“Lennie was a re-tard,” said the man with the heavy-lidded eyes. “George couldn’t carry him no more.”
“Nah,” said Antonius. “George did that thing for Lennie because Lennie was his boy. ’Cause Curley was gonna string Lennie up and lynch his ass. Or, if Lennie did go to prison for killin that trick, he wouldn’t make it in San Quentin or wherever they’d put him out there in California, back in the old days.”
“Lennie couldn’t jail,” said Larry.
“Exactly,” said Antonius.
“You’re saying,” said Anna, “that George killed Lennie out of friendship.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what this book is about,” said Michael. “Friendship and brotherhood. Companionship. The author means to say that people together are better than they are alone.”
“Does anyone say that outright in the novel?” said Anna.
“Sure.” Michael opened his book to where he had dog-eared a page. “I marked a spot. It’s in that chapter when Crooks is talking to Lennie in Crooks’s room. Can I read it?”
“Go ahead.”
“Michael squinted as he read. “‘“A guy needs somebody—to be near him. A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody. Don’t make no difference who the guy is, long’s he’s with you. I tell ya,” he cried, “I tell ya a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick.”’”
“For a friend, though,” said Antonius, “Lennie be buggin the shit out of George.”
“‘Tell me about the rabbits, George,’” said Donnell, in his idea of Lennie’s voice.
“‘Which way did they go, George, which way did they go?’” said the heavy-lidded one, and then, when no one laughed, embarrassed, he said, “Ain’t none a’ y’all seen that old cartoon?”
“They gonna get a farm,” said Antonius, picking up on the vibe. “‘An’ live off the fatta the lan’!’”
Now many of the inmates laughed.
“All right.” Anna picked up an article that she had printed out down in the workroom. ”
“Let me read something to you that John Steinbeck wrote himself. It might have been from his acceptance speech when he won the Pulitzer Prize, or it might be from his journals. I don’t remember which. I got it off of Wikipedia, to be honest with you. But for me it sort of speaks to this book and his worldview in general.”
“Read it,” said Michael, leaning forward.
“Okay,” said Anna, and she began. “‘In every bit of honest writing in the world there is a base theme. Try to understand men, if you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and almost always leads to love. There are shorter means, many of them. There is writing promoting social change, writing punishing injustice, writing in celebration of heroism, but always that base theme. Try to understand each other.’”
“What if someone step to you and try to take you for bad?” said Donnell. “What you supposed to do then? Understand their ass?”
“Turn the other cheek,” said Larry. “It’s right there in the Bible.”
“An eye for an eye is in there too,” said Donnell.
“The man is saying, try to do what’s right,” said Michael. “Reach out to other people. Try.”
The conversation drifted to money and fame, as it tended to do.
“Was Steinbeck rich?” said Antonius.
“I’m sure he was,” said Anna. “His books were huge bestsellers. Many of them were made into movies and plays.”
“I bet he got mad respect too,” said Donnell.
“Not from everyone,” said Anna. “Many academics don’t really care for his work. They think it’s too simplistic and obvious.”
“You mean people could relate to it too easy.”
“Well, yes. He was what’s called a populist author. He wrote books that could be read and appreciated by the people he was writing about.”
“This book was deep,” said the soft-spoken man.
“Seriously, that was, like, the best chapter-book you ever gave us,” said Donnell.
“Thank you, Miss Anna.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said.
