He grinned up at me. “ ’Cause you don’t reckon you’ll ever need it?”
“Well, I don’t need it yet, and when I do I don’t intend to be buried next to the man that’s already lying there. You’re two of a kind, you and him.”
Neither of us said anything for a long minute. He kept staring at me, waiting for me to say something else, I guess. Finally he said, “You’re talking about your husband? We’re two of a kind? When did you find out?”
I took a deep breath. I had brought it up. Might as well answer him. “When I opened the picture frame on his desk to get the photo of the boys for you to use as a drawing model.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Well, that’s hard lines, you finding out when he’s already dead and gone. He never had a chance to explain.”
“I’m not interested in any explanations.”
“I guess I have no right to tell you I’m sorry, since I’m guilty of the same thing.”
“There seems to be a lot of it going around. And yes, he died—only not on account of her.” I saw his expression change. “Pneumonia. You knew that’s how I got this job.”
“But you just found out about . . . You had no idea?”
“What does it matter now? He’s gone.”
“It matters enough for you to give away your cemetery plot.”
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about your troubles instead of mine, Mr. Varden?”
“Oh, my troubles will all be over tomorrow, and I’d just as soon not think about the hows and whys of it. If you feel like talking, I got nothing left but time. Not much of it, I guess, but you’re welcome to what there is of it.”
I hadn’t ought to be talking about personal matters with a condemned prisoner, but who else was there? The deputies likely knew what was going on and were covering up. Besides, I’d look weak if I was to try to talk to them about my late husband’s transgressions. I didn’t have any women friends I’d confide in, either, and I don’t know what help the preacher could offer, except maybe to assure me that Albert would have gone to hell for his unrepented sins, which would have been no comfort at all. But this man behind bars would take my secret to the grave, because he would be going there in one more day. I sat down in the hall, at a safe distance from the bars, with my back against the wall opposite the cell. He stayed on the floor and scooted close to the cell door to hear me, because I didn’t want to take any chances on anybody eavesdropping.
“I think it was like you said. Not any star-crossed romance. He had taken up with a cheap frizzy-haired blonde who probably offered him a free sample, and he didn’t see any reason to turn it down.”
He held up a finger, nodding for me to go on. He would still be listening, but he was doing something else as well. He knelt down and tore a palm-sized strip from the end of the butcher paper, just above a practice sketch he had abandoned. He made a few quick, steady strokes on the scrap of paper, looked at it appraisingly for a moment, scribbled more marks, and handed it to me through the bars.
I nearly dropped the paper. In fewer than a dozen strokes, Lonnie Varden had conjured up the smirking face of Shelley Bonham: the small close-set eyes, the puffy cheeks, and the wide, dark lips curled in a sneering smile. I stared at him open-mouthed, and he grinned.
“I’m not a mind reader, Sheriff. But I am used to watching people, and when we were talking about last meals and I mentioned getting a cheeseburger from the diner, you looked like somebody had thrown a bowl of ice water in your face. And, as it happens, I was acquainted with Shelley myself, so it wasn’t hard to match your diner reaction to that priceless description you made. What was it? A cheap frizzy-haired blonde? That’s ol’ Shel to the life, all right. The good time that was had by all.”
“You—?”
“Oh, not lately. Not since I married Celia. But when I first came to town to paint that mural in the post office, Shelley was the self-appointed welcome committee. I ate a few meals at the diner, and she was on offer as dessert. I forget which husband she was on then. Maybe she did, too.”
“Did she . . . charge you . . . ?
He laughed. “For dinner, she did. But for herself? No. With her looks, I doubt she’d get much, and I wasn’t looking to pay for it. I was just lonesome. No, Shel’s specialty was making a man feel wanted, and then giving him the prize for free. But nobody sticks with her for long—even aside from the fear of getting caught by her legal owner. She’s just something to do if you’ve already seen the movie.”
“My husband kept her picture. And notes from her in a blue tobacco tin.”
