Susan doesn’t know where he lives. She knows even less about Jack than Larry does.
“Why do you want to see him again anyway?” she says.
“I want to give him his third of the money and forget about him.”
Larry does see Jack again. A month later. He sees him coming out of the same bar they had beers in, as if looking for Larry. Jack takes the money Larry offers him, picks it up at the house, says hey to Susan and her kids. “Jesus, ever heard of birth control? Three kids. You’re just like mom,” he says. Her face is stricken. This is the last Larry sees of his brother before everything that happens later. Before things get out of control.
5:01 a.m.
“So both Susan and Jack are still alive?”
The Prisoner shrugs. “As far as I know. I haven’t been in touch and they haven’t been in touch with me.”
“I wish I had known all of this. I wish I had been with you before. I could have helped more. I could have brought them here, let you see them. Helped you make amends. You could phone them. I’m sure I could get a phone brought in. Do you want me to ask?”
“What the hell for?” The Prisoner is pacing again. Back and forth. The light from the COs’ window is brighter now, infused with sunlight. “Bring them here for what? A party? A death party? Hey, let’s celebrate my execution? Eat cake? Bring presents? And what would I talk to them about? You’re really fucked, man. For a chaplain, for a guy who’s supposed to be smart, you’re just fucked.”
“I guess. You’re right. Yes, I am.”
“I tried to frame Jack for the murders – didn’t you read the files?”
“But he doesn’t know that. It didn’t go anywhere. Your lawyers rejected that appeal. Only you and the lawyers know that.”
“It was my last hope,” the Prisoner says. “He deserved it.”
The Chaplain stands now and paces too. He walks the opposite direction from the Prisoner, both of them crossing each other’s path frequently. They pace back and forth like the zoo animals they are. Caged in. Stretching the legs. Getting the blood flowing. The corrections officers look in and shrug. They are only mildly interested in this insanity. Put a man in a box and see what he will do. Put two men in a box and it’s only slightly more interesting.
Less than seven hours left. Suddenly, that seems long to the Chaplain. All this time it felt as if time was speeding up and running out, but now seven hours feels like an eternity. Not even halfway through the ordeal. It’s torture, making him wait. The Chaplain shakes his head to clear it. They’ve been doing nothing. Talking, that’s it. Listening to the Prisoner talk, occasionally saying something himself. But they haven’t really accomplished anything in these five hours together. He realizes that he’s getting antsy now. Even though he can leave anytime he wants to, he’s feeling confined, chained up, held hostage. And it makes his skin crawl. It makes him shiver. It makes him anxious and confused and frustrated and angry.
Locking already angry men up in little cages, the Chaplain thinks, doesn’t do anything but make them angrier. Ah, he’s learned something now. Something he can take away from this – prison reform! The Chaplain will gather the troops with the rallying cry – bigger cells, more free-roaming from room to room and floor to floor, more time in the yard. Fresh air. Sunshine. Let the men free. Organic prisoners. He snorts. He laughs out loud. He’s going crazy.
“You’re weird,” the Prisoner says. “Strange.”
“Yes, well, no one ever said I was normal.”
The Prisoner thinks about this. The Chaplain can see him thinking, see the wheels turning in his mind. If a prison chaplain, an educated man, is not normal, then who is? What is? Maybe the Prisoner is the most normal person in the world. After all, everyone else is conspiring to kill him. Legally. With electricity. With sterilized equipment and laundered hoods. Men will get paid to walk him to the chair, to strap him in, to electrocute him. People will watch him die. What is normal anyway?
There is a knock at the door.
A new CO comes in – one they haven’t seen before, a woman – rolling a cart in front of her. She introduces herself.
“I’m CO11,” she says, even though they can see her number on her uniform. “I’ve got your food.”
CO11 places the cart in the middle of the room. Again the Chaplain notes how small the room is. The cart takes up a good deal of it. The cart is covered at the top and is draped in a tablecloth at the bottom. The Prisoner makes some comment about hiding under it, wheeling out, escape. Like in the movies. CO11 laughs. “Every prisoner says that,” she says. Her teeth are raggedy and yellow. She is older than both the Chaplain and the prisoner. Her hair is dyed orange and thinning at the top, the part grey. The Chaplain notes a large boil or burn on one hand. He feels queasy. CO11 takes the cover off the top of the cart, and there is the Prisoner’s last meal.
