Prayers the Devil Answers (32 page)

Mr. Lidaker raised a forefinger for caution. “All in good time. First you want to make sure that the prisoner's hands are secured behind his back—so's he doesn't try to clutch at the rope, as anybody would. Then someone must tie a rope around his legs below the knees to keep him from kicking out when he drops. The last thing—after he's been offered a chance to say any last words—is that a black hood is placed over the condemned man's head.”

I shivered. “Yes. I wouldn't want strangers to see my death throes.”

“Well, that's one way of looking at it, but I think it's mostly out of consideration for the crowd. They say the face of a hanged man is a dreadful sight to behold: bulging eyes, tongue stuck out. You wouldn't want folks to have to look on that.”

“If they're brazen enough to come to an execution, then I'm not concerned with any unpleasantness they may see, but I'll grant you the hood is a good idea. Where do we get one?”

He shrugged. “I don't reckon there's all that much demand for
them. Not much to it. About half a yard of black cotton cloth with eye holes cut in it.”

“Thank you. I'll take care of it. But there is one more bit of carpentry that I need you to do, at the county's expense, of course.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Build a coffin. Just a simple pine box will do.”

He nodded. “That's all a man needs.”

“It's a bad business, Mrs. Robbins.” Rev. McKee shook his head sadly. “I don't say that the poor fellow shouldn't have to answer for his sins, but this business of making his death a public spectacle puts me in mind of the Roman Coliseum.”

I nodded. “I can't say I'm in favor of it myself, sir.”

I was ticking off things on my chore list to be accomplished before the execution, and when I got to the part about religious services for the prisoner, I decided to ask my own minister to provide them. Lonnie Varden had shown no interest at all in the proceedings, and he probably would have preferred to have no minister at all, but tradition required it.

I found Rev. McKee in an old straw hat and overalls, tending to the tomato plants in the backyard of the parsonage. When I told him my business would not take up much of his time, he went on weeding as we talked, while I settled myself on an upturned wooden bucket and watched. The sun had turned Rev. McKee's bald spot quite pink, and his work clothes were smeared with red clay, but he hadn't let the circumstances impair his dignity.

“I'm sorry that the state requires a public execution, sir, but surely you agree with me that the condemned man is entitled to spiritual counsel?”

“Of course he is. Everyone is. If he repents, his soul can be saved, even though his earthly body is forfeit.”

“He hasn't asked for any minister in particular, so I thought seeing as how Albert and I were in your congregation, I'd ask if you'd oblige him.”

“It is my Christian duty to minister to anyone in need, Miz Robbins, but I confess that it troubles me that the state's executioner should be a woman.”

“I can't help that, sir. I took an oath,” and for good measure I added, “before God.”

“I suppose you did. And I would say that by and large you have discharged your duties well.”

“Thank you.”

“That boy you brought to me—Davis Howell—he and his sister are settled with a nice family out on Brummett's Creek. I'm glad you were able to get help for them.”

“Anybody would have done the same,” I said, hoping that was true. I was glad to know that those children's lives no longer depended on what they could find in trash bins. But carrying out the execution was as much a part of my job as helping those in need, and I was mindful of that.

Rev. McKee spent a couple of minutes picking bugs off the tomato leaves, while he thought things over. Finally he said, “I suppose somebody has to do it. The execution will go forward whether I am there or not.”

“That's true, sir. And I know the prisoner will be in good hands with you.”

He mopped his brow with a bandana. “I'll do my best.” He pulled a big ripe tomato off the nearest plant and passed it to me. “Apprise me of the particulars when you have worked them out.”

chapter seventeen

W
e were now a day and a half away from the execution and already my hands were shaking. I wondered what they would do if I was too sick to go through with it. I sat in my office, trying to figure out how to cope with everything, and flinching every time the phone rang. I reached for the spoon to stir my coffee, and my hand was shaking so much that the spoon clattered to the floor. Seeing that fallen spoon at my feet made me remember Eunice Greer and her peculiar story about the Dumb Supper. I hoped she wasn't around trying to tell it to any of the reporters, but I had promised to pass the story along to Lonnie Varden, and there wasn't much time left to do that.

I went to the cell, hoping to find the prisoner calmer than I was. He wasn't sleeping much these days, but aside from being thinner than before, he seemed to be doing as well as could be expected. He was kneeling on the floor of the cell, hunched over the roll of butcher paper, staring at the images that were beginning to take shape. I couldn't tell much about the picture yet. He had sketched in the shapes of the boys' faces, and the upper part of their bodies, but aside from that only the eyes looked real, but I could tell he hadn't finished with them yet. Eyes must be the hardest thing to get right in a portrait. They're what make a person who they are, I think.

When he saw me, he rocked back on his haunches and held up the stub of charcoal. “It should last me long enough to finish this. The charcoal point keeps getting dull, but I found that by putting it up against the cinderblock wall and spinning it, I can get it shaped into the tapered point I need to make a fine line.”

