Sleep Toward Heaven (2 page)

“Satan Killer?” says Jackie. “Why don’t you answer me?”

It seems to Karen that Sharleen is asleep. She faces the wall in her cell, and has her knees drawn up. Karen tries to remember being nineteen. She had not yet met Ellen, and had just started to turn tricks, still got high from beer. Karen remembers being on a bus, eating a cheeseburger half-wrapped in paper. She had been going from Houston to New Orleans, and had hope inside her. It makes Karen’s head hurt to think of those times, before she had known that life would always suck, no matter where you went or who was sticking it in you.

Jackie is getting worked up. She kicks at the bars of Sharleen’s cell. “Wake the fuck up, Satan Killer!” she says, over and over again. When Sharleen does not move, Jackie goes inside the cell.

Between breakfast and bedtime, their cell doors are open so they can stretch and walk around the three hundred square feet of concrete, which they call “the patio.” Their cells line one side of the patio, and a metal table and chairs are attached to the concrete. Above the table is the television, bolted high on the wall. Opposite the cells is the chute, where the guards watch the women’s movements and listen to their words. Next to the cells the cage, which is kept locked whether or not the women are inside it, holds the row of sewing machines.

Jackie sits on the floor next to Sharleen’s bed. “Why don’t you answer me?” she says, right in Sharleen’s ear.

There is a muffled reply.

“Because you what?” says Jackie.

Sharleen whispers again, a faint sound that Karen cannot make out.

“Damn right you scared!” says Jackie. She laughs, and then her laughter stops. All Karen can hear is a smack, and then another sound, more like a thud against concrete. Then there is only the sound of the TV laughing.

The guards from the chute come running, and then there are more guards, and then a stretcher. Sharleen’s voice is quiet and small and she tells them that Jackie fell and hit her head on the floor. “I don’t want no trouble,” says Sharleen.

That night, they are all searched. While they stand in their underwear, they look at the floor, and do not talk to each other. Karen’s underwear is worn and yellow, like Veronica’s. Tiffany has Calvin Klein underwear, from her husband. Sharleen, who has a T-shirt instead of a bra, is big and muscular, just as she was in Karen’s dream. She looks as if she could lift a house. Her legs shake when the guard sticks a finger in. When she has been searched, she goes right back to bed, turning her face to the wall. Above her bed is Tiffany’s bird, wings spread in flight. Next to the picture is Veronica’s word: SERENITY.

Karen thinks about things to say to Sharleen. She wants to tell her that she is not alone in knowing what it feels like to tear through human life. She wants to tell Sharleen that hatred ebbs to a steady ache. Instead, she mixes Tang with cream cheese from the commissary. The mixture is bright and soft. She spreads it on a plate, takes only a mouthful, and slides the plate into Sharleen’s cell.

Sharleen, she does not say, there is such joy in breathing out, knowing you can breathe in again.

T
he graveyard smelled of fresh earth and rain. Franny’s face was raw, her hair wet knives on her cheek. She balled her hands inside her coat pockets and willed herself not to cry. The priest said something about God’s plan, and mystery. There was no mystery about it. Franny bit the words down. It was cancer, it had metastasized, eaten Anna’s cells, refused every form of therapy, even burning the marrow from her bones. “God’s mystery,” whispered Franny, closing her eyes. If only she could believe in such a thing.

Anna’s father was sobbing, his mouth open and his tongue exposed. Anna’s mother stared straight ahead at the tiny coffin. She wore a black suit and her platinum hair seemed inappropriate, bright. Franny fought the urge to walk over to them, put Mr. Gillison’s tongue back in his mouth and cover Mrs. Gillison’s hair with something. That black piece of fabric on the coffin, maybe.

Franny had known they made coffins for children, of course she had known, but the shock of seeing one put to use had almost made her cry out. The coffin was shiny, covered in flowers and Beanie Baby dolls. Franny had not attended the open-casket wake. According to Clyde, they had put a wig on Anna, the long red curls she had missed so dearly.

The priest stopped talking, and the funeral man stood by with a big frown on his face. He shook his head dramatically, as if he cared, as if he didn’t go to ten funerals a day.

The graveyard was a vibrant green. The Gillisons’ friends were well-dressed, weepy, and shell-shocked. Many of them had visited Anna in the hospital, and Franny recognized their faces: the woman in the cape had brought Anna a puzzle, the heavyset man had brought macadamia nut cookies. (Anna had eaten them all and then puked them up half an hour later, Franny’s fingers stroking Anna’s bare head.) Franny stood away from the crowd, alone. She knew how they felt, and she felt the same way: it was her fault.

