Sleep Toward Heaven (8 page)

“First visit to Texas?” said the driver, a dark man with bushy nose hair, as she collapsed into the cab.

“Please,” said Franny, “turn on the air-conditioning.” The man laughed. He was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. He rolled up his window, and in a few minutes Franny could breathe. She gave the man the hospital’s address.

As the ribbon of road unfolded before her, Franny tried to remember the last conversation she had had with Uncle Jack. For years, they spoke every Sunday evening, but after Franny moved in with Nat, the phone calls became less frequent.

When Uncle Jack finally visited New York, things had not gone well. Franny winced when she remembered Nat’s expression, looking Uncle Jack over, from his hat to his boots. Nat had even pulled Franny aside and told her “the doc” might want to change if they were really going to go out to dinner. “I’m just looking out,” Nat had said. “And he’s my size, so if he wants to borrow something…”

Franny had told Nat to go to hell, but then, as Uncle Jack pulled a jacket over his worn denim shirt and leaned over to wipe his boots (the good leather ones), she saw him suddenly through new eyes: a country bumpkin, a man out of a Wynonna Judd video. And she had looked up and met Nat’s gaze, realizing how Nat had seen Uncle Jack from the beginning, how he must see Franny at times. Franny could cry now thinking about it. She had asked Uncle Jack into the kitchen and had suggested that her proud uncle, a doctor, the man who had raised her, might want to change his clothes. Franny had half-hoped he’d laugh at her, something to bring her back to herself, but he just shook his head. He went into the bedroom and put on the suit Nat had laid out for him. Brooks Brothers.

As soon as Franny walked inside the Waco hospital, the cold air on her skin like water, she felt that something was wrong. It was in the hollow sound of her footsteps, the nervous glance of the nurse when she asked for Uncle Jack’s room. Even as she walked down the gleaming hallway, she thought, he’s gone. She felt Uncle Jack’s absence from the world in the pit of her stomach. And she was right.

“He tried to hold on for you, Fran. It was his heart gave out,” said the man standing next to the empty bed. Franny blinked. She recognized the man as a friend of Uncle Jack’s. His name was Ed. “You look great,” he added, lamely.

“Thanks,” said Franny.

“Do you want to see him?” asked a woman standing to Ed’s right. She was plump, with long reddish hair. She wore gray slacks and a pink cotton cardigan, and her eyes were teary. Franny nodded, and the woman reached into her pink purse and pulled out a business card. She gave it to Franny. Franny knew the address on the card; it was where her parents’ funeral had been. “I’m Deborah,” said the woman, pressing her fingers into Franny’s palm.

Stay focused, Franny told herself. “What was the time of death?” she asked.

Ed looked at her strangely, but said, “Early this morning, four or five.”

She had been at the airport then, checking the bag she had frantically packed for what she thought might be a long visit.

“Fran?” said Ed, reaching into the pocket of his jeans.

“Yes?”

“These are his keys.”

“Yes. Of course.” Franny watched as Ed opened his fist, and she took the familiar keychain from it, a silver loop.

“Do you want a ride? Jack’s car, it’s at the prison. Mountain View Unit.”

“Thanks,” said Franny. The woman named Deborah still stood at the foot of the bed, staring. The hospital had re-made the bed. The sheets were tight, and Franny reached out to feel the cool fabric against her fingers.

“What are you doing?” said Deborah.

“Nothing,” said Franny.

Ed’s car was large and smelled of cigars. “Well, it’s been some time,” he said. “What, ten years since you’ve been home?”

Franny didn’t answer, and Ed fell silent. He turned on the radio, and the country song was faintly familiar. They drove slowly along the road, flat trees on either side of them. They came to Gatestown, passed the cemetery where Franny’s parents were buried, and then the prison complexes, and Main Street. On Fourth, Ed took a left, and the house came into view.

The house. There was the tree Franny had fallen from, breaking her ankle, her cry bringing Uncle Jack running with his medical kit, holding her ankle still and wrapping it with cold, wet plaster strips. The lawn where Franny had laid out elaborate tea parties and then invited Uncle Jack, who would fold his long legs awkwardly and sip from the tiny cups. The front step where they sat in the evenings, Uncle Jack with his pipe and Franny with her glass of lemonade. Franny had been Uncle Jack’s girl for so long that she didn’t know what she was supposed to be, now that he was gone.

