On television, Jackie is calm and pretty. She watches herself, eating Doritos and sitting on a patio chair. “If only I had some conditioner,” she murmurs. During TV interviews, she plays with her hair, and when she reaches up, you can see the metal handcuffs.
The interviews take place inside the green room, where there is no glass wall separating Jackie from the reporters. Nobody knows how the media gets permission to visit in the green room. Dan and Jimmy Quinton would like to know.
The reporters pretend to look sympathetic, but Karen can see they are vultures, picking at the little meat left on Jackie’s bones. “Are you frightened?” asks one reporter, cocking her head.
Jackie presses her lips together (Tiffany has lent her some lip gloss). “I was insane at the time that the incident occurred,” she says. “I should not be put to death. I am begging the governor for mercy.”
“But are you afraid?” The reporter sounds concerned.
“Yes,” says Jackie. She blinks and tries to cry. She has been practicing in her cell. She says that if she thinks about her mother she can make herself cry. She blinks and blinks, but no tears come. The reporter nods slowly, and then looks at the camera.
“Our time is up,” she says. “And now to you, Fred, with an update on the Texas Tech game.”
Jackie does not seem to believe that they will kill her. Yes, she has sewn her dress, and given interviews, even cried in some, but she does not really think it will be over, bang, like that.
It seems unthinkable. Karen has been on Death Row for five years. Every hour is like the one before it. Everybody knows what their dates are, and the order in which they are supposed to die: Jackie, Karen, Veronica, Tiffany, Sharleen. But nobody has died yet, so they are all safe. They have grown accustomed to the slow, methodical rhythm of their days. In the morning, if Jackie is taken from them, put in her dress and executed—if Jackie is taken, they will all be taken. And Karen will be next.
Karen opens Ellen’s book. She runs her eyes for the hundredth time over the first words: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”
Ice. Karen loves the word. It is so far away from her hot cell, the smell of sweat, and the reality of Jackie’s impending death. Karen closes her eyes, and sees a graceful ice skater in her mind’s eye, gliding seamlessly over a frozen mirror. The skater has long hair; it streams behind her as she moves, bending her knees and preparing to jump, preparing to hurl herself forward into the cold air.
The news has come: there will be no stay for Jackie. Tonight, a made-for-TV movie based on her life will air. It is called Hairdresser of Death. Drew Barrymore is playing Jackie. In the previews, she looks off-balance in a red wig, and sits at a salon having her nails done by Farrah Fawcett. “What’s on your mind?” Farrah Fawcett asks Drew Barrymore in the preview. “You look distracted.”
Drew gives Farrah a secretive look. “You don’t even want to know, Lou Anne,” she says, and Farrah says, “Oh Jackie, I do.”
Even Jackie agrees that it is good Farrah is back on her feet, playing lead roles. Jackie says her traitorous friend Lou Anne is actually fat as a house and with thin hair to boot, but oh well. As for Drew Barrymore, Jackie is disappointed. She wants Julia Roberts to play her. Even Jennifer Aniston, with a dye job. But the E.T. girl? Jackie looks down at her hands. Fuck, she says, the E.T. girl.
They know they will not be allowed to watch Hairdresser of Death. As soon as it comes on, the secret control room will switch the channel to PBS.
Tiffany and Veronica sit with Jackie in front of the TV. “The governor,” says Tiffany. “He could come down any time, Jackie. All he has to do is say the word.”
“He ain’t going to say shit, Tiffany.”
Tiffany opens her bubblegum lips, but remains silent.
“Maybe I should talk to Moira,” says Jackie. Moira is the prison chaplain, a thin woman who wears headbands and white blouses. She runs the daily Bible study in Mountain View Unit, arriving in a nervous flurry and reading aloud in a weak voice. After she reads, she says, “Now would anyone like to share some thoughts?” Usually, no one shares anything but complaints about the food or prison conditions, but Moira listens carefully anyway, nodding encouragingly and sighing where appropriate.
“Whatever you want, honey,” says Veronica.
