Sleep Toward Heaven (13 page)

“He hit you?”

“It was what he knew. When the baby acted up, he didn’t know how to reason anymore. He told me it was the same as the inmates, that he couldn’t handle messiness anymore, in any part of his life. The lines began to blur in his mind. Of course he was always sorry.”

“So you left him,” said Franny.

“I wish I could tell you that, but it isn’t true. John left me, and the baby, fell for someone else. I was so young, we both were. So I got a job, and eventually they let women become guards, and then…”

“Warden.”

“I’m one of the only female wardens in the state,” said Janice.

Franny felt lightheaded. “Do you…take it home?” she asked.

“Not yet,” said Janice. “Maybe some people have it in them and some don’t.”

Franny was silent. “How often did my Uncle Jack come to the prison?” she asked finally.

“Once a week. We’re desperate without him. Most of the doctors who apply to work in prisons…” She shook her head. “Your uncle was one of a kind. He really cared about the women, raised their standard of care. But now, I don’t know what will happen.”

Franny took a long sip of her wine. She opened her mouth, but then closed it.

“What?” said Janice.

Franny shook her head. “Nothing.”

Janice turned to Franny, put a hand on her hand. “Please,” said Janice. “What?”

There was a quiet moment, and then Franny said, “I could come in. I could help. Just until you find a permanent replacement. Why not?”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t know,” said Franny. And then she said, “Yes.”

I was talking to Henry’s parents and eating a peach. “I just …don’t think it’s necessary,” I told them. They were calling from their home in Vermont. I was resting my feet on Priscilla, who was on the floor. Priscilla did not like summer. She lay on her back, exposing her pink stomach and wriggling around. The whole street smelled sweet, and azaleas burst like fireworks from their buds. It was almost shameful in Texas this time of year. Everything open, lusty, and raw.

“We need to see it,” said Henry’s mother, Ursula. “I’m not proud of it, Celia, but there it is.” I sighed, and looked at Henry’s watering can. I could not remember the last time I had touched it. Henry’s gardening tools still hung in a row in the garage. I hired a neighbor boy named Seth to mow the lawn every other week, but let the garden go to hell. I couldn’t bear to kneel down in that fertile soil, the smell reminding me. Henry’s tomato vines were wild; I asked Seth to leave those alone.

“We’re looking at plane fares,” added Henry’s father.

“Can you recommend a place to stay there in…” Ursula paused.

“Huntsville,” I said. “They take them to Huntsville.”

“Yes,” said Ursula. “Huntsville, Texas. Where do we even fly in?”

Henry’s parents had never come to visit us during our marriage. They had been angry about the elopement, horrified to hear about Vegas and the Elvis chapel. I hadn’t met them in person until their son was already dead. “I’ll do some planning,” I said. “Why don’t you fly in here? I can show you around…”

“Celia!” cried Ursula. “This is hardly a sightseeing tour.”

“Oh, right,” I said.

“Jesus,” said Henry’s father. “What’s the matter with you?” I knew they saw me as some hussy Henry had fallen for. I knew they thought his short time with me meant nothing, and the Henry they knew was all the Henry there was.

My mother felt the same way about me, asked me often when was I coming home to Wisconsin, where I belonged. But I have changed, and I belong in Texas now, where I knew Henry. Where I loved him, and where we sat on our porch swing and watched the moon.

“Well,” I said. “Keep me posted, will you?”

“Yes, dear,” said Ursula. She was a hippie who still wore her hair long and parted in the middle. She made batik T-shirts to sell at craft fairs despite the fact that she was rich. She drove a VW van, and only used the Miata when the VW broke down.

“I’m sorry to snap at you,” said Ursula. “I’m just edgy. It’s not your fault.”

“You think it is my fault, though, don’t you?” I said. I bit my lip, and looked at Priscilla, who stood and raised her eyebrows at my audacity. I sipped my Coke and listened to the flustered silence.

“What?” said Henry’s father.

“Did we hear you correctly?” said Ursula.

“Forget it,” I said. Priscilla sighed and sank down, all four paws stretched against the floorboards.

I saw a figure come walking up the street with a loping gait. I recognized with a mixture of horror and happiness that it was my boy, Marc. (Does he mow lawns, I wondered? For a split second, I imagined keeping him around, letting him write all day while I brought him martinis and typed his manuscripts on one of those old typewriters that clicks away romantically. I would be the Sugar Momma with my big librarian salary.)

