by Jodi Picoult
There were people outside the prison praying to Shay; there were religious pundits on TV who promised hell and damnation to those who worshipped a false messiah. I didn’t know what Shay was or wasn’t, but I credited him for my health one hundred percent. And there was something about him that just didn’t fit in here, that made you stop and look twice, as if you’d come across an orchid growing in a ghetto.
“Stay where you are,” I called out. “Shay, you hear me?”
But he didn’t answer. I stood at the threshold of my cell, trembling. I stared at that invisible line between here and now, no and yes, if and when. With one deep breath, I stepped outside.
Shay was not in his cell; he was moving slowly toward Joey’s. Through the door of I-tier, I could see the officers suiting up in flak jackets and shields and masks. There was someone else, too—a priest I’d never seen before.
I reached for Shay’s arm to stop him. That’s all, just that small heat, and it nearly brought me to my knees. Here in prison we did not touch; we were not touched. I could have held on to Shay, at the innocent crook of his elbow, forever.
But Shay turned, and I remembered the first unwritten rule of being in prison: you did not invade someone’s space. I let go. “It’s okay,” Shay said softly, and he took another step toward Joey’s cell.
Joey was spread-eagled on the floor, sobbing, his pants pulled down. His head was twisted away, and blood streamed from his nose. Pogie had one of his arms, Texas the other; Calloway sat on his fighting feet. From this angle, they were obscured from the view of the officers who were mobilizing to subdue everyone. “You heard of Save the Children?” Crash said, brandishing his homemade blade. “I’m here to make a donation.”
Just then, Shay sneezed.
“God bless,” Crash said automatically.
Shay wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Thanks.”
The interruption made Crash lose some of his momentum. He glanced out at the army on the other side of the door, screaming commands we couldn’t hear. He rocked back on his heels and surveyed Joey, shivering against the cement floor.
“Let him go,” Crash said.
“Let him . . . ?” Calloway echoed.
“You heard me. All of you. Go back.”
Pogie and Texas listened; they always did what Crash said. Calloway was slower to leave. “We ain’t done here,” he said to Joey, but then he left.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Crash said to me, and I hurried back to my own cell, forgetting entirely anyone else’s welfare except my own.
I do not know what it was that led to Crash’s change of plan—if it was knowing that the officers would storm the tier and punish him; if it was Shay’s well-timed sneeze; if it was a prayer—God bless—on the lips of a sinner like Crash. But by the time the SWAT team entered seconds later, all seven of us were sitting in our cells even though the doors were still wide open, as if we were angels, as if we had nothing to hide.
* * *
There’s a flower I can see from the exercise yard. Well, I can’t really see it—I have to sort of hook my fingers on the ledge of the only window and spider-walk up the cement wall, but I can glimpse it then before I fall back down. It’s a dandelion, which you might think is a weed, but it can be put into salads or soups. The root can be ground up and used as a coffee substitute. The juices can get rid of warts or be used as an insect repellent. I learned all this from a Mother Earth News magazine piece that I keep wrapped around my treasures—my shank, my Q-tips, the tiny Visine bottles where I keep the ink I manufacture. I read the article every time I take my supplies out for inventory, which is daily. I keep my cache behind a loosened cinder block beneath my cot, refilling the mortar with Metamucil and toothpaste, mixed, so that the officers don’t get suspicious when they toss the cell.
I never gave it much thought before I came in here, but I wish I knew more about horticulture. I wish I’d taken the time to learn what makes things grow. Hell, if I had, maybe I could have started a watermelon plant from a seedling. Maybe I’d have vines hanging all over the place by now.
Adam had the green thumb in our household. I used to find him outside at the crack of dawn, rooting around in the dirt between our daylilies and sedums. The weeds shall inherit the earth, he had said.
Meek, I’d corrected. The meek shall inherit it.
No way, Adam had said, and laughed. The weeds will blow right by them.
He used to say that if you picked a dandelion, two would grow back in its place. I guess they are the botanical equivalent of the men in this prison. Take one of us off the street, and more will sprout up in his wake.
With Crash back in solitary, and Joey in the infirmary, I-tier was oddly quiet. In the wake of Joey’s beating, our privileges had been suspended, so all showers and exercise yard visits were canceled for the day. Shay was pacing. Earlier, he’d been complaining that his teeth were vibrating with the air-conditioning unit; sometimes sounds got to be too much for him—usually when he was agitated. “Lucius,” he said. “Did you see that priest today?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think he came for me?”
I didn’t want to give him false hope. “I don’t know, Shay. Maybe someone was dying on another tier and needed last rites.”
“The dead aren’t alive, and the living don’t die.”
I laughed. “Thanks for that, Yoda.”
“Who’s Yoda?”
He was talking crazy, the way Crash had a year ago when he’d started to peel the lead paint from the cinder blocks and eat it, hoping it would serve as a hallucinogen. “Well, if there is a heaven, I bet it’s full of dandelions.” (Actually, I think heaven’s full of guys who look like Wentworth Miller from Prison Break, but for right now, I was only talking landscaping.)