“Well, I'm glad you can get it to work like that, because I couldn't let you have a knife to sharpen it with. I could get you another piece if you need it, though. That willow tree isn't far from my house.”

“It looks like this one is going to last—well, I guess it'll last,” he laughed a little, trying to sound unconcerned, “longer than I will, I suppose, but this handkerchief I'm using is getting so dirty it's useless. I use it to smudge the lines for lightening and blending effects, so I can't do much without it. I'll need to swap it for a clean one pretty soon. You take this one away and rinse it out, and bring me a fresh one, if you have one about.”

“I'll do that.” Through the bars he handed me the charcoal-­smeared scrap of linen. I was going to stuff it in my pocket, but it was so dirty I just balled it up in my fist for the time being. I could rinse it in the bathroom sink and let it dry on the windowsill. “There's a box of my late husband's handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the desk here.”

“You don't mind me using your husband's handkerchiefs?”

I shrugged. “I was thinking about burning them.” He looked at me sharply when I said that, but I didn't feel like talking about it. “Anyway, I'll see that you get those clean handkerchiefs. How are you feeling?”

Perhaps it seemed odd to be concerned about how a man was feeling when you were the one who had the job of killing him within a day or so, but, after all, as I had been trying to explain to a raft of people lately,
killing
was the wrong word, because there was no malice at all in it, nothing personal, and his death was not a decision I had made. It was like being a soldier in a war: carrying out orders. There
was at least one person in this world who I could have killed with cold delight for my own satisfaction, but that person was not Lonnie Varden. Carrying out his death sentence was simply the most terrible part of a job I had sworn to do to the best of my ability, and I had to do it. But if I could make the man's final days peaceful and free of suffering, I would. There seemed to be no law against doing that.

“How am I feeling, Sheriff?” He was flipping the stub of charcoal idly between his fingers, and I made a mental note to send back a pan of water so that he could clean himself up before suppertime. “I am about two quarts shy of whisky, if you could manage to come up with a jug or two.”

“I can't oblige you there, but you are entitled to a last meal, and while I'm here I could take your order for that. Have you given it any thought?”

“Every once in a while it crossed my mind. I doubt I'll be able to eat much of it, knowing what's to come, but I'll bet that's the kind of thing reporters ask people about, isn't it?”

“It might be. I steer clear of them whenever I can.”

“I wonder what they'd expect me to ask for as my last supper? Lobster and caviar, to show that I had spent some time as a city slicker, or beans and cornbread, in memory of my
rustic boyhood
?” He said that last part in a mocking tone, and I figured he was repeating the phrase from some newspaper article written about him during the trial.

“I think you ought to please yourself. Like as not, the reporters will just make up whatever they want to write about your last meal, anyway. People tell me they've read outlandish things in the city newspapers that I'm supposed to have said, and those stories were written by reporters I wouldn't know from Adam's off ox.”

He smiled. “Good. I'll order what I want, and then you can lie to them about what it was. Tell 'em I had roasted giraffe, truffles, and candied kumquats. What is a kumquat, anyhow?”

“I have no earthly idea, Mr. Varden. I doubt if either one of us will
ever find out. But I don't think they sell them around here, so I hope you don't try to order any.”

“Well, I haven't reached any decisions yet. I know I have to request something you can get here in town. You won't be sending off to Boston for fresh lobster. 'Course, I'd be happy to wait on that.”

“Wouldn't be fresh by the time it got here, anyhow,” I said, ignoring his gallows humor about postponing the execution. Was his jauntiness intended to comfort me or himself?

“Yeah. Spoiled lobster would probably kill me faster than the rope would. Wonder if that would be a worse way to go?” He considered it. “Well, never mind. It's not on the bill of fare. How about you, Sheriff? What would you want for your last meal?”

I didn't have to think it over. “Fried chicken. A breast and both drumsticks all to myself. When I was little, my daddy and older brothers got all the best pieces, and then when I got grown, I always gave the breast pieces to my husband and the drumsticks to our sons. Just once in my life I'd like to have the good pieces all to myself, instead of making do with the wings, the neck, and the gizzard.”

“Well, I may make do with a hamburger and a milkshake from the diner. Every now and then I get to craving those.”

I stiffened when he said
diner
, but I hoped he hadn't noticed. “Well, you give it some more thought, Mr. Varden. What's more important is who you'd like as your minister. I've already requested a pastor to officiate at the execution, but I can change that if you have a preference. Are you a Baptist or a Methodist, or what? Do you belong to a church, and have a pastor who'd come and see you through your last hours?”

He shook his head. “I'm not particular. Repentance is between me and the Lord, not for public consumption. But you have to provide a preacher to solemnize my final moments?”

“It's customary. A doctor to officially pronounce you dead, and a minister to pray for your soul. I asked the minister of my church.”

“That'll do. Ordinarily I object to long-winded ministers, but maybe in this case I won't mind so much.” He shrugged. “It strikes me as useless, though, for getting me salvation, and of doubtful value as a comfort to my mind, but I'll put up with it. Anything else?”

