by Del Howison
He watched the guards get Sol into close restraint. They took off his gag. He would be allowed to speak during the performance. The Pavulon in a 300 microgram drip would make quick work of his ability to do so, but he didn’t know that. No doubt he had some speech prepared dumping on the country or some such thing. Well, it would not be delivered—got news for you, mister.
Makeup came and dusted Hal’s face and blushed his lips. “See there,” he said, “you’ve made me look twenty years younger just like that.”
Karen said to Sol, “Can you come with me, please, Sol? Are you able to walk?”
He was back in his shorts, sitting hunched on the holding bench. He let out a long belch, a typical response from a frightened man. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, no, it’s natural. Here, come on, now.”
Sol got to his feet, then abruptly sat back down. “It feels like that thing’s gonna fall out,” he said.
“No, that’s fine.”
“Billy, George,” Hal said, “please carry the prisoner out.”
The two powerful guards took Sol out onto the stage. This time, the lights flared like the face of the sun, flooding everything in white glare.
“Boy, is it ever quiet,” Karen said as she and Hal watched them strapping Sol in the chair.
“You okay?”
“Let’s do it, Chief.” She put on the surgical mask that would preserve her anonymity.
The two of them walked out onto the stage together. It felt like the inside of a cathedral, vibrant with silent life. Hal went to the podium. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
Suddenly, from behind him, there came a loud voice; “Yisgadal v’yiskadash shimay rabo!”
It was Sol, yelling some Jew prayer. Perfectly legal to do that in a home or synagogue, but not on state property.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated, raising his voice, “acting upon warrant duly executed upon the prisoner Solomon Samuel Goldberg—”
“May He give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days,” shouted a voice from the audience.
“Now,” Hal said, “we will have order here.”
“—and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel,” Sol cried out.
“It’s set,” Karen said. “It’s set!”
“—I hereby execute—”
“O say shalom bim … romov …”
His voice grew softer and softer, until only his lips moved. It seemed then that half or more than half of the audience took up the prayer, and the ancient words sang through the room, to the rafters.
“May His great name be blessed forever and ever.”
It was not just foreigners, it was Americans, too, and they were all committing a crime and they would all be punished.
“This is a criminal act! This is not a Christian prayer, here,” he shouted. Then, to Karen, “Get that drip going.”
“It’s going—should I do it faster?”
“Hell, no! We obey the law in this unit!”
And so they executed him with suffering that had been ordained by law, this man who had taken one hundred and sixteen lives, and as the drug gradually suffocated him, his voice that had been raised in Kaddish dropped from a murmur to the softest of whispers, and his lips turned blue and finally he forgot his prayer and probably every darned thing, even his name, and he gave the performance that he had been brought here to give.
He thrashed from side to side and bared his teeth, and white foam came out of his mouth, and sweat poured off him, and when he became erect, Karen covered his midriff with the olive-colored prison towel that she had brought for that purpose.
After a time, his head fell forward and his hands, which had been grasping and fidgeting, stopped grasping and fidgeting.
“Sir,” Karen said, “this prisoner has expired.”
“Thank you, Doctor. This execution is concluded.”
As the curtains closed, he looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes exactly, and here he’d forgotten to put his money in the darned jailhouse pool! Heaven only knew how much the president must have won at the White House.
If he had any guts, he’d call up there and ask the old man for a nice little cut of his winnings. It would be only fair.
Another execution was scheduled in twenty minutes. Not public—nobody was interested in a Negro car thief. They’d do him in the basement quick enough, so nobody need be late for lunch.
As he walked off the stage, though, he did not feel well at all. His chest was hurting again, deep inside, an ache of the heart. He wondered if this was a heart attack. The way he ran, it could be, God knew, at the age of fifty-four.
Jenny was there waiting for him, and he was glad to see her. “Let’s go, buster,” she said. “You look like you need a little mama-san.”
That was the truth, and he went with her back to his office.
“Here,” she said, handing him a form. A death certificate for Albert A. Taylor, Jr.
