Sleep Toward Heaven (14 page)

Karen knows how it will be for Jackie. She has imagined it a hundred times. The guards will wake Jackie up, like any other day of the 3,734 she has spent on Death Row. They will wake her, and put the handcuffs on her, and the cuffs on her ankles too. Then they will open the first door, and she will leave.

They take you to The Walls prison in Huntsville, Texas. Karen thinks they drive you, but they keep it a secret: maybe you fly. Karen has never been on a plane. You will see Gatestown, the town they know only from television. Katie’s Koffee Haus, the Last Chance Saloon, Andy’s: all the places the guards talk about when they think the women aren’t listening: Let’s grab a beer at Last Chance. How about meatloaf at Andy’s? Get me some coffee at Katie’s!

Maybe you will see Jane Pauley, standing in the street, getting mud on her pumps. Karen doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the order of the places, either. She had never been to Gatestown before her sentence, and for all she knows Andy’s could be next door to Katie’s, or across the street or even on top. There are no windows in Mountain View Unit. Is there a mountain somewhere?

On television, The Walls looks like a frightening place. It is a towering stone structure with a giant clock imbedded above the entrance. Outside The Walls, men who have just been released mingle with reporters and protesters. According to Geraldo Rivera’s special report, the Cafe Texan down the street is especially busy on execution days.

Inside The Walls, Jackie will get up to shower and put on her sparkling dress. She will eat her final meal. She deliberated for weeks about what to have, but in the end she chose steak, mashed potatoes, and a glass of champagne. She will not get the champagne.

Karen will ask for only one thing on her last day, a peach. She thinks about it sometimes, the way the ripe flesh will give, spilling juice on her tongue. The first bite of a sweet peach: the closest Karen will come to love.

During the last meal, the death watchers assemble in the lounge. There are the journalists who have won the lottery—the Texas Department of Criminal Justice picks only a few reporters out of the hundreds who apply to witness an execution. There is Marylin Fisket from the Huntsville Item who always gets in, and writes pretty nice stuff with no gory details: just the outfit and the last words and the time. If you are a journalist from the town where the murder/rape/etc. was committed, you get first dibs to watch. For example, Jackie’s family was killed in Baytown, so Liz Landry from the Baytown Sun will get into the execution. (This is OK with Jackie. Liz wrote to Jackie and has done a feature on her once a year, published some of her letters and crummy drawings.) Nobody can record or videotape anything, only memories and pencils allowed.

The condemned (Jackie, in this case) is allowed five witnesses. Jackie will have her mother, a frail lady who looks like a baby bird; her father, a squat man with Jackie’s same red hair and Jackie’s same meanness; her friends from childhood, Mary and Emily (who wrote letters once in a while and visited infrequently); and a boy named David who wrote Jackie love letters because he is deranged. But Jackie thinks he is cute in the picture he sent (he is leaning against a car and his jeans are tight), so he can watch her die.

Also, the victims’ families get to watch. Jackie doesn’t talk about her dead husband’s parents. Karen guesses they will be there, hoping Jackie’s death will bring them something, some kind of peace.

They will give Jackie a tranquilizer first, and Benadryl to stop her from spasming and choking. It is ten paces from the cell to the execution chamber. A tie-down team fastens six leather straps, and an IV team inserts catheters into both forearms. The warden stands at the head of the table, and the chaplain stands at the foot. There is another official whose job is to tell the reporters about your state of mind. “Jackie is calm,” he will say, or “The prisoner is agitated.”

The needle will go into Jackie’s leg. She will have a chance for a final statement, Warden Gaddon will read Jackie’s death sentence, and then the Lethal Injection Machine will be turned on, releasing sodium thiopental for sedation, pancuronium bromide to relax Jackie’s muscles, and then potassium chloride to stop her heart. The process is four minutes long. When your muscles are asleep, there are still moments that your brain is awake.

“The last breath is the loudest,” Karen heard a guard say. “But the eyes,” he said, “are the worst. Whatever you do, don’t look down into their eyes when they go.”

T
he night before Franny began work at the prison, the parking lot at the Gatestown Motor Inn was full, and she had to park in the street when she went to get a drink. There was a sign taped to the front desk: NO VACANCY.

“What’s going on?” asked Franny.

