Candlemoth (57 page)

    So I
went back, and I steeled myself, and I went up there like a ghost from my own
past and stood there on the upper landing and looked in through the door of my
bedroom.

    I
left with the candlemoth, clutching that small wooden frame, the glass intact,
the creature behind still perfectly preserved.

    I
hung it above the narrow bed in a room on the outskirts of Charleston, a room I
call home for now.

    I
will sell the house, and I will eventually decide what to do and where to go.

    For
now it doesn't matter.

    I
have time.

    I had
time at Charleston, time at Sumter.

    Now I
have a different kind of time.

    Like
each day is a new thing, and I want for it to mean something.

    I ask
myself what life is, what does it mean? Perhaps nothing more than a story, and
each story different and rare and pronounced with its own voice. Some lives
rich and heady, tales told with such fervor and passion one is lost in the
language of the telling. Other lives racing forward with such power one would
be carried along by the sheer momentum of events, and care not how they had
been told. Or what language had been used. Just that they were, and you were
there to hear about them.

    I
believed - once upon an age ago - that I would perhaps have such a life.

    And
then I lost my belief.

    And
then it was recovered.

    And
one day,
some
day, I will have a son.

    I
know
this.

    I
will call him Nathan.

    I
believe that would be fitting.

    And
when I say his name, and when he looks at me with love in his eyes, I will be
reminded of baked ham sandwiches wrapped in linen.

    Of a
fish in Eve Chantry's mailbox.

    Of
the breeze off of Lake Marion, of summer mimosa down near Nine Mile Road, and
the scent of something like pecan pie and vanilla soda all wrapped up in a
basket of new-mown grass.

    Reminded
of the feeling that came with them, a feeling of warmth and security and
everything that was childhood in North Carolina.

    Reminded
of all those early years, the bruises and tears, the passion and promise of
growing up, the pains we suffered in our naivete as we looked at the world with
awe. And like gourds we were, and how the world rushed in to fill us to
bursting… the sound and the fury… the thunder of life…

    All
these things… all these things I will remember.

    But most
of all, more important than everything else, I will remember the boy with whom
I shared them.

    He
gave his life, not for nothing I know, but still he gave it.

    And
yet, in giving his life, I somehow regained mine.

    And I
am grateful.

    I
stand in a market somewhere. Absent-mindedly I glance towards the fruit -
watermelons and quinces, pomegranates, other such alien things. I feel a moment
of fear, of desperation. I want to say something, anything perhaps, but the
aisle is empty. I want to call out, to hear someone's voice in return…

    Hey
there!

    What?

    You
heard about the cell search?

    What
cell search?

    Timmons
said there was gonna be a cell search.

    There
is tension in my chest, tears in my eyes, and stepping to the side of the aisle
I lean heavily against the fruit stand. I look down at my feet. I am standing
on a single sheet of newspaper. I kick it away, but it sticks to the sole of my
shoe. I balance myself awkwardly and lean down to pull it free.

    I
turn the paper over.

    I
stop.

    I
wipe my eyes and look again.

    I see
the face of Mr. West and am struck by such a sense of terror and anguish I can
barely breathe.

    I run
from the market, people watching me fly through the aisles. Perhaps I stole
something, they think.

    Thirty
yards down the street I stop. I am breathing heavily, painfully. In my hand I
clutch the dirty sheet of newspaper. I look again. No hallucination: Mr. West's
face stares back at me. Deadlight eyes.

    
WARDER MURDERED.

    I
lean against a streetlight. I feel dizzy, nauseous.

    
Sumter
Federal Penitentiary Warder Harlon West, a thirty- year veteran of the
Detention Service, was murdered last night in a brutal attack
.

    My mind
reels. I see colors that cannot be there.

    
Death
Row inmate Lyman Greeve, due to be executed in the New Year, assaulted West and
held him to the ground. With the metal casing of a cheap harmonica Greeve
stabbed West repeatedly in the throat.

    I start
to cry, the tears run down my face. People are watching me. I don't care.

    
One
of Harlon West's colleagues and fellow warders, Clarence Timmons, was quoted as
saying that every attempt had been made to reach West before Greeve killed him,
but 'the man was wild, he just got away from us… and before we could do a thing
Mister West was beyond rescue.
'

    I
start to laugh. Now folks are really watching.

    Warden
of Sumter Federal Penitentiary John Hadfield stated that Harlon West was a
long-serving and dedicated member of the Detention staff and would be sorely
missed by his colleagues.

    I
hold the newspaper in the air. I wave it like a flag. I believe in karma. I
believe there is a God.

    I
believe Lyman Greeve will go to his death a great deal more satisfied than if
he'd learned 'My Darling Clementine'…

    And I
believe that Nathan - perhaps more than anyone - would have appreciated that.