Sleep Toward Heaven (20 page)

That night, Tiffany and Sharleen get into a screaming argument about God. Tiffany has gone whole hog for Jesus. She has gotten serious about Bible study, and on the occasions she does not quote God, she quotes Moira. She wants desperately to save Sharleen, and tells her God will grant Karen a stay of execution. Sharleen says this is bullshit.

“Don’t blame me when you end up in hell!” cries Tiffany. “Satan Killer,” she adds.

“You talking to me?” says Sharleen.

“Fuck yes, I am.” Tiffany’s eyes are wet, and her face is flushed. She is standing with her fists balled up.

“You’re losing it, Tiff,” says Veronica, who sits at the metal table.

“You know I’m crazy for you!” belts Samantha. Her habit of singing loudly unnerves everyone. They are waiting for her to drop the act: if she were really crazy, she wouldn’t be on Death Row.

Veronica gives Karen a piece of lined paper and a crayon. Karen writes:

Dear Ellen,

I don’t know if you have herd, but I am going to be executed on August 25. I remmember our nites together during the summer. Like that time when you wrote the pome and read it to me. You said I was a firefly. Do you remmember? I am allowed guests to come to the execution. Would you come? I would like you there, making sure I will go to heven. Will you come? Please. I will put your name down.

Love,

Karen

So far, only Rick is coming to the execution. And the wives, of course, the wives.

A
s Franny hurried to the parking lot, her mind was filled with numbers. T-cell counts and the machine code and the number of minutes that Karen would live. She almost ran straight into Rick Underwood, came face to face with his ketchup-stained shirt. Franny looked up. “Hot dog for lunch?” she said, pointing.

He looked down. “Hamburger,” he said sheepishly.

Franny laughed. She could feel the heat invading her clothes, filling every fold. “I’ve been waiting for you,” said Rick. “You work late.”

“It’s seven-fifteen,” said Franny.

“Never met a workaholic I didn’t like,” said Rick. “Do you have time for a beer?”

“Hell, yes,” she said.

They picked up Budweiser, chips, and salsa at the Spurs Gas Mart and went to sit in Raby Park, on broken bleachers overlooking an empty pool. Franny opened the salsa and ate a chip. She saw Rick reach out to her, but he stopped himself, dropped his hand.

“You have salsa on your chin,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Franny.

“Karen looks awful,” he said, opening his beer.

“Better keep your can in the paper bag,” said Franny. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with the law.”

“Franny—”

“I know,” said Franny. “I’m sorry. When things are hard for me, I make jokes.” She sighed. “She’s in terrible shape. I’m afraid it’s a matter of keeping her out of pain now.” She blinked rapidly.

“How long does she have?”

Franny drank the beer. It was cold in her mouth. She held the can to her forehead. “A week?” she said. “Two, maybe. You never know. She could hang on. But she’s in pain. I’ve got her on a constant morphine drip.”

“The governor denied her appeal,” said Rick, his voice hard.

“I’m so sorry.”

Rick turned to Franny. “I know you wrote a letter,” he said. “And thank you.”

“How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I have sources,” he said. He finished his beer. “There’s still the possibility of a stay. Who wouldn’t just let her go on her own? What’s the point of the show?”

“I don’t know,” said Franny. For a time, they sat in silence, watching the sun fade.

“Well,” said Franny. She stood.

“Thanks for your time, Franny.”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you…do you have time for dinner?”

Franny looked down at him: his eyes so bright, his stubbled cheeks, smooth lips.

“No,” she said. “I’m really busy these days.”

“Of course.” He nodded.

“Take care,” said Franny, and then she left him. She left him to watch the sun go down.

Franny returned home to find a letter from Nat in the mailbox. She sat down at the kitchen table, mixed a glass of whiskey and Tab, and read:

Fran,

Even though I packed your things, I was waiting for you to come home. Stupid me. I’ve finally realized that you are not capable of loving anyone. It has taken me this long. I was the last one who believed in you. I didn’t believe that you would just head off without any thoughts of the pain you’d cause me, my parents, our friends.

I am sorry for you. I truly pity you. Whatever happened to you when you were young froze your heart, Franny. I thought I could open you up to love but it’s impossible.

I hope you have a cold, lonely life, you heartless bitch.