“I’ve gotta get down there.”
“Sign it.”
“He’s not dead yet.”
“He will be. Now sign it, and you go in there and lie down.”
“I can’t. That’s not—”
“The law states that you sign on confirmation of death. It does not require that you attend. Only the regs require that, and you’re the person who enforces them.”
She thrust the pen into his hand. He signed. “I thought this man’s offense was car theft. Is that a capital crime now?”
“Three times down, it doesn’t matter what the crime was. He’s on his third conviction, and that’s curtains.”
“I wonder what he did the other two times.”
She held out a pill—a Valium—and water. “Who cares? The important thing that he’s off the streets and not costing you and me a dime after today. Take this.”
“I’ve got an afternoon. The—uh—Planning Board, was it?”
“I’ve cleared your calendar.”
“You’re an angel.”
“Not yet, Husband. But I’m working in that direction, God willing.”
He knocked back the pill and went to his daybed, and she rubbed his forehead while he fell asleep.
He dreamed that he and Jesus were walking through the Woodlands Mall together, and he was feeling just so wonderfully loved, and was hand in hand with his Lord—and then a little girl was watching them, and he realized that Jesus was naked. “Oh, Jesus,” he said in his dream, “you can’t do this, it’s a life sentence if she tells.”
He woke up suddenly. It was very quiet, no sound but the air conditioning hissing softly. Dull sunlight shafted across the floor. He sat up, then went to his desk and poured himself some water.
“Jenny?”
They’d all gone, and he went, too, hurrying down the long hall with his briefcase in his hand.
Outside the administration area, the air seemed to clutch at his throat, to challenge him to breathe at all. The sky was yellow, the sun deep orange, just setting behind the north tower, rendering it black against the blood-streaked sky.
On the way home, he listened to the news. The NPR story was that the execution had been performed flawlessly, that the criminal had suffered appropriately for his crime, and that all had ended well. Nothing about those idiotic outbursts. He reminded himself to have security look at the surveillance video of the audience. Every person who said Kaddish would be punished, the foreigners deported, the Americans charged under appropriate statutes.
It was late when he got home, already dark this past hour. There was a scent of pot roast coming from the kitchen, the sound of the girls practicing in the basement. “Blessed be the ties that bind …”
Maddie came and kissed him.
“Did you see?” he asked.
She nodded.
“The kids?”
“At school. But they saw. Everybody saw.”
Softly, from below, rose the song of the daughters of music, “… our hearts in Christian love; the fell
owship of kindred minds, is like that to that above …”
“What did they think?” He was disappointed, frankly, in the lack of celebration in this house. This had been a day of accomplishment for a member of the family.
“The boys are out on the deck with the telescope.”
He went out, looked up into the dim sky, glowing tan, starless.
“What’re you looking for?” he asked.
“Daddy,” his youngest said, “you said you could see the stars from here when you were a boy. Where are they now, Daddy?”
He felt as if a great blanket was descending from the sky, a blanket of dense prison air and the cries of the dying. He heard Sol’s Kaddish as it had been at the last, faintly, faintly, a ghost made of breath.
“The stars are gone,” he said.
“Why, Dad?”
He went in to get some pot roast. Maddie watched him dish it out for himself. “Why are you crying?” she asked.
“I’m not crying.”
“Hal, you are.” She reached up, touched his cheek with the tips of two fingers, wiping away the cool of his tears.
“I’m not crying,” he repeated. “I’m just a little tired today. I don’t know why.”
He wanted to bury himself in her shoulder, to cry his eyes out, to let the shadow of the starless night slip out of him, to hide himself away in her kind and gentle heart.
“… and perfect love and friendship reign …” came the voices from below. Then they died. The song was done.
“Well then,” she said, “eat your dinner. CSI’s on in ten minutes; you hate to miss the start.”
