had traveled back to the prisoner again. He was picturing him, instead of CO Allen, strapped to the gurney. He was picturing Beachum’s mournful, craggy face.
Arnold was still talking about the phone checks whenLuther said, “He have his medical and everything? The prisoner, I mean.”
“Oh yeah. Last night. Doc says he’s fit as a fiddle.”
“And his visitors all squared away.”
“Wife, kid, minister. Your girlfriend from the newspaper too—she’s coming in at four.”
Luther lifted his chin a little, lifted one corner of his mouth.
“Mea culpa,”
he said, not for the first time on this subject. “Don’t know what came over me.” He swiveled a half turn away in his high-backed chair. Until he could see the photo of his son, Fred, on the cabinet behind him. Grinning, crewcut, thin as a stick. Seeming to shine in his uniform, his dress whites.
“Musta been love,” said Arnold.
“She was pretty persuasive. She kind of looked like she knew my darkest secret and was gonna tell if I didn’t play along.”
Arnold said something, but Luther missed it. Sad thing about visitors, he was thinking. Not much of a comfort to the dead man usually. When it got right down to it, in fact, the final visits were usually the hardest part of the Death Watch for the prisoner to bear. Luther had seen a man once—William Wade, Billy the Kid Wade, not two years ago—Luther had seen him fall to his knees and sob when his mother had to end her last visit to him. Fall to his knees and stretch out his two hands to her like a child being left on his first day at school. The tears streaming down his cheeks. “Mama! Mama!” Then, five hours later, when the gurney was rolled in, he was a cowboy again; he was Billy the Kid again. Shook hands with everyone, shook hands with Luther and clicked his tongue jauntily against his teeth. And hopped onto the table to be strapped down like a man hopping over a fence. It wasn’t the dying that got to you, Luther thought. In the end, when all hope was gone, when all bets were off,dying was something a man could accept. The dying was nothing like half so hard as the saying good-bye.
Luther sipped at his coffee, looking at his son’s photo. He sure hoped Fred could get that leave in November. Brenda and the kids would come down. Have Thanksgiving with the whole family together. Go out to the woods, him and Fred, and hunt up some deer. Luther was never a happier man on this earth than when he was out hunting or fishing with his boy.
“Let me ask you something, Arnold,” he heard himself say suddenly then—say before he had a chance to stop himself. He swung back around to face the fat man on the sofa. “What do you think of this Beachum fellow?”
Arnold drew back, almost comically—his fleshy face seemed to fold into itself like one of those rubber masks when you flatten it. It was such an uncharacteristic thing for Luther to say. But Arnold considered himself a man of the world and he thought: What the hell. The emotional side of this business got to all of them sometimes, even Luther. You couldn’t be too macho about it, bottle it up inside you. It’d give you a goddamned heart attack.
So, frowning sagely, the fat man considered his answer for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t think about Frank Beachum at all, Plunk. Sometimes I think about that little pregnant girl he shot dead over something like fifty dollars. But mostly, I think about doing my job.”
For the first time that morning, Luther let himself smile wide enough to show some teeth.
Yes
, he thought.
Of course. That’s right
.
You could always count on Arnold to keep your mind steady.
2
F or a long time after the warden left, Frank sat at his table, the sheets of paper blank in front of him. His hand shook weakly as he reached to pick up the pen. Plunkitt’s words—
your remains … the procedure … the funeral …
thrummed in his head. The clock on the wall above CO Benson went on turning, and Frank
Arnold was still talking about the phone checks whenLuther said, “He have his medical and everything? The prisoner, I mean.”
“Oh yeah. Last night. Doc says he’s fit as a fiddle.”
“And his visitors all squared away.”
“Wife, kid, minister. Your girlfriend from the newspaper too—she’s coming in at four.”
Luther lifted his chin a little, lifted one corner of his mouth.
“Mea culpa,”
he said, not for the first time on this subject. “Don’t know what came over me.” He swiveled a half turn away in his high-backed chair. Until he could see the photo of his son, Fred, on the cabinet behind him. Grinning, crewcut, thin as a stick. Seeming to shine in his uniform, his dress whites.
“Musta been love,” said Arnold.
“She was pretty persuasive. She kind of looked like she knew my darkest secret and was gonna tell if I didn’t play along.”
Arnold said something, but Luther missed it. Sad thing about visitors, he was thinking. Not much of a comfort to the dead man usually. When it got right down to it, in fact, the final visits were usually the hardest part of the Death Watch for the prisoner to bear. Luther had seen a man once—William Wade, Billy the Kid Wade, not two years ago—Luther had seen him fall to his knees and sob when his mother had to end her last visit to him. Fall to his knees and stretch out his two hands to her like a child being left on his first day at school. The tears streaming down his cheeks. “Mama! Mama!” Then, five hours later, when the gurney was rolled in, he was a cowboy again; he was Billy the Kid again. Shook hands with everyone, shook hands with Luther and clicked his tongue jauntily against his teeth. And hopped onto the table to be strapped down like a man hopping over a fence. It wasn’t the dying that got to you, Luther thought. In the end, when all hope was gone, when all bets were off,dying was something a man could accept. The dying was nothing like half so hard as the saying good-bye.
Luther sipped at his coffee, looking at his son’s photo. He sure hoped Fred could get that leave in November. Brenda and the kids would come down. Have Thanksgiving with the whole family together. Go out to the woods, him and Fred, and hunt up some deer. Luther was never a happier man on this earth than when he was out hunting or fishing with his boy.
“Let me ask you something, Arnold,” he heard himself say suddenly then—say before he had a chance to stop himself. He swung back around to face the fat man on the sofa. “What do you think of this Beachum fellow?”
Arnold drew back, almost comically—his fleshy face seemed to fold into itself like one of those rubber masks when you flatten it. It was such an uncharacteristic thing for Luther to say. But Arnold considered himself a man of the world and he thought: What the hell. The emotional side of this business got to all of them sometimes, even Luther. You couldn’t be too macho about it, bottle it up inside you. It’d give you a goddamned heart attack.
So, frowning sagely, the fat man considered his answer for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t think about Frank Beachum at all, Plunk. Sometimes I think about that little pregnant girl he shot dead over something like fifty dollars. But mostly, I think about doing my job.”
For the first time that morning, Luther let himself smile wide enough to show some teeth.
Yes
, he thought.
Of course. That’s right
.
You could always count on Arnold to keep your mind steady.
2
F or a long time after the warden left, Frank sat at his table, the sheets of paper blank in front of him. His hand shook weakly as he reached to pick up the pen. Plunkitt’s words—
your remains … the procedure … the funeral …
thrummed in his head. The clock on the wall above CO Benson went on turning, and Frank
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