“It’s not why I asked to see you.”
“All right. Go on.”
“You’re part Jewish, aren’t you, Doc?”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather died at Auschwitz, right?”
“Yes.”
“I know your father was Tanzanian, so that means that your mother’s family had to have been Jewish, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you must have some Jewish friends, right?”
“Yes, I do have some Jewish friends. And some Jewish extended-family members. Why do you ask? Why the sudden interest in my genealogy?”
“Do you know what the Kaddish is?”
“Of course. The Jewish Mourner’s Prayer for the Dead. It’s recited over the body of the deceased at the interment.”
“I want one.”
“You’re not Jewish.”
“And better yet, I don’t even want a funeral.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I’ve left instructions for my mother for … after I’m gone.”
“And?”
“And I asked her to scatter my ashes in the ocean.”
“I see.”
“And if at all possible, I’d like her to recite the Kaddish before she scatters them.”
“Ahhh …”
“And that’s why I’m asking for your help, Doc. Can you provide my mother with a Kaddish?”
“Do you believe in God, Tory?”
“As an entity? … You know, like a person?”
“However you conceive of the concept.”
“Did you know that Galileo—I think it was Galileo … it might have been da Vinci—was an atheist until he began to study the human eye?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And then—reasonably, in my opinion—he asked the question: How could this have evolved from nothing? He saw that there was intelligence to the design of the eye. It was so meticulously structured and obviously ‘thought out.’”
“Yes. I agree.”
“And it happened by chance? As did the rest of the human body and all of nature, for that matter? By chance? It makes no sense whatsoever to me that we live—there’s the operative word, by the way: live—in a mindless, chaotic universe.”
“Many do not believe that, Tory. Many people see the structure and order as a sign of God’s handiwork.”
“Can you blame them? I mean, there is just too much … sense … to everything … I … Am I making any sense at all?”
“Yes. You are. I always think about what Albert Einstein, who no one would deny was a scientist, said about creation.”
“What was that?”
“He looked out at the stars and asked, ‘How could such a magnificent symphony not have a conductor?’ Or something like that. I take it one step further, though, Tory, and ask the question, ‘How could such a magnificent symphony not have a composer?’”
“I like that.”
“So you’d like a Kaddish recited at your … disposition.”
“Yes.”
“The Kaddish is usually recited in Aramaic. And it is usually recited for eleven months and a day after the death of a loved one.”
“Really? Aramaic might pose a bit of a problem for Viviana Troy. There are none in English?”
“Oh, yes, there are many translations of the prayer.”
“And the eleven-month thing is probably not going to happen either.”
“Well, I’m sure a single recitation will serve what you want just as well.”
“I think so too. Can you help me, Doc?”
“Of course. I will find a Kaddish—in English—for your mother to recite.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s all right. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about before I go? I’m at your disposal.”
“No, that’s pretty much it.… I guess this is good-bye, Dr. Bexley, right?”
“Who really knows, Tory? It would seem to be, but sometimes things don’t always happen the way we expect them to.”
“I think death is a door, Doc. I truly do.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps that door will yet remain closed to you, or perhaps it will open wide. We never really can know for sure what the next moment will bring, Tory.”
“Okay … but that door seems to be swinging wide open for me right now.”
“We never truly know what the next moment will bring, Tory.”
Ward Nine
Tory’s last meal before leaving Old Saybrook for death row is brought to her in her room on a tray. One vegetarian patty. White rice. Peas and carrots. A roll. Butter in a small plastic container. Ketchup in a foil packet. A small packet each of salt and pepper. One eight-ounce can of Schweppes ginger ale. One container of vanilla pudding. One apple.
She eats none of it. She sits on her bed in pale violet pajamas, her chin on her knees, twirling her hair with her little finger, and staring at the TV—the TV that she never once turned on her whole time here. Finally, very late, after the ambient light filtered through the closed vertical blinds fades to total darkness, she drifts off to a fitful, restless sleep.
The Last Dialogue
“Who are you?”
“Hi, Tory.”
“Who are you?”
“Look around you, Tory. What do you see?”
“I know this place.”
“Of course you do.”
“But how can I be here?”
“Where, Tory? How can you be where?”
“Underwater.”
“That’s right. You’re underwater. What do you see?”
“That rock …”
“Yes?”
“That rock over there.”
“Go on.”
“I threw that rock into the water.”
“Yes, you did.”
“It’s still here.”