The house looked better than Franny had remembered; Uncle Jack had always taken care of the lawn, but now there were flowers in the window boxes, and the front door was newly painted. “Well, you know I’m here, honey,” said Ed, as he eased the car to a stop.

“Yes,” said Franny. She looked sideways at Ed, his solid frame, and she suddenly wanted to throw her arms around him. But she did not.

“Well, thank you,” said Franny. “Thank you, Ed.”

“How about I have Joanne bring over some food for you?”

“No, thank you,” said Franny, “I’m fine. I’ll go over to the funeral home tomorrow.”

“Well, honey, I don’t think you should be alone just now,” said Ed, but Franny was already out of the car, and halfway to the house.

How easily the key slid in the door. Franny remembered sneaking into the house after lying in the grass with Joey Ullins until nearly dawn, her lips and chin chafed by kisses, her key fumbling in this very lock. Uncle Jack had been awake, of course, sitting in the living room and fixing her with a disappointed stare. Until the last night, when the disappointment had turned to anger.

Some of the furniture had been moved around—the wing chairs had been replaced with a couch, and the television no longer blocked the fireplace—but after ten years, the smell was the same: pipe tobacco, Old Spice, and pine needles. Franny sighed and stepped across the threshold. She dropped her bag on the floor, and walked slowly up the stairs to her room.

Her room was not the same. Her bed was there, and her bureau, and the green rug with fish on it that she had begged so doggedly for one Christmas. But her posters were gone, and there was a large desk in the room that was covered with scraps of cloth. Uncle Jack, sewing? Franny lay down on her bed, the familiar bedsprings folding around her bones, and she waited for the sorrow to come.

Pictures flashed in her mind: Anna reading in her hospital bed, Uncle Jack shaving in the bathroom mirror. Franny sat up. There was no point to this.

She couldn’t find any liquor in the house, which was strange. Uncle Jack had always liked his Scotch, but the cabinets were empty. In the refrigerator, there was diet soda, Tab, which was another mystery. Franny opened the front door. The edge of the heat had faded now that the sun had set, and she began to walk briskly. Eventually Franny came upon an old apartment building that had been converted into a motel, the Gatestown Motor Inn. She sighed. It looked as if the market for housing visitors to the prison was growing faster than Gatestown’s population.

She walked into the lobby, and the smell of cigarette smoke raised her hopes that there was a bar. At the front desk, an old lady sat knitting.

“Is there a bar in this motel?” asked Franny.

The woman looked up. “There’s a lounge,” she said, pointing to a frosted-glass door.

The air in the lounge was smoky and wet. A woman in a muumuu played piano, a martini balanced on the piano bench beside her. A few men in suits drunkenly watched Franny as she walked in. She sat on an orange barstool.

“Can I help you?” The bartender was young, blond, skinny. His nametag said, “Hello! I’m FRED.”

“Scotch on the rocks,” said Franny.

Fred poured the drink. “You in town long?” he said.

“Yes,” said Franny.

“Here for the execution?” He said this in the same blasé tone, and Franny looked up at him. He pointed to the men at the other tables. “That’s why they’re all here. The Hairdresser of Death.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t know about her?” Fred pulled a newspaper out from under the bar. He folded it back to show a grainy picture of a tired-looking woman. “Killed her whole family,” said Fred.

“Wow.”

“That’s nothing. We’ve got some real sickos up there.” Franny didn’t answer, didn’t even nod. She wanted the bartender to be quiet. “I’m gonna be a prison guard,” he said. He was a type familiar to Franny. She had gone to school with dozens of beefy boys who were likely guards now. It was one of the few jobs in town. Franny played with her cocktail napkin, and calculated how fast she could finish her drink and leave. Ten minutes, she thought, maybe five. “You okay, lady?” said Fred. Franny nodded. She drained the Scotch and pulled a five from her wallet. As she made her way out of the bar, the piano player sang, “I get no kick from champagne!”

Back at the house, the phone was ringing. Franny picked it up. “Honey?” said Nat. “How is he?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh God, Fran. I’m getting the next plane.”

“No,” said Franny.

“What do you mean? You need me.”

“Nat, I don’t want you.” Franny said the words without even thinking, but once they were spoken, she realized they were true.

“What?”

“I don’t want you…here. I don’t want it. I’m sorry.”

There was a silence. “I’m going to let you go now,” said Nat, his voice even with anger. “I’m very sorry about your Uncle Jack, and I’m going to call you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye,” said Franny, and she hung up the phone and pulled the plug from the wall.

