'Okay,
Clarence,' Frank Tilley said.
Duty
Second took my right arm, Clarence Timmons my left, and they walked me to the
top of the cell corridor.
Frank
Tilley went down and opened the door, and as I went down there I realized that
the cell was built with bars to three sides, the wall to the back. Those bars
ran to the ceiling, but they didn't disappear into the ceiling above, they met
a metal plate a good six inches thick. I stepped up into the cell, and as I
looked down I saw that the same metal plate was replicated for the base. The
cell was a freestanding metal box, one exit and entry door, a slide at the base
of the door through which could be passed food trays and other things.
I
took a step further and stood in the middle of the box.
I
could see a metal runner along the three facing walls about a foot off the
ground. At each end of the three walls was a small red light wired into the
runner.
Clarence
Timmons noticed I was looking at it.
'Kick
bar,' he said. 'If a prisoner grabs an officer and pulls him back against the
cell bars, the officer can still activate the alarm by kicking the bar anywhere
along its length. Just a safety precaution, Daniel…'
Clarence
Timmons smiled. 'Let's do the cuffs eh, son?'
I
shuffled towards him and he undid the cuffs, assisted me to remove the belt,
and then knelt down to unlock the ankle shackles.
Taking
the things out with him, he paused there in the cell doorway and looked at me.
'Maybe
you should rest now,' he said. 'You'll find the bed here is a little less hard
than the ones upstairs.'
He
smiled again, smiled like he was welcoming me to Summer Camp, and then he
slammed shut the cell door.
Sounded
like a gunshot.
Sounded
that final.
I
don't really know how long I have been here but I already feel like someone is
stealing time from me.
Frank
Tilley had told me someone would come at noon to check my temperature, whatever
else they do, and they came.
Ten
minutes later Frank Tilley told me his shift had ended and Clarence Timmons was
now coming down.
Clarence
Timmons came down, no more than twenty minutes after the medic had left, and he
told me it was a little after five.
Someone
stole that many hours from me.
I
know they did.
I
think I might have heard them.
They
came with soft-soled shoes, and they walked as if on eggshells, and they took
some time, a couple of handfuls maybe, and then they left the way they'd come.
I
called after them but they didn't hear me.
There
are moments of startling lucidity.
I can
close my eyes, and all I have to do is think of someone's name…
Caroline
Linny
Marty
Eve
… and
their faces come to me as clear as daylight.
There
are so many…
Sheryl
Rose
Benny
Doctor
Backermann
Emily
Devereau
… and
none of them know where I am.
I
would like for them to know.
And
then sometimes I feel that such a thing as this no- one should ever know.
Should
be just between myself and God.
And
Nathan Verney.
'Daniel?'
I
look up.
Clarence
Timmons stands there. In his hand he holds a brown paper bag, and at the bottom
of it there are tiny dark spots, like there's something inside that's wet and
showing through.
'My
wife made this… a sweet apple fritter… you want it?'
Frank
Tilley talks to me sometimes, and the feeling I get is that he is one sad and
lonely man.
Yesterday,
I
think
it was yesterday, he told me that he'd been to a baseball game
in Charleston. He didn't say
Hey Daniel, me and my buddy Chester went to a
game last Saturday
or
I took my wife to a game in Charleston last
weekend.
He said
I went,
which made me think he'd gone alone.
Who
goes to a baseball game alone?
Apparently
Frank Tilley does.
Maybe
he goes other places, places where people know who he is, and they talk about
him when he's not in earshot, like Hey, that's Frank Tilley… he looks after the
guys down in Sumter when they're ready to fry them… hell, man, imagine what
that kind of a job would do to you… sure as shit happy that I ain't Frank
Tilley.
Right
now I would be happy to be Frank Tilley, even if I did go to ball games alone.
There's
nothing down here.
I
asked Frank if there was any way we could have a transistor radio, and though he
smiled and looked like he understood, he told me that if he brought a radio
down he would get his ass kicked from here to the Georgia state line and back.
Sorry
kid, he said. No radio.
The
third time I saw Clarence Timmons I asked him what day it was.
'Oh,
you just reminded me,' he said. 'Warden's gonna come down at some point to
speak with you. Can't tell you which day.'
And
then he turned and walked back to his desk, and I was thinking about Warden
Hadfield, and the moment was gone.
I
never did find out what day it was.
Like
I said before, sometimes there are moments of such intense lucidity.