Mrs. Gillison stepped forward to say something, took a breath, but then just stood and stared, twisting something in her hands: a Beanie Baby? It flashed, dull orange, through her fingers. Franny saw it was the lion, Anna’s favorite. Finally, Anna’s mother reached out with a trembling hand to place the doll on the coffin. She let go too early, recoiling from the hole in which her daughter would be buried, and the lion fell, missing the coffin, into the earth.

“Get it out,” she said, and then she began to scream, “Get it out! Get it out!” The funeral man looked dismayed. Franny could see him weighing his options.

Finally, someone stepped forward. An uncle, Franny thought. He knelt in the wet grass, and reached underneath the coffin, rooted around. Everyone was frozen. This was not supposed to happen at a funeral. It was too much.

Franny pressed her thumb down on her engagement ring. The diamond cut into her finger, and she pushed until she felt her skin tear. The muddy lion was back in Mrs. Gillison’s hands, and Mr. Gillison was trying to take it away. Everyone looked on nervously, they really had to be going, there was a football game tonight, and dinner to be prepared and eaten, sex with your lover, life, life. Franny wanted a drink. A cigarette.

Mrs. Gillison was holding tight to the lion. Mr. Gillison had stopped crying, and watched dumbly as the funeral man and his assistant began to turn the crank that would lower Anna’s body into the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the priest had said.

Franny had told Nat not to come to the funeral when he had offered. You’re too busy, she told him. Children may come and children may go, but the gigs go on. She had smiled, as if this was a joke, and he had stared at her. She knew she wasn’t being reasonable, but she didn’t care. It was startling not to care, for she was a person who had always cared too much.

Oh, that little girl’s body. Franny knew it, inside and out. The liver riddled with tumors, the stomach sour and mean, the eyes. Franny would never forget Anna’s eyes: green with orange fire. They would lock with Franny’s when the worst was on. And when Franny had nothing left to give, Anna’s eyes had closed.

Clyde Duncan, Anna’s official doctor, had given up on Anna months before. He had walked in one afternoon when Franny was standing at Anna’s bedside, watching Anna sleep. “Dr. Wren,” Clyde had said. He put his hand on Franny’s shoulder. “It’s over,” he said. And because of this—because Clyde had given up on Anna—Franny held on. But he had been right.

The rain pelted the small tent over the gravesite. Someone was making an announcement about refreshments. Refreshments! The Gillisons lived on the Upper East Side, Franny knew. She had been to their apartment when it still smelled of potpourri, and not of vomit. She had convinced Anna’s parents to try the transplant. It was a faint hope, but a hope nonetheless. She remembered their pinched faces, their lost expressions, hands that wandered in their laps. “Just tell us what to do,” Mr. Gillison had said.

When everyone was gone, Franny came closer to the grave. The funeral man and his assistant had dropped their sad looks and were discussing logistics, but as soon as she approached, their eyes filled with misery again. “Are you a relative?” said the assistant sadly, “a cousin, maybe?”

“No,” said Franny, “I was her doctor.” The funeral man stood up straight, and pushed his shoulders back.

“She was very sick,” he said, finally. “I hear,” he added.

“I made her go through a bone marrow transplant when there was no chance of her making it,” Franny said. The man nodded, furrowed his brow, looked out the corner of his eye at his watch. “She could have died in peace,” said Franny, “at home, with her family. But I wouldn’t let her.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said the assistant.

“I burned the marrow out of her bones. She died in terrible pain. It was my fault.” Franny looked up, and both men were staring at her. “I bet you hear a lot of graveside confessions,” said Franny.

“Not really,” said the funeral man, at the same time the assistant said, “Yes.”

“Thank you,” said Franny. She took a last glance at Anna’s grave, and turned to go.

“Don’t mention it,” called the assistant.

The Gillisons’ building had an elevator man. He was old, and had white hair. He smelled of cigars. “Seven,” said Franny. He nodded and closed the elevator doors.

“Going to the Gillisons’?” he said.

“Yes.”

The elevator man was silent until they’d reached the seventh floor. “That little tyke drove me nuts,” he said. Franny turned to him and smiled. “She used to roller-skate in the lobby,” he said.

“I have to go,” said Franny.