THE SEER
ROBERT STEVEN RHINE
DANIEL PULLED UP his black nylon socks and slipped on his polished wingtips with a tarnished brass shoehorn. He loathed the Macabees’ Christmas party, hearing all the petty stories about mundane jobs and spoiled children. Lives so painfully predictable. It’s not that Daniel’s was so special. It was quite ordinary, actually. A watchmaker born in Pittsville, New Hampshire, he hadn’t achieved his goals of National Geographic explorer or paleontologist as he had dreamed when he was a boy. He gave them up long ago when he saw he had no chance of ever realizing them. Daniel had learned to live with life’s setbacks. If only others could.
He knotted his bow tie, something he had mastered without looking in the mirror. Then, he carefully wound his wristwatch stem, forward and gently back, forward and gently back. It was a 1927 Bulova with a black dial, gold train, and sixteen-jewel movement in a Curvex-style case. It was his grandfather’s and had been passed down to him by his father in his will. The watch was in dire condition when he received it, but he had lovingly restored it and now it ran admirably. He had done such a fine job that his neighbor had him repair hers, which led to a few more timepieces, and before Daniel could blink, he was trapped in the back of his watch shop, his eye glued to a magnifying loupe.
He put his ear to the quad-beveled crystal and listened to his life ticking away. He was forty-nine. His father and grandfather had each lived to fifty-three. That left 1,825 days, 43,800 minutes, and 2,628,000 seconds…. tick … tick … tick …
Daniel’s wife Mindy had told him to stop counting that way or risk a self-fulfilling prophecy. That made Daniel smile.
He combed his thinning hair, with his back to the mirror, then stared at the wispy remnants in the comb’s teeth. He noticed his reflection in a hand mirror lying on the vanity.
“Honey, we’re going to be late. What’s taking you so long?!” hollered Mindy, his tarnished trophy wife, glancing at her vintage pink gold Lady Elgin bracelet watch on her skeletal wrist as she entered the bathroom. There was a crunch of glass beneath her Prada heels. With a knowing sigh, she stared down at her fractured image in the puzzle pieces. It had been such a beautiful mirror, with a tortoiseshell frame.
“Darn it, Daniel! That was my mother’s!”
As she grabbed a dustpan and swept up the shattered shards, she muttered, “Do you have to break every mirror in the house?! Just what we need—another seven years’ bad luck!”
Actually, three, Daniel predicted silently.
They drove in their Buick LeSabre in a deafening void. The roads were icy and Daniel drove extra cautiously. Maybe the party will be over before we get there, he wished secretly.
“You’re driving like a turtle!” Mindy nagged. “Do you want to miss the party?!”
Daniel leaned his wingtip on the gas, accelerating to fifty … sixty-five … seventy. Mindy didn’t care if he crashed the car. Actually, she would have preferred it to driving in an eight-year-old Buick. But the watch-repair business had slowed in Pittsville, while Mindy’s shopping had soared.
Mindy hadn’t exactly acquired the life or husband she’d dreamed of. Before Daniel, she had courted a wealthy podiatrist and had been engaged until he ran off with a prettier pair of feet. Life was full of compromises. You could see it etched in the frown lines between her tweezed eyebrows. At least before the Botox.
The Buick skidded to a stop on the ice in front of the Macabees’ four-column Colonial house. The modest estate was illuminated with Christmas lights like a supernova. But the facade hid a dark secret. DeeDee Macabee had wanted children, but too few eggs and anemic sperm don’t a baby make. They could have adopted, but that would have admitted their failure to conceive, and in Pittsville, gossip spread like toxic fallout.
Daniel’s wife Mindy, on the other hand, was fertile as a rabbit. But Daniel had vowed to end his family’s legacy, and Mindy had two abortions to punctuate it.
Daniel squinted, sensing a migraine, as he trudged toward the Macabees’ overly decorated front door.
“Stand up straight, you’re slouching,” ordered Mindy, shoving her wrist into his spine as she rang the bell. Bing bong!
She dusted the dandruff off Daniel’s lapel as the door opened.