I
think about some of the events that I described to Father John Rousseau, and as
I recall them they come back. Sometimes I close my eyes, and for a tiny moment
I believe I can almost hear someone's voice.
Eve
telling me about something or other, Nathan laughing as he shares a joke… such
things as this.
Maybe
the closer you get to your own death, the nearer you are to the dead.
They
are somewhere, are they not?
Perhaps
they are somewhere waiting for you, and as they wait they talk, and if you
listen, listen real good, you can catch some vague echo of their voices.
I am
not losing my mind.
Sometimes
I think perhaps my mind is aware of what is about to happen, and in its
unwillingness to share with me this moment of dying it is leaving early.
Like
my memories are the things my mind is packing for its journey, and as it takes
them out, as it folds them, I catch glimpses of those things before they are
stowed forever.
Shit,
maybe I
am
losing my mind.
At
some point, two days, three even, Clarence came and told me that for his second
shift that day he would not be there.
His wife,
she had suffered a fall, nothing too serious it seemed, but he would have to
drive her to the hospital for an X-ray.
I
nodded.
'Daniel?'
I
looked up through the bars from where I sat on the edge of my bed.
'Mister
West will be coming down, just for those four hours, but I want you to say
nothing to upset or aggrieve him, you understand me?'
At
that my pulse slowed down, my heart too, and a feeling of intense
claustrophobia pushed at the edges of my consciousness. I closed my eyes and
rested my face in my hands.
'Daniel?'
I
could hear Mr. Timmons but didn't want to respond.
'Daniel…
I know you can hear me. You listen to me, son, you listen good. Mister West
ain't gonna do anything. He says something to you, you use your own judgement
whether you should respond or not. He ain't gonna come in there, but he may
bait you, son, he may try and get you riled, but you just pay no mind… he's
only gonna be here a coupla hours and then he'll be gone, okay?'
I didn't
reply.
'I
know you heard me, Daniel, so I ain't gonna repeat myself… but you mind what I
say about this.'
I lay
down.
I tugged the thin
pillow out from under my head and covered
my face.
Had I
possessed the energy I would have cried.
I
knew when he'd arrived.
I
sensed the lights dim.
There
was a feeling that came with him, a perception of something dark and angular,
awkward facets that did not fit together without grinding and grating.
I
held my breath.
'Mister
Ford,' he said, his voice almost a whisper. 'How you doin' in there, son?'
I
said nothing.
I was
sitting on the edge of my bed, and my head was down, my eyes closed.
I
heard the outer door close to and slam shut. That sound echoed forever.
'Seems
to me you'd be a little lonesome there, Mister Ford… eager for a little
company, a little conversation, yes?'
Again
I did not reply.
'Hey!
Fucker! You fucking well look at me when I'm talking to you. You look at me
right now or I'm coming in there and giving you the beating of your fucking
life!'
I
raised my head and opened my eyes.
Mr.
West glared at me through the bars.
His
face was beet red, his eyes wide, manic, like someone possessed, and when he
saw I was looking at him he smiled, and stood upright.
'That's
better,' he said, and his voice was once again a whisper.
'Now,'
he said, 'let's talk about what's gonna be happening to you, my friend. That okay
with you? You don't mind having a little chat about the next coupla days,
right?'
Mr.
West nodded.
'Good,
fine, we'll do that.
'So
come about five on Sunday they're gonna come down here and shave your head
again. Reason they do that is contact. Gotta have proper contact you see, and
also if they don't shave your head then likely as not your hair will set on
fire and it makes the place stink like hell. They're gonna ask you if you'll be
wanting a sedative before they move you to the Procedure Room.'
Mr.
West laughed.
'Don't
matter what you say, boy, 'cause they don't give you a sedative, just some
fucking glucose or saline or something. What the fuck would they wanna make you
feel less pain for, eh? You're a killer, a fucking murderer, eye for an eye an'
all that, right? So why would they be interested in saving you some pain?
Shee-it, boy, it's gonna hurt. Heard that it's minutes of agony, the most
agonizing pain you could ever imagine… and sometimes just one jolt ain't
enough. Sometimes they gotta bang that sucker through you three or four times
to get your heart to stop. Old guys, sure, no problem, could kill 'em plugging
'em into the wall socket… but a young healthy guy like you, strong heart,
strong as a horse, hell wouldn't surprise me if they had to keep you running on
that fucker for twenty or thirty minutes.'