The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  As the group shuffled out the door, Elsie noted that the back of Vernon Wantuck’s trousers were wet. Butt sweats, she surmised. Major butt sweats. Glad she hadn’t been sitting on that soggy cushion.

  Chapter Twenty-­Seven

  Elsie awoke, her heart beating with terror. The worn T-­shirt she slept in was soaked with perspiration.

  Sitting up in bed, she willed herself to calm down. It was just a dream. A bad, bad dream.

  The memory of the nightmare was beginning to fade, though her heart still raced. The image was still clear, though: she’d been at the prison in Jefferson City, the state capital. The old maximum security facility. Sitting in the gas chamber.

  She shuddered. During a brief internship with the state attorney general’s office in her third year of law school, she’d been invited to tour the old prison—­including the gas chamber, used to execute Missourians on death row prior to the move to lethal injection. The tour guide explained that the chamber was a two-­seater, to accommodate any prisoners who wanted to die together.

  The laces on Elsie’s Converse tennis shoes had come undone during the tour. As a joke, she’d flounced onto one of the seats in the gas chamber and tied her shoe.

  It didn’t seem so funny now.

  The dream continued to fade, but she knew that in the nightmare, she and Larry Paul had been seated side by side in the gas chamber. Madeleine was standing nearby, asking whether they had any last words. Larry Paul stuck his finger in his mouth; in the dream, Elsie knew he intended to wipe the finger on her arm, as he had done in court. She called out to Madeleine, trying to explain that it was a mistake; she only sat down to tie her shoe.

  In slow motion, the door to the chamber shut with a clang. She could see Madeleine dropping the gas pellets, preparing to execute both of them: Elsie and Larry Paul. She tried to jump from her chair, but couldn’t move.

  Larry Paul wiped his finger on her. Then he smiled and said, “That’s not how you catch AIDS.”

  Sitting up in bed, Elsie took deep breaths, inhaling through her nose and blowing the air out. The thought she’d been suppressing took hold and refused to be silent.

  I don’t want to be a part of this case, she thought.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and spoke it aloud. “I want out. Out of this fucking case.”

  Hugging her knees, she buried her face in the quilt that covered her. The fabric was soft, and it gave a measure of comfort. It was an old quilt, stitched in a faded wedding ring pattern, made long ago by her mother’s grandmother. Elsie ran her hand over the nubby surface, trying to gather her fortitude and face her fears.

  Breathing slowly in and out, she tried a technique she’d seen on Oprah once, or maybe Dr. Phil. Imagine the worst-­case scenario. In an instant, she scrambled out of bed, gasping. So many horrific scenarios had jumped out at her that she couldn’t bear to contemplate them.

  She grabbed the tattered heirloom quilt and dragged it into the living room. Huddled on the sofa, she reached for the television remote. Clicking through the stations, she visited one infomercial after another, and finally hit the Mute button and picked up a legal pad from the coffee table. Turning to a fresh page, she scrawled:

  Advantages of serving in State v. Paul.

  Elsie tapped the pen. Couldn’t think of any. Not one.

  She divided the page with a stroke of the pen and made a second column: Disadvantages of serving in State v. Paul.

  She started writing feverishly, muttering aloud, oblivious to the kitchenware offered for sale on the television screen.

  I have no power. No discretion. Hate my cocounsel. Hate the opposing counsel. Suspicious of Claire O’Hara. Toting the weary load of Ivy Dent.

  Breathing fast again, she studied the list, knowing that the real reason hadn’t yet been addressed.

  She wrote:

  I don’t want to kill anybody.

  Unable to sit still, she jumped up and shuffled into the kitchen, still wrapped in the quilt. Opening the refrigerator, she surveyed the contents. A Styrofoam carryout box stood beside a small collection of condiments, many past their expiration date. On a lower shelf, a partially full twelve-­pack of Diet Coke sat beside a fresh six-­pack of Corona in bottles.

  Clicking on the overhead light, she opened a cabinet, and rummaging behind instant oatmeal packets and Special K, she hit pay dirt: Pop-­Tarts. Strawberry. Frosted.

