“Karen, I know you’ve decided not to have any more visitors, but there’s someone who keeps calling, and I promised her I’d come and talk with you.”
“Ellen?” Ellen’s face swims in Karen’s mind.
“No, Karen, it’s Celia Mills. Her husband was Henry Mills.” The beautiful woman, the one who had written the letter. “It’s completely up to you, Karen,” says the warden. “But Celia Mills thinks it might help her if she could speak with you. And maybe it would bring you some peace, as well.”
Karen does not answer.
“I’ll let you think about it,” says the warden. She stands, and steps outside the cell.
“Yes,” says Karen. “Tell her I’ll see her.”
“Are you sure?”
Karen begins to cough. “Yes,” she says, between breaths.
“I’ll arrange it, then,” says the warden.
That afternoon, when Dr. Wren pauses in her reading, Karen says, “Dr. Wren?”
Dr. Wren hooks her finger in the book to mark her place and closes it. “Karen,” she says, “call me Franny.”
“I don’t have anyone…to come to the execution. Could you…”
Franny nods. “I’ll be there,” she says.
And then it is Friday. They will take her sometime over the weekend to Huntsville. Dr. Wren—Franny—tells her that there are picketers outside the prison, dozens of them. They hold signs asking for mercy for Karen. Karen starts to cry. “Will they give me a stay?” she asks. Her coughs rack her body.
“Oh, Karen,” says Dr. Wren, “I hope so.”
At the end of her visit on Friday, Dr. Wren reaches through the bars and takes Karen’s hand in her own. “I can’t come to see you anymore,” says Dr. Wren. She looks terrible, and smells of old whiskey. “Until Huntsville,” she adds.
“I know.”
“I wish there was something I could say. I don’t know,” she says quietly, “how to say goodbye.” Karen does not meet her gaze. After a moment, Dr. Wren lets go of Karen’s hand. “I will be there with you,” she says. “You will not be alone, Karen.”
Karen lies awake all night, wishing she had answered Dr. Wren. Wishing she had said, “I love you. I am ready. Let me go.”
franny
Franny drove slowly away from the prison. She was overwhelmed with frustration. She had tried to keep herself insulated, and here she was again, heartbroken. Karen would be dead in three days.
When Franny saw the full parking lot at the Motor Inn, she wanted to cry. She could not bear it: the full bar, the men in shiny suits and the women with heavy makeup. She winced at the memory of her drunken rambling to that pretty woman. How humiliating.
She pulled into the gas station, fumbling through scraps of paper in her purse until she found Rick’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Rick? It’s Franny Wren.”
“Oh, hello, Franny.”
“Rick,” said Franny. “Isn’t there anything we can do?
I just…”
“Why don’t you come over?” said Rick.
“Over where?”
“To my house. I live in Waco.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about an hour,” he said. “I suppose you couldn’t…”
“No,” said Franny. “I’d like that. They won’t let me see her…until…”
“I know. Until Huntsville. I could—I’ll have dinner waiting. We can go to Huntsville together in the morning. You can sleep on my couch.”
He gave her directions. As Franny scribbled them onto her hand with a ballpoint pen, she realized that this was crazy, driving to a strange man’s house in another town, sleeping on his couch. But he was the only one who would understand. Also, she wanted to drive, and desperately needed a destination.
In the gas station, she bought a Snickers bar. She turned her radio up loud, and rolled down the windows. The hot air came over her face in waves, and she sang until her voice grew hoarse: I left something turned on at home! Well it isn’t the coffee pot, it isn’t the heater. She’s a whole lot cuter and a whole lot sweeter…I left something turned on at home!
Franny had spent some time in Waco as a child, but not much: choral recitals, soccer tournaments. Rick lived near the main square. His house was small, yellow with green shutters. In the last light, the lawn was tinted crimson. Franny turned into the driveway, and the gravel made a crunching sound. Rick opened the front door and came out to greet her, a pair of barbecue tongs in his hand. Franny smiled at the sight of him. He wore flip-flops, and cotton shorts with a threadbare T-shirt that said LONGHORNS.