“Execution,” said Betty, not even looking up from her knitting.

There were two bartenders on duty in the lounge, and every table was full. Franny scanned the room with awe. Everyone was so good-looking, so well-dressed. Franny thought she recognized a blonde woman from TV, but couldn’t place her.

“What a dump, huh?” said a man standing next to Franny in the doorway. He had thick brown hair, combed carefully and sprayed into place. “I’m Christopher,” he said, “News 2, Houston.” His smile was even, his teeth perfect.

“Franny Wren.” She held out her hand.

“Who are you with?” said the man, Christopher, as they settled on barstools. “Are you local? You don’t look familiar.”

“I’m not with anyone. I’m a doctor.”

To Franny’s relief, this seemed to satisfy him. She suddenly felt frumpy in her baggy jeans and cotton sweater. “Can I buy you a drink?” asked Christopher. His face looked as if it were made of plastic: shiny, pink, slick.

“Sure. White wine.”

Christopher signaled the bartender, the blond boy, who looked at Franny quizzically. He filled a glass with wine. Franny did not meet his eyes.

“So,” said Christopher, “what are you doing here?”

Franny thought fast. “Vacation?” she said. The bartender lifted an eyebrow.

Christopher nodded. Luckily, he did not want to talk about Franny. “Well, you know why I’m here,” said Christopher. “The Hairdresser of Death.” He sipped his martini. “She gets the needle tomorrow,” he said. “As I’m sure you know.”

“Oh,” said Franny.

“Yeah, I’ve got to cover the protests, her last meal, last words, et cetera,” said Christopher. “Interview the victim’s family, the hairdresser’s mom, blah, blah.” He bit into an olive.

“Blah, blah?” said Franny.

“You’re not from here,” said Christopher, and without waiting for her response, he said, “Let me tell you something. If it weren’t a woman getting the needle, I wouldn’t even be here. Executions get boring in Texas.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Bo-ring,” he said, and then he ordered another martini.

The bar was loud and boisterous. Franny could hear laughter, the clink of ice in glasses. There was a festive atmosphere, as if something wonderful were about to happen. “So you believe in the death penalty?” said Franny.

“Oh, Christ,” said Christopher. “I don’t have an opinion. You’ve got to stay impartial, that’s the thing. I’m here for the story, the tears, blood and guts.” He drew in on his cigarette. “I don’t give a shit about the death penalty,” he said. “If you want to know the truth.”

“But doesn’t it make you sad?” she said. “Watching someone die?”

“No,” said Christopher.

Franny’s wine was dull and sour, but she finished it anyway, and ordered another. Christopher told her about Houston, about television, and eventually about his ex-wife. Franny tried to listen, but kept turning her head, following the sound of raucous laughter. She saw Dan Rather in the corner of the room. The piano player belted out Cole Porter. Christopher smelled like peanuts.

“So my wife, my ex-wife, she tells me I have no depth of feeling,” said Christopher. “I ask you, what does that mean?”

Franny shrugged, and drank more wine. Christopher put his hand on her knee, and it was warm. She did not move it. He took her hand, traced its lines. “You’re quite beautiful,” he said. But when he asked her to his room, she said no.

“I have to get up early in the morning,” she said.

Christopher gave her his card. “Call me if you’re ever in Houston,” he said. “And, you know, if she doesn’t get an appeal, the Highway Honey will get the needle in a few weeks, so I’ll be back.”

Back at Uncle Jack’s, Franny picked up the phone. She dialed the area code for Manhattan, but then held the receiver in her hand. She could easily abandon her promise to Janice Gaddon, call the hospital back and cancel her leave of absence. It was so tempting to slip back inside her life in New York. But Franny wanted to understand what had moved Uncle Jack. She wanted to know what she was capable of. Franny bit her lip, and hung up the phone.

“
Are you going to mail the letter?” asked Marc. We lay in my bed, bands of light from the window crossing our legs. I knew I should feel ashamed, or at least ridiculous, lying entwined with a young boy, but I felt happy. Happiness: a simple emotion (and surely related to sex) but it had been a long time since I had felt it. I had forgotten how joy could run through your veins.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What does the letter say?”

“Are you going to put me in your novel?” I said, pulling my hand away.

