Prayers the Devil Answers (33 page)

“Have you given any thought about where you want to be buried?” We had only just thought of it. Roy said that penitentiaries bury their executed prisoners in unmarked graves somewhere on the grounds of the prison, but we had no place to bury anyone, and I had spent so much time thinking of the execution itself—of getting everything right—that I had no idea what we were supposed to do with the prisoner's remains once it was over.

When I asked him about a final resting place, a look of pain crossed his face. He put down the charcoal and sat back on his haunches. “Burial plans?”

“We need to know what to do after the execution. Have you made any arrangements?”

“I've spent so long now being told what to do that I hardly remember how to make any decisions on my own.”

“Will someone claim the body?” I shivered a little to be talking about
the body
to the man whose body it was, but he didn't seem to notice.

He shook his head. “I parted ways with my family a long time ago, and they certainly don't want anything to do with me now. I can't blame them. I can't think of anybody who'd care about me, alive or dead, except—”

“Except your lady friend?”

“No. I never meant anything to her. I was going to say
except Celia
. My wife.” He sighed. “I heard that her family took her away to be laid to rest. I don't even know where. They wouldn't let me out for the funeral, of course. I reckon they didn't think I'd care. And if I asked to be buried next to her, they'd laugh, wouldn't they?”

“If I were kin to your wife, I think I'd be wondering what
she
would have wanted.”

“I guess there's no way of knowing that, is there? We thought we had years to make decisions about death. Strange, isn't it? Celia is the only one I think about now.”

“Not the other one?” I tried not to sneer, I really did, but some of my anger toward Albert bled through.

He was looking at his drawing again. Frowning at the black line of a jaw on the butcher paper, he made another little smudge. “The other one? Well, only if I'm having a nightmare. Look where
she
got me.”

I did sneer at that. “Men have been blaming women for their troubles ever since Adam ate the apple. He didn't have to accept the offer, and neither did you.”

“Well, never mind about that, Madam Sheriff. Point taken. Blaming somebody else didn't get Adam off the hook in the Garden of Eden, and nothing's going to save me, either. You asked about
plans for my burial. There aren't any. I guess none of us ever believes that we're really going to die. Oh, maybe old people do, but when you're still young and strong and pain free, it feels like you can go on forever.”

“Well, your forever is hours away, so you need to decide on something.”

“I don't guess it matters. I'm best forgotten. Just dig a hole somewhere in the woods and be done with it.”

But he was still a human being, and he deserved to be buried like one. “I reckon I owe you something for this portrait you're doing of my boys, and I can only think of one way to pay that debt. I own a burial plot you can use.”

He grinned up at me. “ 'Cause you don't reckon
you'll
ever need it?”

“Well, I don't need it yet, and when I do I don't intend to be buried next to the man that's already lying there. You're two of a kind, you and him.”

Neither of us said anything for a long minute. He kept staring at me, waiting for me to say something else, I guess. Finally he said, “You're talking about your husband? We're two of a kind? When did you find out?”

I took a deep breath. I had brought it up. Might as well answer him. “When I opened the picture frame on his desk to get the photo of the boys for you to use as a drawing model.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Well, that's hard lines, you finding out when he's already dead and gone. He never had a chance to explain.”

“I'm not interested in any explanations.”

“I guess I have no right to tell you I'm sorry, since I'm guilty of the same thing.”

“There seems to be a lot of it going around. And yes, he died—only not on account of her.” I saw his expression change. “Pneumonia. You knew that's how I got this job.”

“But you just found out about . . . You had no idea?”

“What does it matter now? He's gone.”

“It matters enough for you to give away your cemetery plot.”

“Shouldn't you be thinking about your troubles instead of mine, Mr. Varden?”

“Oh, my troubles will all be over tomorrow, and I'd just as soon not think about the hows and whys of it. If you feel like talking, I got nothing left but time. Not much of it, I guess, but you're welcome to what there is of it.”

I hadn't ought to be talking about personal matters with a condemned prisoner, but who else was there? The deputies likely knew what was going on and were covering up. Besides, I'd look weak if I was to try to talk to them about my late husband's transgressions. I didn't have any women friends I'd confide in, either, and I don't know what help the preacher could offer, except maybe to assure me that Albert would have gone to hell for his unrepented sins, which would have been no comfort at all. But this man behind bars would take my secret to the grave, because he would be going there in one more day. I sat down in the hall, at a safe distance from the bars, with my back against the wall opposite the cell. He stayed on the floor and scooted close to the cell door to hear me, because I didn't want to take any chances on anybody eavesdropping.

“I think it was like you said. Not any star-crossed romance. He had taken up with a cheap frizzy-haired blonde who probably offered him a free sample, and he didn't see any reason to turn it down.”

He held up a finger, nodding for me to go on. He would still be listening, but he was doing something else as well. He knelt down and tore a palm-sized strip from the end of the butcher paper, just above a practice sketch he had abandoned. He made a few quick, steady strokes on the scrap of paper, looked at it appraisingly for a moment, scribbled more marks, and handed it to me through the bars.

I nearly dropped the paper. In fewer than a dozen strokes, Lonnie Varden had conjured up the smirking face of Shelley Bonham: the small close-set eyes, the puffy cheeks, and the wide, dark lips curled in a sneering smile. I stared at him open-mouthed, and he grinned.