Franny stepped from the car, and Rick said, “Ribs?”
“What?”
“You like ribs?” He looked worried.
Franny laughed. “I love them,” she said.
Rick’s backyard had a huge cactus garden, which he had strung with white lights. Franny settled into a lawn chair, and Rick handed her a cold mug of beer. The heat was dissipating slowly now that the sun had set, but Franny’s skin was damp, her skirt sticking to her legs. A large smoker took center stage in the middle of Rick’s patio, and he tended lovingly to the ribs, brushing sauce onto them from a yellow bowl. He had put on music (some of the rocks around the patio appeared to be speakers), and Lyle Lovett sang plaintively.
“So, you’re a native New Yorker?” said Rick, looking at Franny over his shoulder.
“Are you kidding? I grew up in Gatestown.” Franny smiled at the look on Rick’s face. His hair curled in the humid, evening air.
“And I thought I was making ribs for a New Yorker,” said Rick, shaking his head, “Now the pressure’s on.” He paused. “So Dr. Wren was your father’s brother?”
“Yes.” Franny did not add, and my father and mother.
They talked about nothing for a while: football, Rick’s law school years at U.T., the weather, the lack of Chinese food in Texas. Franny felt relaxed in a way she had not felt in a long time, and found that she did not want to leave Rick’s backyard. Even as she sat underneath his oak trees, stars beginning to sparkle through the leaves, she was dreading the time when she would have to return to Uncle Jack’s lonely house, the reporters, and the motel bar.
“So how long are you planning to stay here?” Rick asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Franny. “Now that I’ve got my cat, I don’t have a whole lot to go back to. Uncle Jack had a private practice here, on Fifth Street. I’ve thought about re-opening it, but I don’t know.”
Rick set the glass-topped table with yellow plates, and brought out steaming corn, potato salad, and a plate of Wonder Bread slices piled high. He set the glistening ribs on a tray. Franny savored her first bite. “These are almost as good as my Uncle Jack’s,” she said.
“Dr. Wren?”
“He raised me, actually. Rick, both my parents died in a car accident when I was six years old.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Franny nodded. She took a breath. “Uncle Jack sent me away to school when I was sixteen,” she said, “but somehow this feels like my home.”
“Really?”
Franny blushed. “I mean Texas,” she said.
“Of course.”
“There was a settlement, after my parents’ deaths. It was spent on my education. His idea was to get me out of here. But somehow I’ve always felt…I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Indebted?”
Franny nodded. “Yeah. As if I owed something. I never asked for the money, but since it came from…” Franny stopped.
“You’ve done so much,” said Rick. “Look at what you’ve done for Karen.”
Franny took a deep breath. “If only I could do more,” she said.
“I know,” said Rick. “I know what you mean.”
Franny wiped her eyes, and then her salty lips with a napkin. They were silent for a few minutes, and then Franny said, “So, how long have you lived in Waco?”
“Since law school. I followed my wife here.”
“You were married?”
“Yes. Carolyn. It didn’t end well. I was—still am, I guess—too tied up in my work. I didn’t have anything left for her.” He shook his head. “It was a crazy time. There was a fellow on Death Row—Kit Gantry.”
“Oh, my God,” said Franny. “You’re…”
Rick laughed. “Kit Gantry’s lawyer,” he said. “Yes, I am. I was.”
“And you got him off Death Row!”
Rick smiled. “He lives in Galveston now,” he said. “Just sent me a picture of his new granddaughter.”
“How amazing,” said Franny. “I read all about it.”
Rick sighed. “It was eight years ago,” he said. “Gantry’s sister contacted me, swore he was innocent. I believed her.” He leaned back in his chair, told Franny about the DNA findings, the judge who ruled they were admissible, the day Gantry was released from Death Row.
“My wife,” said Rick, “was left out, angry. But I really thought it was the beginning of something, my great crusade.” He smiled sadly. “And how can I come home for dinner when someone’s life is on the line?”
Franny nodded. “It must have been very hard,” she said.
