Free Tenderness by Robert Cormier Page A

listened sympathetically to Eric’s symptoms.
    “Take it easy the rest of the day,” he said. “Mylanta should do the trick.”
    Eric pretended to stagger as he stood up, reaching out to the wall for support.
    Dunstan, concerned, asked, “What’s the matter?”
    “Dizzy,” Eric said.
    Dunstan studied him closely. “Okay, why not lie down for a while? You probably don’t want lunch, anyway. Stay here awhile.… I’ll keep an eye on you.…”
    Wonderful, Eric thought, as he made his way shakily to a cot near the window.
    “You’re probably dehydrated,” Dunstan said. “I’ll keep you supplied with liquids.…”
    Eric let himself carefully down on the cot, exaggerating his actions, but careful not to overact, keeping a delicate balance.
    “I’ll be right here if you need anything,” Dunstan said, in his best bedside manner, handing Eric a glass of water.
    Eric gave himself up to the luxury of relaxation. He knew that if he survived today without incident, he would have defeated the old cop’s plans to keep him incarcerated indefinitely. Tomorrow, his routines of departure, exit interviews, a hundred forms to fill out, all of the activity under the supervision of guards and facility officials. The oldcop would be foolish to try anything on the final day.
    Eyes half closed, Eric watched the big clock on the wall, tracing the progress of the second hand. Two other prisoners came in for treatment. Eric shut them out, using his old method of removing himself from the scene, isolating himself from his surroundings. Except for the clock.
    The clock reached noon, and Eric raised himself on one elbow, breathless with anticipation. A minute passed, two.
    As Dunstan approached with another glass of water, the sound of the siren filled the air, a frantic howl that caused Dunstan to stumble, spilling water on the floor. The floor seemed to tremble, bottles rattled on the shelves.
    Failed again, Lieutenant
, Eric said silently, settling back in bed, the siren like a crazy symphony. He turned away from Dunstan, hiding the smile of triumph on his face.
    That evening, after dinner, the Distributor handed him a note.
    Still on guard, Eric shot him a questioning look:
Who’s it from?
    “I don’t know,” the Distributor said. “It was in the usual place. I always collect at the receiving end.” Fast-talking as usual. His hard face softened. “No charge. A going-away present …”
    Eric nodded his appreciation, flustered a bit,unaccustomed to accepting favors that weren’t earned.
    In his room he unfolded the note. Delicate handwriting, blue ink, the paper faintly scented. Without salutation, the note read:
    I saw you looking at me. I was looking at you, too. My name is Maria Valdez. I live in Barton, I’m out of here soon. Call me. I’ll be waiting
.
    Her telephone number followed.
    He drew the envelope across his nostrils, inhaling the faint scent he could not identify but that smelled beautifully feminine. He pressed his lips against the paper, seeking whatever tenderness it contained. Her long black hair and slender throat came to his mind.
    Although he knew the risk of retaining something that could become evidence, he could not make himself throw the note away. He folded it as small as possible and slipped it into his wallet.
    At the window, he stretched out his arms, raised his head high, arching his back. In twenty-four hours he would be free.
    Free. To follow his destiny. To pursue them all.

Here is why I am fixated on that face and those eyes of Eric Poole on television.
    Two days after my twelfth birthday, I was wandering lonely as a cloud like in a poem we read in English, out at the railroad tracks, thinking about my birthday and how my mother arrived home late because she got involved with some guy at a bar and drank too much and forgot to buy the birthday cake.
    Then I told myself:
Snap out of it. A birthday cake is not a big thing anymore. You are no longer a child but almost a teenager
. A cake was