Mercy

Beau Navarro woke in the prison infirmary with six stitches in his abdomen, three broken ribs, a tube draining blood from his chest, and enough morphine in his system to make the ceiling breathe. That was how the nurse explained it anyway. “The ceiling isn’t breathing,” she said.

               Beau watched one stained tile rise slowly, then sink. “You sure?”

               “Yes.”

               “It’s doing a pretty convincing job.”

               “You had surgery less than 12 hours ago.”

               “I’ve had worse.”

               The nurse looked at his chart. “Collapsed lung. Internal bleeding. Four stab wounds.”

               “Still had worse.”

               She gave him the kind of look medical people gave inmates when they thought they were being difficult on purpose. Beau smiled. “See? You don’t believe me.”

               “I believe you need to rest.”

               “Everybody says that.”

               “Maybe everybody’s right.”

               That annoyed him enough that he closed his eyes. Beau had been at Holman Correctional Facility in southern Alabama long enough to stop counting years in seasons and start counting them in transfers, lockdowns, dead friends, and parole denials. He was 36, white, six feet even, and had enough black and gold ink on his chest and arms to answer questions before anybody asked them. Crown. Lion. Five points. ALKN tucked into the inside of his left forearm where a short sleeve would hide it if he ever had a reason to pretend.

               He had not planned on becoming a Latin King. Nobody planned prison correctly. You made decisions before prison. Then prison made decisions for you. Beau had joined at 22 after his first serious bid because being alone inside was worse than the obligations that came with belonging. He learned fast. Collected debts. Moved contraband. Broke faces. Took beatings. Gave worse. He had done enough violence that remembering all of it required effort.

               He remembered Luis Ortega. Everybody did. Ortega arrived with paperwork nobody trusted and a story nobody believed. Said the charge was statutory. Said the girl lied. Said the prosecutor wanted headlines. Then the discovery packet found its way onto the tier. Six years old. His girlfriend’s daughter. Photographs. Statements. Medical exam. Beau stopped reading halfway through. Two days later Ortega slipped in the shower. That was what the report said.

               The camera covering the entrance had malfunctioned. The officer on the tier had been doing rounds somewhere else. Beau walked back to his cell with blood on his knuckles and nobody asked why. One guard passed him and said quietly, “Some paperwork isn’t worth doing.”

               Beau slept better that night than he had in years. That had been the problem. Three weeks later, Beau told Victor Ramos he wanted out. Victor stared at him from across the dayroom. “Out where?”

               “Out.”

               “There is no out.”

               “I know.”

               “Then why are you talking?”

               “Because I’m done.”

               Victor laughed. Beau did not. The beating happened two nights later. Nobody tried to kill him. That was worse. Death would have been clean. They wanted him alive enough to understand. One sharpened piece of metal went between his ribs. Another low into the abdomen. Boots afterward. Lots of boots. Beau remembered the floor. Remembered thinking it smelled like bleach and piss. Remembered somebody saying, “Kings crown you. Kings bury you.”

               Then lights. Hospital. Surgery. Prison infirmary. And the ceiling breathing.

               At 2:41 in the morning, Beau woke because somebody was coughing. Wet cough. Deep. He turned his head. The bed beside him had been empty when the night nurse checked his drain. Now an old man lay there. Ancient. Skin the color of dirty paper. Gray beard. Oxygen tubing beneath his nose. Shackled at one ankle despite looking incapable of standing without divine intervention. Beau stared. The old man stared back. “You loud sleeper.”

               Beau frowned. “Who the fuck are you?”

               “Neighbor.”

               “Bed was empty.”

               “Not anymore.”

               The ceiling rose again. Beau looked at it. Then back. “Drugs.”

               The old man smiled. “Probably.”

               “What block?”

               “None.”

               “What camp?”

               “Several.”

               “That doesn’t answer anything.”

               “Most answers don’t.”

               Beau sighed and immediately regretted it because his ribs burned. The old man watched him. “You leaving?”

               “What?”

               “The gang.”

               Beau went still. “Who told you?”

               “Nobody.”

               “Then mind your business.”

               “Hard to leave family.”

               “They’re not family.”

               “Not anymore.”

               Beau looked toward the infirmary door. No officer in sight. “Shut up.”

