They did not see him for ten days. Then one morning as they filed through the kitchen with their plates there he was, grinning sheepishly, ladling up gravy for their biscuits. Beyond him through the steam, on a can with a cigarette in his mouth, sat Red Callahan. No one asked where Slusser was.
That night when they came in he must have been showering in the kitchen cell because when they went past on their way to their own quarters silently in twos, exuding the aura of cold they’d brought in with them, Harrogate suddenly appeared naked at the bars, his thin face, his hands clutching, like a skinned spidermonkey.
Sut, he called out softly. Hey Sut.
Suttree heard his name. As he came abreast of the smallest prisoner he dropped out of the line. When will the phantom puker strike again, he said. What the fuck are you doing bare assed?
Listen Sut, that fuckin Wilson’s got it in for me. I got to get out of here.
Out of where?
Here. The joint.
You mean run off?
Yeah.
Suttree shook his head. That’s crazy, Gene, he said.
I need you to help me.
Suttree fell back in at the tail of the line. You’re nuts, Gene, he said.
He saw him again a week later on Thursday when he was assigned to the indigent food detail. The needy trooping through in rags, their eyes rheumy, snuffling, showing their papers at the desk and going on to where the prisoners unloaded bags of cornmeal from pallets or scooped dried beans into grocery bags. Suttree sought their eyes but few looked up. They took their dole and passed on. Old shapeless women in thin summer dresses, socks collapsed about their pale and naked ankles, shoes opened at the side with knives to ease their feet. The seams of their lower faces stained with snuff, their drawstrung mouths. To Suttree they seemed hardly real. Like pictureshow paupers costumed for a scene. At the noon dinner break he and Harrogate fell in together. They crouched with others among the palleted beans and unwrapped their sandwiches.
What we got?
Baloney.
Anybody got a cheese?
They aint no cheese.
Sut.
Yeah.
Shhh. Do you know where we’re at?
Where we’re at?
I mean which way is town?
Harrogate speaking in loud hoarse whispers, spewing bits of bread.
Suttree jerked a thumb over his shoulders. It’s thataway, he said.
Harrogate motioned his thumb down and looked about. What I figure to do, he said …
Gene.
Yeah.
If you run off from here you’ll wind up like Slusser.
You mean with a pick on my leg?
I mean you’ll be in and out of institutions for the rest of your life.
Save for one thing.
What’s that.
They aint goin to catch me.
Where will you go?
Go to Knoxville.
Knoxville.
Hell yes.
What makes you think they wont find you in Knoxville?
Hell fire Sut. Big a place as Knoxville is? They never would find ye there. Why you wouldnt even know where to start huntin somebody.
Suttree looked at Harrogate and shook his head.
How far you reckon it is to town? said Harrogate.
It’s six or eight miles. Listen. If you’ve got to run off why dont you wait and slip off from the county garage some evening?
What for?
Hell, you’re practically in town. Besides it would be dark or damn near it.
Harrogate paused from his chewing, his eyes fixed on his shoe. Then he commenced chewing again. You might be right, he said.
Suttree was unwrapping his other sandwich. It dont make all that much difference actually, he said.
Why’s that?
Cause they’ll catch your skinny ass anyway.
They aint no way.
What do you aim to do about clothes? What do you think people are going to say when they see you wandering around in that outfit?
I’ll get me some clothes first thing.
Suttree shook his head.
Hell Sut. I can slip around.
Gene.
Yeah.
You look wrong. You will always look wrong.
Harrogate looked at the floor. He had stopped chewing. No I wont, he said.
The weather turned colder and they did not go out. Wilson put Harrogate to work painting the black borders along the lower hallway walls that served for baseboards. The workhouse smelled of paint and so did the country mouse when he came up in the evening with the smears of black on his face like a guerrilla fighter.
One night Suttree said to him: Dont you have any family?
The lights were out. A few bodies shifted in the dark. Dont you? said the small voice overhead.
Christmas came and some of the married prisoners were furloughed home to holiday with their families. A few were released. Slusser came from solitary, the pick still on his leg. He entered with his blanket and went down the aisle without speaking to anyone.
There was a lighted tree in the recreation room downstairs and on Christmas day they had turkey with all the trimmings. Callahan in the kitchen drunk making pumpkin pies out of old sweet potatoes and carrots. Sots loose from the drunk tank wandering about crazed with thirst. An air of wary joy, like Christmas in some arctic outpost.