As Wide as the Sky

by Jessica Pack

  As Steve made his way away from Chuck and his weird desk, the TV in the waiting area caught his attention. He stopped even though the face that filled the screen above the ticker tape was unfamiliar . . . wasn’t it? Prison tattoos covered the man’s forehead and a reddish blond beard covered the lower half of his face. His head was shaved.

  “. . . executed by lethal injection this morning at the South Dakota Penitentiary, the latest fast-tracked execution performed in the state and the third execution in the last five years. Mallorie was pronounced dead at 2:17 this morning.”

  Steve consciously relaxed his eyebrows, which had pulled together, then reminded himself that he was at work and didn’t have license to stop and watch TV. None of the waiting customers had noticed him watching, but as he scanned left, Tara at the cashier desk caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back, sheepishly, and looked quickly away before he started walking again. He tried to keep his back straight and his stomach pulled in, even though the action made him feel ridiculous. She was at least ten years younger than he, with an ex-husband in Louisville and two kids at home. Steve had worked with Tara for five years, but her general coworker politeness had turned into . . . flirting a few months ago. Embarrassment at categorizing her interactions as such made his head heat up. As though he were a man to flirt with.

  Steve reached the scuffed door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and pushed through to his kingdom: the parts department. He’d started working here a year after he’d come back to Florence and now he was the manager—not a bad trajectory for a man who’d been lousy at adulthood for the first fifteen years of being one. He slid the report he’d reviewed with Chuck into the slot marked WEEKLY ORDERS in the metal file shelves stuck to the wall above his desk, or, rather, his section of countertop.

  Steve grabbed his “I’m a Grandpa” coffee mug off the desk and headed toward the coffeepot in the back. Max had forgiven Steve for not being the father Max deserved; having the generational title of “Grandpa” bestowed upon him had touched Steve deeply. And then Emma . . . that child had put his heart back into his chest the day he held her in his arms. He’d been a lousy father, but he had committed that day that he would do right by his grandchildren. That the role was so wholly enjoyable made the assumed sacrificial nature of his promise a moot point.

  Steve watched Emma and her two-year-old brother every Friday night so their parents could have a date night. He made a mental note to bring over one of the big floor puzzles when he went over tomorrow night. Emma loved those, and Eli stood a chance of getting a piece or two in as well. On Saturday night, he’d go back to Max and Kassie’s four-bedroom, two-bath house to celebrate Emma’s birthday. He’d have to pick up something special for that—was she old enough to ride a bike? He couldn’t remember when his boys had learned how—he probably hadn’t been there.

  At the back of the parts department, Steve filled his grandpa mug from his tributary coffeepot, added a little creamer, and headed back to the front. He only drank two cups of coffee a day and this was his second. He would savor it.

  Kyle, the other parts worker this afternoon, grunted a greeting when Steve slid onto his stool at the front, where the counter looked out over the waiting room. Steve grunted back and took a sip of his coffee while he checked what e-mails had come in during his meeting with Chuck.

  “You hear about that guy they executed? Mallorie?”

  Steve’s hand stopped on the keys and he swiveled on his stool to face Kyle, his attention caught by the topic that had already stopped him a few minutes earlier. Like Steve, Kyle sported a beard. Unlike Steve’s, Kyle’s was full brown—the beard of a young man—while Steve’s was peppered with gray. The gray concentrated at his chin as though gravity were pulling it downward.

  Seeing as how Kyle was twenty years younger than Steve, gray hairs were not yet on his agenda of things to worry about.

  “Mallorie?” Steve said, his eyes drifting toward the waiting room even though he couldn’t see the TV from here. “I just caught the tail end of it on the TV.”

  “He’s the guy that shot up that mall right before Christmas a few years ago. I guess he turned down his appeals or something, so he was executed now instead of twenty years down the road.”

  “Huh,” Steve said, still not sure why the name caught his attention. “What about it?”

