“It sounds lovely,” Sophia says and everyone agrees.
The sommelier presents the wine and once the ritual sniffing and tasting is done, he rounds the table, filling glasses. When he extends the bottle toward Carolyn’s glass, she gives her head the slightest shake, but he misses the signal and pours it full anyway. She meets Sophia’s glance and smiles even as she’s giving the stem a rueful push toward the table’s center.
Cort asks Larry and Carolyn about life in Chicago.
Grace inclines her head toward Sophia. “I see Carolyn is wearing her engagement ring. Does that mean—?”
“Who knows, although now—” Sophia bites her lip.
“What?” Grace prompts.
Sophia hesitates, and then confesses softly, “She’s pregnant.”
Grace’s eyes widen. “How lovely. Or maybe it isn’t?”
“He doesn’t know yet. I guess time will tell. It might not have been the best idea, coming out this evening.”
Grace sips her wine.
Sophia follows her glance across the table. Carolyn is leaning against Larry; they’re laughing at something Cort has said.
“They look happy,” Grace says. “I hope things work out.”
“Me, too.”
A pause falls.
Sophia breaks it. “About Thomas.”
Grace straightens.
“I had a chance to talk to him last week.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, for one thing, he’s concerned about Brian.”
Grace frowns. “Brian?”
“Mom, you remember Alicia, don’t you?”
Sophia’s attention shifts to Carolyn. “Alicia?”
“The hurricane in 1983?”
“Oh, you mean when you spent the entire day with your hands clapped over your ears begging your dad to make the wind stop?”
“Very funny. Cort says there’s a depression in the Atlantic.”
“Heading across the Yucatan.” Cort pins the location.
“That means it’s coming into the Gulf.” Carolyn looks apprehensive.
“Your grandmother’s worried too,” Sophia says. “I told her it could go anywhere, it could fizzle.”
“I’ve never seen a hurricane,” Larry says.
“You don’t want to either.” Carolyn grimaces.
Grace toys with the stem of her wine glass. “I remember Dad and Jarrett set up charcoal grills in the parking lot after the storm passed. Do you remember, Cort?”
He nods.
“They emptied the larders, grilled everything we had on hand and served it to anyone who was hungry, no charge. We dragged crates into the parking lot and people sat on them eating their fill of beef filets, prime rib, chicken, grilled wild salmon and vegetables, all sorts of exotic things. It was so hot and like everyone else, we had no running water, no electricity, but it didn’t seem so bad because we did the work together.” She smiles. “It wasn’t very long after that when I found out I was pregnant with Thomas. It was such a happy—” She catches her lip.
Cort circles her wrist with his fingers, drawing his thumb into the center of her palm; her eyes close.
Larry looks from Carolyn to Sophia, perplexed, but, fortunately, Sophia thinks, silent.
“I gave away my books,” Carolyn says.
“I remember.” Sophia expands on Carolyn’s effort to distract them all. “You emptied your shelves, Charlotte’s Web, The Secret Garden, Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.”
“A whole set of Nancy Drew. I loaded them into my bike basket and took them around to the kids in the neighborhood.”
Sophia says, “I had to stop you when you loaded up your dad’s set of Rover Boy mysteries.”
“They were first editions. You were furious at me.”
“Yes, but proud too, of your generosity.”
“Everyone was whining there was nothing to do. No TV, no Atari. Daddy and I read to each other by candlelight. Do you remember?” Carolyn sounds wistful.
o0o
They are midway through dinner before it happens—and Sophia realizes later that it was inevitable—that Larry would naturally mention George Bush and his run for the presidency.
Cort pauses his fork midway to his mouth. “Are you a Bush fan?”
Sophia looks from him to Larry to Carolyn whose eyes are wide with consternation as if she has swallowed a goose egg. Her hand goes down on Larry’s knee. Larry’s very Republican knee.
Sophia wishes she could think of something to say, to again divert their attention.
