Chapter Three: Same Old Percy?
"Same old Percy," Brutal growled. And he was right. As soon as he came up from the basement, the first thing Percy had done was snap at Delacroix, who was just looking out the bars at him. He pulled out his chair so sharply it left a mark on the floor, and glared at all of us, bruised face daring someone to say anything to him. And we didn't. The others quickly forgot about Percy's misfortune, but I didn't. After all, they hadn't seen anything except the one welt, and only suspected more.
Percy followed me around like a guard dog for all of that day, only he wasn't protecting me, he was protecting his own secret. If he so much as saw me start to talk to someone, he'd rap his baton against the bars and sneer at me, then come closer to hear what we were saying. I couldn't really think of what to do. As Percy's boss, it wasn't my duty to tell anyone or take any action if someone was beating him up behind the scenes, but as a person- and, as I had said down in the bathroom, his friend, it was up to me.
His antics that day were neither exasperating or amusing, they were sad. I watched almost sympathetically as he shouted and threw his pitiful little temper tantrums. He didn't actually even mean them. I had seen the real Percy Wetmore, and he was that man who had cried in the basement, the one who had tearfully stated that everyone hated him- and been sorry about it. This was just a mask.
The rehearsal for Del's execution was scheduled for the next day, and I was up to my neck in paperwork when Percy finally came in. Gone was the narrowed eyes and cruel smile. He hadn't come to pick a fight, and he made it obvious when he sat down calmly in the leather chair across from me.
"Why did you come looking for me? Or did you just have an urge to explore that filthy bathroom?" His brown eyes looked straight into mine, boring into my skull, it felt like.
"Because-" I paused, struggling for words. "Because you were hurt. I don't know, Percy, you just looked like you wanted help."
He smiled, and I think it was the first time I'd actually seen him do it, or at least a real smile, a real friendly smile. Then his face hardened a little, like a little kid who couldn't quite believe a story, then it twisted again. He looked mean again when he stood up.
"No. No, you're lying. You don't like me- you hate me. You don't care about me at all." He backed away, kicking the chair up against the desk. "I'll call my uncle, I will…" He broke down a little bit, and looked at me. His voice was almost a whisper. "You just can't understand."
"Percy, don't leave." I spoke firmly and grabbed his wrist. "Tell me who hit you."
He gave a cold little laugh. "Which time, Paul? Huh? Which time?" His will crumbled and he collapsed, leaning on the chair.
"I'm not the only nephew that my uncle used to have. I had three older brothers who made my life a living hell. They were all close in age, and I was the outsider. Each night they'd make a game about seeing who could hit me harder."
"Couldn't your father do anything?"
"My father?" He broke out into laughter again, but it was sad laughter. "My father is even worse than my brothers were, Paul! He hated me, beat me- well, you saw the scars. I barely recognized Father if he didn't have a whip or a strap in his hand. Then when Mother got sick, he started drinking, and he just didn't stop. It got worse and worse. My brothers went with him, and they died in a brawl. Mother got better, but he didn't. He just kept on drinking, and he finally left." He shivered a little- but the office wasn't cold. "I stayed with my aunt and uncle after that, and then I found out that Father came back. He met up with Mother and nearly killed her. Then I went to live back with her. He came back last night, Paul, and I had to stop him from getting to her. She would have died- and I told him to go away. It was late, and I had my shirt off."
He buried his head in his hands. "I thought I could handle him now! I didn't know he had a knife! He went away finally- but…"
He was crying again. He was crying and I didn't know how to make him stop, because I'd never thought of anything before like I did at that moment. To me, Percy Wetmore had always been a twenty-one year-old brat who only cared about himself. Now I had another picture, and I knew what John Coffey had saw when he thought about Percy.
Percy had grown up with three older brothers beating on him and a father who whipped him for apparently little or no reason. He'd had a sick mother who couldn't protect him from anything, and once his father hit the sauce, he stayed on it. The man had grown up in fear of what would happen if he was in trouble- which was probably why he was always testing my limits with that odd look in his eyes. He wanted to see when I would snap, how far he could push me. It must be a novelty for him to be able to manipulate someone else for a change- to make others afraid of him… when he was always afraid, too.
That's all he was, really, beneath the mask. He was a frightened child who had never really grown up, not even after all those years.
Percy finally wiped his eyes and straightened up. Instead of getting angry again, he just looked tired, like he had aged ten years in those two minutes that he had sobbed. He looked me right in the eyes, not cringing or flinching at all.
