A Book of American Martyrs(121)

With mounting horror Dawn read that only anesthesiologists –with an MD—were trained to administer anesthesia. It was not like putting somebody to sleep which everybody supposed.

One of the drugs injected into the bloodstream was a “paralytic” which rendered speech impossible but did not counteract pain. The anesthesia could not be guaranteed not to wear off before the heart ceased beating.

Sometimes the condemned prisoner suffered a good deal since he did not lose consciousness as planned, or regained consciousness in the midst of the protocol, which was very painful.

The longest recorded “botched” lethal injection took place over several hours during which time the condemned prisoner was frequently conscious and screaming in agony. Afterward it was revealed that the lethal drugs had been injected not into a vein but into soft tissue surrounding the vein.

The scientist who’d developed lethal injection as a “more merciful” means of execution than gas, hanging, or electrocution was quoted: “It never occurred to me that we’d have complete idiots administering the drugs.”

There was more to read but Luke deleted the website abruptly.

In an undertone he said, “Fuck.”

Dawn protested faintly, “But—the governor will commute Daddy’s sentence. Everybody thinks so.”

Luke shoved back the chair he was sitting in. His face was covered in an oily sweat.

“What ‘everybody thinks’? Bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said, ‘D.D.’—bullshit.”

Luke uttered the name “D.D.” as if he didn’t think much of it. He was heading for the rear exit door of the library as Dawn followed after him staring at his back in disbelief.

“But—the execution was just ‘stayed.’ The lawyers have an ‘appeal.’ The governor—”

“Fuck the governor. And—just—shut up.”

Breathless and dazed Dawn followed after her brother. Before they reached the exit he turned to her glaring with wet furious eyes and shoved her, hard.

Dawn cried in surprise and hurt. “What—what’s wrong? Why—”

“I said—shut up.”

Dawn slapped at Luke’s arm, which was a mistake for Luke did more than slap her in return, punching her hard on the shoulder.

When Dawn tried to pummel him about the head with flailing fists Luke shoved her with the palms of both hands so hard she was thrown against a library table, and onto the floor.

Everyone was staring. In an instant Dawn was on the floor spread-legged, wincing at pain at the base of her spine.

One of the librarians approached them — “S-Stop! What are you doing! That isn’t allowed here . . .”

A second librarian approached. Both women were clearly frightened.

“Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”—the younger librarian asked Dawn,

Luke had already pushed out the exit door. Dawn muttered she was all right and managed to get to her feet before either of the librarians could help her.

Whatever they were saying to her, Dawn didn’t hear. She ran limping outside to discover that her angry brother wasn’t waiting for her—he’d started the car engine and was driving out of the parking lot as she pursued him crying—“Wait! Luke! God damn you—wait . . .”

It was two miles back to the house on Depot Street.

By this time she’d begun to cry but her tears were tears of anger and not sorrow or despair and long before she reached her aunt’s house her eyes would be tearless and her face dry.


SOON AFTER, news came that their father’s execution had been rescheduled for August 9, 2003—eight months away.





UNCLEAN


The first fly, so small it appeared to be a mere speck of dirt, appeared on the refrigerator door as Edna Mae was about to leave the kitchen. With a rolled-up newspaper she managed to kill it but then she noticed a second, very small fly on a windowpane above the sink, and then a third, also very small fly buzzing on the windowsill . . . Clumsily Edna Mae flailed with the rolled-up newspaper and managed to kill both flies though with some difficulty for (it seemed) her hand-eye coordination had deteriorated in recent months, or years; and there was something wrong with her vision, that flooded with moisture when she stared intently at something that was crucial to see.

Edna Mae was about to throw away the befouled and torn Mad River Junction Weekly when she saw, as in a bad dream, yet another fly on the ceiling above the stove—too high for her to reach unless she stood on a chair.

Was it a fly? Or a speck of dirt? As she stared her eyes filled with tears so that her vision was occluded.

In fact, there were two flies buzzing against the ceiling—no, three. Unmistakably flies and not specks of dirt.

“Dawn! Where are you! Come help . . .”

Dawn was uttered in a thin impatient whine. Rare for Edna Mae to utter the name of her older daughter in a voice that wasn’t whining or reproachful.

But Edna Mae recalled: Dawn was working at Home Depot and would not return for hours. And Mary Kay was working as well, and the children were in school—there was no one to help her.

It was disgusting, and made her very nervous—the sight of so many flies in the kitchen. Edna Mae recalled infestations of tiny ants in the old house in Muskegee Falls, in the spring; and infestations of field mice after the first frost. These infestations had nothing to do—(she was sure)—with the cleanliness of her household, yet she’d been very upset at the time. Luther had gone out to buy aerosol spray cans and mousetraps, and helped her rid the household of pests.