  Kyle was a news hound and always bringing up current events for them to discuss. At first, Steve had thought it was Kyle trying to show off. In time Steve realized that Kyle just found the stuff fascinating—especially legal and political topics. The kid was wasted in automotive parts, but then Steve knew Kyle’s story a little too well. Smart kid, into sports, knocked up his girlfriend and did the right thing. Just like Steve. Except that Kyle didn’t see settling down as settling.

  “Well,” Kyle continued, “by death penalty standards his execution was a success, with just the one drug. That’s what’s holding up Ol’ Kentuk right now—the fails in Oklahoma and Ohio. There’s, like, thirty guys on death row waiting for the courts to decide what they’re gonna do.” He shook his head. “Damn waste of taxpayer money.”

  Steve turned back to his computer since Kyle hadn’t turned from his. For Kyle, this was ordinary Thursday morning conversation. Why wasn’t it so casual for Steve? “What’s wasting the most money, keeping them alive or taking the appeals to court?” Steve asked.

  Kyle turned on his stool with a surprised expression and Steve smirked over his shoulder. “I read the papers sometimes.” Only on Sunday, really, but there’d been something about Kentucky’s death penalty cases last summer; the attorney and court costs of the multiple appeals.

  “I’m impressed, Mr. Mathis,” Kyle said, pleased as he turned back to his work. “And, quite frankly, both aspects are cutting into my paycheck and yours. You know about the one-drug system, then?”

  “Only that there’s some controversy about it.” Or there had been six months go, which was honestly the last time Steve had even thought about the death penalty. Mallorie, he said in his mind. Did the name sound familiar? Maybe it had been mentioned as part of that article he’d read.

  “It used to be that there were three drugs used,” Kyle said, still typing on his computer. “But the three of ’em are expensive and one is only manufactured in Switzerland now, which won’t sell it for death penalties. So, a bunch of prisons went down to two or even one, but that caused these dudes to, like, convulse and stuff—pretty miserable way to die, I guess. Kentuk, like a lot of other states, halted executions while they tried to find a better option. Other states have kept going, though. You for the death penalty, Mathis?”

  Ah, here was the heart of the conversation. The only thing Kyle liked better than the news was a good debate. He and Steve had had some doozies about education, foreign policy, and the legalization of marijuana. The tattooed face from the TV came back to Steve. The eyes had been hard. The chin lifted in defiance. Steve didn’t know anyone in South Dakota anymore.

  “I’m not really sure how I feel about capital punishment. What do you think?”

  Kyle took a breath and then launched into a dissertation on the pros and cons of the death penalty. Steve opened an e-mail from Ford Corporate about an upcoming parts management training. It would be in Atlanta in June. Steve was supposed to reply whether he would be attending. Kyle transitioned to the cost of the legal work that went into the appeals process. As he talked, the pit remained in Steve’s stomach. Steve had lived in Sioux Falls once upon a time, but not for very long, and he didn’t like to think back to that time. Was that what was bothering him, the reminder of the last stop on the deadbeat track he’d taken for six years?

  Eventually Kyle was called into the service bay to confirm a parts order, bringing the topic to a close. Steve glanced at a picture of his three boys on his desk—Max, Jacob, and Garrett—taken a few years ago. They had been 17, 14, and 11 when Steve had come back into their lives and he marveled—marveled—that they’d made room for him. He needed to keep his focus, which
meant not dwelling on things that unsettled him.

  Steve confirmed that he would go to the Atlanta training and pushed the bearded, tattooed man out of his mind.

  11

  Amanda

  Nine hours, thirty-four minutes

  Amanda put the ring on her finger. It was huge, but of course it would be; it was a man’s ring. She regarded it a moment longer before hearing one of the movers calling to another, reminding her that she wasn’t done sorting the box—she should never have put this off until now. With quickened movements, she put the ring back in the wooden box, closed it, but then paused and opened the box again. There was something about this ring—something about the mystery of it—that felt . . . invigorating? Was that the right word? Interesting? Engaging?