"I want someone to like me, Paul, honestly like me, not just pretend to." I've heard the term "swallow your pride" before, but I think Percy actually did it. He gulped and asked, "Can you help me?"
I took one look at his earnest face- well, as earnest as Percy could look then, the welt that ran down his cheek, and nodded.
I smacked my baton against my hand. "Welcome to the school of being socially acceptable, Percy. Start by taking off your hat. They already know the bruise is there, there's no point in hiding it, so take off the hat. It's too hot for it, anyway." Abashed, he took it off and looked about for somewhere to put it. I snatched it out of his hand and threw it against the wall. "That's lesson number two. Don't be so tidy about everything. Mess up your hair."
"But, Paul-" he started to protest.
"I'm not telling you to make it look horrible, Percy, just to stop smoothing it down. Let it get a little mussed occasionally." He rubbed his hands through his hair until it looked better. "Thank you. Now take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves."
"You saw the blood," he warned me.
"I'll take you down to the laundry to wash it. Just do it, because you won't look so stiff and all." As he did so, I continued. "Stop scaring the prisoners. It won't wash anymore with me because I know why you're doing it now. Act decently to them- I'm not asking you to serve Wharton a meal on a silver platter, just try to remember that they're all going to die soon, and they might as well not go out terrified of you.
"Brutal is probably going to be your biggest obstacle, I'd figure. He doesn't think very highly of you, you know."
"I know," Percy said, looking determined, "but he will."
I would have laughed if the situation had been different- but it was almost sad how Percy was taking it all in and listening to me with a dogged look of determination on his face. Also, Percy didn't like to be laughed at, and I didn't want to test his patience.
I continued:
"Don't suck up. Be honest, be yourself, for heaven's sake, be how you are right now. Try to laugh at yourself occasionally, it won't hurt you, I promise. Remember what I said: you can't go through life thinking that everyone's going to stab you in the back. The men in that room out there are good men, Percy, and they aren't going to bite you. Ready? Don't act miraculously changed or anything when you go out there, okay?"
"I'm ready," he said, "but how am I going to get down to the laundry before they see me with the blood on my shirt?"
"I forgot about that," I admitted. "Okay, okay, button up your jacket just enough to hide the stains."
He did so with a slightly relieved look on his face. "Thank you, Paul."
"Don't mention it, Percy."
"Same old Percy," Brutal growled. And he was right. As soon as he came up from the basement, the first thing Percy had done was snap at Delacroix, who was just looking out the bars at him. He pulled out his chair so sharply it left a mark on the floor, and glared at all of us, bruised face daring someone to say anything to him. And we didn't. The others quickly forgot about Percy's misfortune, but I didn't. After all, they hadn't seen anything except the one welt, and only suspected more.
Percy followed me around like a guard dog for all of that day, only he wasn't protecting me, he was protecting his own secret. If he so much as saw me start to talk to someone, he'd rap his baton against the bars and sneer at me, then come closer to hear what we were saying. I couldn't really think of what to do. As Percy's boss, it wasn't my duty to tell anyone or take any action if someone was beating him up behind the scenes, but as a person- and, as I had said down in the bathroom, his friend, it was up to me.
His antics that day were neither exasperating or amusing, they were sad. I watched almost sympathetically as he shouted and threw his pitiful little temper tantrums. He didn't actually even mean them. I had seen the real Percy Wetmore, and he was that man who had cried in the basement, the one who had tearfully stated that everyone hated him- and been sorry about it. This was just a mask.
The rehearsal for Del's execution was scheduled for the next day, and I was up to my neck in paperwork when Percy finally came in. Gone was the narrowed eyes and cruel smile. He hadn't come to pick a fight, and he made it obvious when he sat down calmly in the leather chair across from me.
"Why did you come looking for me? Or did you just have an urge to explore that filthy bathroom?" His brown eyes looked straight into mine, boring into my skull, it felt like.
"Because-" I paused, struggling for words. "Because you were hurt. I don't know, Percy, you just looked like you wanted help."
He smiled, and I think it was the first time I'd actually seen him do it, or at least a real smile, a real friendly smile. Then his face hardened a little, like a little kid who couldn't quite believe a story, then it twisted again. He looked mean again when he stood up.
"No. No, you're lying. You don't like me- you hate me. You don't care about me at all." He backed away, kicking the chair up against the desk. "I'll call my uncle, I will…" He broke down a little bit, and looked at me. His voice was almost a whisper. "You just can't understand."
"Percy, don't leave." I spoke firmly and grabbed his wrist. "Tell me who hit you."