The Chaplain sits down quickly and solidly. The smells overwhelm him. He feels nauseous, feels the bile coming up his throat. It’s a fine meal, but in such a small space, with such a momentous thing, he is completely knocked over. The Prisoner’s last meal. This is it. Food.
From the day you are born, you need food, you want food, you enjoy food, you hate food, you crave and repel and pick at and indulge in and throw out and relish and throw away and throw up food. Life is about food. Without it we die. The Prisoner’s last meal. Ever.
“Man up,” the Prisoner says, seeing the Chaplain’s face. “Chill.”
“It’s just,” the Chaplain begins to tear up. He is going to cry. He can’t help himself. A huge part of him wants to run from the room – the part of him that is Jim, the man – but the other part of him, the Chaplain, knows he must stay. The Prisoner needs to see his tears; he does not need to see him run from his feelings.
The Chaplain begins to sob.
“Fuck. You’re ruining my meal.” The Prisoner plops down on his bed. “It’s getting cold. You got to stop crying, man.”
“I can’t help –”
“Really? Really? You’re crying? Now?”
“It’s your last –”
CO11 is still holding the cover to the cart. “You want me to put it back to keep it warm?”
“No. Leave it.”
CO11 shrugs. She turns and leaves the room. “I’ll come back for the tray in a bit.”
They won’t leave the Prisoner with shoelaces or a pen, but a plastic fork, knife and spoon, that’s okay? But then the Chaplain looks carefully through his tears at the meal and notes that there is no cutlery with it. Everything the prisoner ordered can be eaten by hand. A paper plate. A disposable cup. The Chaplain guesses that the Prisoner could whack him on the head with the cart if he really wanted to. If he was strong enough to lift it.
The Chaplain stops crying. As quickly as he started. He stands, wipes at his eyes with his sleeves. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. I’m tired. Emotional, I –”
“Can I eat now?”
The Prisoner stands and moves the cart towards himself.
“Do you want a chair?”
“Yeah, hell. Sure.” The Prisoner takes a chair, pulls the cart in front of him – a dining table – and sits down to his last meal. The two chairs and the cart make the space crowded. The Chaplain walks over to the bed and sits down on it. It’s soft. He leans into it.
“Mind if I sit here while you eat?”
“Lie down. Get some shut-eye,” the Prisoner says. He begins to stuff himself. Quickly and methodically. He looks around as he eats, as if wary of someone stealing his meal, and a small sigh of pleasure escapes between bites. He smiles. “This is fucking awesome. You want some?” He points to his food.
“No. Thank you, though. It’s your meal.”
“There’s a lot here. I can share.”
“No. That’s fine.”
The Prisoner looks relieved. “Yeah, I guess you’ll be getting other meals.” He laughs. “Nothing as good as this, though.”
The Chaplain looks at the tray
. On it: a huge hamburger, sesame seed bun, tomatoes, lettuce, ketchup, mustard, onion, pickles. French fries smothered in gravy and ketchup. What looks like a vanilla milkshake. With a straw. A little plate of various sushi, dipping sauce. An orange cut like a flower, spread open and beautiful. Mashed potatoes, of course. Butter dripping into a hole in the mound. Salt. Pepper. A chocolate cake – the entire cake. Black forest, it has cherries on it. The Prisoner swallows bite after bite, not caring in what order. He chews the cake, pops in a piece of sushi, bites the burger, cake, fries, potato, back to sushi, etc. The Chaplain watches for a while, and then he leans back into the bed. He lies down. Tries not to close his eyes. Wills himself not to fall asleep, to stay whole and awake, but his eyes are heavy.
“The best is the sushi,” the Prisoner says. “I love sushi. I tried it about eleven years ago for the first time. Just before I came in here. Never had it as a kid. Love the stuff. I think it’s the wasabi. Fucking hot, man. I love it.”