  “This is good stuff,” she said. “This will help me get my shit together.” She had read somewhere that ingesting sugar heightened test performances. She hoped it might improve cognitive abilities and emotional stability.

  Juggling the Pop-­Tart from hand to hand after it came out of the toaster, she sat again at her list. Determined to write something on the pro side of the paper, she bit down on the rectangle of cardboard pastry before it had a chance to cool down, and burned the tender flesh behind her front teeth.

  Bearing down with the pen, she wrote in capital letters.

  DOMESTIC VIOLENCE.

  Female Homicide Victims: 3 out of 4 women murdered by husband/boyfriend.

  She willed herself to recall the hideous image of Jessie Dent, lying in a pool of blood. And the baby who died before he drew breath.

  And Ivy. The girl had lost her whole family in one fell swoop, at the hands of Larry Paul.

  Probably better off, a voice whispered in her mind. Elsie shook her head to banish the thought. “Shut the fuck up,” she said to the voice. An image of the child’s face, wary from exposure to disaster, floated into Elsie’s conscience. She whispered aloud, “I don’t see how I can fix it, kiddo. Your life is a train wreck. But it’s out of my hands.”

  In the kitchen chair, her shoulders shuddered involuntarily, sending a shiver all the way down her spine. She grasped the pen to continue.

  Trial experience, she wrote; but scratched it out with a stroke of the pen. She had years of trial experience; it was no particular gain in this case. Even the initial triumph of a major death penalty assignment had faded to ash in the past weeks. The price she was paying was high. Too high.

  She broke the Pop-­Tart into pieces and ate them, trying to think of a compelling reason to justify her aversion to working on State v. Paul, but her eyes kept drifting back to the core of her anxiety. She didn’t want to be part of a proceeding that ended with someone’s death. Even though he had caused two deaths, by his own hand.

  It was one thing, believing in the worth of the death penalty from a philosophical point of view. But she was learning that being an inside player in a death penalty case was too close for comfort.

  I can’t do this, she thought; and began to tear up. Before the tears rolled, she shook her head, hard, and blinked them back.

  “Get over yourself,” she said sharply. She picked up the pen and wrote one last line.

  It’s my job.

  She dragged the quilt back to bed and lay down, but the dark comfort of sleep eluded her. After long minutes of waiting, she returned to the kitchen, still dragging the quilt along with her. She reached for a Corona inside the fridge and popped the top with a bottle opener and drank it, staring at the list on the kitchen table. Then she drank another one.

  After that, she managed to drift back into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-­Eight

  Sunday morning was cloudy. Angry overcast skies threatened rain, but Nell Stout hadn’t bothered to bring an umbrella along. The one she had in her closet at home was in pitiful shape, the spines broken.

  After parking the white Buick, Nell ran a hand over her gray hair, pulling it back into an elastic band and tucking stray locks behind her ears. She uncapped a Maybelline lipstick, purchased for the occasion, and rotated the rearview mirror to apply it.

  She drew a pink ring on her mouth, surveyed it in the mirror, and frowned at the reflection. Shaking her head, she wiped the lipstick from her mouth with t
he back of her hand.

  Nell walked into the entry of the Riverside Baptist Church, looking furtively around her, as if she feared someone would jump up to block her path and ask her to leave.

  “Good morning!” A smiling man with moussed hair extended a folded bulletin to her. “Glad to have you with us today.”

  She took the paper he offered, not bothering to respond. In the sanctuary, her eyes darted around the space, looking for her target.

  At first, she didn’t find what she was seeking. Nell took a seat at the end of a back pew, to sit and wait. A young woman sitting beside her, wearing a maternity dress, tapped her arm.

  “Ma’am? Sorry, but if you don’t mind, I’m saving that seat. My mom is running late.”

  Nell turned her head and gave the woman a look. She didn’t speak, didn’t bother to smile.

  The young woman snatched up her purse and moved to a different pew.

