Sleep Toward Heaven (12 page)

“I know.”

“Goodbye, Franny,” said Nat. He ran his hands through his hair, drained his glass of wine, and walked out. “I’ll mail your things,” he added, before slamming the door. After a moment, he yanked it open again. “What about your fucking cat?” he said.

“I don’t know,” said Franny.

“You are one selfish bitch,” said Nat. Franny held her breath until she heard the engine start and the wheels backing out of the driveway.

“I’m sorry,” said Franny, but all she felt was relieved, numb, and hungry.

She had eaten at Andy’s Home Cookin’ many times. It would comfort her, she hoped. The metal bull hovering twenty feet above Andy’s was larger than life, and “AHC” was painted on its ribcage in a swirling script. The parking lot was filled with trucks. Many of the trucks had dogs waiting in the cabs. As soon as Franny pushed open the door, she was stopped by a teenage girl with her hair in a banana clip. “Welcome to Andy’s,” the girl said cheerily. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” said Franny.

“OK,” said the girl. She cracked her gum. “You want a booth?”

“Sure,” said Franny.

“You’re alone?”

“Oh yes,” said Franny. “I am alone.”

Andy’s looked the same as she remembered. On every wall, there were deer heads, and most of them had baseball hats stuck on their antlers. In between the deer heads were sawblades with nature scenes painted on them and large wagon wheels. Also, photographs of men in sunglasses kneeling next to dead deer. In the rare spots where it was visible, the wallpaper was striped.

“Here we go,” said the teenager, pointing to a huge table. “No booths free,” she said. The table was big enough for fifteen. Franny pulled out a chair and sat. Above her, ten televisions showed reruns of Texas A&M football games. Most tables were filled with chattering families, pitchers of iced tea, plates of chicken-fried steak. Every man had a hat on, either a cowboy hat or a baseball cap. Franny remembered coming to eat here with Uncle Jack and feeling humiliated that her family was so small, just two.

A woman in a tight T-shirt and a jean skirt came to Franny’s table. “You waiting?” she said.

“No,” said Franny. “It’s just me.”

“Oh,” said the waitress. She was very tan and had plucked most of her eyebrows, leaving only a thin, arching line.

“I’ll have a Bud.” The woman nodded, and walked away. Franny opened the menu. Meatloaf, ribs, double cheeseburger, ham.

Franny ordered the meatloaf, which was heavy and dry. She ate all of the mashed potatoes with gravy, and the butter beans. She finished her beer, and ate another bite of meatloaf.

At the next table, a man in a Dr. Pepper baseball cap sat next to a tall woman with a red nose. The red-nosed woman elaborated loudly on the merits of Baco-Bits. In her opinion, there were many. Franny decided to go through her wallet. She took out her New York Public Library card and a Blockbuster Video coupon. She ate another bite of meatloaf. The bacon discussion segued into a debate: McDonald’s versus Arby’s. Franny took the picture of Nat from her wallet and studied it. She felt strangely peaceful.

Where was Franny’s waitress? She seemed to have disappeared. The television started playing another football game: the A&M Aggies against Notre Dame. “There’s no roast beef at Micky D’s!” said the man in the Dr. Pepper hat. “You can have your Ronald McDonald, honey!”

Franny stood, and walked to the front of the restaurant. There, the girl with the banana clip sat behind a cash register. “Seven-fifty,” she said to Franny.

“What?”

“Meatloaf, Bud, seven-fifty,” said the girl.

Franny pulled out a ten. The sign above the cash register said, “Local Checks Only NO Credit Cards NO Diner’s Club.”

When she received her change, Franny went back to leave a tip. Her table had been cleared already, its surface wiped clean and shining.

In bed, Franny leafed through Our Death Row Women as she waited for sleep to come. Growing up in Gatestown, she had never really thought about the women in the prison. Among her grade school classmates there was an unspoken agreement to ignore the prison’s existence. When Uncle Jack had told her he was going to take a few afternoons away from his practice and volunteer at the prison, she had been surprised. “Time to give back, feels like,” he had explained.

Our Death Row Women was primarily made up of articles from People and the Gatestown Messenger. Franny felt as if she were in a movie, looking at the pictures of crazy women who were living just a few blocks away, eating, sleeping, dreaming. She drank wine and leafed through the pages until she came to Karen, who Franny recognized as the woman who had come into the Medical Center while Franny had been waiting for the warden. They called Karen the “Highway Honey.” In the picture from People, she was skinny, with sad eyes.

