The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(65)

Then it strikes me. The expression on his face. Aside from the scalp with no hair, he once again reminds me of that doomed soul going to hell in the old painting, the tormented man in Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Eddie is that creature. Silence.

“Well, if that’s it, then I’d better go. Eddie, I’m sorry this happened to you. I love you. Try to remember that.”

Eddie slaps the palm of his hand on the window and holds it there flat. I slowly reach up and place my own hand on my side of the glass. We stay like that for nearly a minute, and then he unexpectedly rises and disappears from view. I call into the phone, “Eddie? Eddie?” I think I hear shuffling and knocking on the other side. Is that it? Did he leave? Could he terminate the visit, just like that?

I hang up the phone and sit there for a few seconds. The guard appears, looks at me, and shrugs. I nod in acknowledgment. I stand, my legs weak, and walk back to Mr. Crane.

“I take it that didn’t go very well?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t understand anything he said to me. Oh, Mr. Crane, he is so very sick. How can they execute him? He has no concept of reality!”

He stands and gives me a hug, and I start to cry in heaving sobs. Crane pats me on the back, saying, “I know, I know.”

We separate. “Don’t they give him his meds?”

“They do. But he might not actually swallow the pills. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. Like I told you, he can be very coherent. Just the other day, we had a very reasonable conversation.”

“Is … is it an act? I mean, he seems much more mentally ill than just having anxiety and depression.”

“No one knows but him, Shelby.”

I turn to look at the cubicle, just in case Eddie had decided to resume the visit. No one is there.

“I have no idea what it was he wanted to tell me.”

“I’m sorry you came all this way.”

I shake my head. “I’m not sorry.”

“Okay.”

“But let’s get out of here now.”

And that is it. We retrace our path through the many secured doors and hallways and checkpoints. I retrieve my ID, and Mr. Crane and I walk outside to the parking lot together. The bright sunlight is an immensely welcome sensation.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asks.

“Yeah. I have to fly to Limite now, of all places.”

“You’re getting a park named after you, right?”

“I’m not sure I’m up to it now.”

“You’ll feel better on Friday.”

“The dedication is at six o’clock—exactly when Eddie will be getting the lethal injection.”

“Try not to think about that.”

“How can I not?” I look pointedly at Crane and ask, “What’s it like?”

“What?”

“Being put to death? I mean, you’ve witnessed executions before, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like? Do they feel pain? Are they usually scared? Do they scream and cry for their mothers? What?”

“I’ve seen all sorts of responses. The inmate is given a chance to say something into a microphone so that the witnesses can hear him. Sometimes they confess their crimes and ask for forgiveness, sometimes they simply say goodbye to their loved ones, other times they don’t say anything at all. The drug used is pentobarbital. It acts pretty quickly. They go to sleep first and don’t feel a thing. Sometimes, in a Caucasian man, their skin turns color, maybe a little pink, sometimes even purple.”

I’m sure the disgust registers in my face. “Really?”

“It takes about ten minutes, and then a doctor checks all the vital signs. Then he makes the announcement that so-and-so died at whatever the exact time is.”

“It’s so cold and calculated.”

Crane holds out his hands. “It is what it is. I suppose there’s still a chance the governor will come through, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“No. I’ve resigned myself to what’s going to happen.” We reach my car, and I unlock it. “You’ll be at the execution?”

“Uh huh.”

“I think the NCADP will be out on the road protesting.”

“They always are.”

“They wanted me to join them, but … well, you know.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crane.”

“Robert, please.”

“Thank you, Robert, for everything you’ve done.”

“You’re welcome.” We shake hands, and I get into the car.

The nearly two-hour drive to George W. Bush Intercontinental Airport is a blur. Part of it is spent crying. For the other part, closer to the city, I have to concentrate hard to combat my fatigue and not cause an accident. It’s a small miracle that I make it on no sleep.

Once I am on the plane and in my seat, I immediately nod out. My dreams are vivid and fitful—about Chicory Lane.





27


Limite is flat, hot, and barren. The odor of petroleum permeates the air. It’s just as it always was; nothing has changed. West Texas will forever be the desert, populated by pumpjacks and oil derricks, football stadiums, and churches. As I grew older, my connection with my hometown became more tenuous. The last time I was here, I buried my father in the cemetery next to my mother and attended Eddie’s trial—not pleasant memories. Now, here I am again, staying in a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of town on a Wednesday night and wondering what the hell I’m going to do before the park dedication on Friday evening. Originally, I had planned to arrive on Thursday, but the side trip to Livingston changed that.