Larry admits to being a conservative, that like the Republicans, he favors reducing the size and role of government and supports the idea that less control over the economic rights of individuals and corporations creates a higher-functioning economy. And then he pauses, looking from face to face. “I thought since I was in Texas— I’m in the minority here? You’re Gore supporters?” A flush comes, staining his cheeks. Sophia knows, even given his law background, his gift for courtroom debate, that he does not, would not, for the world, want to create controversy here.
Cort sets down his fork, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Do you know Bush’s stand on the death penalty?”
“Cort....” Grace murmurs.
“No. He should know what kind of maniac he’s helping to put into office.”
“I didn’t say I was voting for Bush.” Larry defends himself. “In fact, the guy makes me a little nervous. If I cast my vote for him, it’ll be for the GOP, not for the man.”
“It’ll be for a killer,” Cort says. “Did you know that he’s signed off on more than one hundred executions this year alone? Unlike your governor in Illinois, Bush has no conscience. Do the research.”
“Cort, please,” Grace says more forcefully.
Larry apologizes. “I seem to have stepped into something.”
“It’s nothing.” Grace raises her glass; she glances at Sophia. “To friends,” she says. “Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, friends,” Sophia says. “We’re delighted to be here.”
The waiters appear to collect their dishes and refill their glasses and for several moments the taut silence is broken only by the clatter of plates and cutlery, the ambient noise from the main dining rooms upstairs.
After the staff has left, Cort looks at Larry from under his brows, then swings his glance wide to include everyone at the table, touching it last on Grace. His feelings for her float like dreams in his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says, “I’ve been rude.” He turns back to Larry. “It’s no way to treat guests.”
Larry makes a gesture of dismissal. “As my mother says politics isn’t a proper subject for the dinner table. It ruins the digestion.”
Grace wonders if anyone is interested in dessert. “Cort makes a mean Bananas Foster.”
“I didn’t realize your were a chef,” Sophia says.
“My only claim to kitchen fame,” Cort answers.
“It’s his favorite dessert,” Grace explains, “so Jurgen our pastry chef taught him how to make it. Now Jurgen says the pupil has exceeded his master.”
“Here here.” Larry raises his glass.
Carolyn stands up. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“Oh, I disagree,” Larry says, grinning at her, “no one can do Chef Boyardee like you can, babe.”
Carolyn makes a face. “At least I can peel a banana.”
Grace takes Sophia’s arm; her eyes are searching, anxious. “What was it that Thomas said about Brian?”
o0o
“We should go through Dad’s things while I’m home.” Carolyn settles on the edge of Sophia’s bed looking over her shoulder at Russ’s open closet.
“There's no rush.” Sophia balances the book, an old Agatha Christie mystery she’s rereading, on her bent knees. “Has Larry gone to bed. Did you two talk?”
Carolyn shakes her head; she picks at the coverlet.
“But you’re wearing your ring again.”
Carolyn lifts her shoulders, makes a face.
“I didn’t realize how much Grandmother disapproved of Dad. I don’t mean Dad, personally, but she thought he was too old for you.”
“What?” Sophia is completely thrown off. “Where is this coming from?”
“We were talking about weddings and marriage, you know.”
“You and your grandmother?”
“Uh-huh and she brought up Dad and said there were hard feelings between you, that you have a grudge against her.”
“Because of your dad?”
“I guess. She thinks you took away her car keys to get even.”
“What on earth? When did she say all this?”
“When I brought the vacuum cleaner back from the repair shop the other day. What did she mean?”
Sophia closes her book holding her place with her finger. She straightens her legs, concentrating on the feel of the sheet beneath her bare heels. What is her mother thinking? She finds it incredible that Esther has brought this up to Carolyn, however obliquely, when all these years she has insisted on secrecy, insisted Sophia is never to speak of Dylan or that terrible time. And these accusations, that Sophia is holding a grudge, that she wants revenge, what does all this mean? There as been nothing between them, not in all this time. An ocean of silence ...the rigid plane of Esther’s back, the flat of her hand, the blade of her voice.
“Mom?”