“Heaven’s not a place.”
“I didn’t say it had map coordinates . . .”
“If it was in the sky, then birds would get there before you. If it was under the sea, fish would be first.”
“Then where is it?” I asked.
“It’s inside you,” Shay said, “and outside, too.”
If he wasn’t eating the lead paint, then he’d been making hooch I didn’t know about. “If this is heaven, I’ll take a rain check.”
“You can’t wait for it, because it’s already here.”
“Well, you’re the only one of us who got rose-colored glasses when he was booked, I guess.”
Shay was silent for a while. “Lucius,” he asked finally. “Why did Crash go after Joey instead of me?”
I didn’t know. Crash was a convicted murderer; I had no doubt he could and would kill again if given the opportunity. Technically, both Joey and Shay had sinned equally in Crash’s code of justice; they had harmed children. Maybe Crash figured Joey would be easier to kill. Maybe Shay had gained a modicum of respect through his miracles. Maybe he’d just gotten lucky.
Maybe even Crash thought there was something special about Shay.
“He’s not any different than Joey . . .” Shay said.
“Teensy suggestion? Don’t let Crash hear you say that.”
“. . . and we’re not any different than Crash,” he finished. “You don’t know what would make you do what Crash did, just like you didn’t know what would make you kill Adam, until it happened.”
I drew in my breath. No one in prison talked about another person’s crime, even if you secretly believed they were guilty. But I had killed Adam. It was my hand holding the gun; it was his blood on my clothes. It wasn’t what had been done that was at issue for me in court; it was why.
“It’s okay to not know something,” Shay said. “That’s what makes us human.”
No matter what Mr. Philosopher Next Door thought, there were things I knew for sure: That I had been loved, once, and had loved back. That a person could find hope in the way a weed grew. That the sum of a man’s life was not where he wound up but in the details that brought him there.
That we made mistakes.
June
They say God won’t give you any more than you can handle, but that begs a more important question: why would God let you suffer in the first place?
“No comment,” I said into the phone, and I slammed down the receiver loud enough that Claire—on the couch with her iPod on—sat up and took notice. I reached beneath the table and yanked out the cord completely so that I would not have to hear the phone ring.
They had been calling all morning; they had set up camp outside my home. How does it feel to know that there are protesters outside the prison, hoping to free the man who murdered your child and your husband?
Do you think Shay Bourne’s request to be an organ donor is a way to make up for what he’s done?
What I thought was that nothing Shay Bourne could do or say would ever make up for the lives of Elizabeth and Kurt. I knew firsthand how well he could lie and what might come of it—this was nothing more than some publicity stunt to make everyone feel badly for him, because after a decade, who even remembered feeling badly for that police officer, that little girl?
I did.
There are people who say that the death penalty isn’t just because it takes so long to execute a man. That it’s inhumane to have to wait eleven years or more for punishment. That at least for Elizabeth and Kurt, death came quickly.
Let me tell you what’s wrong with that line of reasoning: it assumes that Elizabeth and Kurt were the only victims. It leaves out me; it leaves out Claire. And I can promise you that every day for the last eleven years I’ve thought of what I lost at the hands of Shay Bourne. I’ve been anticipating his death just as long as he has.
I heard voices coming from the living room and realized that Claire had turned on the television. A grainy photograph of Shay Bourne filled the screen. It was the same photo that had been used in the newspapers, although Claire would not have seen those, since I’d thrown them out immediately. Bourne’s hair was cut short now, and there were parenthetical lines around his mouth and fanning from the corners of his eyes, but he otherwise did not look any different.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Claire asked.
God, Complex? read the caption beneath the photograph.
“Yes.” I walked toward the television, intentionally blocking her view, and turned it off.
Claire looked up at me. “I remember him,” she said.
I sighed. “Honey, you weren’t even born yet.”
She unfolded the afghan that sat on the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders, as if she’d suddenly taken a chill. “I remember him,” Claire repeated.
MICHAEL
I would have had to be living under a rock to not know what was being said about Shay Bourne, but I was the last person in the world who would ever have believed him to be messianic. As far as I was concerned, there was one Son of God, and I knew who He was. As for Bourne’s showmanship—well, I’d seen David Blaine make an elephant disappear on Fifth Avenue in New York City, but that wasn’t a miracle, either. Plain and simple: my job here wasn’t to feed into Shay Bourne’s delusional beliefs . . . only to help him accept Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior before his execution so that he’d wind up in the Kingdom of Heaven.
And if I could help him donate his heart somewhere along the way, so be it.
Two days after the incident at I-tier had occurred, I parked my Trophy outside the prison. My mind kept tripping over a verse from Matthew where Jesus spoke to his disciples: I was a stranger, and you took me in; naked, and you clothed me; I was sick, and you visited me; I was in prison, and you came unto me. The disciples—who were, to be brutally honest, a thick bunch—were confused. They couldn’t remember Jesus being lost or naked or sick or imprisoned. And Jesus told them: Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of my brethren, you have done it unto me.
