The Healing

The Healing

By Nomar Knight

         I wheeled little Jimmy Valentine’s bed into the state’s most violent correctional facility.  His bald head and frail body got lost among white sheets. 

Warden Johnson kept pace with us, fidgeting with his fingers.  When he spoke his left eye twitched.  He reminded me of an animated scarecrow with a permanent scowl plastered on his face.  “I think this was a mistake.  This is a sickly child.  He should be resting in a hospital.”

         I ignored his nervous banter and continued to push Jimmy’s bed to the yard.  Evil loomed large in the burning haze.  The fact the sun did its best to bake the criminal population didn’t take away from their enthusiastic stint outside their cages.  Muscle-heads pumped iron, athletic types played punch-the-guy basketball, and many lounged around, enjoying smokes in the sunlight. 

         I watched Jimmy as he tilted his head and took in the sight before us.  I wondered what he thought of men of different sizes and shapes clustering in groups. 

         “Warden,” Jimmy paused and coughed.  “Why are they separated by color?”

         “That’s how it is here.  Men feel comfortable around their own kind.”

         Jimmy slid the covers down to his navel, exposing white pajamas with red poke-a-dots.  He began a coughing fit which drew the attention of the prisoners.  They stood in silence, eyes probing in the sick boy’s direction.  Two officers carrying shotguns pumped their weapons and stood guard.

         The warden said, “This boy is dying of cancer and he wants to see the most ornery of you as a last request.”  He scanned through the clusters of prisoners and said, “Billy Stuart and Tyrone Smith step forward.”

         I watched as each crew murmured.  A group of Caucasians known as the skinheads opened a path and a big seven foot mammoth stepped to the foot of Jimmy’s bed.  On the African American side, the men parted and a six-foot bald man with a bearded chin stood by the giant’s side.  The rest of the prisoners closed around them forming a horseshoe.

         “Here you go kid.”  Warden Johnson stared at me, ready to say something, but he bit his lip and remained silent. 

         For a minute it looked like his regrets overtook his greed. 

         I heard him mumble, “The things I do for money.”

         Jimmy stopped coughing and waved me to his side.  “Mr. Deseo,” he said to me in a low voice, “I want them to fight to the death.”

         Billy and Tyrone glanced at each other.  Tyrone chuckled as if the whole thing was an elaborate joke. 

         Tyrone said, “Hey man, where are the hidden cameras?”

         Billy clenched his fists.  “Don’t laugh at one of my kind.”

         Tyrone waved dismissingly at the giant. 

         I glanced at Jimmy and saw his grey eyes darken.  I took sunglasses out of my suit pocket and handed the boy the eyewear.

         He grinned, “I hope this is not disappointing.”

         Billy glanced at the boy, but with one motion lashed his left fist towards Tyrone’s head, striking him in his jaw.  The men roared!

         Billy, being a foot taller than Tyrone, had a much larger reach. 

         Tyrone got up from the dirt floor, spat blood and ran at Billy.  The huge skinhead braced for impact as Tyrone plunged his skull into Billy’s belly. 

         Jimmy asked me, “Mr. Deseo, when am I going to see real blood?  There’s not enough hate here.”

         Billy grabbed Tyrone’s waist and hoisted him over, sending the brute over Jimmy’s bed, nearly knocking down one of the armed guards. 

         The boy laughed, making my heart warm with delight.  It had been two years since his mother found out Jimmy had cancer.  The eleven-year-old held on to his faith, claiming his father would cure him.

         Billy crouched to pick up Tyrone, when Tyrone suddenly squeezed the big man’s testicles.  Loud screams filled the yard.  The men gave a collected gasp as they saw their most intimidating figure beg for mercy. 

         Jimmy said, “Now I feel it.  Look at Tyrone’s eyes.  Do you see it, Mr. Deseo?”

         “See what?”  I tried to play dumb.

         The boy continued, “Hate!  Look how hate oozes out of him and how Billy is making his deathbed on it.”

         “It’s just his testicles, Jimmy.  I don’t think it’ll be fatal.” 

         The boy coughed, quicker; this time his cough sounded drier than before, like it had less phlegm.  He stopped and took a deep breath.  “I wasn’t talking about Billy’s deathbed.  I meant Tyrone’s.” 

         When I glanced back at the fighters, Tyrone had released Billy and squeezed his neck.  The kneeling skinhead’s face turned red. 

         “Is your vision alright, Jimmy?  That’s not what—” 

         I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Billy had turned the tables on Tyrone and somehow got him in a headlock.  In a matter of seconds, he snapped Tyrone’s neck with a bone crunching squeeze.

         Jimmy turned his head to me and yawned.

         “Okay that’s enough!” Warden Johnson raised his hands adamantly.  “The boy got his wish.  There’ll be no more blood spilled today.”

         Jimmy rose to his feet while still on the bed, grabbed a handful of the warden’s tie and pulled him till they were nose to nose.  “Father said this is the only cure.  Billy, kill the entire basketball team.”

         I didn’t have the heart to tell the boy his father had died because he had double-crossed someone standing in this yard.

Billy said, “Haven’t you seen enough kid?” 

         Jimmy sneered, “Another kill and I’ll be cured.”  The boy looked at me as if he were a terminator from a movie and grinned.  “Forget the basketball team.  Let’s send my father’s killer to hell.”

         The tone in his voice made my skin crawl.  I swore I saw flames reflect off his shades.  From that moment, I understood that his father’s killer wouldn’t live long enough to see the sun go down.

         Billy marched with clenched fists in my direction.



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