The man opened the door. “Sure, sure,” he said. “I always told her she’d kill herself, roller-skating in the lobby.”

The door to the Gillisons’ apartment was closed. Franny rang the bell, and a tall woman in a purple pantsuit opened the door. Her hair was braided and affixed to her head. “Come in, come in,” she said, “I’m Carol’s sister, Anna’s aunt. And you are—”

“Franny Wren.”

“Hello, hello,” she said, and stretched her arm to point to the bedroom. “You can put your coat…” She stopped. “Dr. Wren?” she said. Franny nodded. The woman pursed her lips, and crossed her arms. “I’d like to have a word with you,” she said.

“Of course,” said Franny.

“Would you like some wine?”

“Yes.”

A young cousin was called to take Franny’s coat, and Anna’s aunt took Franny by the arm. In the dining room, platters of cheese and meat were laid out in circles, like eyes. There were rolls in a basket and bottles of wine lined up on the sideboard. Anna’s aunt pulled a cork from a bottle of red wine with great effort and poured two glasses. She led the way through the crowd into the kitchen, where they could be alone. The kitchen was cluttered with Tupperware containers. A cat circled warily. Franny sipped her wine.

“My name is Georgina,” said Anna’s aunt. Franny nodded and smiled weakly. Georgina wore heels with pants, a look that Franny had always admired and been frightened of. “I’m a naturopath in Australia,” said Georgina. Here we go, thought Franny. She took another sip of wine. The cat had begun to lick at a dish of what looked to be cream cheese. “I have some questions,” said Georgina, her eyes flashing, “about my niece’s course of treatment.”

“The cat is licking the cream cheese,” said Franny.

“What?” Georgina was almost shrieking.

“The cat,” Franny repeated. She shook her head. “Forget it. Please, feel free to ask whatever you’d like.”

“My primary concern,” said Georgina, “is why a naturopath was never consulted in the matter of Anna’s ailment.”

“That is a very interesting question,” said Franny. She did not say, And where were you?

“Hm,” said Georgina. It was the sound of a sniff.

“First of all,” said Franny, taking a cookie from an open box on the counter, “I’m just finishing my residency. I took a special interest in Anna, but her primary doctor is actually Clyde Duncan.” She took a bite of the cookie, a butter cookie lined with chocolate.

“You advised my sister, did you not?”

“Yes, I did. As I said, I took a special interest in Anna. I loved her, actually.” Franny took another cookie. “I gave the best advice I could. I’m not well-trained in natural therapy, but of course the Gillisons were free to consult with whomever they wanted.”

Georgina raised an eyebrow. “I think many alternative therapies can be very effective,” said Franny, “but Anna’s cancer was quite advanced.” She felt tears, a hot ball in her throat. “There was really nothing that could be done.” Franny chewed her cookie slowly. She felt it would be rude to crunch. Georgina nodded, thinking. The cat continued to lick the dish. On the refrigerator, a scrap of legal paper held up with a ladybug magnet: “TUESDAY, 4PM, A. TO DR. WREN.”

Mrs. Gillison smelled of gin and Chanel No. 5. She held Franny too tightly for too long, and appeared to be shivering. “I know you did all you could,” she said, “I know you did all you could.” When she released Franny, she said, “Would you like a shrimp roll?” Franny shook her head. They stood in the doorway between the living room and the dining room. People hovered nearby, pressing, keeping an eye on Mrs. Gillison. “You’re the only one,” said Mrs. Gillison, the ice in her glass clinking as she rocked it back and forth. “You’re the only one who knows a thing.”

Franny looked down. Mrs. Gillison drained her drink. A man took the glass for a refill. Keeping Mrs. Gillison good and drunk seemed to be the point. “She should have died here, though,” said Mrs. Gillison. “We should not have let you take her back.”

The man returned with a full glass of gin. “We should not,” said Mrs. Gillison, “have given her back!” She stumbled, unbalanced by the volume of her voice, perhaps, but then righted herself, and patted her hair. “Thank you, Jimmy,” she said to the man. After a deep sip, she asked, “Who’s next?” and a mousy woman fell into her embrace.

Why didn’t Franny go home? She had a fiancé, after all, and a cat. She had made her appearance and paid her respects. Why did she keep eating cookies and drinking wine? After a time, she found herself looking at the shiny forehead of a man who spoke to her intently. “And some people think I’m selfish,” the man was saying.