what I do: I tell myself I am studying him. Is this the sort of man who took you? Was your abductor as kind to you in the beginning as Ben Carver is kind to me? Did he take you because he wanted you all to himself? Or did he take you because he wanted to hurt you?
Then I ask myself what would happen if that grimy metal mesh were taken away. What would a man like Ben Carver do to me if there were no guards posted, no barrier between us? Would he explicate Spenser’s Faerie Queene or would he cut me open and sample a sliver of my pancreas?
I realized today that I will never know the answer—not because the scenario is impossible, but because I have been barred from visiting Ben Carver again. I immediately suspected the hand of Huckleberry, but the warden soon put me straight. It seemed only fitting. He was the man whose report had brought me to Ben Carver in the first place.
This is how it happened: Instead of being herded into the waiting room for visitation, I was led down a long hallway by a plump guard who kept sucking his teeth. The sound echoed off the polished tiles on the floor. The hallways are long and wide in prison, likely so you can run but not hide. There are large fish-eye mirrors at every corner. Video cameras follow your every move.
If only downtown Athens had been so secure, perhaps you would’ve come home to us.
The warden’s office was all cheap paneling and institutional green furnishings. As Ben would’ve said, “Think Cool Hand Luke.” Every surface was either metal or fake wood. The warden was fat with a buzz cut and rolls of flesh almost obscuring his collar. His white shirt was short-sleeved and outfitted with a red and black clip-on tie. He smoked a cigarette as he studied me across his desk. I sat in front of him holding a worn copy of Dr. Seuss’s You’re Only Old Once! A gift from Ben sent via the warden. The last communication Carver the Cannibal would have with me. He had revoked my visitation rights. I wasn’t allowed in the prison anymore.
“Dr. Carroll,” the warden said, his voice sounding like Foghorn Leghorn, “Ben Carver is a psychopath. He’s incapable of empathy or remorse. If you see something human in him, that’s only because he’s playing the part.”
I flipped through the book. My hands were sweating. The pages stuck to my fingers. It’s hot in prison, no matter what time of year it is. It reeks of sweat and sewage and desperation from the men who are stacked in cells like chattel.
The warden said, “Obviously, Carver’s gotten out of you whatever he wanted. He’s finished with you. Don’t take it personally. Count yourself lucky that you got away unscathed.”
Unscathed.
I let the word roll around in my head. I said it aloud as I was escorted back down the long hall. I repeated it in the car as I sat with the book still clutched in my hands.
You’re Only Old Once! A Book for Obsolete Children was an adult picture book. Several years ago, you and your sisters had given me a copy of this same book on my birthday, because younger people always think it’s funny when older people get even older. I don’t recall ever telling Ben about the book, but it seemed like something I would’ve told him early on when I was trying to trap him into revealing a clue about you.
The conversation would’ve gone like this:
Ben: Tell me, Sam, what have you been reading lately?
Me: I found a book that Julia and the girls gave me for my birthday. You’re Only Old Once! by Dr. Seuss.
Ben: You know, my favorite birthday gift was when I was sixteen and my mother gave me my own set of keys to her car. What was your first car, Sam? I bet it was an old jalopy. You would’ve been pulling in the girls like crazy.
That was what he was like. He always changed the subject with flattery. He was usually more artful. It’s hard to describe how someone has manipulated you because you’re generally not aware of it when it’s happening. You don’t exactly take notes, is what I am saying.
I am sure that during my visits, Ben gathered far more information about me than the other way around. I have to admit that he was working at a level I did not