Nat

Franny read the letter twice. She traced the movements of his scrawling pen. She took a deep breath, and then she folded the letter, put it back in its envelope, and threw it away in the plastic trash bin. Then she took the bin, carried it outside to the garbage can, and dumped it out. She changed out of her work clothes, and she headed for the Gatestown Motor Inn Lounge.

“
But I went and bought cowboy boots already,” says my mother when I tell her I no longer need her to come to Texas.

“There’s still another week until the execution,” I tell her, “and I’m hanging in there. They’ve asked me to come back to the library. I was just having a bad night.”

This is a complete lie. As I talk to my mother, I am sitting with Priscilla in a moldy motel room in Gatestown, Texas, trying to get the courage to visit the prison and watching soap operas in the meantime. It really is amazing: you can watch soap operas in college, go on with your life for years, get married, get a job, but when the day comes that you turn on the television midday, you can catch right up.

“If you’re sure,” says my mother. I can see her making lunch dates at the club already, looking forward to spilling the story about her wacko daughter in Texas whom she didn’t have to go visit after all.

“I am,” I tell her, in as sane a voice as I can muster. “I really am fine.”

“I’m so glad,” she says.

When I hang up the phone, Priscilla shoots me a warning look. I throw her the rest of my cheeseburger. I call the prison, and finally get the warden, a woman with a calm voice, on the phone. She tells me that Karen has to put me on a visitors’ list. She will talk to Karen for me, she says. I leave the motel phone number, and the warden promises to call me back.

There’s a bar on the ground floor of my motel, and when I walk in, some skeevy men look me up and down. What if I had some sex in Gatestown, and then went home, I wonder. Even in my condition (horny), none of the candidates looks too appealing. And Priscilla would hate me.

At the bar, a disheveled-looking brunette woman about my age sits nursing a Scotch. I slide onto a stool next to her and a boy who looks way too young to be anywhere near a beer, much less a wall of liquor bottles, comes over to tend to me. “Are you visiting?” he asks, as he pours me a Coke. (Despite the Big Gulp Coke, and three more on the drive to Gatestown, I slept soundly as soon as I nestled next to Priscilla in my motel bed. There is something about motel beds that I adore. The clean sheets, the foam pillows.)

“Yes,” I say. “I’m here visiting.”

“Hm,” says the boy. He brings me some peanuts. The look I give him works, and he walks away.

The disheveled woman looks me over in a covert manner. Is she going to hit on me now? Maybe I’m sending out vibes after all. But she turns away and then signals to the bartender for another Scotch. She does not look good.

I am still not sure what I am doing in Gatestown. The neon bar signs seem too bright, and the jukebox is playing old country shit. All of the seedy-looking men at the tables, most of them in those shiny suits you can get at Sam’s Club for $19.99, make me feel that I am at a low point of my life. I will not, with all probability, look back on this evening as one where I felt my personal best, even if I do boot the little pooch from my bed and replace her with one of the slicksters.

“Visiting the prison?” says the disheveled lady. I nod and sip my Coke. This town is seriously weird. “I work at the prison,” says the woman.

“Really,” I say. But I say it in such a way that it is not a question inviting more commentary. More of an abrupt I-don’t-really-care. I am not interested in getting chummy with prison officials.

“Yes,” she says. “They’re executing one of my patients next week.”

I look at the woman. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail with a rubber band. She wears jeans, sneakers, and a little pink T-shirt. “You know Karen Lowens?” I say.

She nods. “It’s so sad,” she says. And she takes a big mouthful of her drink.

A large woman in a muumuu comes into the lounge through a side door, carrying sheet music. She drops her duffel bag by the piano and disappears into the Ladies’ Room.

“What’s she like?” I say.

“Karen? She’s…there’s something about her. You can see who she was as a child. Before she became…what she became. And now, of course, she’s very sick.”

“Really?” I say, interested this time.

She nods. “AIDS,” she says. “The last stages. Terrible pain.” The woman is slurring a bit. “I’ve got her on a morphine drip. She’s half gone already.” She shakes her head. “And they just denied her last appeal.”

This is news to me. I can’t tell if I am happy or sad. Neither, I decide.

“She just wants to die,” the woman continues. “She’s going to die. But why the state has to do it for her I don’t know.”

