The Chamber (26 page)

“How’d it happen to you?”

“Gradually. When I left home I couldn’t wait to give it a try because it was taboo when Eddie and I were growing up. Then I met Phelps, and he comes from a family of heavy social drinkers. It became an escape, and then it became a crutch.”

“I’ll do whatever I can. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve enjoyed having a drink with you, but it’s time to quit, okay. I’ve fallen off the wagon three times, and it all starts with the idea that I can have a drink or two and keep it under control. I went a month one time sipping wine and limiting myself to a glass a day. Then it was a glass and a half, then two, then three. Then rehab. I’m an alcoholic, and I’ll never get over it.”

Adam lifted his glass and touched it to hers. “Here’s to the wagon. We’ll ride it together.” They gulped their soft drinks.

The waiter was a student with a quick idea of what they should eat. He suggested the chef’s baked ravioli because it was simply the best in town and would be on the table in ten minutes. They agreed.

“I often wondered what you did with your time but I was afraid to ask,” Adam said.

“I had a job once. After Walt was born and started
school I got bored, so Phelps found me a job with one of his friend’s companies. Big salary, nice office. I had my own secretary who knew much more about my job than I did. I quit after a year. I married money, Adam, so I’m not supposed to work. Phelps’ mother was appalled that I would draw a salary.”

“What do rich women do all day long?”

“Carry the burdens of the world. They must first make sure hubby is off to work, then they must plan the day. The servants have to be directed and supervised. The shopping is divided into at least two parts—morning and afternoon—with the morning usually consisting of several rigorous phone calls to Fifth Avenue for the necessities. The afternoon shopping is sometimes actually done in person, with the driver waiting in the parking lot, of course. Lunch takes up most of the day because it requires hours to plan and at least two hours to execute. It’s normally a small banquet attended by more of the same harried souls. Then there’s the social responsibility part of being a rich woman. At least three times a week she attends tea parties in the homes of her friends where they nibble on imported biscuits and whimper about the plight of abandoned babies or mothers on crack. Then, it’s back home in a hurry to freshen up for hubby’s return from the office wars. She’ll sip her first martini with him by the pool while four people prepare their dinner.”

“What about sex?”

“He’s too tired. Plus, he probably has a mistress.”

“This is what happened to Phelps?”

“I guess, although he couldn’t complain about the sex. I had a baby, I got older, and he’s always had a steady supply of young blondes from his banks. You wouldn’t believe his office. It’s filled with gorgeous women with impeccable teeth and nails, all with short skirts and long legs. They sit behind nice desks and talk
on the phone, and wait for his beck and call. He has a small bedroom next to a conference room. The man’s an animal.”

“So you gave up the hard life of a rich woman and moved out?”

“Yeah. I was not a very good rich woman, Adam. I hated it. It was fun for a very short while, but I didn’t fit in. Not the right blood type. Believe it or not, my family was not known in the social circles of Memphis.”

“You must be kidding.”

“I swear. And to be a proper rich woman with a future in this city you have to come from a family of rich fossils, preferably with a great-grandfather who made money in cotton. I just didn’t fit in.”

“But you still play the social game.”

“No. I still make appearances, but only for Phelps. It’s important for him to have a wife who’s his age but with a touch of gray, a mature wife who looks nice in an evening dress and diamonds and can hold her own while gabbing with his boring friends. We go out three times a year. I’m sort of an aging trophy wife.”

“Seems to me like he’d want a real trophy wife, one of the slinky blondes.”

“No. His family would be crushed, and there’s a lot of money in trust. Phelps walks on eggshells around his family. When his parents are gone, then he’ll be ready to come out of the closet.”

“I thought his parents hated you.”

“Of course they do. It’s ironic that they’re the reason we’re still married. A divorce would be scandalous.”

Adam laughed and shook his head in bewilderment. “This is crazy.”

“Yes, but it works. I’m happy. He’s happy. He has his little girls. I fool around with whomever I want. No questions are asked.”

“What about Walt?”

She slowly sat her glass of tea on the table and looked away. “What about him?” she said, without looking.