He smiled. “That’s not really fair,” he said. “Besides, it’s finished. I sent it off yesterday.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a mess of a book about my father, mostly. He’s pretty much an asshole. I wrote it to try to figure him out, I think. Isn’t everyone’s first novel about themselves?” He sat up, and pulled a package of cigarettes from his pants.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I said, my voice panicked. I was about to say, because Henry hates cigarettes.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” I said. “You want to read it? The letter to Karen?”

“If you want me to.” I stood, pulling the sheet around myself, and went to get the letter. When I brought it back to the bedroom, he had pulled on his clothes, and I felt stupid in the sheet, like some toga queen. It was my house and my lover—I should have felt in control of the situation, but I did not. Suddenly, watching this boy open my letter (taking his John Lennon glasses from the bedside table, sliding them over his nose to read), I felt scared. He read slowly, stopping once to look up at me and smile sadly. I was so tired of being pitied.

After a minute, I couldn’t watch. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a top and went to sit on the porch swing. Across the street, Mrs. Murphy (who worked at Sears and set out a recycle bin full of Miller Lite cans every Thursday) sat on her front step, throwing birdseed out over her lawn. She waved to me. “How are you, honey?” she called.

“Fine, Mrs. Murphy!” I said.

“You want a beer, honey?” She held up her can as if to encourage me in daytime drinking. She wore a dingy pink bathrobe and a net of some sort over her hair. A neighbor had told me that Mrs. Murphy had at least seventeen cats, but she didn’t let any of them outside. Periodically, her screen door got scratched clear through, and Henry had gone over to help her repair it a few times.

“How many cats did you count?” I once asked him.

“Oh God, a million,” he’d said, laughing and putting his hand over his eyes. We had collapsed with laughter, feeling invincible, feeling that our happiness was something we were entitled to.

I told Mrs. Murphy I wasn’t ready for a beer yet and she shrugged and opened another for herself. I had almost forgotten about Marc when I looked up and saw him standing inside the door, trying to unlatch it to join me outside. I jumped up, and stepped into the house. “Don’t want the neighbors to see me?” said Marc, laughing.

“It’s just hot,” I said.

“Liar.”

“Marc,” I said. “I think you should go.”

“Hey,” he said, taking my shoulders in his hands. I shook my head and blinked back tears.

“Please,” I said. “Please just go.” He stepped back, his palms open as if waiting for something, a present, a promise.

“Can I call you?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He looked bewildered, but turned to go. Before he stepped out the door, he said, “You wrote a beautiful letter, Celia. You should send it.”

“I will,” I said. “Thanks.” And then he left.

I went into my bedroom and took all the sheets off the bed and put them in the washer. I took the cups we had drunk tea from and washed them clean. There was a message on my answering machine: Hi, Celia? It’s Jenny. I, well, I guess I was hoping you’d come to the baby shower. But, well, maybe we could have lunch? You know the number, anyway. I’ll be here. I pressed the Delete button, erasing the message.

Marc had left my letter on the table by the door. I put it in a new envelope, addressed it, and put it on my desk. I would take the letter to Claudel on Monday, and he would mail it to Death Row.

K
aren wakes to the sound of metal snapping shut. It is August first, and Jackie is standing outside Karen’s cell. The guards hold Jackie tightly, and chains connect the cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She is looking into Karen’s eyes. “Oh God,” she says. “Oh God, Karen.”

Karen sticks her hand outside her cell, and Jackie grabs on. “Hey now,” says one guard, and then another says, “Let her be, Joe.”

“You will be clean,” says Karen, quietly. “You’ll start over.”

“I will?” says Jackie.

“Yes,” says Karen. “Don’t be afraid.” Jackie’s hand is cold. After a long moment, she lets go.

By now, everyone is awake. Even the guards seem nervous; they do not stop Jackie when she tries to say goodbye. She starts with Sharleen, “Goodbye, Satan Killer.” Sharleen does not look up, but closes her eyes, and nods.

Jackie moves on to Tiffany. “You’ll get out of here. You’re innocent, right?”

“Right,” says Tiffany. She reaches between the bars to touch Jackie’s hand. “I shouldn’t have let you win that last Go Fish,” she says. Jackie laughs weakly.

Veronica sticks her face right up to the bars and kisses Jackie’s forehead. “Bless you, honey,” she says.