“Well, that was eight years ago,” said Rick. He sighed. “What seemed like the beginning turned out to be my last hurrah.”
“I remember reading about the Gantry case. It was all over the papers, even in New York. You saved a man’s life, Rick.”
“And I’ve watched many die, unable to do a damn thing.”
“But you keep trying.”
Rick smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I do keep trying.”
Franny thought about Anna, about Karen and her visions of heaven. The corn was sweet and buttery, and Franny ate.
Rick brought out a pan of bread pudding and hot brandy sauce. “No,” said Franny. “I can’t eat any more.”
“Well, I’ll leave it here, just in case,” he said, spooning himself a large portion.
The smells mixed together: the smoker, the brandy sauce, the brown sugar in the bread pudding. The beer, and Rick’s own scent, a strong smell of cinnamon and smoke. Franny leaned back in her chair and looked at the stars. She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I’m just happy, I guess,” said Franny.
“I’m so glad,” said Rick. “What a wonderful thing to hear.”
There was another silence, and then Franny spoke. “She’s going to die, isn’t she?”
“Well, there aren’t any appeals left. And the governor. Franny, he’s not going to issue a stay.”
“But someone could—isn’t there anyone—”
“No,” said Rick. After a few minutes, he said, “She might get a stay. Why don’t we just hope for that, Franny?”
Franny did not answer.
Rick made her a bed on the couch, clean blue sheets and a pillow. The living room had pine floors and a large painting hung over the fireplace. It was a painting of a house surrounded by wildflowers. “That’s our family ranch in Dripping Springs,” said Rick. “One of my nieces painted it.”
“It’s lovely.”
“We’ve got bluebonnets,” said Rick. “Lady Bird made sure of that.” He finished making her bed.
“Do you want kids?” said Franny.
“God, yes,” said Rick, with a yearning in his voice that surprised her. “I mean,” he said, clearing his throat, “you know, who doesn’t?” He laughed. “Anyway, you can change in the bathroom. I’ll put a T-shirt and some shorts out for you.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
“Well.” He paused, and Franny felt the connection between them, a tender warmth, a glimpse of joy. Rick looked at her, and then he looked away. “Goodnight, Franny,” he said.
“Yes,” said Franny. “Goodnight.”
Rick’s bathroom was clean, a bar of Ivory soap by the sink. Franny took a towel and brought it to her face, breathing in Rick’s cinnamon smell.
On the couch, Franny found a Longhorns soccer T-shirt and blue boxer shorts. She changed in the dark, wondering if Rick was listening to her movements.
Franny could see stars outside the window, and hear crickets. She fell asleep in minutes.
In the morning, Franny smelled bacon, and, for the first time in a long time, she looked forward to getting out of bed. She found Rick in the kitchen frying eggs. “Coffee’s in the pot,” he said gruffly, but then he turned to her. “You drink coffee?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” said Franny, pouring some into a white mug.
“I’m not much of a morning person,” said Rick.
Franny laughed. “Fine with me,” she said. She took the paper outside and opened it on the glass table. As she turned the pages, she felt Rick watching her through the window.
“Look, she’s on the front cover, for Christ’s sake,” said Franny, when Rick came outside with breakfast on a tray: bacon, eggs, toast, grapefruit.
Rick took the paper. That terrible picture of Karen in the bar was splayed, huge and colorful, under the words, HIWAY HONEY TO GOVERNOR: ‘HAVE MERCY ON ME!’ Karen’s mouth was open, her eyes wild and flashing.
“I hate that fucking picture,” said Rick.
According to the paper, hundreds of picketers had gathered in Gatestown, surrounding the prison. “My God,” said Franny, “you can’t even see the front door. I wish I could be there.”
“Don’t bother,” said Rick. “They won’t let you in. Not anymore. They try to be secretive about when she goes to Huntsville. They stop all visitation.”
“We’ll see her in Huntsville, right?”