“I'm not a mind reader, Sheriff. But I am used to watching people, and when we were talking about last meals and I mentioned getting a cheeseburger from the diner, you looked like somebody had thrown a bowl of ice water in your face. And, as it happens, I was acquainted with Shelley myself, so it wasn't hard to match your diner reaction to that priceless description you made. What was it?
A cheap frizzy-haired blonde?
That's ol' Shel to the life, all right. The good time that was had by all.”

“You—?”

“Oh, not lately. Not since I married Celia. But when I first came to town to paint that mural in the post office, Shelley was the self-­appointed welcome committee. I ate a few meals at the diner, and she was on offer as dessert. I forget which husband she was on then. Maybe she did, too.”

“Did she . . . charge you . . . ?

He laughed. “For dinner, she did. But for herself? No. With her looks, I doubt she'd get much, and I wasn't looking to pay for it. I was just lonesome. No, Shel's specialty was making a man feel wanted, and then giving him the prize for free. But nobody sticks with her for long—even aside from the fear of getting caught by her legal owner. She's just something to do if you've already seen the movie.”

“My husband kept her picture. And notes from her in a blue tobacco tin.”

“So? I got a lace bookmark one time as a prize in Sunday school, and I kept that thing in my drawer for a dozen years. Some men like to keep trophies. Proves they won something.”

“It's foolish. Look what happened. He died, and I found the evidence.”

“I'm sure he's sorry now, Mrs. Robbins. I think you can take my word for that.”

“It doesn't matter.” I slipped the sketch in the pocket of my dress. “I'll get word to the undertaker about that burial plot. Like I said, I owe you.”

“I'll have your boys' portrait finished by morning. I promise you that.”

He would probably be up most of the night finishing the portrait, but maybe it was good that he had something to take his mind off what was to come. I didn't think any of us would sleep much that last night, and, although the execution was set for noon, on account of all the people who would be pouring into town to watch the
festivities
, nobody would go home early.

The prisoner had his last meal about seven o'clock—fried chicken and mashed potatoes with milk gravy. Galen Aldridge's wife is a good cook, so I gave her two dollars to fix the meal for him—more than it cost—and she was happy to do it.

Half an hour later, Galen went back to the cell and fetched the tray. The plate was empty except for a heap of chicken bones. “He sure packed it away, Sheriff.” Galen was beaming. “I wonder what that means.”

“Well, it means Willadene is a good cook, but you knew that. I don't think it tells us anything about whether he's remorseful or afraid. Maybe he was just hungry.”

“If it was me, facing the hereafter with the sin of murder on my soul, I believe I'd be spending my last night in prayer and fasting.”

“Maybe it wouldn't do any good. Is he still working on the picture?”

“I'd say so. Doing a good job too. I'd know it was Eddie and George anywhere. I can build you a frame for it, if you want me to.”

I felt tears sting my eyes and turned away so he wouldn't see them. “Thank you, Galen. I'd be grateful.”

With Eddie and George up on the farm with Henry, there was no need for me to go home at all that night, but a little before nine, after I'd finished talking to the prisoner, I told Galen goodnight and left the office. The town was quieter than I'd dared to hope. Maybe most of the spectators were planning on showing up in the morning. Even the reporters were gone—too late now to file any stories except the big one, and that would have to wait until tomorrow. They were probably congregated in a back room somewhere with a goodly supply of whisky, swapping war stories about their past adventures. We hadn't even had much in the way of petty crime all week, either. When I remarked on this at the office, Falcon said happily, “We've been telling folks that if they do anything to get locked up, they won't be able to watch the execution, so they're all walking chalk this week.”

Nobody stopped to pass the time with me as I walked home, although I might have welcomed the intrusion if I'd thought it would take my mind off my troubles for once. The creek was low and running clear again, now that the spring floods were long gone. I stopped for a few minutes to watch the water slide over the rocks in the twilight, and, when I looked over at the willow on the other side of the creek, I wondered if I'd ever be able to see that tree again without thinking of stubs of burnt charcoal and white butcher paper.

I still wasn't used to coming home to a house that was dark and empty, but, except for missing the boys, I didn't really long for companionship, for more reasons than just being tired. There were tomatoes on the drain board that needed to be used up, and a loaf of bread that would get moldy in another couple of days, so I made myself a tomato sandwich and ate it while I skimmed the newspaper I'd brought home from the office.

Afterward I turned on the radio for company and got out my
sewing box. The yard of black cloth I'd bought the day before was sitting on the table next to the leather Chesterfield chair that I was determined to stop thinking of as Albert's.

I'd given a lot of thought to the way the hood should be made. A male hangman might have just cut out a circle of black cloth and tied it under the chin, as Mr. Lidaker had suggested, but I thought that death deserved as much formality as the other rituals of life—say, a wedding—and I decided to make a proper hood, thick enough to hide any fluids that might come forth while he was dying, and secure enough not to come off during the death throes. I sewed two seams in the cloth, shaping the hood like a bag so that it would fit tightly over his head. I even stitched around the circles I'd cut for eyes, to make it look official. It was all part of my resolution to help him die with dignity.

Another thing occurred to me while I was sewing the hood: Lonnie Varden had been wearing regulation prison stripes all the time he had been imprisoned, and with no relatives coming forward to claim him and no possessions left in his old home, he had nothing else to wear. It wouldn't be fitten for him to be executed and then buried in a prison uniform. When he paid for his crime, he deserved to go to the Lord with his God-given dignity. He ought to go to his death in a proper suit of clothes.