Candlemoth

by R.J. Ellory

  And then it was recovered.

  And one day, some day, I will have a son.

  I know this.

  I will call him Nathan.

  I believe that would be fitting.

  And when I say his name, and when he looks at me with love in his eyes, I will be reminded of baked ham sandwiches wrapped in linen.

  Of a fish in Eve Chantry's mailbox.

  Of the breeze off of Lake Marion, of summer mimosa down near Nine Mile Road, and the scent of something like pecan pie and vanilla soda all wrapped up in a basket of new-mown grass.

  Reminded of the feeling that came with them, a feeling of warmth and security and everything that was childhood in North Carolina.

  Reminded of all those early years, the bruises and tears, the passion and promise of growing up, the pains we suffered in our naivete as we looked at the world with awe. And like gourds we were, and how the world rushed in to fill us to bursting… the sound and the fury… the thunder of life…

  All these things… all these things I will remember.

  But most of all, more important than everything else, I will remember the boy with whom I shared them.

  He gave his life, not for nothing I know, but still he gave it.

  And yet, in giving his life, I somehow regained mine.

  And I am grateful.

  * * *

  EPILOGUE

  I stand in a market somewhere. Absent-mindedly I glance towards the fruit - watermelons and quinces, pomegranates, other such alien things. I feel a moment of fear, of desperation. I want to say something, anything perhaps, but the aisle is empty. I want to call out, to hear someone's voice in return…

  Hey there!

  What?

  You heard about the cell search?

  What cell search?

  Timmons said there was gonna be a cell search.

  There is tension in my chest, tears in my eyes, and stepping to the side of the aisle I lean heavily against the fruit stand. I look down at my feet. I am standing on a single sheet of newspaper. I kick it away, but it sticks to the sole of my shoe. I balance myself awkwardly and lean down to pull it free.

  I turn the paper over.

  I stop.

  I wipe my eyes and look again.

  I see the face of Mr. West and am struck by such a sense of terror and anguish I can barely breathe.

  I run from the market, people watching me fly through the aisles. Perhaps I stole something, they think.

  Thirty yards down the street I stop. I am breathing heavily, painfully. In my hand I clutch the dirty sheet of newspaper. I look again. No hallucination: Mr. West's face stares back at me. Deadlight eyes.

  WARDER MURDERED.

  I lean against a streetlight. I feel dizzy, nauseous.

  Sumter Federal Penitentiary Warder Harlon West, a thirty- year veteran of the Detention Service, was murdered last night in a brutal attack.

  My mind reels. I see colors that cannot be there.

  Death Row inmate Lyman Greeve, due to be executed in the New Year, assaulted West and held him to the ground. With the metal casing of a cheap harmonica Greeve stabbed West repeatedly in the throat.

  I start to cry, the tears run down my face. People are watching me. I don't care.

  One of Harlon West's colleagues and fellow warders, Clarence Timmons, was quoted as saying that every attempt had been made to reach West before Greeve killed him, but 'the man was wild, he just got away from us… and before we could do a thing Mister West was beyond rescue.'

  I start to laugh. Now folks are really watching.

  Warden of Sumter Federal Penitentiary John Hadfield stated that Harlon West was a long-serving and dedicated member of the Detention staff and would be sorely missed by his colleagues.

  I hold the newspaper in the air. I wave it like a flag. I believe in karma. I believe there is a God.

  I believe Lyman Greeve will go to his death a great deal more satisfied than if he'd learned 'My Darling Clementine'…

  And I believe that Nathan - perhaps more than anyone - would have appreciated that.