Lying there, listening to the Prisoner talk and hearing him chew with his mouth open, breathing heavy, slurping and sipping, his straw digging at the bottom of his glass, the Chaplain suddenly thinks about the time Tracy took him to that Japanese restaurant on George Street. She blindfolded him. It was snowing. Thick and white and cold, the flakes fell on his face.
“Happy birthday, Jim,” she said, taking the blindfold off right in front of the restaurant. Inside, the lights were bright and warm and inviting. Inside, he could see his sister, Miranda, fully pregnant, and her husband, Richard, holding a Sapporo. Laughing. Inside, he could see friends from university, people from his classes. Lots of them. “Surprise,” Tracy said and let go of his hand. She opened the door.
The difference between the cold outside and the warm, glowing light inside made the scene unreal. As if he were watching this on a movie screen. Watching his life before him, lit up and warm and cozy. A huge platter of sushi went past the window. Richard’s eyes followed it, and then he looked up and out to the dark night and saw Jim standing there. He could see it in Richard’s eyes – the delight of seeing his brother-in-law standing outside in the snow.
“Surprise,” they all shouted. He went inside, to the party, and ate and drank and laughed and enjoyed the night. A week later, Tracy left him for David. A week later, he was beating her up, arrested, assault charges pending. A week later, he didn’t even remember what his life felt like when he looked into the Japanese restaurant on the night of his birthday. How quickly things changed. He didn’t know he was capable of physically hurting someone. He spent his entire youth avoiding fights, letting Miranda fight for him. To connect his fist to Tracy’s face, it was something unthinkable. And that was the problem. He wasn’t thinking, just reacting.
The Chaplain wonders now, is that what happened to the Prisoner? Was it a matter of not thinking and merely reacting? He knows it wasn’t premeditated, obviously, but was the Prisoner actually thinking as he picked up the knife, or was it an instinctual, base, animal thing? How else could he have done what he did to those pour souls? How else could a man take lives?
The Chaplain sits up. Rubs his eyes.
“You dozed,” the Prisoner says. He is leaning back on his chair, holding his stomach. “My God, I’m so full.”
“Was it good?”
“It was fucking brilliant,” the Prisoner says. He burps. “I know why they give it to you so early, though.”
“Why?”
“I’m probably going to puke.” He burps again. A wet one. “They don’t want me puking in the hood.” The Prisoner lets out a quick, bark-like laugh and then stops and looks at the Chaplain, his eyes wide and afraid. The Chaplain can see the fear creep through them, almost like the lens on a bird’s eye – a quick movement, a milky look. He shivers.
“You should take the bed. Lie down.”
“No, man, I need to walk. Burn the calories.” Again, the Prisoner laughs, but this time quietly. “Don’t want to get fat,” he whispers, almost to himself.
The Chaplain tries to smile but can’t. The air around him is heavy with sadness and fear and aching pain and emotional tension. It smells of food and sweat and gas. Everything is in the air. In the last five hours, he’s felt nothing like it. The high and the low. The palpable fear. The adrenalin. The exhaustion. He sighs.
When the Chaplain’s fist connected with Tracy’s face, he felt elated. Afterwards he knew that he had to find something bigger than himself to live for. Maybe that’s what happened to the Prisoner – he had nothing bigger than who he was at the time to concentrate on. Now he certainly has something bigger than himself. Death.
“Six and a half hours left,” the Prisoner says.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind leaving for a bit? For half an hour or something? Give me some time to myself? Would that be okay?”
“Sure, of course. Yes. No problem.” The Chaplain stands. “I can wait out in the room.” He signals to the door.
“No, go for a walk. Just for half an hour. Go for a walk outside and tell me what the weather is like when you come back. Can you do that?” The Prisoner is still holding his stomach even though he is standing, walking. He’s holding it as if he’s in pain.
“Are you okay?”
“I ate too fast,” the Prisoner says. “Didn’t chew enough, I guess.” He laughs. “Figures I’d get indigestion with my last meal. I should have asked for Pepto-Bismol.”
“I’ll get you some. I’ll bring it in.”
