The Enchanted (20 page)

T
he boy wanders out to the yard. The men turn to look at him and glance at the rape shed and shake their heads. The boy just stands there like a ghost, his white hair hanging in a halo around his vacant face, the red lips standing out like punch, his legs two thin sticks under his pants. The tender belly of youth has disappeared into a hollow cavern under his uniform, and sometimes when
he reaches to his privates to piss, he thinks there is nothing there. That little snail shell has just gone up and disappeared.

The boy stands there, swaying. He is watching Risk and his cronies at the weight pile, hearing the slap of metal and the hooting call of a dead lift done well. The men flex their muscles and laugh, and Risk throws back his tangled hair. Risk doesn't see the boy anymore, unless he wants to see him. The boy is no more than a wet carcass to them.

The boy watches Conroy leave the administration building and cross the yard. The men part for him. The tallest trees in the yard sway, and at their center is Risk.

Conroy walks toward Risk with a small, knowing smile. He wants a call on the yes phone, and he knows what to tell Risk. A new shipment of men is coming in. There is a boy on the transport bus, a tender little Hispanic boy of fifteen, a boy with soft velvety skin and fine black hair, a boy so young that he has down on his cheeks. Conroy knows what Risk likes, and he knows how Risk will pay for it.

The white-haired boy watches the dust rise around Conroy's dress shoes as he makes his way to Risk. He watches the two slap backs and laugh and walk off together. The entire enchanted place sighs.

The heart of the boy holds one last hope. It is an idea so precious, he cannot name it. The idea will not fix things, because nothing can be fixed. The idea will not make him happy or whole, because he will never be happy or whole again.

But this idea—he holds his emaciated hands out in front of himself to see if there is a tremble. There is none.

The boy watches as Risk and Conroy finish their walk and talk with a handshake. Risk unconsciously flexes his shoulders in anticipation. The other men at the weight pile see this and smile with pleasure.

But it is not Risk whom the white-haired boy is watching. It is Conroy, with the black dress shoes and the guileless eyes. It is Conroy, waiting for a call on his yes telephone.

T
he lady visits York. Her face is drawn. She has not slept.

York is waiting in the Dugdemona cage. His execution date is only a few days away. He is no longer interested in the fraction of sky in the window. He stares at the lady. “So?” he finally asks.

She sees the fear in his dark eyes. He is scared she has come to say she has saved him, that a court date has been set. He is terrified he will be led to the Hall of the Lifers, blinking at the sunlight, to wait endless years for death, unless he is stabbed to death first. He will have to worry about being sent to the metal coffins of Cellblock H, or catching the fury of Risk and his friends. If death row is a sharp punishment, life without parole can be an endless torture.

Death was his safety net. It was the answer to all the inner confusion, to the secret knowledge of the unspeakable harm he caused others. It was his way out of whatever hell he lives in.

She sees this now. She sees it is truly what he wants.

She thinks about how strong the life urge was in her mom, despite all those who would extinguish it, and how that urge gave birth to her. She sees the opposite in York, made of stronger cloth but full of evil, resolved to leave.

Has she made the decision before? She is not sure. She will ruin her career if she does as he asks. She looks at the thick folder in her hands. “I have something for you,” she says slowly.

“What?” His voice is quiet.

She rises up, trembling, and slides the folder toward York in the Dugdemona cage.

“I want you to decide.”

T
he lady and York end up talking for hours. Knowing he is barely literate, she gently explains all she has found—the medical records, the interviews, and the abuse. Above all, the blood test.

She tells York that he was born with syphilis. The disease notched his teeth, deformed his bones, and caused the strange fevers and rashes of his early health records. It germinated in his body, traveling up his spinal cord and into his brain, where it hatched into fervid, insane desires. Eventually, it will kill him, just as it killed his mother.

“If this had come up at your trial, you could have been found guilty except for insanity,” she explains. When he looks blank, she goes further. “It's possible you would have been sent to a mental hospital. In the least, you
would have gotten life without parole.” The lady pauses. “That could still happen, if I give this information to the attorneys.”