“So? I got a lace bookmark one time as a prize in Sunday school, and I kept that thing in my drawer for a dozen years. Some men like to keep trophies. Proves they won something.”
“It’s foolish. Look what happened. He died, and I found the evidence.”
“I’m sure he’s sorry now, Mrs. Robbins. I think you can take my word for that.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I slipped the sketch in the pocket of my dress. “I’ll get word to the undertaker about that burial plot. Like I said, I owe you.”
“I’ll have your boys’ portrait finished by morning. I promise you that.”
He would probably be up most of the night finishing the portrait, but maybe it was good that he had something to take his mind off what was to come. I didn’t think any of us would sleep much that last night, and, although the execution was set for noon, on account of all the people who would be pouring into town to watch the festivities, nobody would go home early.
The prisoner had his last meal about seven o’clock—fried chicken and mashed potatoes with milk gravy. Galen Aldridge’s wife is a good cook, so I gave her two dollars to fix the meal for him—more than it cost—and she was happy to do it.
Half an hour later, Galen went back to the cell and fetched the tray. The plate was empty except for a heap of chicken bones. “He sure packed it away, Sheriff.” Galen was beaming. “I wonder what that means.”
“Well, it means Willadene is a good cook, but you knew that. I don’t think it tells us anything about whether he’s remorseful or afraid. Maybe he was just hungry.”
“If it was me, facing the hereafter with the sin of murder on my soul, I believe I’d be spending my last night in prayer and fasting.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t do any good. Is he still working on the picture?”
“I’d say so. Doing a good job too. I’d know it was Eddie and George anywhere. I can build you a frame for it, if you want me to.”
I felt tears sting my eyes and turned away so he wouldn’t see them. “Thank you, Galen. I’d be grateful.”
With Eddie and George up on the farm with Henry, there was no need for me to go home at all that night, but a little before nine, after I’d finished talking to the prisoner, I told Galen goodnight and left the office. The town was quieter than I’d dared to hope. Maybe most of the spectators were planning on showing up in the morning. Even the reporters were gone—too late now to file any stories except the big one, and that would have to wait until tomorrow. They were probably congregated in a back room somewhere with a goodly supply of whisky, swapping war stories about their past adventures. We hadn’t even had much in the way of petty crime all week, either. When I remarked on this at the office, Falcon said happily, “We’ve been telling folks that if they do anything to get locked up, they won’t be able to watch the execution, so they’re all walking chalk this week.”
Nobody stopped to pass the time with me as I walked home, although I might have welcomed the intrusion if I’d thought it would take my mind off my troubles for once. The creek was low and running clear again, now that the spring floods were long gone. I stopped for a few minutes to watch the water slide over the rocks in the twilight, and, when I looked over at the willow on the other side of the creek, I wondered if I’d ever be able to see that tree again without thinking of stubs of burnt char
coal and white butcher paper.
I still wasn’t used to coming home to a house that was dark and empty, but, except for missing the boys, I didn’t really long for companionship, for more reasons than just being tired. There were tomatoes on the drain board that needed to be used up, and a loaf of bread that would get moldy in another couple of days, so I made myself a tomato sandwich and ate it while I skimmed the newspaper I’d brought home from the office.
Afterward I turned on the radio for company and got out my sewing box. The yard of black cloth I’d bought the day before was sitting on the table next to the leather Chesterfield chair that I was determined to stop thinking of as Albert’s.
I’d given a lot of thought to the way the hood should be made. A male hangman might have just cut out a circle of black cloth and tied it under the chin, as Mr. Lidaker had suggested, but I thought that death deserved as much formality as the other rituals of life—say, a wedding—and I decided to make a proper hood, thick enough to hide any fluids that might come forth while he was dying, and secure enough not to come off during the death throes. I sewed two seams in the cloth, shaping the hood like a bag so that it would fit tightly over his head. I even stitched around the circles I’d cut for eyes, to make it look official. It was all part of my resolution to help him die with dignity.
