Page 25 of The Reformatory

Robert listened to their stories between bouts of thoughtful scrubbing, so he could be sure no grains of rice or dried food was stuck between the tines. The water scalded his palms bright red. Washing forks was the worst job, the boys had said. Forks trapped food out of reach.

“You gonna need to wash faster’n that,” Redbone said.

“A hundred years faster,” Blue said.

That was when Robert looked up and saw him.

Across the kitchen, Cleo was gone. Instead, a white boy in a chef’s hat and a long white apron stood in his place. He stared dead at Robert as if he’d been waiting to be noticed. His hair was cut short like Blue’s, the color of pale sand. He was thin and barefoot, maybe twelve or thirteen. Robert looked away fast. When trouble started with white boys, colored boys lost out.

“I thought it was only colored boys in the kitchen,” Robert said.

Redbone and Blue shrugged.

“Well, how come they let him in here? Like he’s spyin’ on us?”

Redbone and Blue stared blankly, so Robert gestured toward the vat with his chin.

The white boy was still there, still staring. “What white boy?” Redbone said.

Robert thought they were teasing him, but their faces said different. They didn’t see the boy. They looked straight past him.

“He’s right there,” Robert said.

“You say so,” Redbone said, and went back to washing.

Robert squeezed his eyes shut tightly, opened them, and looked again. The boy stared on.

Robert could see his cool blue eyes from across the room. He had never seen eyes so blue.

A tiny clink rang as Redbone lifted a dripping plate he’d rinsed. “Just tell him he ain’t real and he’ll leave you be,” he said. “Most times.”

Not real? The boy was as real as he was, casting a shadow against the large metal vat. Robert could see his freckles.

Blue spoke, hushed. “I’ve seen that white boy. The one with the knife?”

Heart speeding, Robert checked to see if the boy held a knife. He was relieved to see the boy’s hands empty, hanging limply at his sides.

“He ain’t got a knife,” Robert said.

“Must be another one, then,” Blue said. He checked the plates he’d stacked for chips. “White boys must’ve worked in the kitchen before.”

“They keep coming back,” Redbone said. “I bet haints get hungry, huh, Blue?”

Haints. Robert’s heartbeat was thunder, but he couldn’t look away. What did he see in this boy’s face? He didn’t seem angry. He didn’t quite seem sad. His eyes reminded Robert of Mama’s when she used to cling to his arm to keep him from pulling away when it was too hard to look at her dying.

Redbone went on talking to Blue, unbothered. “They must be hungry. They’re punching open the rice and flour bags at night—an’ then we get blamed. That ain’t right.”

“If you’re dead, stay dead,” Blue said. They could be talking about rats or roaches.

“You’re not real,” Robert whispered toward the boy, a test.

As if Robert had shouted, the white boy turned to walk away, although he had nowhere to go except the back wall. A butcher’s knife was buried in his back, the hilt lodged between his shoulders, blade shining in the light. The circle of blood was thick and black near the knife, soaking red down his back, leaving smudged footprints as he walked toward the wall. One stride and he was gone, through the whitewashed bricks. Robert gasped.

“He… he… he…” Robert clung to the counter to stay upright. His words withered.

“Yep,” he heard Blue say, a tiny voice on the other end of a long tunnel. “Told you, Bone. Must be the one with the knife.”

Robert’s wooziness passed as soon as his knees buckled, so he snapped himself back to alertness and stood straight before anyone saw, even Redbone and Blue. He asked for water, and Blue scurried to get it, dodging Boone and Crutcher and the other watchers in a stealthy zigzag across the room. It wasn’t a long distance, but Robert could not have made it without attention. The tepid glass of water helped clear Robert’s head.