Jackie sighs. She seems to grow smaller by the day. “Hey, Satan Killer,” calls Jackie. “What do you have to tell me?”
“Nothing,” says Sharleen.
“What does Satan have to say about dying?” Jackie makes a sarcastic face, but her tone is sincere.
Sharleen stands and comes to the edge of her cell. She does push-ups and sit-ups and gets bigger every day. Karen is waiting for the day when Sharleen will pull the bars from the floor. “Satan doesn’t have no time for your last-minute shit,” she says. And then she turns and goes back inside her cell.
“Jesus,” murmurs Tiffany. “I mean “‘jeepers,’” she amends.
Jackie’s eyes fill with tears. In the time Karen has known Jackie—twenty-four hours a day for five years—Karen has never seen her this way. Veronica stands up, pulling her elderly bulk along with her. “You’ve got no business being such a goddamn bitch, Sharleen!” she says, in a voice that is hard, and unlike her. She makes her way to Sharleen’s cell.
“What have you got to say about it?” says Sharleen.
“Jackie’s going to die tomorrow, Sharleen, and you’re going to die, too. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done, but everybody deserves some kindness on their last day.”
Sharleen does not reply.
“Apologize,” says Veronica.
Sharleen spits, “Fuck you.” She puts her meaty hands on her hips.
Karen closes her eyes. She does not want a fight, not now. The air is already too heavy and dark. But the words come flying, and the smell of ammonia and vomit is tinged with heat, burned. The sounds of slaps and screaming.
The guards come quickly, and Veronica is taken to the Medical Center. Sharleen says, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” but they haul her off to solitary. When Hairdresser of Death comes on a few hours later, the guards shut off the TV.
Karen does not believe she can find God by meeting with Moira. God is inside, Karen thinks. He becomes visible when you die, to take your hand and lead you to a better place. And yet the silence of the evening, broken only by the shuffling of cards as Jackie and Tiffany play, feels like a gift from someone.
Karen knows how it will be for Jackie. She has imagined it a hundred times. The guards will wake Jackie up, like any other day of the 3,734 she has spent on Death Row. They will wake her, and put the handcuffs on her, and the cuffs on her ankles too. Then they will open the first door, and she will leave.
They take you to The Walls prison in Huntsville, Texas. Karen thinks they drive you, but they keep it a secret: maybe you fly. Karen has never been on a plane. You will see Gatestown, the town they know only from television. Katie’s Koffee Haus, the Last Chance Saloon, Andy’s: all the places the guards talk about when they think the women aren’t listening: Let’s grab a beer at Last Chance. How about meatloaf at Andy’s? Get me some coffee at Katie’s!
Maybe you will see Jane Pauley, standing in the street, getting mud on her pumps. Karen doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the order of the places, either. She had never been to Gatestown before her sentence, and for all she knows Andy’s could be next door to Katie’s, or across the street or even on top. There are no windows in Mountain View Unit. Is there a mountain somewhere?
On television, The Walls looks like a frightening place. It is a towering stone structure with a giant clock imbedded above the entrance. Outside The Walls, men who have just been released mingle with reporters and protesters. According to Geraldo Rivera’s special report, the Cafe Texan down the street is especially busy on execution days.
Inside The Walls, Jackie will get up to shower and put
on her sparkling dress. She will eat her final meal. She deliberated for weeks about what to have, but in the end she chose steak, mashed potatoes, and a glass of champagne. She will not get the champagne.
Karen will ask for only one thing on her last day, a peach. She thinks about it sometimes, the way the ripe flesh will give, spilling juice on her tongue. The first bite of a sweet peach: the closest Karen will come to love.
During the last meal, the death watchers assemble in the lounge. There are the journalists who have won the lottery—the Texas Department of Criminal Justice picks only a few reporters out of the hundreds who apply to witness an execution. There is Marylin Fisket from the Huntsville Item who always gets in, and writes pretty nice stuff with no gory details: just the outfit and the last words and the time. If you are a journalist from the town where the murder/rape/etc. was committed, you get first dibs to watch. For example, Jackie’s family was killed in Baytown, so Liz Landry from the Baytown Sun will get into the execution. (This is OK with Jackie. Liz wrote to Jackie and has done a feature on her once a year, published some of her letters and crummy drawings.) Nobody can record or videotape anything, only memories and pencils allowed.
