Sleep Toward Heaven (11 page)

Franny pulled open the screen door, and then the wooden one. She peeked in. To her left, on mismatched recliners, two elderly men in Stetsons sat reading the paper. One looked up, “Come on in, honey,” he said. “They’re open.” Franny blushed and stepped inside.

To her right, rows of colorful books lined the shelves. The sign above them said MYSTERIES. An elderly woman with white hair filed cards at a tall desk. Behind her, more shelves stretched into another room. The woman said, “Welcome to the Gatestown Public Library, dear.”

“Hi,” said Franny. “Thanks.” She pretended to look at the mysteries.

“You here for the Satan Killer?” asked one of the men.

“No,” said Franny.

“Here for the Hairdresser of Death?”

“No,” said Franny. She looked more intently at the row of mysteries, finally choosing one called Murder in Manhattan.

“That’s a good one,” said the librarian. “My name’s Louise.”

Franny smiled. “I’m Franny,” she said, “Franny Wren.” Louise’s hand was warm and soft.

“You related to Doc Wren?” said one of the men.

Franny nodded. “I’m his niece.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” said the man. His face was lined and brown. “Little Franny Wren! You used to come into my pharmacy and buy lipstick.”

Franny smiled. “Yup,” she said. “That’s me.”

“My son—he was near your age, Donny? He took over the pharmacy and sold it to CVS. He and that wife of his.”

“Well,” said Franny.

“How is the Doc?” said the man.

“Oh,” said the elderly librarian, covering her mouth with her hand.

“What?”

“He’s dead,” said Franny. She blinked. “Do I need a library card?” she said. Her voice was unsteady.

Louise waved her hand, a dismissal. “Just bring it back,” she said.

Franny nodded, and then saw a book on the shelving cart: Our Death Row Women. “What’s that?” she said, pointing.

“Oh,” said Louise, “I put that together myself.” She pulled out the book. It was a collection of newspaper clippings about the women on Death Row, photocopied and bound.

“May I borrow it?”

Louise smiled. “Well, sure,” she said. “But I’ve got to add in the Satan Killer. So bring it back real soon.”

“I will,” said Franny.

“Hey,” said the brown-faced man. “I really am sorry. Your uncle was a good man. He was a fine man to this town.”

“I know,” said Franny.

By the time Franny got back to Uncle Jack’s house it was noon. She slowed to turn into the driveway, but then stopped. There was a rental car parked outside the house with a man inside it: Nat. Franny hit the gas and drove straight to the Gatestown Motor Inn. Her mind whirled; she needed to get her thoughts in order before talking to Nat.

The old woman Franny had spoken with the night before was still at the front desk, still knitting. “Need a room, dear?” she said, looking up.

“Yes,” said Franny, sliding her credit card across the counter.

“I recommend Andy’s Home Cookin’ for lunch,” said the woman. “They have a delicious meatloaf.”

“Thanks,” said Franny. The woman had hair like a Dairy Queen vanilla swirl, and looked to be knitting a large hat.

“I’m just learning,” she said, holding up the yarn. Franny nodded, and the woman handed her a room key. “You here for the Hairdresser of Death?” she asked.

“No,” said Franny, suddenly very tired. “I am not here for the Hairdresser of Death.”

“Don’t get upset, dear. I’m Betty. Welcome to Gatestown.” She held out a tiny hand. Franny took it.

In Room 17, Franny found a double bed, a plastic desk with a yellow chair, a chest of drawers, and a hot plate. In the bathroom, there was a clawfoot tub. There was no shower. The toilet seat had a fuzzy orange cover.

Franny looked out the window of the motel room. She could see Andy’s Home Cookin’, a flat building with a giant metal bull rising on a pole from its roof; the Last Chance Saloon, and Woolworth’s. Once in a while, someone came out of the saloon, but otherwise, there was a deathly quiet. After a time, she lay down on the bed.

Franny dreamed of her parents. In the dream, the three of them were in a canoe on the Guadalupe River, with a cooler of chicken salad sandwiches and iced tea. Franny’s mother read to her from Pinocchio, and her father fished with bait that smelled like the worst thing in the world. It was very hot, but Franny’s father kept covering her with blankets. The blankets were itchy and smelled like mothballs. Even though Franny was boiling, she could not take off the blankets. She was immobile. Franny’s mother wore her hair in pigtails, and her father wore a straw hat. His hands were red, and large. He kept reaching for Franny. “I’m hot,” said Franny in the dream, “It’s so hot,” but her mother only shook her head. Finally, her mother jumped out of the canoe and into the clear river. Franny was left alone with her father and hot, hot, hot.

