The Choiring Of The Trees Part 14

She did not sleep that night. Her insomnia made her confront the question: what if she had been deluded about Nail? What if he actually was a rapist? She even imagined a scene in which he confessed that he had raped Dorinda and that he couldn't help himself. She antic.i.p.ated that he was only an apparition of the man she had loved: he smelled abominable and the cell was the filthiest place she'd ever been. Such sleeplessness forced her eventually to picture (or did she actually sleep, and dream?) the act of love they tried to make, and it was not good at all.

In the morning, as she dressed and got herself ready for the day, and then as she baked three dozen cookies (oatmeal, chocolate, and pecan) to take with her, she told herself that the dream, or the conscious fantasy if that's what it had been, was just an attempt to consider, and dismiss, the worst contingencies. It would not be like that, at all. She and Nail would not even consider s.e.x. It would defeat their purpose. They would talk, and talk, and talk, and possibly hold hands, maybe even, yes! they would kiss, although Nail himself would be very self-conscious and ill at ease because of his appearance (but it will be dark, remember?) and the fact that they hadn't let him take a bath in ages. She would do a good job of ignoring the unsavory atmosphere.

She told no one where she was going. She told her mother that she wouldn't be home for supper and might be gone overnight. At 2:30 P.M. she telephoned for a taxicab and rode it to the penitentiary. She was met at the visitors' room by the sergeant with the short leg, Mr. Fancher, who escorted her out of the room across the outside length of the wall to another door, the one she had used several times before. It was a heavy, arched wooden door upon which Mr. Fancher rapped the familiar trite code, the beats of "Shave and a haircut, two bits." A trusty opened it and admitted them to the fenced corridor leading across the Yard to the powerhouse and the main building. In the upper windows of the main building, open to the late-April air, men whistled and howled, "Hey, babe!" and, "Up here, sweetie!" and, "Sugar, come and git it!"

Mr. Fancher escorted her to the warden's office. The new warden, Travis Don Yeager, met her at his door and invited her in. He was about fifty, and her first impression of him was slightly more favorable than that of Harris Burdell: he seemed cut from the same mold, and she guessed that he, like Burdell, must have spent countless hours in front of a mirror practicing a look of fierce determination and strength. But he tried to be polite, at first. "Welcome to the Arkansas State Penitentiary, Miss Monday!"

"I've been here before," she said.

"Yeah. Right. I didn't think." He made a mouth that might have been intended as a smile but came out as a smirk. "We oughta send you up to Jacksonville hee hee, our state farm for women hee hee, but we understand you prefer the company of males hee hee. I see you didn't bring your suitcase hee hee."

"I don't expect to stay long," she said.

"You gonna sleep in that dress hee hee?"

"If I sleep."

"Hee hee! Baby, you got the right idea. If you sleep, that's right, if you sleep hee hee. Well, are you all ready to go down and meet your roommate hee hee?"

"I've met him."

"You have? Well, that's nice. Did he tell you what he's gonna do to you? Aint you just a little bit scared hee hee?"

"No."

"Man's a convicted rapist. Did a job so awful on a little girl they gave him the chair, only the second white man ever to get the chair in history hee hee."

"I'm familiar with all the facts of the case," she said. "I'm ready to go."

"Are you now? Real eager and rarin to go? Hot to trot hee hee. You got it bad, sister."

"If you don't mind."

"Don't mind what?"

"I didn't come here to listen to your jokes. I came to see Nail Chism."

He dropped his light tone. "Sit down, lady," the warden ordered her, gesturing to a chair.

"Why? Do I have to submit to an interview or make out an application?"

"SIT DOWN, Miss Monday," he commanded, and put a hand on her shoulder and made her sit. Then he went around behind his desk and sat down. He studied her for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a remnant of the original politeness. "You honestly amaze me. You really came in here expectin us to let you move in with that rapist. You really truly meant to go through with it."

"What are you telling me?" she demanded. "Aren't you going to let me do it?"

"Do you think I'm crazy, girl?"

"I don't care whether you are crazy or not. The governor told me I could do it. In fact, it was his suggestion."

"Yeah, but he never thought you would. He told me to see if you showed up, he said he'd bet me that you wouldn't show up, but if you did, to find out if you really wanted to do it. You honestly want to do it, don't you?" The warden began shaking his head slowly back and forth as if he still couldn't believe it. "Maybe you're the crazy one hee hee. Don't you know you'd never get out of there alive? That man's got a dagger hidden somewhere down in his cell, and he'd slash your throat as soon as he got finished rapin you hee hee."

"I'll take the chance," she said. "Isn't that what this is supposed to be about? Taking the chance? Proving to all of you that he won't rape me, he won't kill me?"

The warden shook his head. "Too much of a risk. Maybe you're right. But if you was wrong, and anything happened to you, the newspapers would really haul us over the coals, and your family would sue the state of Arkansas."

She could only repeat, feebly, "The governor told me I could do it." "You still don't get it, do you? He was just testin you, ma'am. The governor told me not to let you under no circ.u.mstances get nowhere near that rapist."