“I’m going to have to run,” I said into the phone. Ursula sniffed. “So, keep me posted,” I said.

“August twenty-fifth, then?” said Henry’s father. “Do you think she’d ask for an appeal at the last minute?”

“Some of them do that, you know,” said Ursula.

“I have no idea,” I said. “How could I have any idea?”

“Goodbye, dear,” said Ursula, and I heard her phone line click. I knew that Henry’s father was in for a big rant.

“Goodbye,” I said. Henry’s father hung up without saying anything. A month after the wedding, he had asked me to call him “Dad.”

I swung on my porch swing, bit into my peach. Marc waved shyly and ambled up the walk. Priscilla lifted her head, gave me that tilted look of curiosity, and then watched Marc. Perhaps she thought he was selling candy bars for Little League. Perhaps she thought he had come to check the termite stations, or deliver a package. Perhaps Priscilla even knew that Marc and I were summer lovers. The song “Summer Loving” from Grease popped into my head. I bit down laughter and noted that I was heading rapidly toward certifiable. This was turning into some weekend, all right. And then he was standing before me, his pretentious hairdo as cute as ever.

He held my letter to Karen Lowens in his hand. “Your address,” he said sheepishly.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Nice house,” he said. I nodded. He said, “Nice dog.” He smelled of all his lotions and cologne. Henry had never even worn deodorant. The boy shuffled his feet on my welcome mat.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Yes,” said the boy, Marc.

I stood, opened the door. He came inside.

R
eporters, reporters, reporters. All of a sudden, everybody cares about Jackie. Karen can’t hear the people outside, but she can see them on TV. Helicopters, people with signs, reporters with blond hair and gray comb-overs. Everybody is talking to everybody, and there is Jackie, and she is the same. She is sewing her sequins and staying away from Sharleen. Sharleen has crazy things in her cell: stars drawn with chalk, letters from her Satan Killer boyfriend, Markus. On TV, Markus is scary-looking, even now that they have shaved off his dreadlocks for his court appearances. The letters from Markus have big sections cut out, or covered over with ink. Who knows what those parts say? Karen does not want to know.

It is Jackie’s last day. Some strange friends have visited her over the years, and her poor mother, who is white as chalk, but since she killed her whole family, there haven’t been too many care packages. Now Jane Pauley and Stone Phillips are staying at the Gatestown Motor Inn. On TV, Karen sees Andy’s Home Cookin’ and the Last Chance Saloon. Reporters line the sidewalks, talking to locals, and there is a segment of “Good Morning, America” inside Katie’s Koffee Haus. Jackie had her choice of guests on visiting day.

On television, Jackie is calm and pretty. She watches herself, eating Doritos and sitting on a patio chair. “If only I had some conditioner,” she murmurs. During TV interviews, she plays with her hair, and when she reaches up, you can see the metal handcuffs.

The interviews take place inside the green room, where there is no glass wall separating Jackie from the reporters. Nobody knows how the media gets permission to visit in the green room. Dan and Jimmy Quinton would like to know.

The reporters pretend to look sympathetic, but Karen can see they are vultures, picking at the little meat left on Jackie’s bones. “Are you frightened?” asks one reporter, cocking her head.

Jackie presses her lips together (Tiffany has lent her some lip gloss). “I was insane at the time that the incident occurred,” she says. “I should not be put to death. I am begging the governor for mercy.”

“But are you afraid?” The reporter sounds concerned.

“Yes,” says Jackie. She blinks and tries to cry. She has been practicing in her cell. She says that if she thinks about her mother she can make herself cry. She blinks and blinks, but no tears come. The reporter nods slowly, and then looks at the camera.

“Our time is up,” she says. “And now to you, Fred, with an update on the Texas Tech game.”

Jackie does not seem to believe that they will kill her. Yes, she has sewn her dress, and given interviews, even cried in some, but she does not really think it will be over, bang, like that.

It seems unthinkable. Karen has been on Death Row for five years. Every hour is like the one before it. Everybody knows what their dates are, and the order in which they are supposed to die: Jackie, Karen, Veronica, Tiffany, Sharleen. But nobody has died yet, so they are all safe. They have grown accustomed to the slow, methodical rhythm of their days. In the morning, if Jackie is taken from them, put in her dress and executed—if Jackie is taken, they will all be taken. And Karen will be next.