The article said that Karen Lowens was a serial killer, one of the few female serial killers in Texas history. She had grown up in a desperately poor household, and started prostituting when she was twelve. Her first known murder was in 1988, when she was twenty. She worked along the side of the highway, approaching men at rest stops or along the road. She lived with her lover, Ellen Girand, in the Hi-D-Ho Motel in South Austin. Karen supported Ellen, who was a junkie.

There was a picture of Karen and Ellen together, in a bar. Ellen, who was lovely, with long curled hair and blue eyeshadow, was talking to someone, but it was Karen’s face that stopped Franny’s heart. Karen gazed at Ellen with such awe and yearning. I’ve never loved anyone like that, thought Franny. She felt a sharp pang of jealousy, before she remembered where Karen had ended up.

Karen was due to be executed on August twenty-fifth, less than six weeks away.

Franny turned the page to see a picture of Karen as a young girl. Karen Lowens, future serial killer, at six years old, the caption said, outside her trailer in Uvalde, Texas, 1974.

1974: It was the same year Franny’s parents had died. At age six, in small Texas towns, Franny and Karen had been the same.

On the last page of Our Death Row Women, Louise the librarian had compiled a list of names and food. As Franny read down the list she began to feel sick. Written in Louise’s neat cursive, it was the last meals ordered by executed male prisoners:

Ed Skooner: 2 chicken-fried steaks with white gravy, french fries, 4 pieces of white bread, apple, 2 Cokes.
Brendan James Young: Double cheeseburger, french fries topped with cheese, baked potato topped with sour cream, cheese, and butter, 2 fried pork chops, 3 beef enchiladas, chocolate cake.
Aaron Lonn: 1/2 pound of chitterlings, fried chicken (dark meat), 10 slices of bacon, 1 raw onion, fried shrimp, peach cobbler, 1 pitcher whole milk.
Kerry Polender: Beef fajitas, stir-fry beef, 6 cinnamon rolls, 1 pecan pie, 1 cherry pie, 1 diet cream soda, 3 eggs.
Steven Morris: Salmon croquettes, scrambled eggs, french fries, biscuits.
Dennis King: Venison steak, baked potato, Lite beer. (Water substituted. Alcohol prohibited by TDCJ policy.)
José Robles: Heaping portion of lettuce, 1 sliced tomato, 1 sliced cucumber, 4 celery stalks, 4 sticks of American or cheddar cheese, 2 bananas, 2 cold half-pints of milk. Asked that all vegetables be washed prior to serving.
Gary B. Waldon: God’s saving grace, love, truth, peace, and Freedom.
Martin Hewett: Barbecued chicken, refried beans, brown rice, sweet tea, bubble gum. (No gum. Bubble gum is not permitted under TDCJ regulations.)
Clay Dellacort: Steak, french fries, wine. (Water substituted. Alcohol prohibited by TDCJ policy.)

Franny could just see Louise, carefully writing this list. Where had she gotten this information? Why the hell couldn’t they allow someone a glass of wine? Franny imagined the man’s face, when he saw that water had been substituted.

On her bedside table, Franny had dumped the contents of her pockets. There, amidst loose change and a receipt from lunch, was Warden Gaddon’s card, her home phone number written in green pen.

Franny picked up the phone and slowly dialed the number. “Janice?” she said, when the warm voice answered. “Janice, it’s Franny Wren.”

The next night, Franny drove her uncle’s car to Janice Gaddon’s house. She idly turned the radio dial, trying to find an appealing song. The air-conditioner hummed, and Franny turned the headlights on. The twin lights brushed over the ground. In the distance, the prison loomed, yards glowing, guard towers lit at the top like candles. The warden had said that her house was farther on down the same road as the prison. Franny did not see any women in the yards.

The warden’s house was one-story, and her car, a red Taurus, was parked in the driveway. Franny parked behind it, and stepped out of the Cadillac. The night air smelled of approaching rain.

In Janice’s yard was a large, low oak tree with a porch swing hung from its branches. The house was built of pale limestone. Franny walked up the path of narrow stones. The door was wooden, and painted gray. There was a brass mail slot in the center. Franny knocked.

“Hi,” said Janice, opening the door, and letting the smell of tomato sauce escape into the damp evening. “Come in,” she said. Janice wore her hair down over a gray cable-knit sweater. With jeans and bare feet, she looked years younger than she had in the prison. She was holding a wine glass.

“Can I pour you some?” she asked, and Franny nodded. The entrance hall to Janice’s house was painted yellow and had hardwood floors. “Come on into the kitchen,” said Janice.