“That’s right. It’s exactly where you hurled it a long time ago.”
“But how can I be … am I really underwater?”
“What do you think?”
“I … this is crazy.”
“Okay. It’s crazy. What now?”
“What do you mean?”
“What happens next, Tory?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you’re Tory!”
“Yes. I’m Tory.”
“You are Victoria Abigail Troy. Daughter of Viviana Troy. Estranged daughter of Crouch Troy. Animal euthanasia technician.”
“Who are you? Tell me.”
“College graduate. Unpublished writer. Friend to many. Bearer of Tic Tacs. iPod enthusiast. Lapsed Catholic. Half-assed agnostic. Slim of build. Watcher of documentaries. Libra.”
“Who are you?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, yes, you do.”
“No.”
“What do you see, Tory?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think I see. I’m obviously dreaming. I’m lying in my bed in the Woodward Knolls Psychiatric Institute in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, in my pale violet pajamas, and I’m having a strange dream.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’m not?”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. What do you see when you look at me?”
“I can’t see you. In fact, I don’t know how I’m hearing you. Everything is silent.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m cold.”
“Maybe you have low blood pressure. Or hypoglycemia.”
“I’m cold.”
“No, you’re not. You only think you are.”
“What place is this?”
“Don’t you recognize it?”
“It looks familiar …”
“Think hard, Tory.”
“It’s the house … the animal-shelter house.”
“Ding-ding-ding! Correct!”
“But it doesn’t look the same.”
“What’s different? What do you see?”
>
“It’s empty … the walls are leaning in toward me … there are very weird shadows everywhere … I’m scared.”
“No, you’re not. You only think you are.”
“I can’t see anything outside the windows. Just black.”
“Look again.”
“Do I have to?”
“No. Of course not. Look again.”
“There is something … I see shapes at the windows …”
“Look again, Tory.”
“Oh, Jesus … there are faces at the windows.”
“That’s right, honey. Faces. Any of them look familiar?”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“It’s a little late for that, my dear. What do you see, Tory?”
“I see …”
“Yes?”
“I see the dead.”
“That’s right. You see Marcy, and Jake, and Teresa, and all the others, right? They’re the people you worked with, aren’t they, Tory? They’re the people you killed.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Did you know that razor wire was invented by the Germans during World War Two?”
“What?”
“Barbed wire was okay for cattle, but it was too easy for people to circumvent.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The razors on razor wire look like crows with their wings spread open. Razor wire tops all the fences surrounding the Northern Correctional Institution.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In Somers, Connecticut. The NCI is the home of Connecticut’s death row. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Tory? Would you like to hear some music?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Perhaps a song?”
“I’m going insane.”
“How about a poem? Perhaps something by Michael Wigglesworth?”
“I don’t hear you.”
“Of course you do.”
“No.”
“Wigglesworth was quite the raconteur. Except that every story he told usually involved someone being savaged for their sins.”
“Stop.”
“In 1662 he wrote a cheerful ditty called ‘The Day of Doom.’ Know it?”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“It’s all about hell and sin and the blaring of the trump and the return of Christ the King to hurl all the thieves and fornicators—and murderers—into the lake of fire.”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you like Steely Dan, Tory? ‘My Old School’?”
“Leave me alone.”
“How about Barry Manilow? Nat King Cole? Jerry Vale? Paula Cole? Sinatra? Nirvana?”
“One, two, three, four. Can you imagine an imaginary menagerie manager imagining managing an imaginary menagerie?”
“That won’t do it, Tory.”
“Cows graze in groves on grass which grows in grooves in groves.”
“Or that either, dear.”
“Do what?”
“Push the mental reset button. Reboot your brain. Reformat your psyche. Restart your gray matter. Relaunch your lucidity. You’re in this for the duration, darling. Tongue twisters certainly won’t get you out of it.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes. Most assuredly yes.”
“I said no.”
“Declawing is really a surgical amputation procedure. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I knew that. But it’s sometimes necessary.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“The empirical formula for pancuronium bromide is C35H60Br2N2O4.”
“Stop.”
“Have you seen some of the new research on the psychic abilities of animals?”
“I’m not listening.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I know that for a fact, Victorious.”
“It’s Victoria.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“The British military awards a bronze cross to those who have performed acts of great courage and valor.”
“So?”
“It’s called a Victoria Cross.”
“How nice for them.”
“By the way, that’s the real name of the Nile, you know.”