               The old man smiled again. “You get one.”

               “One what?”

               “Wish.”

               Beau laughed. Pain tore across his ribs. “Fuck.”

               “Careful.”

               “Wish?”

               “One.”

               “You some kind of genie?”

               “No.”

               “Devil?”

               “Depends who tells it.”

               Beau stared at him. The morphine pump clicked. That explained enough. He settled back. “Fine.” The old man waited. Beau closed his eyes. “What?”

               “Wish.”

               “I’m not doing this.”

               “You should.”

               “Why?”

               “You already earned it.”

               Beau opened his eyes. “That sounds ominous.”

               “Usually is.”

               “Can I wish to get out?”

               “Yes.”

               “Money?”

               “Yes.”

               “Victor dead?”

               “Yes.”

               “All the Kings dead?”

               “Yes.”

               Beau looked at the old man. “Anything?”

               “Anything you mean.”

               That wording bothered him. Beau thought about freedom. A beach. A house. His mother before she stopped answering collect calls. His little sister’s kids, who probably did not know he existed. Then Ortega. Then Victor. Then everybody he had hurt. A strange calm settled over him. “I wish everybody got exactly what they deserved.”

               The old man’s expression changed instantly. Not amused. Afraid. “Take that back.”

               Beau smiled. “Thought I only got one.”

               “Take it back anyway.”

               “Why?”

               “You don’t understand what you said.”

               “Seems simple.”

               “No.”

               “Good people get good. Bad people get bad.”

               “That isn’t what you wished.”

               “It’s what I meant.”

               The old man leaned toward him. His shackle rattled. “Meaning is where wishes go to lie.” Beau’s smile faded. The old man reached for him. “Say something else.”

               “Like what?”

               “Anything.”

               Beau shook his head. “No.”

               “Boy.”

               “Nobody calls me boy.”

               “You are tonight.” Beau stared. The old man whispered:

               “It never knows what you meant. Only what you said.”

               Then the morphine hit again. Darkness rolled over Beau. The last thing he heard was the old man saying:

               “Everybody is too many.”

               The bed was empty in the morning. Beau asked the nurse. She looked at him. “What old man?”

               “Next bed.”

               “No patient was there.”

               “Bullshit.”

               “You’re on morphine.”

               “I know what I saw.”

               She checked his drain. “Hallucinations can happen.”

               “Name was?”

               “Nobody.”

               “Great.”

               She changed the subject. Beau let her. By noon, Victor Ramos was in the infirmary. Not Beau’s section. Different room. Beau heard anyway. Victor had an old gunshot wound in his thigh from years before prison. Scar tissue. Nothing active. At breakfast, the wound had opened by itself. Not reopened. Opened. Same diameter as the original bullet path. Blood everywhere. The doctor could not explain it. Beau smiled when he heard.

               That afternoon, Darnell Pierce collapsed in the chow hall. Darnell had spent years extorting weaker inmates. Breaking fingers was his favorite. By evening, every finger on both hands had fractured. No trauma. No fight. One after another.

               Snap.

               Snap.

               Snap.

               Beau heard the screams from infirmary. The smile stayed longer. The old man had been real. Or the wish was. Either way. Beau whispered: “Good.”

               The next morning Officer Kellum fell beside the medication window. Kellum had worked corrections 22 years. Old-school asshole. Liked hands-on discipline. Liked cameras turned the wrong direction. Liked inmates too frightened to complain. Beau watched from his bed as dark bruises appeared across Kellum’s ribs. Then his face. Then thighs. Then lower back. One after another. Kellum screamed. “What the fuck is happening?”

               Nobody knew. Beau did. He started laughing. The nurse glared. “This funny?”

               Beau looked at Kellum. “Little.”

               That night a nurse named Denise began crying at the medication cart. Beau had seen her before. Quiet. Kind enough by prison standards. She sat down suddenly and clutched both knees. “Jesus.” Another nurse asked what was wrong. Denise shook her head. “My back.” Then shoulder. Then abdomen. Pain moved. No injury. No diagnosis.

               Beau watched. “Who’d she hurt?”

               The old man sat in the empty bed again. Beau barely reacted. “You.”

               “What?”