The condemned (Jackie, in this case) is allowed five witnesses. Jackie will have her mother, a frail lady who looks like a baby bird; her father, a squat man with Jackie’s same red hair and Jackie’s same meanness; her friends from childhood, Mary and Emily (who wrote letters once in a while and visited infrequently); and a boy named David who wrote Jackie love letters because he is deranged. But Jackie thinks he is cute in the picture he sent (he is leaning against a car and his jeans are tight), so he can watch her die.
Also, the victims’ families get to watch. Jackie doesn’t talk about her dead husband’s parents. Karen guesses they will be there, hoping Jackie’s death will bring them something, some kind of peace.
They will give Jackie a tranquilizer first, and Benadryl to stop her from spasming and choking. It is ten paces from the cell to the execution chamber. A tie-down team fastens six leather straps, and an IV team inserts catheters into both forearms. The warden stands at the head of the table, and the chaplain stands at the foot. There is another official whose job is to tell the reporters about your state of mind. “Jackie is calm,” he will say, or “The prisoner is agitated.”
The needle will go into Jackie’s leg. She will have a chance for a final statement, Warden Gaddon will read Jackie’s death sentence, and then the Lethal Injection Machine will be turned on, releasing sodium thiopental for sedation, pancuronium bromide to relax Jackie’s muscles, and then potassium chloride to stop her heart. The process is four minutes long. When your muscles are asleep, there are still moments that your brain is awake.
“The last breath is the loudest,” Karen heard a guard say. “But the eyes,” he said, “are the worst. Whatever you do, don’t look down into their eyes when they go.”
franny
The night before Franny began work at the prison, the parking lot at the Gatestown Motor Inn was full, and she had to park in the street when she went to get a drink. There was a sign taped to the front desk: NO VACANCY.
“What’s going on?” asked Franny.
“Execution,” said Betty, not even looking up from her knitting.
There were two bartenders on duty in the lounge, and every table was full. Franny scanned the room with awe. Everyone was so good-looking, so well-dressed. Franny thought she recognized a blonde woman from TV, but couldn’t place her.
“What a dump, huh?” said a man standing next to Franny in the doorway. He had thick brown hair, combed carefully and sprayed into place. “I’m Christopher,” he said, “News 2, Houston.” His smile was even, his teeth perfect.
“Franny Wren.” She held out her hand.
“Who are you with?” said the man, Christopher, as they settled on barstools. “Are you local? You don’t look familiar.”
“I’m not with anyone. I’m a doctor.”
To Franny’s relief, this seemed to satisfy him. She suddenly felt frumpy in her baggy jeans and cotton sweater. “Can I buy you a drink?” asked Christopher. His face looked as if it were made of plastic: shiny, pink, slick.
“Sure. White wine.”
Christopher signaled the bartender, the blond boy, who looked at Franny quizzically. He filled a glass with wine. Franny did not meet his eyes.
“So,” said Christopher, “what are you doing here?”
Franny thought fast. “Vacation?” she said. The bartender lifted an eyebrow.
Christopher nodded. Luckily, he did not want to talk about Franny. “Well, you know why I’m here,” said Christopher. “The Hairdresser of Death.” He sipped his martini. “She gets the needle tomorrow,” he said. “As I’m sure you know.”
“Oh,” said Franny.
“Yeah, I’ve got to cover the protests, her last meal, last words, et cetera,” said Christopher. “Interview the victim’s family, the hairdresser’s mom, blah, blah.” He bit into an olive.
“Blah, blah?” said Franny.
“You’re not from here,” said Christopher, and without waiting for her response, he said, “Let me tell you something. If it weren’t a woman getting the needle, I wouldn’t even be here. Executions get boring in Texas.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Bo-ring,” he said, and then he ordered another martini.