Another thing occurred to me while I was sewing the hood: Lonnie Varden had been wearing regulation prison stripes all the time he had been imprisoned, and with no relatives coming forward to claim him and no possessions left in his old home, he had nothing else to wear. It wouldn’t be fitten for him to be executed and then buried in a prison uniform. When he paid for his crime, he deserved to go to the Lord with his God-given dignity. He ought to go to his death in a proper suit of clothes.
Lonnie Varden and Albert were about the same size—two of a kind, again—and I decided that in addition to the hood, I would furnish him the clothes he would die in. Albert had been buried in his good black suit, but the rest of his things were still in the wardrobe in our bedroom, because I hadn’t been able to bear to give them away. Now, though, I resolved to see all of them gone before the boys got back from the farm. The church could give the clothes to folks in need of them, but first I would do two things: first, I would get out Albert’s second-best trousers, the best white Sunday shirt he had left, and the old navy-blue suit jacket he had worn at our wedding, so that I could take them along to the jail in the morning. Second, I was going to burn all my late husband’s underwear in the woodstove so that any taint of her would be gone for good.
The day had come.
I got to the office early on purpose, because I didn’t want to have to dodge questions from packs of baying newsmen and fight my way through the crowds. On the door Roy had put up a notice that read, EXECUTION AT NOON, but we expected the spectators to start showing up by nine o’clock, staking out the best places to watch the hanging from. A day or so earlier Tyree said he’d heard that people were renting out spaces at their windows overlooking the gallows. Even the tall sycamore trees by the creek would be occupied. I hoped most of those present would be sober. We had enough to contend with as it was. All four deputies were on duty for the day—the crowd alone would have justified that, but each of them also had a part to play in the ritual of execution. I rapped twice on the front door, and Galen let me in.
“Still quiet out there, Sheriff?”
“So far. How’s the prisoner?”
“Calm. I don’t think he slept much, but maybe that’s good. I wouldn’t want to be alert and wide-awake for what he has to face today.”
“Has he had his breakfast?”
“I took it back there. He didn’t seem interested in eating it, though.”
“I’ll look in on him later.” I hadn’t had any appetite for breakfast, either. For what I had to do, I wanted my stomach to be empty so that if my nerves got the best of me, I wouldn’t disgrace myself by vomiting in public.
Galen sighed. “It’s going to be a long morning.”
“Yes.” I handed him the paper sack I had brought from home. “I have a change of clothes here for the prisoner so that he won’t have to be hanged in his prison uniform. You and Falcon can take it back to him about eleven, when you start getting him ready. One of you stays outside the cell with the shotgun aimed at him, while the other one helps him change. When you’re getting him dressed make sure you don’t have the manacles and the shackles off him at the same time. First one and then the other.”
Galen let the top of the bag fall open until he could see the blue suit jacket resting on top. He recognized it at once. “But that belonged to—”
I nodded. “I won’t be wanting it back, Galen. The prisoner will be buried in it. Just see that he gets it on without causing a ruckus. And after he’s dressed, one of you needs to stay back there with him at all times just in case.”
In my office I had written up a chart listing everyone’s duties during the execution, and even the order of the procession. I went over it again and reread the short official speech I was required to make before the hanging began.
A few minutes later Falcon appeared in the doorway, looking smart in a neatly pressed uniform, but he was worried. “Do you think there might be a reprieve, Sheriff? The phone keeps ringing, but it’s mostly those damn reporters. I was wondering what would happen if the governor’s office tried to call us and couldn’t get through?”
“Roy says they won’t. There was one appeal, because by law every death sentence has to be appealed, but it was denied. There’s no doubt of his guilt.”
“I know he doesn’t deserve a reprieve, Sheriff, but I feel sorry for him all the same.”