               “Not you specifically.” The old man nodded toward Denise. “She stole medication.”

               “From inmates?”

               “Some.”

               “What kind?”

               “Pain medication.”

               Beau looked back. Denise was crying now. “She’s feeling it.”

               “Yes.”

               “Their pain.”

               “Yes.”

               “Good.”

               The old man looked sad. “You still think that.”

               “She stole from sick people.”

               “Yes.”

               “She deserves it.”

               “Maybe.”

               Beau turned. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

               The old man pointed down the hall. Another scream. Different. A man named Holloway. Drunk driver. Killed his daughter in a crash eight years earlier. Holloway had become religious in prison. Never fought. Never caused trouble. Every birthday, he sat alone. Tonight he was screaming one sentence.

               “I CAN’T GET HER OUT.”

               Beau sat up despite the pain. “What’s happening?”

               The old man answered quietly. “He remembers.”

               “What?”

               “Everything.”

               Holloway screamed again. Beau could hear him sobbing.

               “I CAN FEEL HER HAND.”

               The old man said, “He believes he deserves to remember the crash.”

               Beau frowned. “So?”

               “Not remember like people remember.” The screaming continued. “He feels what she felt.”

               Beau stared. “Why?”

               “Because that is what he thinks he deserves.”

               Something cold moved through Beau. “That isn’t what I wished.”

               “Yes, it is.”

               “No. I said everybody gets what they deserve.”

               The old man nodded. “Who decides?”

               “Whatever gave me the wish.”

               “No.”

               “God?”

               “No.”

               “Then who?”

               The old man smiled sadly. “They do.”

               Beau stopped breathing. “People decide what they deserve?”

               “Deep enough.”

               “That’s fucking stupid.”

               “Humans often are.”

               Beau looked toward Holloway’s room. “What about somebody who doesn’t feel guilty?” The old man said nothing. Beau understood. “No.”

               “Yes.”

               “A murderer who thinks he did nothing wrong…”

               “May sleep very well.”

               “And somebody who blames himself for something that wasn’t his fault…” The old man nodded. Beau stared. “Stop it.”

               “You wished.”

               “Undo it.”

               “One wish.”

               “Fuck you.”

               The old man smiled. “Not mine.”

               The pain started at 4:12am. Beau woke choking. His jaw hurt. Not surgical pain. Different. Old. Familiar. Memory came with it. He was 19. Parking lot. A man owed him money. Beau hit him with a tire iron. Once across the jaw. Now Beau’s own jaw felt shattered. He screamed. The nurse ran in. Nothing on X-ray. Pain stopped 20 minutes later. Then his left hand. Three fingers. He remembered. Dealer. Birmingham. Debt. Pliers. “Fuck.” Next his knee. Then ribs. Then teeth. Every injury came with memory. Not vague. Perfect. Faces. Voices. Fear. He remembered begging. Most of all he remembered how little begging had mattered to him. By dawn Beau was crying.

               The old man appeared again. “Enough?”

               “Make it stop.”

               “You know why it’s happening.”

               “I did shit.”

               “Yes.”

               “I know.”

               “Not enough.”

               “What?”

               “Knowing isn’t believing.”

               Beau screamed as pain tore through his shoulder. A man named Marcus. Twenty-three. Beau had dislocated the shoulder because Marcus refused to hide contraband. “I fucking remember.”

               “That is not the same.”

               Beau closed his eyes. Ortega. He waited. No pain. Nothing. He opened his eyes. “What about Ortega?”

               The old man did not answer. “The child molester.”

               “I know.”

               “I killed him.”

               “Yes.”

               “Why am I not feeling that?”

               The old man looked at him. “Because you don’t believe you did wrong.” Beau went silent. “No guilt.”

               “No.”

               “That’s fucked up.”

               “Is it?”

               “He deserved it.”

               “Maybe.”

               “Don’t maybe me.”

               “You asked for what people deserve.”

               Beau stared. “And I decide?”

               “You decide yours.”

               Something inside him broke. Not physically. Worse. “Then this isn’t justice.”

               “No.”

               “What is it?”

               The old man leaned back. “Judgment without a judge.”