“I really don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Sophia says, hoping Carolyn will drop it, but she doesn’t.
“I don’t think this is Alzheimer’s or senility or whatever. I mean she’s losing names and the days of the week, little things like that, but she was very definite about this. She thinks you’re angry at her and she’ll die before it’s resolved. She acted really upset. If you could have heard her.”
“She’s not herself, that’s all,” Sophia insists.
“All right, Mother. Whatever you say.” Carolyn stands up. “Grandmother said if I wanted to know what it was about I should ask you, but I said you’d never tell me, that you don’t trust me any more than her.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“G’night, Mom.” Carolyn leaves the room and Sophia is gaping after her when she reappears. “I guess you must hold a grudge against me too.”
“No!” Sophia flings aside the bedclothes; she puts her feet on the floor, but instead of going after Carolyn, she bends her elbows onto her knees, drops her face into her hands. The sound of the air conditioning looms into the silence around her and the noise is insular, purled, like the rush of wind around islands.
Chapter 19
Saturday, October 9, 1999 - 8 days remain
Jarrett opens the Krishnamurti book, the second of two L has sent him, and flips to the blank back pages. Dear Thomas, he writes. In my life I did not earn the right to your respect. He looks at the words, erases them, begins again. I have failed you on every level....
He wants to write to each of his children, but especially to Thomas. It’s nuts, but he wants the words to stand in for all the screw ups; he wants them to be there through all the years he won’t be. He wants his children, to know that he loved them. He has drafted and erased sentence after sentence in the back pages of the Krishnamurti books because note paper is hard to get and he wants his final letter to be legible and neat so he writes and erases and rewrites. And after days of this, he’s got nothing, a cramped hand, pages full of pencil-smeared words. He’s never been any good at expressing himself.
He closes the book. He thinks they’ll move him today, to a cell on death watch, and then, within a few more days, he’ll be transported to The Walls in Huntsville where they’ll execute him. He’s heard the death watch cells are equipped with a camera that’ll monitor his every move 24/7; whenever he shits or takes a piss, eats, sleeps, or stares into fucking space, the moment will be observed. It is the State’s attempt to ensure a prisoner doesn’t off himself before they get the chance. It is the way they will strip him of the last of his dignity. Not only is he no kind of father, he’s not even a man in here. He is scarcely human and he feels whatever is left of his humanity is disintegrating day by day.
Jarrett wants to tell Thomas that a man needs his pride; he needs to walk like a man, not crawl like a worm. He wants to say Thomas deserves a father he can look up to, someone like Cort. A man who can be there for him, who won’t desert him. But living this reality is hard, hour by hour to have to confront what he’s thrown away, the stupidity brings on such anger and grief; it’s like being burned alive from the inside. Jarrett has to hold his breath against the heat. He has to fight it with everything’s he’s got. If he once lets it out, it will rip him apart.
He opens the book again at random. His eye scans the page, falls on Krishnamurti’s answer to a question: Sir, what is important is not what hurts and what pleases, but to see what is true. And then that truth will operate, not you.
Jarrett reads the words again, and a third time. On a certain level, he finds something in them oddly calming, but if he were asked what, he wouldn’t be able to say. He raises his glance. The single window in the cell is near the ceiling; it is a slit roughly three inches by thirty-two inches and through it he can see a rectangle of gray sky, a muscled knuckle of darker cloud. All that is left of his freedom, of his truth, is framed in that narrow mocking eye and now even that is closing.
o0o
The death row captain pushes a document entitled Execution Summary across the desk. Jarrett picks it up. He sees a place to list whom he would like to invite to witness his execution; there’s a blank line for the name of his spiritual advisor. Space is allowed to set forth the terms of his last will and testament, to note the instructions for the disposal of his remains. Jarrett can indicate his last meal request. The last supper, he thinks. Like, who gives a shit?
Did Jesus?
“Do you have any kids?” Jarrett’s mouth is dry; his mouth is sand. He looks from the captain to the four guards who are also present. Two of them were his escort detail, the other two appeared after his arrival here. “Any of you have kids?” No one responds; they don’t even look at him. It is as if he is already dead.