“Sure, yeah. Thanks.” The Prisoner stops and looks at the Chaplain. “When you come back, tell me exactly what the weather is like. I want to be able to feel it, picture it, know it. Okay?”
“Are you sure you want me to go?”
The Prisoner nods. “If only so I can take another shit.” He smiles. A toothy grin. A grin that makes the Chaplain suddenly see the boy in him, the boy he once was – loved stars and planets and blue-painted walls. Loved his mother. What happened to all of that when he committed his crimes? What happened to the boy inside of him?
The Chaplain knocks on the door and the COs let him out into the hall. He comes out of the door as if escaping Death itself and feels a huge weight leave his body. The Chaplain feels as if he’ll float to the ceiling if he doesn’t hold on tight to something. The door frame. The wall. He turns and looks back in at the Prisoner, who is standing there, holding his stomach, smiling slightly, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Taking a break?” CO11 is there, come to collect the cart.
“Yes. A break.” The Chaplain leaves the COs then and walks down the hallway, back to where he started five and a half hours ago. He walks fast and hard, his feet scrabbling on the ground, a heavy tread. Through prison doors that clang open when he comes (the COs have called ahead to let him out). Quickly past the cells, past the prisoners’ closed doors, and out past the Warden’s office as fast as he can. No time for coffee. The Chaplain must describe the weather. He must feel it on his face. He must look straight into it. And he must take this weather back for the Prisoner. Now. Time is running out.
“Hey, Chaplain? What are you doing out?”
It’s the Warden, having a smoke in the yard. Five-thirty in the morning.
“Good morning.” The Chaplain stops walking fast and stands next to the Warden and looks out at the world around him, at the huge yard, empty of anyone, of anything. No trees. Just yard and fence for as far as he can see. And sky. Wide-open sky. The rain from the night is drying quickly on the ground around him. He can smell it as it evaporates from the earth.
“He let you go? Doesn’t need you anymore?”
“No. Just for now. Just a break.”
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” the Chaplain says. “Fine.”
He doesn’t want to talk about how he feels, about what he is feeling, experiencing, right now. Someday he will talk about it – in fact, someday, he knows he’ll be telling people about these twelve hours at a dinner party or over coffee. He knows it will become a s
tory and not real life, that the Prisoner’s predicament will soon be something to remember, not something that is happening right now. But right this instant, he does not want to talk to anyone. Especially not to the Warden.
“How’s he doing?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Fine, I guess. He’s doing okay, considering.” The Chaplain turns from the Warden. “Listen, do you mind if I take some time to myself? I’m a bit tired. I need to refocus.”
“Refocus? Shit. Sure, Chaplain. Whatever you need. The inmates will be out in the yard in about an hour.”
“I won’t be here for very long. Only a few minutes.”
“Sure, refocus all you want.” The Warden laughs. Shakes his head. “Jesus, refocus. Is that some religious mumbo-jumbo or therapy talk or what?”
The Chaplain turns to walk away but then finds himself turning back. “Warden? Did the Prisoner go through all his appeals? Is there no hope for a stay of execution?”
“He’s fired his lawyers, Chaplain. Even if there was hope, there’s no one to file a stay, let alone counsel him. The bastard’s ready to die. He wants to die.”
The Chaplain thinks about this.
“What about his family?”
“What about them? No one has come forward to help him out if that’s what you mean.”
“He has a sister and a brother. Are they coming?”
“They haven’t registered to come watch. Not yet. They always could last minute, I suppose.”
The Chaplain pauses. “And the victims’ families? Will they be here?”
“I assume so,” the Warden says. “If they decide to show up. They know about it. I’d bet a million bucks they’ll come. Wouldn’t you if that were your kin? Wouldn’t you want to see him fry? I sure as heck would.”
“Yes, I guess.”
The Warden looks confused for a minute. “Aren’t you a man of God, Chaplain?” He smiles.
“I mean, no, I wouldn’t want to see him die. I just understand what you are saying. I can understand human nature about this, about anger and about loss. The crime was so violent. I get it.”
The Prisoner and the Chaplain Page 12