I decided it was time to deliver Eunice Greer's peculiar message. “I promised somebody I'd tell you something. It may not make a lot of sense, but the lady seemed pretty set on having you told, anyhow. She thinks it may bring you some comfort, I suppose.”

He looked wary. “This lady you're talking about—what's her name?”

“Miss Eunice Greer. She was friends with your wife back when they were growing up.”

He looked puzzled, but maybe a little relieved too. “I don't believe I know her.”

“No. She may have been at your wedding, but she didn't think you'd remember her. She wanted me to tell you about something that happened years ago when your wife was a young girl. She and a group of her friends held a Dumb Supper one night—just for a joke, mostly. Do you know about that old ritual?”

He shrugged. “Heard of it. A bunch of silly girls cook a dinner in an abandoned house and do everything backward, in hopes of finding out who they'll marry one day.”

“That's right. It's a game now, but I think that a long time ago it was something more serious.”

“So, what happened at this Dumb Supper? I know I wasn't there. Did Celia see somebody other than me?”

“Miss Greer didn't say anything about that. What she was concerned about was that your wife broke the rules of the ritual and didn't tell anybody.”

“Broke the rules? What rules?”

“Well, the custom is that you have to do everything backward, as you said, and never face the table while you're setting the places or
serving the food. You back up toward the table and keep your hands behind your back.”

“That must be awkward, but so what?”

“Apparently, your wife dropped a knife while she was setting the table, and when she went to put it back in place, she accidentally turned around and faced the table. But instead of stopping the ritual, she just played along for the rest of the evening without telling anybody.”

“Okay, so? What happened then?”

“Well, apparently nothing. That is, until years later when she got married and—and—”

“And her husband killed her.” He sighed and shook his head. “Well, that's a daisy of a story. Do you reckon that jury over in Knoxville would have bought it?
Modern
Woman Killed by Ancient Mountain Curse.
”

“No. I don't reckon they would have believed a word of it. I'm not even sure Miss Greer herself believed it was the cause of your wife's death, but she was most particular about you being told. I believe she thought you might find some comfort in knowing that there may have been reasons beyond your control for whatever happened.”

“No. I don't believe in such things, and, even if I did, it seems hard lines on poor Celia to blame her for her own murder, though it would be nice to think I had some excuse for what I did, other than lust and fear. But if you see the lady again, tell her I thanked her for her concern.”

I nodded. The conversation had set me to thinking about his dead wife and wondering how it all came to pass. Killing her seemed so unnecessary. It wasn't as if he was stuck with her. Divorce isn't the unthinkable act it used to be, and they had no children to suffer the consequences of their separation.

“You could have just left her, you know.”

He stiffened when I said that, and I squirmed a little. “I know it's
none of my business, but I can't help but wonder. Especially lately. If you wanted to get away from her, you could have walked out, couldn't you?”

“I tried. After I got fired for being caught with Jonella, I thought I might hop a boxcar and get as far away as I could before Celia heard the news from somebody in the community, but I couldn't make up my mind to do it. Then I thought about taking a shotgun out to the shed and doing away with myself, but I pictured her finding my body and a mass of blood, all covered in flies. That wouldn't be easy on her either.”

“And killing her was?”

“I didn't know what else to do. I thought that if she found out, it would hurt her more than she could bear, and I wanted to spare her that pain. I guess I figured it was like a mercy killing, like putting a sick dog out of its misery.”

“It was a cruel way to die.”

“I hope it wasn't. It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, and I think she would have blacked out almost at once.”

“I don't think that matters. What troubles me is that your wife loved and trusted you, and that in the last moments of her life she knew that you wanted her dead. And maybe worse than that:
she didn't know why.
”

“I don't think I did want her dead, really. It's just that I would have done anything not to have to face her, to see the hurt in her eyes when I told her the truth.”

“She might have forgiven you, you know.”

He nodded. “I expect she would have. At least, I don't think she would have divorced me. But she trusted me so much. She thought I was brave and honest and honorable. Sometimes I could see myself through her eyes, and I knew that if she ever lost that illusion of me, it would be intolerable for both of us. I needed her to believe in me.”

“I thought great artists were supposed to lead irregular lives: drinking and carousing and having mistresses.”

“Neither one of us thought that painting a mural in a post office afforded me the right to act like a great artist. I worked in a sawmill, remember?”

“And you got fired from there because some slut tempted you. So why didn't you kill
her
, instead of your poor wife?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Because she didn't matter. Don't you see? She was nothing.”

I guess I had to believe him. They say that the Great Plague of London was started by a diseased rat, so maybe things that are of themselves no-account can destroy much more than their own worth. Anyhow, I left it at that.

An hour later when I got time to go back and give the prisoner a clean handkerchief, I found him on the floor of his cell, still working with the burnt stub of willow. I craned my neck trying to see how the drawing was shaping up, but he was shielding part of it with the crook of his elbow. He nodded when he saw me and went on smudging a line he had just drawn. “I'd rather you wait and see it when it's finished. For effect.”