  Nell waited, scouring the room with her eyes. Finally, as the men serving as deacons were lined up at the doorways on either side of the sanctuary, a family of four arrived, moving down the center aisle with haste, to find their seats before the ser­vice began.

  Nell stood, watching the family shuttle into a spot near the altar. Waiting, she rested her hands on the pew in front of her.

  “Excuse me? Can you sit, please? The ser­vice is about to begin.”

  She ignored the usher at her elbow, a man wearing a jacket and a bow tie. Moving with a decided tread, she walked the crimson carpet down the center aisle to the beat of the drums pounding in the praise band.

  At the pew where Ivy sat with her foster family, Nell paused, turning to peer down the row, as if she might join them.

  At the altar, the pastor invited the congregation to stand and join in the “Hymn of Adoration.”

  Nell locked eyes with Ivy. The child ducked her head and tried to hide behind her foster mother.

  Nell walked around the front of the sanctuary and slid in a spot on the side, to the right of Ivy’s pew. She looked at the person standing next to her, a short woman with a frowzy gray permanent wave. Nell broke into a sharp laugh and nodded at her seatmate.

  “Hey there, Dixie,” she said with a lopsided smirk.

  Dixie, who had been singing the hymn, stopped in midnote to gape at Nell. Nell grinned, revealing the gap that showed her missing molars.

  Dixie snatched up her purse and started to shuffle past Nell.

  “Hey. Don’t mind me.”

  Dixie ignored her, brushing past Nell into the aisle and heading up the aisle at a near-­run. While the hymn continued, Nell chuckled. Remembering her aim, she leaned forward and caught sight of Ivy. In violation of the minister’s order to stand and sing, Ivy sat in the pew; her knees were pulled up to her chin, her eyes locked on Nell.

  Nell winked at her. Ivy’s head dropped to her knees.

  Ivy slid her eyes toward Nell Stout to see whether she was still keeping watch.

  She was. The black gaze was fixed on Ivy. She squirmed under the scrutiny, as if it burned her. Nell was a devil who could see into her mind and heart.

  The preacher was talking. Ivy transferred her attention to him, hoping for distraction from her pursuer. She stared at his head; the bright lights in the ceiling reflected off of his thin golden hair.

  “Brothers and sisters, I extend an invitation—­on behalf of our savior, Jesus Christ. Is anyone ready to enter the fold?”

  There was palpable shifting in the congregation, as ­people turned in their seats to see who might rise and respond.

  “Who is ready to have their sins washed away? Washed in the blood of the lamb?”

  Ivy sunk down in her seat, uneasy with the public display. Her foster mother cut her eyes at her and gave her a nudge, but Ivy ignored her. She was thinking.

  “Who believes? Who will be saved by faith alone? For brothers and sisters, you can’t be saved by works; don’t think that your good deeds will count for you on the Day of Judgment. You must believe; you must be born again.”

  A disheveled man in a worn jacket and dirty jeans rose from a back pew and made his way down the aisle.

  “Welcome, brother! All are welcome!”

  As Ivy hunkered down in her seat beside Holly Hickman, the foster mother nudged the girl again, looking at her with an urgent expression. Ivy remained in her seat until a shove from the foster mother set her in motion.

  With a look of resignation, Ivy nodded at Holly. It was the smart thing to do, she thought. The safest thing—­though as a rule, she shied away from being a show-­off, drawing attention. But maybe today was the day to make an exception.

  Slowly, the girl rose and made her way to the pastor, literally dragging her feet. It was hard to go before so many ­people, to have so many pairs of eyes fixed on her back. But the preacher smiled, as if he’d been waiting for her. He disregarded the shabby man he had greeted moments ago, and reached out to Ivy with both hands.

  With a radiant face, he said, “Let the little children come to me and forbid them not; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

  Ivy paused. Maybe it wasn’t so smart, after all, putting on a show with Nell watching. She tensed, looking like an animal poised to retreat; but the pastor bounded over to her and grasped her hand before she could escape.