The captain shifts his considerable bulk forward, chair squawking in protest. He taps the document. “Need you to fill this in, son.”
I’m not your son. The words stick in Jarrett’s throat. He looks again at the paper, the print blurs. The captain’s instructions blur. He remembers the first time Grace settled Thomas into his arms after he was born. Jarrett had been mesmerized by Thomas’s searching, wide-eyed gaze. It had felt as if Thomas was straining to recognize Jarrett, to lay claim to him in some way and the bolus of love that had risen inside Jarrett had been so huge he had been convinced his heart would explode. Tears had seared his eyes, pooled at the back of his throat.
He had touched Thomas’s cheek, traced a line to his tiny chin. “You got no worries now, little guy,” he had whispered and he hadn’t given a hoot in hell when his voice cracked. “Daddy’s here.”
Jarrett bends low over the Execution Summary now, shielding his face. He remembers how mad and scared he was when Lonny walked out on him and Cort. He remembers the nights lying awake listening to his mom cry. He remembers promising himself he would not do to his son what Lonny had done to him.
But he has done it after all. Jarrett has brought this nightmare home to his children and to Grace. He thinks he can’t fill out the form but somehow he does. It will only go harder for him if he doesn’t, but apparently his cooperation is misconstrued because suddenly, the captain is on his feet telling the guards to leave, with one exception, a skinny guy named Hooker, and once the door closes, the captain bends, stiff-armed, over his desk at Jarrett, belly swaying, expression screwed into an ugly scowl.
Bring it on, Jarrett thinks, like I give a fuck what you do to me.
“Let’s cut to the chase here, Mr. Capshaw. You’ll be moved today over to death watch. In a few days from now, you’ll be moved again to the death house at The Walls to be executed.”
�
��Yessir, so you said, sir.”
“So, this is when a lot of men break. You’ve never been violent in here, never been any trouble and what I need to know from you now is whether you plan on doing anything violent in the time you got left. Do you plan on making trouble? Because let me warn you, if you do, you won’t win. Are you getting me?”
Jarrett blinks. Hooker’s Adams apple jerks up and down, but his expression’s empty. Still, when Jarrett says he’s got no plan, he senses it’s a disappointment. Prison is boring, a day-in-day-out grind. Doesn’t matter which side of the monkey bars you’re on.
o0o
They let him have outdoor rec time before they move him. Mo D’s in the adjacent cage, but Mo’s been pissed ever since Jarrett stopped his appeals so he and Jarrett don’t talk much until the end when Mo breaks his pacing, and turning to glare at Jarrett through the steel bars, demands to know why Jarrett is doing it. “Long as you breathin’, you gotta chance, bro.” Mo clicks his teeth, shakes his big, grizzled head. “Squirt like you, makes no sense.”
“I want to go while I’m still young and good looking.”
Mo snorts. “If that ain’t just like a pretty white boy. You know what they callin’ you? Pussy. They callin’ you a pussy, white boy.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Jarrett says.
Rec time ends and the guards come for Mo first, but before he disappears though the heavy exterior door, he pauses and takes the time to find Jarrett’s glance and they stand, each holding the other’s regard, and when Mo D winks, Jarrett touches his brow in brief salute. It is shared acknowledgement of hard time served in a hard place.
Jarrett thinks he will never see Mo again.
Within a few minutes, two more guards come to escort Jarrett to his new digs on death watch. His stuff is already there. The small carton that holds everything he owns in the world sits next to the furled bedroll. Jarrett is unpacking, setting up his house, when the guy next door calls him.
“Hey! It’s Terry Ray Cox here.”
The voice comes through a chink in the wall that separates their cells and Jarrett approaches it cautiously. He doesn’t know Cox and figures if the guy gives him any shit, he’ll walk away. But Terry Ray tells Jarrett right off, he’s got no time to waste on nonsense. Three days, he tells Jarrett.
The Volunteer Page 16
