Notes on an Execution(51)

You wanted to push Shawna, but it wasn’t worth the risk. You needed her too badly. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand—you both listened to the sound of the row, muted for once, a group of men grieving over something more despicable than themselves.

*

The new warden appears. He has a crew cut and a boxy jaw—his gaze makes you feel like an earthworm, crushed soggy along the bottom of his shoe.

Do you understand today’s procedure?

Yes.

Here is your Execution Summary, your Religious Orientation Statement, a copy of your Offender’s Travel Card, your Current Visitation List, your Execution Watch Notification, your Execution Watch Log, your Offender Property Inventory, your medical records. Do you have any questions?

No.

He slides the paperwork beneath the steel bars. You cannot speak, those first rigid questions echoing.

Do you know who you are?

Yes.

Do you know why you are here?

You had no choice.

The answer was yes.

*

Into a new visitation room.

Tina wears the same outfit as this morning, which feels like a thousand years ago. Sitting behind the glass, you recall the smug surety of your last meeting—the fact jumps angry in your throat. Impossible.

Hello, Ansel, Tina says through the phone. I’m afraid I don’t have the best news.

You know what is coming. You clench your jaw until it aches—you have given very little thought to the appeal. It was supposed to be irrelevant.

The appeal, Tina says. The court decided not to consider it.

What do you mean? you ask. They can’t just ignore it entirely.

Yes, Tina says, they can. It’s not uncommon.

But didn’t you tell them? Didn’t you tell them I’m—

You cannot say the word. Innocent. Tina knows better.

Didn’t you tell them I don’t want to die?

As soon as the phrase leaves your mouth, you regret it. It sounds childish, too hopeless.

We filed, Tina says, not answering the question. I’m sorry. We did everything we could.

You hate her for this lie. This glossy woman, who clicks her nails against the table like little hard candies, flicking her tongue between white Chiclet teeth. It occurs to you then, a burst of clarity: Tina believes you deserve this punishment.

I’m sorry, Tina says. I’m—

You don’t let her finish. You consider the weight of the telephone in your hand, then rear your arm back. You hurl the phone against the glass, which does not shatter, only bounces the phone off with a loud, unsatisfying crack. Tina does not move, does not even flinch.

The guards come running, like you knew they would. You don’t fight, but they handle you hard anyway, twisting your arms so far back that your shoulders will be sore tomorrow. Tomorrow. The last you see of Tina is the top of her head, bowed in reverence or disdain or indifference or sorrow, you cannot tell which.

*

A violent push, back into your cell. The door slams shut. You lie flat on the lumpy cot, arm flung over your eyes. You try to think of Blue—usually, she brings you comfort. But it’s this room. It’s this cell, new and alien. When you conjure Blue now, she is looking at you with that familiar question.

What happened with Jenny? Blue had asked.

It was your second week at the Blue House. A sunny day, humid and fragrant. You had spent all morning in the yard sawing lumber, and a trail of sweat trickled slow down your back.

Sometimes things just don’t work out, you said.

Why not? Blue asked.

She held a can of Coke with the tab flicked off, her head tilted hopeful and curious.

Marriage isn’t easy, you said simply.

Do you still love her? Blue asked.

You wiped your forehead with your shirtsleeve, considering. As Blue waited for an answer, innocent and quizzical, there came a swelling fondness. For Blue, and for this place. For the breeze that soothed your salty skin.

Of course I still love her, you said. But the good parts of the story are nowhere near the end.

You decided, then, to go back to the beginning.

*

You first saw Jenny on a warm evening in October.

Freshman year of college, first semester. You were seventeen years old, standing on the quad, unsure as always what to do with your body. You’d arrived at Northern Vermont University on a full scholarship—the principal at your high school had cried with the news. The kids at school had never liked you much, but you had always been good with teachers, counselors, social workers. You knew how to let them feel useful.

It was the same with your professors; you were quiet, hardworking, charming when you needed to be. You buried yourself in lectures and late study sessions, ignored your beefy roommate when he came home puking drunk. You avoided the squawking girls on your dorm hall and the other work-study students at the cafeteria. You bought a pair of glasses at the drugstore, lenses blurry with a prescription you did not need. You examined yourself in the bathroom mirror. You tried to conjure someone new.

The rest of that awful summer had passed in a haze. The baby screamed constantly, background noise, as you scooped cones and listened to the radio next to the cash register. No leads on the missing Girls. You carried those Girls with you at first: they lived and died in your memory as you waited in line at the dining hall, as you raised your hand in philosophy class. They lived and died in the shadows of the trees, as you walked from the library to your dorm in the middle of the night. You wondered if people could see those Girls on you, if you wore them visibly or just internally, like any other secret.