Free Suttree by Cormac McCarthy Page A

it.
    Hold it Callahan, said the guard.
    Callahan held it.
    The guard shut the door behind Leithal and locked it and motioned Callahan down the hall. The prisoners could hear him protesting. Hell fire, what for? I aint done a goddamned thing. Hell fire.
    Suttree went back to his bunk, touching his swollen ear with his fingertips. Harrogate was still crouching in the top of his bunk with the spoon in his hand.
    Where are they goin with Mr Callahan? he said.
    To the hole. Blackburn's wise to his bullshit.
    How long will they keep him in there?
    I dont know. A week maybe.
    Goddamn, said Harrogate. We sure stirred up some shit, didnt we?
    Suttree looked at him. Gene, he said.
    What.
    Nothing. Just Gene.
    Yeah. Well ...
    You better hope they keep Slusser in the box.
    What about you?
    He's already punched me.
    Well. As long as they let Mr Callahan out before they do him.
    Suttree looked at him. He was not lovable. This adenoidal leptosome that crouched above his bed like a wizened bird, his razorous shoulderblades jutting in the thin cloth of his striped shirt. Sly, rat-faced, a convicted pervert of a botanical bent. Who would do worse when in the world again. Bet on it. But something in him so transparent, something vulnerable. As he looked back at Suttree with his almost witless equanimity his naked face was suddenly taken away in darkness.
    Some of the prisoners called out complaining. The hall guard told them to knock it off.
    Hell fire, it aint but eight oclock.
    Knock it off in there.
    Bodies undressing in the dark. The hall light made a puppet show of them. Suttree sat on his bunk and eased off his clothes and laid them across the foot of the bed and crawled under the blanket in his underwear. Voices died in the room. Rustlings. The light from the yardlamps falling through the windows like a cold blue winter moon that never waned. He was drifting. He could hear a truck's tires on the pike a half mile away. He heard the chair leg squeak in the hall where the guard shifted. He could hear ... He leaned out of the bunk. I will be goddamned, he said. Harrogate?
    Yeah. Hoarse whisper in the dark.
    Will you knock off that goddamned clicking?
    There was a brief pause. Okay, said Harrogate.
    When they came in from work the next evening Harrogate had a couple of small jars he'd found in the roadside. Suttree saw him descend from his bunk after lights out. He seemed to disappear somewhere in the vicinity of the floor. When he reappeared he camped on the floor at the head of Suttree's bed and Suttree could hear a tin set down on the concrete and the clink of glass.
    What the fuck are you doing? he whispered.
    Shhh, said Harrogate.
    He heard liquid pouring.
    Whew, said a voice in the dark.
    A whiff of rank ferment crossed Suttree's nostrils.
    Harrogate.
    Yeah.
    What are you up to?
    Shhh. Here.
    A hand came toward him from the gloom offering a jar. Suttree sat up and took it and sniffed and tasted. A thick and sourish wine of unknown origins. Where'd you get this? he said.
    Shhh. It's Mr Callahan's julep he had workin. You reckon it's ready?
    If it'd been ready he'd of drunk it.
    That's what I thought.
    Why dont you put it up and let it work some more and we'll drink it Saturday night.
    You reckon it'll tear your head up?
    Suttree reckoned it would tear your head up.
    They lay there in the dark.
    Hey Sut?
    What.
    What you aim to do when you get out?
    I dont know.
    What was you doin fore you got in?
    Nothing. Laying drunk.
    A deep wheezing of sleepers rose and fell about them.
    Hey Sut?
    Go to sleep Gene.
    By morning a heavy rain had set in and they did not go out. They sat in small groups in the dimly lit cell and played cards. It was cold in the room and some wore their blankets shawled about their shoulders. They looked like detained refugees.
    At noon a gimplegged prisoner brought up sandwiches from the kitchen. Thin slices of rat cheese on thin slices of white bread. The prisoners bought matchboxes of coffee from the hallboy for a