  How did it reflect on her that amid everything happening today—everything that had happened—a stupid class ring was demanding so much of her attention? It didn’t have a memory of Robbie attached to it, which made it worthless by the sorting and keeping rules she’d set for herself. She stared at it again. Was there a Skyline High School in South Dakota? Maybe something across the border in Iowa? It wouldn’t be hard to find out.

  This was silly. She moved to put the ring in the box again, but her hand stilled and after another moment she put it in the front pocket of her jeans instead. Maybe she’d remember something. She leaned forward and began emptying out the last cardboard box faster than she had the others—should she keep the pocketknife with his name engraved on it? It had been a gift from her father when Robbie turned thirteen. Not for the first time she was glad her dad hadn’t been alive when Robbie did what he did. Cancer had taken him a year earlier. It was the hardest thing Amanda had ever been through, losing her dad. She had believed it was the worst pain she would ever feel in her life. Little did she know.

  She kept the knife.

  What about the Toby Keith CD? Robbie had gone through a country music phase when he was fourteen and sang “How Do You Like Me Now?!” in the shower for weeks. She put it in the discard box.

  Birthday card from Dwight’s mother—garbage.

  Collectible spoon from Pittsburgh—it had been Melissa’s souvenir, not Robbie’s. He’d likely taken it from her as a joke—or to eat his oatmeal with—and forgotten to return it. Amanda would give it back to her daughter.

  A program for the school play his senior year—discard. He hadn’t gotten the part he wanted and ended up in the ensemble. He’d made the best of it, but it hadn’t been a great experience.

  A pair of shoelaces—discard.

  Tweezers—keep. She’d put them in her purse.

  A thirty-eight-cent stamp—keep. Money was money.

  Colored pencils—discard.

  A charge cord for the DS—discard.

  Dice—discard.

  Old sunblock—discard.

  A picture of Robbie and some kid she didn’t remember taken in the hallway at school—keep.

  At the very bottom of the box was another card—a Mother’s Day card with swirling pink and purple printed roses and gold lettering that said, For my mom on Mother’s Day.

  Amanda had no memory of this card. She opened it and read the commercially printed words: I love you more than words can say. Have a Happy Mother’s Day. Her eyes were already teary when she shifted her gaze to the handwritten words below the message: Thanks for all the stuff you do for me and for being awesome. Robbie.

  Amanda sniffled, wiped at her eyes, and read it again—more slowly—while imagining Robbie sitting at the desk in his room and thinking of what he wanted to say to her. And then he hadn’t given it to her. Maybe he’d misplaced it, maybe it was too sappy, maybe her theory about him cleaning off his dresser was right and that cleaning day had happened the day before Mother’s Day. Amanda had no regrets about whatever had kept him from giving it to her back then; no way would it have been more powerful than it was right now. She held the card against her chest, wanting the juvenile words to burn into her heart, become a part of her, and drive away some of the ugly thoughts she’d had about her son today.

  Someone cleared his throat behind her and she blinked her eyes open and pulled the card away from her chest. She’d wrinkled it and tried to smooth it out.

  “Mrs. Mallorie?”

  She wiped at her eyes, sniffled, and then turned toward the supervisor, knowing she couldn’t hide her emotion. “Yes?”

  “This is the only room we have left to clear out,” the foreman said, then nodded toward the boxes surrounding her. “Are those boxes going?”

  “They’ll come with me,” Amanda said, pulling the keeper box toward her and sliding the card inside. She picked up the discard items she’d scattered over the floor and threw them hastily into the other boxes. “Some of them are garbage, so I’ll take care of them.”

  “Want my guys to throw them out for you?”

  “No, the press will go through the trash once I leave.” Amanda said this as though that were a normal concern for the average middle-aged woman moving out of state. For her, however, it was a normal consideration. She’d been shredding papers and taking any garbage of a remotely personal nature to Dumpsters ever since a reporter had found a letter Robbie had sent to her during a time when he’d refused his medication in jail. She kept his kind letters, but that one had been depressing and sad and full of self-hatred and thinly veiled suicidal thoughts. She’d torn it in half and thrown it away so as to never read it again, only to see it show up as a story in the Leader six weeks later and immediately get picked up by the Associated Press. The agenda behind making the letter public had been to ask why hardworking taxpayers should pay to keep death row inmates alive when they preferred death to prison. Robbie’s letter validated the arguments.