O
h, Maureen would have a field day with this. I don’t even know what she would come up with: Freudian impulses? The need to protect a child? Some desire to protect myself? I’m sure there’s a long and convoluted explanation for why I found myself having sex with a wannabe novelist boy on his ratty futon, but I have only one word to describe it: lust.

Yes, lust! I’m not afraid to say it. I hadn’t had sex since Henry, and this boy knew what he was doing. (I did check his driver’s license—twenty—not old enough to buy beer but old enough that I wasn’t doing anything illegal.) I knew, even upon waking up in the middle of the afternoon in a student apartment on West Campus, that I’d probably read about myself, the next Mrs. Robinson, widow seducer, in the New York Times Book Review. But the strange thing is that I do not care. What do I have to lose, really? Well, my job, okay, but when I tallied up a fabulous tryst versus my dull job, I willingly followed the boy home.

The best part about having sex with the novelist-to-be was that, when I sat up in his futon, pulling his cheap red sheets around me, I actually felt as if I were young again. I felt as if I could smoke a joint and read a bunch of Milton and write an incoherent paper and have nothing more to worry about. As if I could head back to the coffee shop where I had drank so many lattés that my stomach had begun cramping and my heart had begun to hammer in my chest, and this boy and I could discuss Proust and dreams and suburbs versus urban living and how many kids, etc. Maybe it was the orgasm, or the smell of dirty laundry that permeated the boy’s apartment. Whatever it was, I loved it.

(The boy’s name is Marc, with a “c.” He’s from Amarillo, and—surprise—wants to be the next Paul Bowles or Graham Greene, he hasn’t decided yet. Or maybe the next Hemingway, but he isn’t sexist, he insisted. Oh, this new generation of enlightened men!)

I climbed from Marc’s futon and found my clothes on the floor. In the bathroom (Marc used expensive shampoos and, to my dismay, had a little blue hairdryer, but hairdos like his do not come easily) I gargled with Scope and used the Visine that was next to it on the sink. I opened the medicine cabinet, just out of curiosity, like everyone does, although they will insist that they do not.

Marc had lip balm, sunscreen, shaving gel, a bottle of cologne called Kubla Khan, Advil, NyQuil, and Ritalin, the drug for kids with no attention span. Well, how was Marc going to be a novelist if he had no attention span? And wasn’t Ritalin supposed to take away sex drive? (I read this in Time magazine, as well.) Maybe Marc had a roommate—who knew?

As soon as I was clothed, I felt old again, and also a bit ridiculous. Marc was still asleep, his mouth open but silent. I tiptoed to the door (it’s been a long time since I have tiptoed, and I enjoyed it) and left.

It was not until I was in my car driving back home that I remembered: I had left my letter to Karen Lowens on my boy-toy’s bedroom floor.

E
vening in Mountain View Unit: the light no different from day. The cell doors are open, and Veronica and Tiffany are sitting on the patio, listening to the radio. Sharleen grunts as she does push-ups in her cell, but nobody is brave enough to tell her to be quiet. Karen sits inside her cell, trying to ignore the waves of nausea and pain. A doctor came from Waco for the day, but did not have time to see Karen.

“Hi, Gerald?” says a lady on the radio show.

“Yes, hello?” says Gerald.

“Um, I just wanted to send some wishes to that lady on Death Row.” Tiffany looks up from painting her nails, and Veronica raises her eyebrows.

“Go right ahead, ma’am.”

“That lady, the one who killed her husband and kids?” Tiffany goes back to her magazine. Jackie appears at the door to her cell, smiling. Her red hair is wet from the shower.

“Yes?” says Gerald.

“Um, she’s getting executed in a week. I guess I just wanted to tell her I’m sorry for her.”

“Do you know her, ma’am?”

“No, I’m just sad for her.”

“Jackie,” calls Veronica, “you got a phone call, honey!” Jackie comes to sit by Veronica, and Tiffany offers to paint her nails. Jackie holds out her stubby hand.

“You’re getting so nice, honey,” says Veronica, “now that you’re about to die.” Jackie shrugs. It is true. Jackie has stopped antagonizing everyone, and has even sat through Veronica’s fake stories about why all her husbands died so suddenly. Everyone feels strange, now that Jackie’s execution date is nearing.

Tiffany’s husband has already called the radio show, of course, with more promises of fabulous dinners for Tiffany’s return home. Tiffany listens with a half-smile.