“You never talk about him.”

“I know,” she said softly, still watching something across the room.

“Let me guess. More skeletons in the closet. More secrets.”

She looked at him sadly, then gave a slight shrug as if to say, what the hell.

“He is, after all, my first cousin,” Adam said. “And to my knowledge, and barring any further revelations, he’s the only first cousin I have.”

“You wouldn’t like him.”

“Of course not. He’s part Cayhall.”

“No. He’s all Booth. Phelps wanted a son, why I don’t know. And so we had a son. Phelps, of course, had little time for him. Always too busy with the bank. He took him to the country club and tried to teach him golf, but it didn’t work. Walt never liked sports. They went to Canada once to hunt pheasants, and didn’t speak to each other for a week when they came home. He wasn’t a sissy, but he wasn’t athletic either. Phelps was a big prep school jock—football, rugby, boxing, all that. Walt tried to play, but the talent just wasn’t there. Phelps drove him even harder, and Walt rebelled. So, Phelps, with the typical heavy hand, sent him away to boarding school. My son left home at the age of fifteen.”

“Where did he go to college?”

“He spent one year at Cornell, then dropped out.”

“He dropped out?”

“Yes. He went to Europe after his freshman year, and he’s been there ever since.”

Adam studied her face and waited for more. He
sipped his water, and was about to speak when the waiter appeared and rapidly placed a large bowl of green salad between them.

“Why did he stay in Europe?”

“He went to Amsterdam and fell in love.”

“A nice Dutch girl?”

“A nice Dutch boy.”

“I see.”

She was suddenly interested in the salad, which she served on her plate and began cutting into small pieces. Adam did likewise, and they ate in silence for a while as the bistro filled up and became noisier. An attractive couple of tired yuppies sat at the small table next to them and ordered strong drinks.

Adam smeared butter on a roll, took a bite, then asked, “How did Phelps react?”

She wiped the corners of her mouth. “The last trip Phelps and I took together was to Amsterdam to find our son. He’d been gone for almost two years. He’d written a few times and called me occasionally, but then all correspondence stopped. We were worried, of course, so we flew over and camped out in a hotel until we found him.”

“What was he doing?”

“Working as a waiter in a café. Had an earring in each ear. His hair was chopped off. Weird clothes. He was wearing those damned clogs with wool socks. Spoke perfect Dutch. We didn’t want to make a scene, so we asked him to come to our hotel. He did. It was horrible. Just horrible. Phelps handled it like the idiot he is, and the damage was irreparable. We left and came home. Phelps made a big production of redoing his will and revoking Walt’s trust.”

“He’s never come home?”

“Never. I meet him in Paris once a year. We both arrive alone, that’s the only rule. We stay in a nice hotel
and spend a week together, roaming the city, eating the food, visiting the museums. It’s the highlight of my year. But he hates Memphis.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

Lee watched him carefully, then her eyes watered. “Bless you. If you’re serious, I’d love for you to go with me.”

“I’m serious. I don’t care if he’s gay. I’d enjoy meeting my first cousin.”

She took a deep breath and smiled. The ravioli arrived on two heaping plates with steam rising in all directions. A long loaf of garlic bread was placed along the edge of the table, and the waiter was gone.

“Does Walt know about Sam?” Adam asked.

“No. I’ve never had the guts to tell him.”

“Does he know about me and Carmen? About Eddie? About any of our family’s glorious history?”

“Yes, a little. When he was a little boy, I told him he had cousins in California, but that they never came to Memphis. Phelps, of course, told him that his California cousins were of a much lower social class and therefore not worthy of his attention. Walt was groomed by his father to be a snob, Adam, you must understand this. He attended the most prestigious prep schools, hung out at the nicest country clubs, and his family consisted of a bunch of Booth cousins who were all the same. They’re all miserable people.”

“What do the Booths think of having a homosexual in the family?”

“They hate him, of course. And he hates them.”

“I like him already.”

“He’s not a bad kid. He wants to study art and paint. I send him money all the time.”

“Does Sam know he has a gay grandson?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know who would tell him.”

“I probably won’t tell him.”