“They would get me a new trial?”

“Yes.”

“It's possible I could even get out of here? Live in some mental hospital?”

The lady's eyes are dark with contained fear. She is wondering how high the gates are in the mental hospital, how firm the fence. “Yes.”

He brushes the top of the folder and smiles a little. “My life is right here.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

She blinks, surprised. “You're welcome.”

He sits in the cage for a long time, just holding the folder. His face is more peaceful than she has ever seen it. Then he looks past her, out the small window to the scrap of sky over her shoulder. The sky is soft blue today, and he thinks he can almost feel the warm sun.

“Here.” He passes the folder back to her, and she takes it with careful hands. He leans forward. Their dark eyes meet.

“Let me tell you what I want,” he says.

W
hen we have a publicized execution, people line up outside to chant.

On one side are the Advocates. On the other side are
the Victims. The warden thinks the Advocates are more like victims of their flagellation, and the Victims are more like advocates for death.

The warden stands at his window and watches them all show up in the blazing sun, each side driving cars blazoned with bumper stickers. They haul signs from their backseats on sticks of wood so fresh, they bleed sap. He thinks these demonstrators are ghouls, like people who leave teddy bears at shrines for dead children. They're into it for the entertainment. After they are done, they will probably go eat pancakes.

Today they line up for York.

Most executions tend to happen without much notice. It is only because York wants to die that his case has gotten so much attention. This irony does not escape the warden.

It is only four in the afternoon, and the sky is a clear eye of heat, but already the two sides are in the parking lot outside the prison. For now they ignore each other. The Advocates wear red ribbons because York said that was his color. Don't they see the joke? The Victims carry signs with pictures of York's victims. The warden hates it when they do that. They didn't know those girls. They don't know their families. They have no right to do that, he thinks. Give those poor girls some peace.

The warden has been in the prison since early morning. Since his wife died, he doesn't want to be home. The once warm ranch feels dead to him. Once it sells, he plans to rent some anonymous place with beige walls and Formica
counters and nothing to remind him of what he has lost.

The warden sighs. The day will be long. Execution days are always long. He has to stay in his office because the phone will be ringing off the hook and will ring until the execution at midnight. He sits down heavily at his desk. Sometimes he thinks the death penalty is one big jest. It is like a game where no one wants the killers like York to die. So they give them attorneys like Grim and Reaper, then watch as the game gets played out for decades and the families of the victims wait and suffer.

It is hot as blazes, he thinks. Two fans are running, but nothing moves the sluggish air in his office. When they have heat waves, the inmates drop like flies, and even staff members collapse from heatstroke. Lord, to have air-conditioning. Air-conditioning in the summer and decent heat in the winter—wouldn't that be fine?

The phone rings. It is a call from the chamber. All systems are ready to go. The black shirts are ready.

He catches up on reports and paperwork. He sees Conroy has busted another drug smuggler in the visiting room—good work. He shakes his head at his final report on the dead female guard. Apparently, there was information that she was mixed up with inmate corruption. He's disappointed. He liked her. He reads a report on Cellblock H. He asked a commission to look into the building. The commission found that the inmates needed to be given time out of their cells for their mental health. He nods in agreement and writes some suggestions. If they keep
having the problems of suicide and death in Cellblock H, he will shut the place down and start fresh. He is annoyed that he inherited the program. Any reasonable person can see that locking men down like that is no good.

The warden reads an estimate from a construction firm on the costs of updating the prison with modern locks and motion sensors to keep the wanderers at bay. The price tag gives him a wry smile. He can't wait to see the response from the capitol on that one. It might be as much fun as the time he asked for better food. The hue and cry over how he wanted to pamper prisoners was amazing.

The chanting and singing have started outside. He looks at his watch. Hope you've got good voices, guys, he thinks—you've got hours to go.