She walked up the stairs again and paused at the door of Uncle Jack’s room. There was the bed she had once climbed into when she was scared or lonely. There was a time when she had been terrified of an imaginary group of people who would come at night and lock everyone in their basements. One night, in Uncle Jack’s bed again, Franny had told him about her terrible fear. “Baby Doll,” he had said, his hand on her head, pushing her hair behind her ears, “we don’t have a basement.” In that moment, Franny had known that he could save the world.

She walked down the hall to her old bedroom, and lay down, staring at the ceiling. The crack had been repaired, but there was still a water stain in the left corner. She began to remember her last conversation with Uncle Jack. He had called on a Sunday a few months ago, and she had been running out the door to taste wedding cakes with Nat. “I just want to know how things are going, Baby Doll,” Uncle Jack had said. “It gets lonely here, nighttimes. I’d like a nice long chat one of these days.”

“I’ll call you back,” Franny had said, thinking of sugar frosting and Italian cream cake. “I promise,” she said, but she never called. Had she told Uncle Jack she loved him? Had she ever thanked him for being a mother and a father and a friend? Franny made herself say it out loud: Uncle Jack is dead.

T
he post office in my neighborhood is a squat building made of concrete. Inside, three fabulous men process mail: Claudel, a tall black man with heavy eyelids and a ready smile; Rick, a man I would call jolly—it certainly describes him—but for the fact that he is fat, and everyone always calls fat people jolly, and so very few of them really are; and Joe, a wiry blond who has a very foul mouth and doesn’t mind using it. (Joe is a bit pudgy, too, but he is by no means jolly.) In truth, I like Claudel the best, because he always asks me how I’m doing, and he really seems to care. Also, he’s sexy.

So I went to mail my letter. I even bought a to-go cup of Starbucks for the occasion. I love the cardboard cup at Starbucks, and I love the little corrugated cardboard sleeve. The whole package just makes me feel like I’m going places. With one of those cups of coffee in my hand, I feel as if I’m on “Law & Order,” rushing to the rescue in black leather boots. But Starbucks is expensive. It’s really a ripoff. I only allow myself a cup on special occasions—for example mailing a letter to a murderess.

There were many people in line ahead of me at the South Austin Post Office and the excessive caffeine in my Starbucks was starting to make me nervous and paranoid. What do they put in that coffee? I’d really like to know. I have a sneaking suspicion there’s something illegal in there, and at the prices they charge, there should be.

The people in line started chatting, as will sometimes happen in cramped spaces like buses when the driver gets off to go to the bathroom leaving you stranded at some curb, and (I have heard) submarines. There was one woman with a large package that, she announced, was candy for her niece at summer camp. Holding up an enormous overnight envelope, a boy confided he was sending his first novel to a literary agent. Like we were in a group therapy session, a man piped in that he was mailing a book about plants to his mother in Topeka; a tween said she was mailing a letter to the Spice Girls Fan Club (I have read about these “tweens” in Time Magazine, these twelve- to fourteen-year-olds who are running our economy); a girl bashfully admitted she was sending a love letter to her boyfriend, home for the summer in Maine. “I promised I’d write every day,” said the girl, blushing. “But I ran out of stamps.”

I’d been smiling away, listening to everyone’s confessions, nodding encouragement, and when the silence fell, they looked to me. The line still had quite a way to go. I lifted my gaze to the posters of stamps on the wall. I pretended to be deeply interested in the Marilyn Monroe Collector’s Edition Stamp Set.

“How about you?” said the wannabe novelist, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. “What’s up with your letter?”

First of all, it’s illegal to ask questions like that. I’m sorry, but it is. Secondly, I could see his little brain turning: Wow, is this going to be a great short story! I’ll call it “At the Post Office,” or “Fed-Exing My Heart.” I clutched my envelope.

“Uh,” I said. The group-therapy post office line looked at me expectantly. The candy lady hefted her package to her hip. Topeka man raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

I decided to play it straight. (This was when my sanity began to come into question. Maureen would have told me I could have demurely mentioned “a pen pal” and let the matter rest. But I did not.) “Well,” I said, holding up the letter, which was neatly packaged in a clean white envelope, the kind I use to send student loan checks and bank deposits, “I wrote a letter to the woman who murdered my husband. She’s on Death Row.”