  “This is the sheep that was lost, and we have found her. This little lamb will be redeemed in our church this very day.”

  He led her up to the baptistery, a large tub at the front of the sanctuary.

  “She was born into sin, into the worst kind of iniquity. But every man, woman, and child can break free of the chains that bind them, and enter the fold.”

  His wife appeared as if by magic, with a plastic poncho. She slipped it over Ivy’s head. The pastor lifted her up, her legs dangling off the floor.

  “Ivy, do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

  Her face was contorted with fright, but she nodded.

  “Say ‘I do.’ ”

  “I do,” she mouthed.

  “Do you reject Satan and his temptations?”

  This time, with the second question, he let her frantic nod suffice. He set her inside the baptistery, then followed, climbing into the tub with alacrity. Covering Ivy’s nose and mouth with his hand, he announced, “Ivy Dent, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  He plunged her backward into the water and held her in place, though her writhing arms and kicking feet were visible, splashing the water from the tub.

  When he raised her up and released her, she gasped, reaching out and grabbing hold of the tub. She shook her hair like a puppy, blinking her wet eyelashes.

  The pastor spread a hand on her head. “How do you feel?”

  “Good.”

  He laughed, and the congregation joined in. “So you weren’t scared down there in the water?”

  “I was scared. But then I seen a beautiful angel in a white dress. And I didn’t need to be scared no more.”

  “A vision! From the mouth of babes.” The preacher’s voice was happy—­but he turned on Ivy with a look that was suspicious and unbelieving.

  She meant to give the man what he wanted. Ivy had managed to make it through the first six years of life by figuring out what ­people in charge wanted from her, and either delivering it, or staying out of the way. And the enemy was present, seated right in the church. Ivy needed God on her side. Or, at least, the Reverend Albertson.

  So she tried another tack. “And I knew Pastor Albertson would take care of me and not let me get water up my nose. So I wasn’t afraid so much.”

  The smile returned. Ivy felt a wave of relief; she had made him happy the second time around. He held out his large, soft hand, and she clutched it, holding on for dear life. It was clear to her that one of her primary jobs these days was keepin
g the preacher happy. If she played it right, he might stand between her and Nell Stout.

  And Smokey.

  Chapter Twenty-­Nine

  Sunday night, Elsie bent over a file on the scarred wooden tabletop at the Baldknobbers. With a pen, she crossed out a line and scrawled in the margin, her handwriting nearly illegible.

  Dixie walked up with a platter and set it beside the file. “Burger and fries.”

  Elsie straightened in the booth, looking hungrily at the cheeseburger. “Thanks, Dixie. This will give me strength. I need something to inspire me. Like grease, and salt.”

  Dixie slipped into the booth across from her. “Could’ve gone for inspiration this morning.” She pulled a pack of Winstons from the pocket of her apron and lit one.

  Elsie squirted mustard on her hamburger bun. “What are you deviling me about?”

  “I’m saying we missed you at church this morning.” She blew out a plume of smoke and added. “Ashlock was there.”

  Elsie pulled a face. Pushing her papers safely out of the way, she grasped a ketchup bottle and shook it. “Don’t hold your breath waiting to see me back at Riverside Baptist. That place does nothing for me. Dixie, this ketchup’s almost empty.”

  “Just squeeze a little harder.” She rolled the cigarette in the ashtray. “I thought maybe you were thinking about joining, with Ashlock being such a regular. Now that he’s got his boy with him and all.”

  Elsie chewed a french fry. “Joining up at Gay Bash Baptist? No way. How often does Reverend Albertson weigh in on the sin of same-­sex relationships? Once a month? Twice?”

  Dixie waved a hand through the smoke cloud she’d created. “Honey, he’s a Southern Baptist preacher. What do you expect?”

  “So why do you warm a seat in there?”

  “Oh, I’m too old to change.” She grinned at Elsie, her face creasing with mischief. “Besides, he’s pretty cute.”

  “That sanctimonious nut job? Oh please.” Elsie gave the cheeseburger a vicious bite.