Inside, I was handed a flak jacket and goggles again. The door to I-tier opened, and I was led down the hallway to Shay Bourne’s cell.
It wasn’t all that different from being in the confessional. The same Swiss-cheese holes perforated the metal door of the cell, so I could get a glimpse of Shay. Although we were the same age, he looked like he’d aged a lifetime. Now gray at the temples, he still was slight and wiry. I hesitated, silent, waiting to see if his eyes would go wide with recognition, if he would start banging on the door and demand to get away from the person who’d set the wheels of his execution in motion.
But a funny thing happens when you’re in clerical dress: you aren’t a man. You’re somehow more than one, and also less. I’ve had secrets whispered in front of me; I’ve had women hike up their skirts to fix their panty hose. Like a physician, a priest is supposed to be unflappable, an observer, a fly on the wall. Ask ten people who meet me what I look like, and eight of them won’t be able to tell you the color of my eyes. They simply don’t look past the collar.
Shay walked directly up to the door of the cell and started to grin. “You came,” he said.
I swallowed. “Shay, I’m Father Michael.”
He flattened his palms against the door of the cell. I remembered a photograph from the crime evidence, those fingers dark with a little girl’s blood. I had changed so much in the past eleven years, but what about Shay Bourne? Was he remorseful? Had he matured? Did he wish, like me, that he could erase his mistakes?
“Hey, Father,” a voice yelled out—I would later learn it was Calloway Reece—“you got any of those wafers? I’m near starving.”
I ignored him and focused on Shay. “So . . . I understand you’re Catholic?”
“A foster mother had me baptized,” Shay said. “A thousand years ago.” He glanced at me. “They could put you in the conference room, the one they use for lawyers.”
“The warden said we’d have to talk here, at your cell.”
Shay shrugged. “I don’t have anything to hide.”
Do you? I heard, although he hadn’t said it.
“Anyway, that’s where they give us hep C,” Shay said.
“Give you hep C?”
“On haircut day. Every other Wednesday. We go to the conference room and they buzz us. Number two blade, even if you want it longer for winter. They don’t make it this hot in here in the winter. It’s freezing from November on.” He turned to me. “How come they can’t make it hot in November and freezing now?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s on the blades.”
“Pardon?”
“Blood,” Shay said. “On the razor blades. Someone gets nicked, someone else gets hep C.”
Following his conversation was like watching a SuperBall bounce. “Did that happen to you?”
“It happened to other people, so sure, it happened to me.”
Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of my brethren, you have done it unto me.
My head was swimming; I hoped it was Shay’s nonlinear speech, and not a panic attack coming on. I’d been suffering those for eleven years now, ever since the day we’d sentenced Shay. “But for the most part, you’re all right?”
After I said it, I wanted to kick myself. You didn’t ask a dying man how he was feeling. Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, I thought, how was the play?
“I get lonely,” Shay answered.
Automatically, I replied, “God’s with you.”
“Well,” Shay said, “he’s lousy at checkers.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Why do you believe in God?” He leaned forward, suddenly intense. “Did they tell you I want to donate my heart?”
“That’s what I came to talk about, Shay.”
“Good. No one else wants to help.”
“What about your lawyer?”
“I fired him.” Shay shr
ugged. “He lost all the appeals, and then he started talking about going to the governor. The governor’s not even from New Hampshire, did you know that? He was born in Mississippi. I always wanted to see that river, take one of those gambling boats down it like some kind of cardsharp. Or maybe that’s shark. Do they have those in rivers?”
“Your lawyer . . .”
“He wanted the governor to commute my sentence to life, but that’s just another death sentence. So I fired him.”
I thought about Warden Coyne, how sure he was that this was all just a ploy to get Shay Bourne’s execution called off. Could he have been wrong? “Are you saying that you want to die, Shay?”
“I want to live,” he said. “So I have to die.”
Finally, something I could latch onto. “You will live,” I said. “In the Kingdom of the Father. No matter what happens here, Shay. And no matter whether or not you can donate your organs.”
Suddenly his face went dark. “What do you mean, whether or not?”
“Well, it’s complicated . . .”
“I have to give her my heart. I have to.”
“Who?”
“Claire Nealon.”
My jaw dropped. This specific part of Shay’s request had not made it to the broadcast news. “Nealon? Is she related to Elizabeth?” Too late I realized that the average person—one who hadn’t been on Shay’s jury—might not recognize that name and identify it as quickly. But Shay was too agitated to notice.
“She’s the sister of the girl who was killed. She has a heart problem; I saw it on TV. What’s inside me is going to save me,” Shay said. “If I don’t bring it forward, it’s going to kill me.”
We were making the same mistake, Shay and I. We both believed that you could right a former wrong by doing a good deed later on. But giving Claire Nealon his heart wasn’t going to bring her sister back to life. And being Shay Bourne’s spiritual advisor wasn’t going to erase the fact that I was part of the reason he was here.