“She is a murderer,” I say.

The woman looks at me blearily. “I know,” she says. “But it just seems so strange to me. I mean, who is it going to help to kill this sick woman? How is that going to make any difference to anyone?”

She has me there. I don’t have an answer for that one.

“I mean,” says the woman, finishing her Scotch and wiping her lips with the back of her hand, “I mean, is holding a grudge helping anyone?” Maybe something shows in my face. I am not crying. My eyes are dry as a bone. “I’m so sorry,” says the woman. “It’s been a terrible day. Please forgive me.”

“How about another drink?” I say.

I begin to drink, too. The woman and I drink until the piano lady starts playing a medley of show tunes: “Anything Goes,” “Luck Be a Lady Tonight,” “Memories,” “At the Ballet.” We sit next to each other at the bar, and we drink. The woman goes on and on about Karen Lowens. She tells me about the code to the morphine machine that she has written in a little red book, and how much she wants to give the code to Karen and let Karen commit suicide. Karen could program the machine up to a lethal dose, the woman explains drunkenly. “She could let herself go when she wanted to,” says the woman. “She’s seen me use the machine,” she says. “Karen knows how to use it.”

The woman still hopes the governor will issue a stay, and that she will be able to cure Karen. The woman begins talking about a child named Anna, about a failed engagement. She gets very, very drunk, and I tie on a nice buzz myself, nodding and listening to the woman, before I lurch upstairs to bed.

Karen’s dreams are feverish, melting, surreal. In them, she is on a stage, trying to walk across a tightrope, but the audience in the circus tent keeps screaming and throwing her off-balance. She falls, crying out, and wakes in a sweat, heart thumping.

On Tuesday, Karen has visitors. She brushes out her hair and Tiffany gives her a tube of lipstick, eyeing Karen’s sores and telling her the lipstick is hers to keep. Karen is not good in interviews. Rick had told her after the trial that part of the problem was her inability to show emotion. It is the same in interviews. She sits with a face like a stone, licking at her lipstick while the reporters look sympathetic. They all ask her the same things: Are you sorry? Yes. Are you scared? Yes. Do you think the governor will give you a last-minute stay? I pray that he will take mercy on me and let me die in peace.

Even the guards are nice to Karen now, slipping her an extra apple with lunch (which she cannot eat), not hurting her in the searches. They are afraid of her. Everyone is surprised that the television talks about her so much. She is not pretty, and her story is just plain sad, not lurid like the stories of Jackie and Samantha, who dropped her son out a window.

And Karen gets letters. Crazy people write her letters, telling her that she is a savior or she is going to hell. Even a man who says he is Karen’s cousin comes to visit, and sits behind the glass and talks about family. Karen doesn’t want to upset anyone, so she just sits and listens. Finally, she stops seeing visitors. She stops getting out of bed. She has begun the wasting sickness, the shits. Sweating, when it is cold as ice inside her. Ellen has not written back.

Dr. Wren comes to Karen every day, to read One Hundred Years of Solitude, which is some kind of fucked-up story full of magic and doomed love. Sometimes, Karen pretends that Dr. Wren is an angel, and sometimes she pretends it is Ellen, reading to her, soothing her.

Noise. Phone calls, visitors, radio shows, TV. The media makes Karen what they want her to be:

“This serial killer is manipulating the system, taunting the American public. She says she wants mercy. Well, she should have thought of that before she killed all those men.” Republican House Leader Peter Weston.

“Her inner child is hurting. She is fighting back, trying to punish the mother. In this case, the mother is the state of Texas. It’s quite complicated.” Self-Help Author Liza Weebs.

“The fact is that she is extremely ill. If the governor were to grant her a stay, it might give her some faith. It might give us all some faith.” Rick Underwood, Attorney.

“She was always kinda weird. Bought lots of champagne.” Sandi MacElroy, Manager, Hi-D-Ho Motel & Mini-Mart.

“I pray for Jesus to save her soul, as well as my own.” Tiffany Brooks, in the Free Tiffany Newsletter, August Issue (never published).

“She did it all for love. And I think that is so cool. She’s like Juliet, and she’s going to die for love. Also like my friend Jen, who OD’d on aspirin when Kenny dumped her.” Local Gatestown Teen, Jill Marquie.