He gave a cold little laugh. "Which time, Paul? Huh? Which time?" His will crumbled and he collapsed, leaning on the chair.
"I'm not the only nephew that my uncle used to have. I had three older brothers who made my life a living hell. They were all close in age, and I was the outsider. Each night they'd make a game about seeing who could hit me harder."
"Couldn't your father do anything?"
"My father?" He broke out into laughter again, but it was sad laughter. "My father is even worse than my brothers were, Paul! He hated me, beat me- well, you saw the scars. I barely recognized Father if he didn't have a whip or a strap in his hand. Then when Mother got sick, he started drinking, and he just didn't stop. It got worse and worse. My brothers went with him, and they died in a brawl. Mother got better, but he didn't. He just kept on drinking, and he finally left." He shivered a little- but the office wasn't cold. "I stayed with my aunt and uncle after that, and then I found out that Father came back. He met up with Mother and nearly killed her. Then I went to live back with her. He came back last night, Paul, and I had to stop him from getting to her. She would have died- and I told him to go away. It was late, and I had my shirt off."
He buried his head in his hands. "I thought I could handle him now! I didn't know he had a knife! He went away finally- but…"
He was crying again. He was crying and I didn't know how to make him stop, because I'd never thought of anything before like I did at that moment. To me, Percy Wetmore had always been a twenty-one year-old brat who only cared about himself. Now I had another picture, and I knew what John Coffey had saw when he thought about Percy.
Percy had grown up with three older brothers beating on him and a father who whipped him for apparently little or no reason. He'd had a sick mother who couldn't protect him from anything, and once his father hit the sauce, he stayed on it. The man had grown up in fear of what would happen if he was in trouble- which was probably why he was always testing my limits with that odd look in his eyes. He wanted to see when I would snap, how far he could push me. It must be a novelty for him to be able to manipulate someone else for a change- to make others afraid of him… when he was always afraid, too.
That's all he was, really, beneath the mask. He was a frightened child who had never really grown up, not even after all those years.
Percy finally wiped his eyes and straightened up. Instead of getting angry again, he just looked tired, like he had aged ten years in those two minutes that he had sobbed. He looked me right in the eyes, not cringing or flinching at all.
"I want someone to like me, Paul, honestly like me, not just pretend to." I've heard the term "swallow your pride" before, but I think Percy actually did it. He gulped and asked, "Can you help me?"
I took one look at his earnest face- well, as earnest as Percy could look then, the welt that ran down his cheek, and nodded.
I smacked my baton against my hand. "Welcome to the school of being socially acceptable, Percy. Start by taking off your hat. They already know the bruise is there, there's no point in hiding it, so take off the hat. It's too hot for it, anyway." Abashed, he took it off and looked about for somewhere to put it. I snatched it out of his hand and threw it against the wall. "That's lesson number two. Don't be so tidy about everything. Mess up your hair."
"But, Paul-" he started to protest.
"I'm not telling you to make it look horrible, Percy, just to stop smoothing it down. Let it get a little mussed occasionally." He rubbed his hands through his hair until it looked better. "Thank you. Now take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves."
"You saw the blood," he warned me.
"I'll take you down to the laundry to wash it. Just do it, because you won't look so stiff and all." As he did so, I continued. "Stop scaring the prisoners. It won't wash anymore with me because I know why you're doing it now. Act decently to them- I'm not asking you to serve Wharton a meal on a silver platter, just try to remember that they're all going to die soon, and they might as well not go out terrified of you.
"Brutal is probably going to be your biggest obstacle, I'd figure. He doesn't think very highly of you, you know."
"I know," Percy said, looking determined, "but he will."
I would have laughed if the situation had been different- but it was almost sad how Percy was taking it all in and listening to me with a dogged look of determination on his face. Also, Percy didn't like to be laughed at, and I didn't want to test his patience.
I continued:
"Don't suck up. Be honest, be yourself, for heaven's sake, be how you are right now. Try to laugh at yourself occasionally, it won't hurt you, I promise. Remember what I said: you can't go through life thinking that everyone's going to stab you in the back. The men in that room out there are good men, Percy, and they aren't going to bite you. Ready? Don't act miraculously changed or anything when you go out there, okay?"
"I'm ready," he said, "but how am I going to get down to the laundry before they see me with the blood on my shirt?"
"I forgot about that," I admitted. "Okay, okay, button up your jacket just enough to hide the stains."
He did so with a slightly relieved look on his face. "Thank you, Paul."
"Don't mention it, Percy."