"Couldn't I just visit with him awhile, under supervision? Couldn't I just give him these cookies?" She held up the paper sack containing three dozen oatmeal, chocolate, and pecan cookies.

The warden glanced at the sack. He said, "You're just another one of them women that latch on to convicts and make boyfriends out of them, like they're toys or cuddly bears or something. All of you ladies are crazy. You think you can turn them into nice little boys, and you're mistaken. You think you can save their souls or mend their manners or something, and you're wrong, and it's gonna kill you to find out how wrong you are. I been workin in prisons since I was a kid, and you wouldn't believe the number of broken hearts I've seen you ladies get." Again he slipped into his politeness and softly said, "I'm not gonna let n.o.body break your heart, darlin hee hee."

"Could I please see him for a while in the visitors' room?"

As if reading from a book, he said, "Condemned inmates of the death cells may not be transmitted to the visiting quarters."

"Then couldn't you, as a consolation for disappointing me, take me down to the death hole and let me talk to him through his bars?"

"It's awful down there, ma'am. I wouldn't want to go down there myself."

"I can stand it."

"Sorry. It's against the rules. We do everything by the rules here."

"May I use your telephone?"

"Help yourself. What for?"

"I'm going to tell the governor that you won't even let me see Nail Chism after tricking me into thinking I could get into his cell."

"Well, durn, I never tricked you. How long did you want to stay down in the death hole?"

"As long as you'll let me."

"Well, the visit rules say fifteen minutes in the visit room. Would fifteen minutes down there suit you?"

"Not as much as staying all night, but it'll do."

"You can't take them cookies. The prisoners have a strict diet hee hee. Leave them and your handbag here in my office." The warden summoned the guard, James Fancher, and asked him, "Hey, Jim, is that electric light bulb wired up down in the death hole yet?" The guard shook his head. "Well, you go get Gill, and you boys take a lantern and show this lady down there, for fifteen minutes, and let her talk to Chism. Watch 'em, and don't you let her touch him nor give him nothing nor do anything 'cept talk."

So Viridis got to see Nail. Indeed, as the warden had said, it was an awful place. Couldn't they at least keep it reasonably clean? Did there have to be earth clinging to the walls? Weren't there any windows or holes that could be opened for a little ventilation? The oppressive darkness and dankness and cramping were accentuated by the feeble glow from the one smoking kerosene lantern that Fancher carried, holding it down at his side, not raising it, so that the light came up from below and gave Nail's face a ghostly and sinister cast. Guards Fancher and Gorham flanked her closely, standing a little behind her as if they were holding her back, and they would not go away.

"Strike me blind," Nail said softly. "Don't this beat all? How did ye do it?"

"I've got a little influence with the governor."

"You sure must. You must almost have as much influence with him as you had with all them newspaper fellers. It was you, wasn't it, who got them to come to my fryin party?"

"I suggested it," she said. "And it worked. It saved you, for the time being, but I'm afraid I don't have a lot of influence with our governor." She told him of her invitation to the governor's mansion the night before, what they had talked about, and the governor's "calling her bluff" by pretending to arrange for her to be locked in with Nail.

Nail was speechless. "Gosh" was all he could finally say.

"But they'll only let me see you for a little while."

"Fifteen minutes," said Gillespie Gorham. "Nope. There's only about ten minutes left."

"That was a mean thing for them to do, to rue back on ye like that," Nail said severely. "Did you really want to come and stay with me?"

"Of course! I was dying to!"

"Gosh," he said again. He reflected, "I would've sure enjoyed that. Yes, that would've been the best time of my life. But it's terrible messy and stinky down here. No place you could even sit down without ruinin your dress."

"I don't care," she said. "If I could just be with you..."

Nail slammed himself on the brow. "I aint introduced ye to my pal." He pointed at the wall. "Timbo Red...Ernest Bodenhammer is right in there." He called out, "Ernest! Here is Viridis!"

"Howdy, ma'am," said a voice from the darkness.

Viridis turned and tried to move toward the adjoining cell, but Gillespie Gorham blocked her way. "You're just supposed to visit Chism. The other one aint none of your business."

"Couldn't I say h.e.l.lo?" she asked.

"Say h.e.l.lo," Gillespie Gorham told her, but would not move to let her nearer the boy's cell.

She called out, "I'm pleased to meet you, Ernest. Nail has told me so much about you."

The young man called back, in a voice so much like those she had heard in Newton County, "He's sh.o.r.e told me a lot about you too."

"I want to see your drawings," she said.

"Aw, they aint much," Ernest protested.

Nail said, "Ernest, give her your drawings." And to her: "I reckon you couldn't see 'em too good in the dark, though. He's done filled up that pad you gave him, front and back every page. It's time he got him another pad, if you could manage it."

"Certainly, I'll get him one," Viridis said.

"Heck," Ernest said, "I'm due to sit on Ole Sparky myself in just a few more days. I wouldn't have time to use up a whole new pad."

"Could I borrow the one you've finished?" she asked him. "To look at in good light?" She wished she could see at least the outline of his form in the dark, but she saw nothing of him.