“What is the real name of the Nile? You are exhausting me.”
“Some sections of the Nile are called the Victoria Nile.”
“That’s not true.”
“It certainly is. It’s because old man ribber flows from Lake Victoria in Uganda into the Mediterranean.”
“Why are you telling me these things?”
“That question should be punctuated with both a question mark and an exclamation point.”
“What in the name of God are you talking about?”
“Just now—when you shouted, ‘Why are you telling me these things?’—you were so emotional that I felt that a question mark wasn’t enough. It needed more.”
“Please stop.”
“Did you know that there actually is a punctuation mark that combines a question mark and an exclamation point? It’s called an interrobang. No one uses it, though.”
“I don’t feel well.”
“Headache? TMJ? Brain tumor? Hangnail? Angina? Menstrual bloat? Shingles? Nausea? Leprosy?”
“I can’t take any more of this.”
“Really? That’s too bad, dear, because we’re only just getting started.”
“I want to wake up. I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you’re not. You only think you are. Tell me, what do you see, Tory?”
“What is this room?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. Look around. What do you see?”
“It’s so bright.”
“What do you see? There? In the corner.”
“That’s a … that can’t be …”
“But it is, Tory. Tell me what you see.”
“It’s a pill bottle.”
“That’s right. But there’s something unusual about that pill bottle, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the size of a goddamned refrigerator.”
“That’s right. It’s a pill bottle the size of a goddamned refrigerator. And what’s written on the side of the bottle, Tory?”
“The number six hundred fifty.”
“That’s right. And what significance is that number to you, Tory?”
“It’s the number of milligrams.”
“Milligrams of what?”
“Hydrocodone.”
“That’s right. In that bottle the size of a goddamned refrigerator is six hundred fifty milligrams of the hydrocodone you stashed away and considered using to kill yourself, isn’t it, Tory?”
“Yes.”
“Although if the pills inside the bottle are proportionately as large as the bottle, then perhaps the dosage is much higher per tablet. Someone should do the math.”
“Now it’s gone.”
“Look around the room, Tory.”
“No.”
“Yes. Look around the room. What do you see?”
“I see a window. Covered by vertical blinds.”
“That’s right. By the way, those blinds are from Brilliant Blinds & Wallpaper in Tempe, Arizona, and that color is eggshell. It’s made of a new material that doesn’t collect dust. Very easy to clean. That color is very soothing, don’t you think? Perfect for any soon-to-be corpse.”
“This is driving me crazy. I feel like my head is about to explode.”
“Well, try to keep your head from exploding just yet, okay?”
“What do you want from me?”
“There’s someone here who wants to talk to you, Tory.”
“Who?”
“She’s an old friend.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Sure you do, Tory. You’ve got Marcy … and Ann … and Renaldo … and even Jake.”
“I
’m not listening.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that, but we both know it’s bullshit, so why don’t you just stop, okay?”
“Who wants to talk to me?”
“She’s standing right behind you. I’ll shut up for a while while you two old friends catch up.”
“Hi, Tory.”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“No.”
“No … of course you don’t. You’ve never actually seen me in person.”
“Who are you?”
“Maybe this’ll help.”
“Jesus Christ! Where did that baby come from? Wait … you’re Sarah.”
“That’s right, Tory. And this is Annie Bananny.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Yes, I know. And I have you to thank for that.”
“Me?”
“Of course. You created her. And me, for that matter. And I’m very grateful you didn’t kill her. Granted, what you put me through was horrible, but all’s well that ends well, I guess. Thanks for that.”
“Why are you here?”
“To help you.”
“But you’re not real.”
“I’m not?”
“This is a dream.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, then, if you’re sure of it, then maybe it is. But then again, maybe it isn’t. Maybe you only think it is.”
“I’m so confused.”
“I understand, Tory. I truly do. But there’s no turning back now. You’ve got to see this thing through. All the way.”
“What thing? What do I have to see all the way through?”
“You know.”
“My death? My execution?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“What was it like, Sarah?”
“What was what like, Tory?”
“What you went through …”
“You mean with Annie?”
“Yes. What was it like believing that someone you loved had died?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“How could you not? You were the one who made me believe it. You were my God.”
“Your God?”
“My creator. And I’m here to help you see this thing through, Tory.”
“How?”
“That’s completely up to you, Tory.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in charge.”
“How the hell am I in charge? I feel like I have no control whatsoever.”
“The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death, Tory.”
Dialogues Page 25