  “But thank you,” Amanda said when she remembered that she wasn’t alone with her thoughts right now. She seemed to have forgotten what it was like to carry on a conversation with another person.

  “Well, then, after you make a final sweep of the house and yard to be sure we didn’t miss anything, we can get your signature and close up the truck.”

  Amanda said she’d be right down. He went back to rejoin his crew, leaving her alone with the box of memories and three boxes of trash—a fitting metaphor of what Robbie had left behind. She sealed the one she’d keep with tape and folded the other ones closed. The task was done; she’d finished it. Did she feel better?

  * * *

  The moving truck pulled out of the driveway at 12:52. Amanda watched it disappear from where she stood by the living room window, then counted the media vehicles that remained outside. The KSFY van—Sioux Fall’s ABC affiliate—was parked across the street. Two unmarked cars—one red and one black—were parked at the curb as well, and she could see a driver and passenger sitting within each of them. None of the vehicles was directly in front of her house, but she sensed their positioning was so as not to interfere with photographs rather than to respect her property. There was no realty sign in the front yard even though the house had been listed for over a month—she’d worried that the execution would draw unqualified buyers wanting to look at Robert Mallorie’s house, so they had only listed it online and under her maiden name—her true identity could only be revealed to pre-approved buyers ready to make an official offer. So far, four different people had walked through, but no offers had been made. Maybe the prospective buyers had learned whose house it was some other way and decided that despite the larger-than-average backyard and newer fridge, it wasn’t what they were looking for.

  Amanda put the boxes and her suitcase into her car, which was parked in the now-closed garage, and then walked into the kitchen. Standing in the middle of the linoleum floor, she was suddenly stifled with memories. This was the kitchen where she had baked and talked and worked and laughed and cleaned for so many years. She did a slow 360-degree turn, taking in the details of where her children had grown up, feeling it deep and whole and beautiful. They’d been happy. Truly happy.

  Melissa had taken her prom
pictures on that staircase. Robbie had learned to Rollerblade in the driveway—and the kitchen, even though he was grounded from video games every time she caught him. She and Dwight had decided to get divorced on the front porch one Sunday night following two weeks of avoiding each other after yet another fight about who knew what. Dwight was the one to say he thought he should move out. Amanda had let the idea roll around on her tongue, then said, “Maybe that’s where we’re at.” They had tried to conceal their relief from each other at having finally admitted how unhappy they were together. She’d been almost eager to go at life alone, no longer burdened by having to get Dwight’s approval for every little thing. She hadn’t loved him anymore and couldn’t remember the last time she’d said it and meant it. But the divorce had hurt her kids, and she hadn’t fully considered that when she told him to leave. She pushed that memory away. It had been revisited too many times already. There were far better things to remember right now.

  Birthday parties. Barbecues in the backyard. Sleepovers in the basement and Sunday morning waffles before church. Melissa’s bridal shower had been in the living room. After the party, Amanda and Melissa had taken some food to Robbie, who was a few weeks into his second year at the university—the probationary one. It had only been five months since Robbie’s hospitalization, but his meds were working and he was determined to make up for the time he’d lost during his “illness”— that’s what they all called it back then, as though it were a cold or flu that his body would eventually recover from.

  Amanda and Melissa had walked up the stairs to the third level of the complex and knocked on the door of the apartment Robbie shared with some guys he’d never met before the new semester—he didn’t want to live with anyone who knew about his crash the year before. He’d pulled open the door with a huge grin and put out his arms so that they could both get a hug at the same time. He was six foot three, almost a full foot taller than Melissa, and wrapped his arms around them both, holding them tight for the space of two counts. His new medications had caused him to gain weight. He looked different. He smiled different, but he was Robbie and she loved him. “We brought you some leftover treats from the shower,” Amanda said when he released them. Melissa held out the plate she’d somehow kept from being crushed by the bear hug.