Most of the radio show callers are for men: wives and girlfriends, occasionally a heartbreaking mother. One woman promises she’ll run right over to the ATM and get bail money for her boyfriend.

“What’s an ATM?” says Veronica.

“I have no idea,” says Jackie.

“The world is getting complicated,” says Veronica. “Like the Internet thing. The Web. What is that all about?”

“You fuckers are pathetic,” says Sharleen, in the midst of a round of squats.

“Sor-ry!” says Jackie.

“It’s about, like, communication,” says Tiffany. “Dan made me a Web page.”

“I got a Web page,” says Jackie.

“What’s a Web page?” says Veronica.

“Who cares?” says Sharleen.

Gerald announces that he has a call for Veronica.

“Hey!” says Jackie.

“The women are winning tonight,” says Gerald. “Caller, go ahead.”

“Um, Veronica?” It’s Jimmy Quinton.

“Hi, honey,” says Veronica, touching her neck.

“I don’t know if you, um, remember,” says Jimmy, “but this is our six-month anniversary.” Veronica smiles, and Tiffany winks, impressed.

“Well, Veronica, you’re the most…” He stops, clears his throat.

“Most what, honey?” says Veronica. She pats her hair. She really looks more like a kindly grandmother than a killer, thinks Karen.

“I just, I love you, Ronnie. And I know that you love me.” Veronica nods. Her eyes are closed, and her smile spreads like butter over her droopy skin.

“So,” says Jimmy, “well, Ronnie, I wanted to ask you, um, to be my wife. Will you marry me?”

Veronica’s eyes snap open. “Oh my Gooood!” screams Tiffany, jumping up to hug Veronica.

Karen can’t help it. She catches Jackie’s gaze, and they both begin to laugh. Why would someone marry Veronica? It’s crazy, and yet here is Jimmy Quinton, vying to be husband number eight.

“What are you going to say?” Tiffany’s voice is squealing, grating.

“Oh, honey,” says Veronica, “I never could say no.”

T
here was a moment, when Franny woke from her nap, in the Gatestown Motor Inn, that she forgot where she was. She felt light, and then she remembered that Anna was dead, that her relationship with Nat was falling apart, and that Uncle Jack was gone. The knowledge came down on her like a rock. And Nat was parked in front of Uncle Jack’s house.

On the way to the house, she stopped at the Spurs Gas Mart, and found a bottle of Gallo white wine. The clerk was wearing a baseball hat that said SKOAL. He looked at Franny’s bottle.

“You got some ID?” he said.

“Um, OK,” said Franny. She took out her wallet, unfolded it, and pushed it across the counter.

“New York?” said the cashier. He made a sound that sounded like “huh.”

“Yes, New York,” said Franny. “But I’m really from here.”

The cashier snorted, and slid the wine into a plastic bag. “Sure, ma’am,” he said.

Nat’s rental car was still at the house, and inside it, he was asleep. Franny knocked on the window and Nat’s head jerked up. His hair was matted, and his eyes were rimmed with red.

“Hi,” said Franny, when he opened the door.

“Hi,” said Nat.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Yeah.” He climbed from the car, stretching his arms above his head. He smelled of sleep and beer.

“Have you been drinking?” Franny asked.

“Do you blame me?”

At Uncle Jack’s kitchen table, they drank wine from water glasses. “I’m so confused,” said Nat. “I’ve been calling and calling. You unplugged the phone.”

“I needed to sleep.”

“And what about me, Franny? Did you think about me?”

“I don’t know what to say, Nat.”

“Well, are we putting off the wedding?”

Franny sipped her wine. “I don’t belong there, not really. I’ve asked Jed for a leave of absence.”

“What?”

“And you don’t belong here. That’s what it comes down to, Nat.”

“That is complete crap, Fran. We can live wherever you want. You want me to move to Texas? Is that what you want?”

“No,” said Franny, too quickly.

“Then what?”

Franny rubbed her eyes with her fingers. “Sometimes I can’t take it,” she said. “How everything changes so fast.”

“Oh, honey,” said Nat, leaning toward her and taking her hands in his. Franny felt trapped. Nat’s smell was wrong, his voice, she wanted him gone.

He tried to kiss her, and instinctively, she turned away. “What is it, Fran?”

“I’m sorry.”

He stood. He looked lost and angry, like a little boy denied a treat. “Are you really saying it’s over?”

“Yes.”

“This is the last time,” he said, his jaw tight.