Karen opens Ellen’s book. She runs her eyes for the hundredth time over the first words: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”

Ice. Karen loves the word. It is so far away from her hot cell, the smell of sweat, and the reality of Jackie’s impending death. Karen closes her eyes, and sees a graceful ice skater in her mind’s eye, gliding seamlessly over a frozen mirror. The skater has long hair; it streams behind her as she moves, bending her knees and preparing to jump, preparing to hurl herself forward into the cold air.

The news has come: there will be no stay for Jackie. Tonight, a made-for-TV movie based on her life will air. It is called Hairdresser of Death. Drew Barrymore is playing Jackie. In the previews, she looks off-balance in a red wig, and sits at a salon having her nails done by Farrah Fawcett. “What’s on your mind?” Farrah Fawcett asks Drew Barrymore in the preview. “You look distracted.”

Drew gives Farrah a secretive look. “You don’t even want to know, Lou Anne,” she says, and Farrah says, “Oh Jackie, I do.”

Even Jackie agrees that it is good Farrah is back on her feet, playing lead roles. Jackie says her traitorous friend Lou Anne is actually fat as a house and with thin hair to boot, but oh well. As for Drew Barrymore, Jackie is disappointed. She wants Julia Roberts to play her. Even Jennifer Aniston, with a dye job. But the E.T. girl? Jackie looks down at her hands. Fuck, she says, the E.T. girl.

They know they will not be allowed to watch Hairdresser of Death. As soon as it comes on, the secret control room will switch the channel to PBS.

Tiffany and Veronica sit with Jackie in front of the TV. “The governor,” says Tiffany. “He could come down any time, Jackie. All he has to do is say the word.”

“He ain’t going to say shit, Tiffany.”

Tiffany opens her bubblegum lips, but remains silent.

“Maybe I should talk to Moira,” says Jackie. Moira is the prison chaplain, a thin woman who wears headbands and white blouses. She runs the daily Bible study in Mountain View Unit, arriving in a nervous flurry and reading aloud in a weak voice. After she reads, she says, “Now would anyone like to share some thoughts?” Usually, no one shares anything but complaints about the food or prison conditions, but Moira listens carefully anyway, nodding encouragingly and sighing where appropriate.

“Whatever you want, honey,” says Veronica.

Jackie sighs. She seems to grow smaller by the day. “Hey, Satan Killer,” calls Jackie. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Nothing,” says Sharleen.

“What does Satan have to say about dying?” Jackie makes a sarcastic face, but her tone is sincere.

Sharleen stands and comes to the edge of her cell. She does push-ups and sit-ups and gets bigger every day. Karen is waiting for the day when Sharleen will pull the bars from the floor. “Satan doesn’t have no time for your last-minute shit,” she says. And then she turns and goes back inside her cell.

“Jesus,” murmurs Tiffany. “I mean “‘jeepers,’” she amends.

Jackie’s eyes fill with tears. In the time Karen has known Jackie—twenty-four hours a day for five years—Karen has never seen her this way. Veronica stands up, pulling her elderly bulk along with her. “You’ve got no business being such a goddamn bitch, Sharleen!” she says, in a voice that is hard, and unlike her. She makes her way to Sharleen’s cell.

“What have you got to say about it?” says Sharleen.

“Jackie’s going to die tomorrow, Sharleen, and you’re going to die, too. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done, but everybody deserves some kindness on their last day.”

Sharleen does not reply.

“Apologize,” says Veronica.

Sharleen spits, “Fuck you.” She puts her meaty hands on her hips.

Karen closes her eyes. She does not want a fight, not now. The air is already too heavy and dark. But the words come flying, and the smell of ammonia and vomit is tinged with heat, burned. The sounds of slaps and screaming.

The guards come quickly, and Veronica is taken to the Medical Center. Sharleen says, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” but they haul her off to solitary. When Hairdresser of Death comes on a few hours later, the guards shut off the TV.

Karen does not believe she can find God by meeting with Moira. God is inside, Karen thinks. He becomes visible when you die, to take your hand and lead you to a better place. And yet the silence of the evening, broken only by the shuffling of cards as Jackie and Tiffany play, feels like a gift from someone.