“Please don’t. He has enough on his mind.”

The ravioli cooled enough to eat, and they enjoyed it in silence. The waiter brought more water and tea. The couple next to them ordered a bottle of red wine, and Lee glanced at it more than once.

Adam wiped his mouth and rested for a moment. He leaned over the table. “Can I ask you something personal?” he said quietly.

“All your questions seem to be personal.”

“Right. So can I ask you one more?”

“Please do.”

“Well, I was just thinking. Tonight you’ve told me you’re an alcoholic, your husband’s an animal, and your son is gay. That’s a lot for one meal. But is there anything else I should know?”

“Lemme see. Yes, Phelps is an alcoholic too, but he won’t admit it.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s been sued twice for sexual harassment.”

“Okay. Forget about the Booths. Any more surprises from our side of the family?”

“We haven’t scratched the surface, Adam.”

“I was afraid of that.”

A
LOUD THUNDERSTORM ROLLED ACROSS the Delta before dawn, and Sam was awakened by the crack of lightning. He heard raindrops dropping hard against the open windows above the hallway. Then he heard them drip and puddle against the wall under the windows not far from his cell. The dampness of his bed was suddenly cool. Maybe today would not be so hot. Maybe the rain would linger and shade the sun, and maybe the wind would blow away the humidity for a day or two. He always had these hopes when it rained, but in the summer a thunderstorm usually meant soggy ground which under a glaring sun meant nothing but more suffocating heat.

He raised his head and watched the rain fall from the windows and gather on the floor. The water flickered in the reflected light of a distant yellow bulb. Except for this faint light, the Row was dark. And it was silent.

Sam loved the rain, especially at night and especially in the summer. The State of Mississippi, in its boundless wisdom, had built its prison in the hottest place it could find. And it designed its Maximum Security Unit along the same lines as an oven. The windows to the outside were small and useless, built that way for security reasons, of course. The planners of this little branch of hell also decided that there would be no ventilation of any sort, no chance for a breeze getting in or the dank air getting out. And after they built what they considered to be a model penal facility, they decided
they would not air condition it. It would sit proudly beside the soybeans and cotton, and absorb the same heat and moisture from the ground. And when the land was dry, the Row would simply bake along with the crops.

But the State of Mississippi could not control the weather, and when the rains came and cooled the air, Sam smiled to himself and offered a small prayer of thanks. A higher being was in control after all. The state was helpless when it rained. It was a small victory.

He eased to his feet and stretched his back. His bed consisted of a piece of foam, six feet by two and a half, four inches thick, otherwise known as a mattress. It rested on a metal frame fastened securely to the floor and wall. It was covered with two sheets. Sometimes they passed out blankets in the winter. Back pain was common throughout the Row, but with time the body adjusted and there were few complaints. The prison doctor was not considered to be a friend of death row inmates.

He took two steps and leaned on his elbows through the bars. He listened to the wind and thunder, and watched the drops bounce along the windowsill and splatter on the floor. How nice it would be to step through that wall and walk through the wet grass on the other side, to stroll around the prison grounds in the driving rain, naked and crazy, soaking wet with water dripping from his hair and beard.

The horror of death row is that you die a little each day. The waiting kills you. You live in a cage and when you wake up you mark off another day and you tell yourself that you are now one day closer to death.

Sam lit a cigarette and watched the smoke float upward toward the raindrops. Weird things happen with our absurd judicial system. Courts rule this way one
day and the other way the next. The same judges reach different conclusions on familiar issues. A court will ignore a wild motion or appeal for years, then one day embrace it and grant relief. Judges die and they’re replaced by judges who think differently. Presidents come and go and they appoint their pals to the bench. The Supreme Court drifts one way, then another.

At times, death would be welcome. And if given the choice of death on one hand, or life on death row on the other, Sam would quickly take the gas. But there was always hope, always the slight glimmering promise that something somewhere in the vast maze of the judicial jungle would strike a chord with someone, and his case would be reversed. Every resident of the Row dreamed of the miracle reversal from heaven. And their dreams sustained them from one miserable day to the next.