The bar was loud and boisterous. Franny could hear laughter, the clink of ice in glasses. There was a festive atmosphere, as if something wonderful were about to happen. “So you believe in the death penalty?” said Franny.
“Oh, Christ,” said Christopher. “I don’t have an opinion. You’ve got to stay impartial, that’s the thing. I’m here for the story, the tears, blood and guts.” He drew in on his cigarette. “I don’t give a shit about the death penalty,” he said. “If you want to know the truth.”
“But doesn’t it make you sad?” she said. “Watching someone die?”
“No,” said Christopher.
Franny’s wine was dull and sour, but she finished it anyway, and ordered another. Christopher told her about Houston, about television, and eventually about his ex-wife. Franny tried to listen, but kept turning her head, following the sound of raucous laughter. She saw Dan Rather in the corner of the room. The piano player belted out Cole Porter. Christopher smelled like peanuts.
“So my wife, my ex-wife, she tells me I have no depth of feeling,” said Christopher. “I ask you, what does that mean?”
Franny shrugged, and drank more wine. Christopher put his hand on her knee, and it was warm. She did not move it. He took her hand, traced its lines. “You’re quite beautiful,” he said. But when he asked her to his room, she said no.
“I have to get up early in the morning,” she said.
Christopher gave her his card. “Call me if you’re ever in Houston,” he said. “And, you know, if she doesn’t get an appeal, the Highway Honey will get the needle in a few weeks, so I’ll be back.”
Back at Uncle Jack’s, Franny picked up the phone. She dialed the area code for Manhattan, but then held the receiver in her hand. She could easily abandon her promise to Janice Gaddon, call the hospital back and cancel her leave of absence. It was so tempting to slip back inside her life in New York. But Franny wanted to understand what had moved Uncle Jack. She wanted to know what she was capable of. Franny bit her lip, and hung up the phone.
celia
“Are you going to mail the letter?” asked Marc. We lay in my bed, bands of light from the window crossing our legs. I knew I should feel ashamed, or at least ridiculous, lying entwined with a young boy, but I felt happy. Happiness: a simple emotion (and surely related to sex) but it had been a long time since I had felt it. I had forgotten how joy could run through your veins.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“What does the letter say?”
“Are you going to put me in your novel?” I said, pulling my hand away.
He smiled. “That’s not really fair,�
� he said. “Besides, it’s finished. I sent it off yesterday.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a mess of a book about my father, mostly. He’s pretty much an asshole. I wrote it to try to figure him out, I think. Isn’t everyone’s first novel about themselves?” He sat up, and pulled a package of cigarettes from his pants.
“You can’t smoke in here,” I said, my voice panicked. I was about to say, because Henry hates cigarettes.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I said. “You want to read it? The letter to Karen?”
“If you want me to.” I stood, pulling the sheet around myself, and went to get the letter. When I brought it back to the bedroom, he had pulled on his clothes, and I felt stupid in the sheet, like some toga queen. It was my house and my lover—I should have felt in control of the situation, but I did not. Suddenly, watching this boy open my letter (taking his John Lennon glasses from the bedside table, sliding them over his nose to read), I felt scared. He read slowly, stopping once to look up at me and smile sadly. I was so tired of being pitied.
After a minute, I couldn’t watch. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a top and went to sit on the porch swing. Across the street, Mrs. Murphy (who worked at Sears and set out a recycle bin full of Miller Lite cans every Thursday) sat on her front step, throwing birdseed out over her lawn. She waved to me. “How are you, honey?” she called.
“Fine, Mrs. Murphy!” I said.
“You want a beer, honey?” She held up her can as if to encourage me in daytime drinking. She wore a dingy pink bathrobe and a net of some sort over her hair. A neighbor had told me that Mrs. Murphy had at least seventeen cats, but she didn’t let any of them outside. Periodically, her screen door got scratched clear through, and Henry had gone over to help her repair it a few times.
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