At six o'clock he eats his packed dinner. Cold lasagna from the deli. A rather stale piece of focaccia bread. A pat of butter. A can of light lemonade. He finishes with homemade banana-walnut bread taken from the freezer. He takes one bite before it makes him think of his wife, and he puts it down.

He fields two hours of phone calls, all from freaks who somehow got his number. One guy sounds like he is masturbating. Many just scream “murderer” at him before hanging up.

Eight o'clock. The wait is killing me, he thinks ruefully, and laughs despite himself. He doesn't see how his face folds into creases of sadness when he is done.

Dusk is falling. A breeze blows off the river and comes
in his window. It feels good. The sun dips, and the sky illuminates into a deep gray streaked with pink. The geese take flight and pinwheel back to the river.

He calls a guard down on the row. “How is York holding up?”

“Happy as a pig in shit,” the guard says.

“Any last-minute visitors? The priest?”

“Says he doesn't want to talk to anyone, least of all that weepy bastard.”

“Good.” The warden pauses. “You see the lady?”

“Nope. Not for a few days.”

This concerns the warden. He tries to reassure himself that it is too late for her to be petitioning the courts. He knows it is never too late.

He gets a mildly hysterical phone call from the prison doctor. They had a problem with the machine, but they worked it out. Yes, they did the practice runs. The chairs for the witnesses are set up. They put out coffee and donuts for the victims' families, who have not yet arrived.

All systems go. Nine o'clock. Three hours to go. The chanting is loud and angry. He is glad he has the state police outside to manage the circus. He doesn't have to worry about the inevitable fights. The victims' families show up. He can always tell when that happens, because the crowd roars in both abuse and support. Armed guards chaperone the families to the viewing room in the chamber. He will see the families when he brings down York, and talk to them after he is dead to make sure they are okay.

The building starts to lock down for execution. One by one the watchtowers flash their lights—the yard is clear. All inmates are supposed to be in their cells. Prison doors slam, and the red lights down the halls and over the towers flash twice. The guards on the rows take their chairs.

The yard is dusty and alone, and in the towers, the guards stand and wait, rifles over their shoulders. It is night now. The stars come out over the yard, and strong lights illuminate the parking lot.

The Advocates cheer. The famous nun has arrived. The Victims frown. They cannot chant against a nun. Their voices grow sulky. They chant louder.

There is a knock on the door. The chief of inmate services, letting him know all is well. The warden says thanks.

Ten o'clock. His phone has grown silent. As each hour passes, the chance of reversal grows slimmer. Unless the lady has done something he doesn't know about. He reminds himself that he has never had a date with death changed so late in the game. But there is a first for everything.

The chanting has taken on a harsh, ringing sound, with the two sides bouncing off each other. At least there aren't news cameras. The public is bored with executions. Still, an armed guard will escort him to his car when it is all done, and one of the state police will check under the hood. A warden in another state was killed when a bomb strapped to his car went off following an execution. The
warden thinks, Why do we make it so hard? Why do we make it so easy?

A wind picks up, and a sweet night smell comes in the window. He yawns. He drinks a cup of strong hot coffee from the thermos on his desk, laced with plenty of sugar.

He keeps glancing at the phone and realizes he is waiting for a call about the lady, and he feels a twinge of fear—for her—that she will not win this case. He shakes his head at himself. He is in the wrong business when he starts rooting for the lady. He tells himself she makes his life interesting.

Eleven o'clock. Time to go get York. He will meet the black shirts, and they will walk York to the chamber. The warden will watch as the doctor threads his arms to the medical vine, and he will ask York his last words, and he will press the buttons and watch York die. He will hear the time of death, and hear the cheering and the veneration outside, just like all the other executions he has done, including those of Striker and the ones who came before. He will comfort the families and talk to any guards who regretted putting on the black shirt—there is always one, a wet-eyed man who felt sick at the taking of a life. The warden respects those men as much as the others. This is just a job, he tells them, and there is no value in doing what you don't want to do. Then he will go home to his empty house, with the overgrown lawn and the For Sale sign outside, and remember his dead wife.