“I understand. He seems to be a nice fellow, who did something unforgivable in a panic, and it is about to cost him his life. If it helps you any, Falcon, just remind yourself of Celia Varden falling to her death off The Hawk’s Wing. No mercy was shown to her. Anyhow, all you need to worry about is doing what you’re told. And remind me to tell Galen that at ten thirty I want him to take the car and drive to Reverend McKee’s house. I want him to have an escort here to the jail. He might have a hard time fighting his way through the crowds, and I don’t want any delays.”
“Yes’m.” Falcon looked at me curiously. “Aren’t you dreading all this?”
I nodded. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
chapter eighteen
The execution was less than an hour away. Falcon found himself thinking about the funeral of the late Sheriff Robbins a few months back. He had been a pallbearer then—for the first time ever—and the calm, but urgent directing of the participants in the ceremony had been similar to this.
Just before eleven o’clock Galen arrived with the minister, and Falcon had gone out to help the two of them push through the crowds blocking the door. Rev. McKee, already sweating and rumpled from his exertions, held his Bible high over his head as they propelled him past a knot of reporters and news photographers, all of whom were trying to get a shot of him as he hurtled along. Finally, they reached the office and slammed the door, shutting out some of the shouting outside.
Ellendor Robbins came out of her office and thanked the preacher for coming. She was calm, but paler than he had seen her since the day of her husband’s burial. He thought she had lost some weight in the past few days, too. She was wearing the same brown dress she had worn for her husband’s funeral, but now it gaped at the neck and hung loosely over her frame. She was frowning out the window at the milling crowd. “Vultures! You don’t think they’re fixing to storm the jail, do you?”
Roy laughed. “I reckon that sorry bunch would lynch anybody who tried to stop the hanging. They came to see a spectacle, and they won’t be done out of it.”
Galen nodded. “It’s better than the county fair. The people in those little houses between the gallows and the creek have rented out space on their porches. I reckon the sycamore tree limbs
were free for the taking, though, for anybody who was spry enough to climb that high up.” He hauled himself out of the swivel chair and picked up the paper sack next to the desk. “Eleven o’clock. I’m going to take the prisoner his change of clothes now. Falcon, you come on back and keep me covered. Sheriff’s orders.”
Rev. McKee started to follow them. “I should go back and see if he wants me to pray with him while there’s time.”
The sheriff nodded. “Outside the cell, though, Reverend, please. Stand next to Deputy Wallace here. And, Galen, you come back when you’re done getting him changed, but Falcon needs to stay with the prisoner until we’re ready to begin. Understand? I’m taking no chances.”
Falcon’s eyes widened when she said that, but he picked up the shotgun and led the procession back to the cells. The sheriff turned her attention back to the window. “The doctor’s here.”
Roy opened the door wide enough to admit him and slammed it shut in the faces of two shouting reporters.
“This whole town has gone mad,” muttered the doctor. “I’ll bet half of them don’t even know what the man is being hanged for.”
Roy bolted the door. “Is everybody here now, Sheriff?”
“Yes. Everybody we’re letting inside, anyhow. The commissioners, Mr. Lidaker, who built the gallows, and any other dignitaries who plan to attend will be waiting for us outside at the foot of the scaffold. They won’t participate in the hanging itself, and they won’t go up on the platform. There will be eight of us in the procession. I’ll go first. Then Reverend McKee. Then the prisoner, followed by Deputies Wallace and Madden . . .” She looked around the office. “Where is Tyree?”
Roy coughed nervously. “In the john, Sheriff. He’s been in there most of the morning. I think I heard him being sick a time or two.”
The doctor stirred. “Should I go and have a look at him?”
“I think he’ll be all right, sir, once he finishes getting the liquid courage out of his system.” Seeing the sheriff’s look of surprise, Roy added, “It beats all, don’t it? Tyree is the last one in the world I’d have expected to come down with a case of nerves over this hanging. My money would have been on young Falcon, but there it is.”
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