A Last Embrace - Chapter 6

The eagerly-awaited sixth instalment of the continuing adventures of Dr. Frank Stein.

One night the thunder was crashing and the lightning flashing outside. It was a storm. Dr. Frank was lying in bed, gazing at the ceiling and thinking of his opus. It was too humid to sleep. Carl’s voice came timidly from across the room: “Hey, Doc.”

“Yes,” said Frank testily, for his cogitations had been interrupted.

“You awake?”

“Yes,” sighed Frank.

Carl fell back into silence. Frank resumed pondering his book. He was still in the planning stage, hadn’t written a word.

It was about ten minutes later that Frank heard Carl’s voice from beside his bed, nearly made him jump out of his skin. “Doc,” Carl said, “Can I come in with you?” As he spoke he began to climb into Frank’s bed. Frank kicked out at him: “Get the frick out!” he said.

“But, Doc,” said Carl, still getting in, “I only want to-“

“No,” shouted Frank, kicking again, and Carl half got out, half fell from the bed.

“I’m sorry, Doc,” he said. “I just thought…”

“Go to bed, Carl.”

“I’m sorry, Doc.”

 

The incident was not mentioned again and Frank and Carl’s relationship went along the same tracks as before. The morning after the storm Carl sat playing his acoustic guitar while Frank sat at the desk before a blank page. Carl was playing “Greensleeves”; he could play it pretty good, with the bass notes and the melody and all. It was the only song he knew, and he played it almost every day, often over and over again.

“You never get tired of that one, huh?” said Frank

“No,” said Carl. “Why? Is it bothering you?”

“No”, said Frank.

Carl was playing it now fast, now slow, pushing the rhythm around, until it almost transfixed Frank. He was definitely going to put this in the book, about how this big, brutish-looking guy, on death row for some crime Frank didn’t know what it was, was playing this old medieval English tune with a purity that was beyond human emotion. He listened, and couldn’t put this sound together with Carl. He looked over, Carl was bent over the guitar, with a look of intense concentration on his face, his lower lip protruding slightly. Something childish about him at these moments. This was how he would remember Carl, when he was moved to another part of the prison like the counsellor said. He came to the end of the tune, and this time instead of going round again he stopped and looked up at Frank.

“Hey, Doc, you all right?”

“Oh, yes. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You looked pretty spaced out.”

“No. I’m thinking of my book. Certain delicate problems of construction still need to be worked out before I set pen to paper.”

“Pretty soon, Doc, you won’t have to use those crayons no more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word is they movin’ you to another prison. That’s what’s on the grapevine.”

Frank wasn’t sure how to take this. If he was moving to another prison it was probably a lower-security one. It had to be, cos this was max-security, and there was no other such institution in the state.

“They need that bed, Doc. for someone more dangerous. You ain’t mad enough to be in this prison. He, he, he.” Carl laughed.

Frank laughed as well.

“I got a plan though, Doc. I’m gonna look out for you.”

“Oh, yes?” said Frank.

“Keep it quiet, but I’m gonna spring you loose. How about that?”

Carl looked over at Frank so eagerly and childishly that Frank couldn’t say what was really on his mind, which was, “Forget about it. I’m fine with prison. I like it here, and I’ll have plenty of time to write my book.” He couldn't say it, he wasn't sure why. Maybe cos he still feared Carl had a murderous, psychotic temper in there someplace, even though most of the time he acted like a kid. Instead, he said, “That’s great, Carl. Thanks.”

“We buds, right?” said Carl.

"Sure, Carl," said Frank, though he was getting a bit wary of the question. Carl asked that question a lot.