Franny followed her, past a framed Jasper Johns poster and pictures of a teenage boy with curly hair. “That’s my son, Daven,” said Janice, stepping over a baby gate that was stretched across the kitchen entrance. Franny followed, and was immediately jumped on by a giant dog.

“For God’s sake!” said Janice. “Sorry about him. Harrison, sit!” She looked apologetically at Franny.

“What is he?” said Franny, accepting a glass of white wine and looking around the large kitchen.

“A Burnese Mountain Dog,” said Janice. “Stuck in Texas,” she added. She patted the dog roughly, and then moved to the stove, where a large pot bubbled. Janice lifted the lid.

“Smells wonderful,” said Franny. The wine was cold in her mouth.

Janice laughed. “It’s from a jar,” she said, pointing to the empty Ragu bottle on the counter. “I can’t cook a damn thing,” she said. “One of the many reasons my marriage ended.” Her smile was rueful.

“What a nice kitchen,” said Franny. The floor and walls were tiled in blue and white.

“Thanks,” said Janice. “The wife of the last warden was big on dinner parties. She got the tiles in Mexico.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Four years. I was in Huntsville before—one of the first female guards.”

“Really?”

Janice stirred the sauce. “Used to be,” she said, “that women couldn’t work in men’s prisons. My husband was a guard, and the only work I could get was filing papers.” She shook her head. “And sewing the sheet,” she said.

“The sheet?”

Janice faced Franny. She took a sip of her wine. “When the first man was given lethal injection in Huntsville,” she said, “they had some dirty old sheet on the gurney. The warden got all sorts of flack for it when the newspapers published the pictures.” She put her hands on her hips. “My husband—John—and I were at a barbecue at the warden’s. We had a few beers and got to talking, and the warden asks me if I’ll sew a new sheet for the gurney. Can you believe it? But what could I do? We needed money, so I sewed the sheet. Cut out all the holes—for the straps, you know—with my pinking shears.”

Franny did not know what to say. “I know, not like life in New York, is it?” Janice said. Franny shrugged. She suddenly felt that calling Janice had been a terrible idea. She wished she could leave, go back to her uncle’s house, pack her bags, and head somewhere else. Or at least go back to her uncle’s house and get drunk.

“I’m so glad you called,” said Janice.

“Yes, well,” said Franny.

“When are you going back to New York?”

“I don’t know,” said Franny. Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back. Janice came close to Franny, and folded her in her arms. Franny flinched, but then gave in to Janice’s warmth. Janice smelled of garlic and shampoo. “I miss him,” said Franny, her face pressed into Janice’s collarbone. “I don’t think I knew him, in the end.”

“Shhh,” said Janice.

“It’s true,” said Franny, wiping beneath her eyes. “I left here so long ago, and I never came home, or asked about his life.”

“He loved you very much. He talked about you,” said Janice.

“Really?”

“Oh, honey,” said Janice. “You were his whole world.” She took Franny’s glass and refilled it. “Why don’t you just relax,” she said. “Just sit at the table there and read some catalogs. Then we’ll have spaghetti. What do you say?”

Franny nodded. She sat down and opened a Lillian Vernon catalog. Janice’s kitchen was warm.

After they had eaten, they went into Janice’s backyard, so Janice could have a cigarette. She offered Franny one and Franny took it. They sat on lawn chairs, listening to crickets.

“Are you happy in New York?” asked Janice.

Franny thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally. Franny looked at Janice, her kind eyes. “How did you end up here?” she said.

Janice paused, as if deciding something. “I married John when I was eighteen,” she said, “I was pregnant, and I thought I loved him. I grew up in a tiny town west of here. Lovelady.” She took the bottle of wine they had brought outside with them, refilled her glass and then Franny’s, settling the bottle between her feet on the ground. She leaned her head back. “Look at the stars,” she said. Franny looked up, saw the bowl of sky dusted with silver.

“I went away to school,” said Franny, “when I was sixteen.”

Janice nodded, sipped her wine. When Franny did not continue, Janice said, “Well, my marriage was fine, at first. John got the job in Huntsville, and I was happy at home, for a while. But the prison changes you.”

“Changes you?” said Franny. “What do you mean?”

“You spend all day enforcing rules. Especially in the men’s prisons, it can get violent. You can smell the aggression—it’s everywhere, this potential for a fight. To keep order, you end up treating the inmates like children. When they disobey, you punish them, usually with force.” Franny was silent, and Janice went on. “John didn’t start out as a violent man. I believe that. But he had it in him, and eventually, he began to bring it home.”