“We’ll see her,” said Rick. He chewed his bacon angrily. “Gets to me every time,” he said. Franny wanted to kiss him, this heavy, fierce man, but she took a forkful of eggs instead.
celia
I leave Priscilla at my crappy motel, and drive slowly to the prison. It is the middle of the day, and the sun is a hard thing, pressing on the windows of my car. The air-conditioning tries desperately to make a dent in the heavy heat. I take a left at a Spurs Gas Mart, and the prisons loom before me in a row. They are brown, circled with barbed-wire fences. In the exercise yards, in August, the ground has turned to dust. The only color is the sky, a pale horizon. I take a right at the end of the road to reach Mountain View Unit.
I know it is Mountain View Unit because there are more guards perched in towers, their guns trained on the roads out. There are rows of fences; climbing one is not enough. I am shaking as I pull up to the guard station.
A short man with big sunglasses looks up from the book he is reading. (It is a Tom Clancy novel, Without Remorse.) He takes a clipboard from his desk and walks to my car. He raps on the window. “Oh,” I say, and roll it down.
“Name of visitor,” he says in a metal monotone.
“Karen Lowens.”
When he raises his eyebrow, it is almost imperceptible, but I see it. “Your name,” he says.
“Celia Mills.” This does not elicit any response, though they have been showing my picture on the news for days. That damn honeymoon picture! If I had known that our honeymoon picture would be all over the news, I certainly would have brushed my hair. (I was astonished when I finally realized how reporters had gotten the picture in the first place: one of Henry’s colleagues had taken it off Henry’s desk and sold it.)
The man holds the clipboard out for me to sign. I take it, but the pen does not work, no matter how hard I press down. I unlatch the glove compartment to reach for another pen, and before I know it, the guard is barking for me to stay still, and he is reaching for his gun. “I just need a pen,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. I cannot see his eyes behind the mirrored glasses. He hands me a ballpoint from his pocket. When I hand back the clipboard, he says, “Pop the hood.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pop the hood,” he says slowly, as if I am a child. I pull the cables, and he takes his time looking at my engine, and then in my back seat. (I try to think of what he’s seeing: my gym bag, raincoat, those red high-heels th
at look fabulous but hurt too much to walk in.)
Finally, he closes my hood and comes back around. “Go ahead,” he says.
I drive to the Visitors’ Parking Area. When I climb from the car, the heat punches me like a fist. I walk to the prison entrance. From a tower, a guard watches me. His face is blank and his hand is on his rifle. When I lift my hand in greeting, he does not respond.
The door is heavy and the knob is hot. I pull it open, expecting air-conditioning, but it is the same temperature inside as out. The warden is waiting for me. She is a tall, black woman in a neat uniform. She takes my hand in both of hers. She looks tired. “I’m glad to meet you,” says the warden. I do not tell her that I find this strange. She asks me if I want to come into her office for a cold drink, gesturing with an elegant turn of her wrist. I say no.
“Karen is expecting you,” says the warden. “She’s in the visiting room.”
The warden sees the flicker of fear across my face. “She’s handcuffed, and behind glass,” says the warden. “You’re completely safe.” I nod. I am feeling dizzy.
The visiting room is empty except for two guards and a frail woman in a wheelchair. There is a soda machine in the corner. My eyes adjust to the bright light (the hallways of the prison are dim and close) and I see that the frail woman is Karen Lowens. “Just let the guards know when you’re done,” says the warden.
“Thank you,” I say.
I walk toward the wall of glass and sit in a plastic chair opposite Karen. She watches me. Her face is like a skeleton, and her mouth is wet with sores. Her eyes look hollow. I pick up the receiver.
“Karen?” I say. She nods, and does not say anything. We sit like this, in silence, and her eyes fill with tears.
She says something into the phone, and I press it to my ear. She says, “I wish I hadn’t killed him.”
It is not enough; it is nothing, and yet something hard inside me yields.
“I got your letter,” she says. She looks down. Her wrists are cuffed in metal.
“You never wrote back,” I say.
“I didn’t know what to say.” Again, the long silence. Our eyes are locked, and my heart beats rapidly.
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