Merrifield’s meals. The warden and Merrifield hugged again and kissed each other on the cheeks, then the warden turned to leave while Merrifield returned to the cell. I went to follow him when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder.
“I want to talk to you,” said Holmgren, sternly.
I didn’t turn around. “You’re going to hit me,” I said, bitterly. “I know what’s coming from you.”
I felt Holmgren lean directly behind me, his face behind my ear. “I’m not going to hit you. But what the hell did you just do in front of the warden? I’ve already warned you not to embarrass me while I am on duty.”
“Well, it was the only way to get out of this damn cage you put me in,” I said. “If you’re not going to give me my freedom, then at least give me credit for the work I’m doing. And why did you call me ‘this prisoner’? You want me to call you by your name – or Nicky’s pet name for you – but you won’t call me by my name?”
Holmgren let go of my shoulder and I walked into the cell without turning back. I heard the door close and the lock click, followed by the jingling of Holmgren’s spurs as he walked down the corridor.
* * *
After our dinner, Holmgren and Patterson arrived, with Holmgren carrying a box that contained two thick jackets and Patterson toting a sealed box with the words “cottage food” scrawled on the side. Holmgren ordered us to put on the jackets and to gather our belongings into his empty box, which Merrifield carried as the four of us exited the cell and walked down the corridor. We took a long walk through several hallways until we reached a door that led out into an open field. Ahead of us, I saw a picket fence and beyond that was a small house with oil lamps in the windows.
The night air was cool and crisp, and it felt brilliant to be outside of the prison walls. As we walked across the field, Merrifield stopped and look up at the sky, his head rotating as he absorbed the celestial display. I asked if something was wrong and he replied, “I’ve been inside for so long that I forgot about the moon and the stars, and how beautiful they are.”
When we reached the house, Holmgren asked Patterson to put the contents of the box in the kitchen and to show Merrifield the interior. He then pulled me aside and pointed to a pair of chairs on the front porch, where we sat.
“I have good news and bad news,” he said while lighting a cigar. “The good news is that the warden was ecstatic over Merrifield’s rehabilitation to date. I’ve never seen the old guy so thrilled over anything.”
“Well, that is good news,” I ventured. “So, what’s the bad news?”
“If you remember, the original plan I conceived was to have you work with Merrifield to get him out of his shell shock,” he continued. “Once I could demonstrate he was better, the warden was planning to get his sentence commuted and send him home to Indiana, and I would have gotten a promotion for getting Merrifield back to good health.”
“And what would I have gotten?” I asked.
Merrifield shook an extended finger at me. “One crisis at a time, please, and don’t interrupt. While I was correct in suspecting that you were capable of doing this job, you wound up doing too good of a job. I was hoping that you could produce a happy idiot who could walk and make small talk, and that would be enough. Instead, the warden is astonished that his nephew can speak French, play chess, and read Dickens. This is beyond his expectations.”
“Well, if he reads Dickens, then you could say it is beyond his great expectations,” I said, laughing at my joke.
Holmgren didn’t laugh. “If you don’t shut up, so help me I’ll put you over my knees and spank you with my belt.”
“You know, I dated a guy once who was into spanking,” I recalled. “He appeared in a few online videos where he’d spank twinks…”
“Oh, please be quiet for a few minutes – this is serious,” Holmgren snapped. “Now that he’s seen the new Merrifield, he’s not sending him back to Indiana. He’s keeping him in the prison.”
Holmgren puffed angrily on his cigar, and I was baffled by what he said. “Why is the warden keeping his nephew as a prisoner?”
“Not as a prisoner, you dope – as a prison guard,” came the answer. “He’s big, strong, healthy, and he’s a lot brighter than his uncle remembered him to be. And we’re understaffed, too – one of the guards quit yesterday.”
“I’m still confused,” I said. “How can a prisoner become a prison guard? Can that happen if his sentence is commuted?”
“No, but it can if he gets a pardon from the governor,” Holmgren said. “The governor is an old friend of the warden, so it’s most likely going to happen. I know the governor is out of the territory for the next two weeks, so Merrifield is still your responsibility for the time being. But the promotion I was expecting is now on hold because I’m going to have to train Merrifield on the job. And just between you and me, I don’t know if he can do it – he came back from the war in a messed-up state, so how is he going to react working in a prison? This job is dangerous and stressful – what I’m afraid of is that he’ll either revert back to the state where you found him or he’ll turn violent and strangle the prisoners like he strangled the doctors when he was in the hospital.”
Holmgren slumped in his chair and grew tired of his cigar, stomping it out under his boot. He shook his head with dejection and gazed out into the night sky, as if silently looking for rescue. I leaned over to him, tapped his shoulder, and asked, “Would you really put me over your knees and spank me with your belt?”
He turned to me and smirked. “Maybe that will be your Christmas gift. Let’s go inside, I’ll show you the cottage.”
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