“Mindy and Daniel! What a pleasure!” gushed Deedee Macabee, acting surprised to see them, as she had rehearsed. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“We RSVP’d.” Daniel slouched. “What’d ya expect?”
“Well,” DeeDee wheedled, grimacing like a stroke victim. “It sounds like someone needs some eggnog.”
Daniel stumbled over the entryway mumbling, “Eggnog … a warm vat of holiday phlegm.”
The living room was decorated with tinsel and forced cheer. There were thirty or so guests bumping together like billiard balls in front of the fake Yuletide log.
They all stared at Daniel and Mindy as they entered—the last to arrive. Daniel spotted the Flanders’s overweight, pimpled teenage son Jason wolfing microwave pigs in blankets; Burt and Frank, two curmudgeon neighbors in their seventies who stood all day like lawn jockeys complaining about their cataracts; Holly Weaver, a perky bottle-dyed redhead with rock-hard breast implants, who chaired the Pittsville PTA; Chester Sosnowski, the old town barber, who had a standing appointment every Tuesday to trim Daniel’s goatee; and Phyllis and Mark Burnside, in their crisp New Hampshire Police uniforms, hanging a tin ornament of a squad car on the overdecorated Christmas tree.
Daniel, head down, made a beeline for the drink cart. It was one of those brass-and-glass numbers with a bottle of store-brand vodka, gin, whiskey, and a plastic jug of Diet Coke. Daniel reached for the whiskey.
“You promised!” Mindy whined.
Daniel gripped the bottle, momentarily glancing at his reflection in the mirrored cart, and hissed through his veneers, “I’m not going to make it, with ‘these people,’ if I don’t have something.”
Mindy sighed like the air going out of a tractor tire.
Daniel poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and took a calming slug. As his esophagus warmed, he peered at his rippling face in the amber liquor. But then, another image appeared in the whiskey. It was Daniel, and he was oddly missing his jawbone.
“Daniel!” a voice chirped, like someone had found a missing sock. It was Florence Lipkin, principal of Pittsville Elementary. A shriveled woman with a glass eye, Flor
ence had recently brought Daniel a beautiful early twentieth-century, 18K rose-gold Hamilton, with diamond numerals, eight-day lever, and blue steel overcoil hairspring. He admired the restored watch on her wrist as she cradled Prince Valiant, her shivering shih tzu.
Florence had lost her eye in a freak shuffleboard accident six months earlier, but she still kept the cloudy temp marble gripped in the moist socket. Everyone in town gossiped about how cheap Florence was and that she stole bottled water from the school cafeteria. But only Daniel knew that she’d inherited a cool million when her husband expired eight months earlier. Daniel knew it long before she did. But he didn’t tell anyone, including his wife. He contemplated the possibilities of how that kind of money might change his life. He could finally leave Pittsville and see the world. If only she would make him the beneficiary in her will.
“How’s my favorite watchmaker?” Florence prattled to Daniel, as she personalized her greetings to everyone, like: “How’s my favorite mailman?” or “How’s my favorite butcher?” or “How’s my favorite eye doctor?” Daniel wondered how long before Florence would have a “favorite mortician.”
“Not bad.” Daniel forced a smile while eyeing the drink cart.
They stood uncomfortably for several moments, just the occasional click of ice in Daniel’s tumbler.
Suddenly Daniel was struck on the back so hard his teeth chomped together.
“Daniel, me boy … heh … heh,” a voice boomed like a leprechaun on steroids.
He warily peeked over his shoulder and saw his muscular insurance man, Mike Johnson—all five-foot-four of him.
“Have I told you, Danny, about our new whole-life triple-premium policy? Your principal triples every nine years!”
“Yeah, you have,” Daniel flatly replied.
Mike (or Mick as his friends called him) threw a second pitch; “Well then, why haven’t we signed ya up?!”
“I won’t be needing it.”
The ex–star linebacker of the Pittsville High football team, who was too short for a college scholarship, grinned smugly. “What are you, psychic?”