               By the third day, the prison had stopped functioning normally. Men screamed in cells. Others laughed. One inmate woke healed from a chronic back injury because he believed he had suffered enough. Another lost his eyesight because he had spent 20 years believing God would blind him for what he had seen and done. A chaplain collapsed at morning service sobbing that he was damned. A remorseless killer on death row slept 10 uninterrupted hours.

               Beau hated him most. Not because he deserved nothing. Because he got nothing. The wish spread beyond prison. Radio reports filtered through officers. Emergency rooms overwhelmed. People developing unexplained injuries. Sudden remissions. Blindness. Pain. Miraculous recovery. Suicides. Mass panic.

               A woman in Mobile woke with scars covering her body despite never having been injured. A man in Montgomery walked out of hospice completely healed. Nobody understood the pattern. Beau did. Everybody. The old man had warned him. Too many. Beau stared at the ceiling. “Take me instead.”

               The old man was beside him. “Of everyone?”

               “Yes.”

               “That is not how it works.”

               “Kill me.”

               “No.”

               “Why?”

               “Death doesn’t cancel a wish.”

               Beau looked at him. The screaming beyond the infirmary had become constant. “Then what happens to dead people?” The old man’s expression changed. Beau felt his stomach drop. “No.”

               “You said everybody.”

               “No.”

               “Everybody.”

               “Dead too?”

               The old man looked away. Beau heard something then. Not through walls. Not prison. Farther. A sound so large his mind could barely understand it. Screaming. Billions of voices layered together. People long dead. Children. Soldiers. Mothers. Murderers. Victims. Priests. Kings. Slaves. People who believed they had failed God. People who believed they deserved hell. People who believed suffering was their birthright. People who had died ashamed. The sound filled Beau’s skull. He pressed both hands over his ears. “STOP!”

               The old man watched him. “What do you think happens when everyone gets what they believe they deserve?”

               Beau sobbed. “I didn’t know.”

               “No.”

               “I meant bad people.”

               “So does everyone.”

               “Fix it.”

               “No.”

               “Please.”

               “That would be another wish.”

               Beau screamed. Then suddenly stopped. The pain disappeared. All of it. His ribs. Abdomen. Chest tube. Everything. Beau looked down. The bandage over his stomach moved. He pulled it away. The wound was closing. Skin drawing together. Stitches loosening as flesh healed beneath them. “No.” The old man smiled. Beau stared at him. “Why?”

               “You know.”

               “No.”

               “Somewhere under all that ink and blood and loyalty and violence, you do not believe you deserve to die.”

               Beau looked at his hands. Healthy. Steady. His chest tube slid free painlessly. “No.”

               “You believe you deserve another chance.”

               “I don’t.”

               “Yes.”

               “I fucking don’t.”

               The old man stood. For the first time. His shackles fell open. He looked taller now. Stronger. Less old. Beau backed against the bed. “Who are you?”

               The man ignored the question. “Mercy is strange.” Beau stared. Outside, the screaming continued. “People beg for it until they receive it.” He walked toward the door. Beau shouted:

               “Where are you going?”

               The old man stopped. “To see what everyone else wished for.”

               “You can’t leave me here.”

               He turned. “You’re alive.”

               Beau looked toward the infirmary window. Guards were running. Men were crying. Some laughing. Some praying. The world had become a place where guilt shaped flesh and self-hatred became law. Beau thought about Ortega. No punishment. Holloway. Endless punishment. Victor bleeding. The chaplain blind. A killer sleeping peacefully. Every person trapped inside whatever private verdict they had spent a lifetime handing themselves. Beau whispered:

               “I wanted justice.”

               The old man smiled. “No.”

               “What?”

               “You wanted everyone to agree with you.” Beau had no answer. The man opened the infirmary door. Then paused. “For what it’s worth, Beau?”

               “What?”

               “You were right about one thing.” Beau waited. “Ortega deserved you.” Then he left. Beau sat alone. His wounds were gone. His pain was gone. His body felt better than it had in years. He could breathe. Stand. Run. Maybe even survive prison. That was the worst part.

               Outside, somewhere beyond Holman, Alabama, beyond the razor wire and swamps and highways and cities, humanity continued receiving exactly what it believed it deserved. Beau Navarro closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, mercy terrified him more than punishment.