His voice said, "Wal, yeah, I reckon, but they sh.o.r.e aint nothin to brag about."

At the edge of the sphere of feeble light from the lantern she saw the sudden protrusion of a square thickness that she recognized as the corner of the drawing pad being offered to her. She reached for it, but Sergeant Gorham stayed her hand. "You aint supposed to touch nothing," he told her.

"It's only a sketchbook, for heaven's sake," she said. "Search it if you want. There aren't any secret messages in it."

"Jim, hold up that light," Sergeant Gorham said, and he took the sketch-book, flipped through it, gave it a shake, and then presented it to her. "Looks harmless," he said.

"Thank you, Ernest," she said. "I'll get it back to you, along with a new-pad. Do you need some more pencils? Erasers?"

"I thank ye kindly, ma'am," Ernest said.

Another square intruded into the lantern's light, and Nail said, "Mr. Gorham, sir, I'd like her to have this too. It's just as harmless as that drawing-pad."

It was a book. A thick, heavy book. Sergeant Gorham took it and submitted it to the same treatment he'd given the sketchbook. Nothing fell out. It contained no letters or words other than the printed words. The guard gave it to her. He asked Nail, "What's it for?"

"It's just a ole book I'd like her to have. I won't be needin it no more."

"Nail," she said intently. "I'm going to save you. Ernest too."

"Well," he said, "there's just a part of that book I thought you might find interestin."

"Time's up, now," Gorham said, and put his hand on her shoulder. She shivered at the man's touch.

"Did you get my letter?" she asked Nail.

"Yeah, I sure did, and it was wonderful. I reckon you didn't get mine, but it wasn't much compared with yours."

"You know what I tried hardest to say in that letter?"

"It's hard to say," he acknowledged.

"I mean it," she said. "I can't say it again right here and now, but I mean it. Three words."

"Three words," he returned.

They took her back upstairs, and she picked up her purse at the warden's office. She gave T.D. Yeager the sack of cookies and said, "Share these with your wife."

"I don't have a wife, ma'am hee hee, but say, thanks a lot."

"I'll be seeing you again," she said, and offered him her hand. "And possibly again. Thank you for your kindness."

She went home and closed herself in her studio with Ernest's sketchbook and the book Nail had given her. It had a funny t.i.tle, Dr. Hood's Plain Talks and Common Sense Medical Advisor. The book was grimy and smelled mouldy, reminding her of the smells of the death hole, which she would like to forget. It was well worn, as if Nail had read it again and again. Why he wanted her to have this book she wasn't sure, but she understood one thing: it was probably the only reading matter he'd had, and his giving it to her was as if he were saying he had nothing more to give. She was touched. She flipped idly through it, and did to it what Sergeant Gorham had done: held it with the spine up and the pages flopping down, and flipped it and shook it to see if anything might fall out; nothing did. She leafed slowly through it, looking for a penciled message; there was none. The chapters covered such things as "s.e.xual Isolation" and "Prevention of Conception" and other matters dealing with love and marriage and childbirth and parenthood. Was he perhaps trying to tell her that this book dealt with a kind of life they could never have together? The pages were dirty and smudged; one even seemed to have a smear of blood on it, beside a definition of "Oil of Mustard," the significance of which she could not determine. She closed the book, a bit disappointed apart from being moved by his gesture of giving her his last possession.

Then she held Ernest's sketchbook beneath the studio's north light. The afternoon still had an hour to go before the light faded. The first drawing took her breath away. It was a landscape. Surely, it had been drawn from memory, in the poor light and confinement of a prison, but it had the authority and detail of a sketch rendered on the spot, the spot being the middle of a rushing mountain stream, looking upstream toward a tranquil pool overhung with great summer trees, themselves overhung by the crags of bluffs and the ridge of a mountain over which dramatic clouds gathered themselves. His clouds, particularly, were beyond her achievement. Her admiration for the draughtsman's skill was almost overwhelmed by her envy of it. All in black and white, the drawing yet evoked distinct colors, shade upon shade of green. There were effects here that she simply could not duplicate, try as she might. A native genius she did not possess. She was good, certainly she had skill and long practice, but she did not have...what was it?...she recalled Nail's words as quoted in the newspapers: "He's got a talent I could never hope to have: he can draw like an angel, although there's only one angel I ever saw do a drawing, and she's not here today, I'm glad to see."

As Viridis looked at Ernest's drawings, she suddenly understood how an angel would draw. But she was not one herself.

There was one drawing that she did not immediately recognize. After all the landscapes, the interior came as a different place, a confusing scene.

It took her a moment to shift focus from the outdoors to a room. A room containing a monster. But the monster, she recognized after deliberation, was the machine that was called-what had Ernest called it?-Old Sparky, the electric chair, but not the electric chair as she remembered it. Had Ernest Bodenhammer drawn the picture from memory? Or had he actually seen the chair? No, it seemed to be drawn from imagination, not just the imagination of a highly creative and fertile artist but that of a person inspired by the foreknowledge of his murderous sacrifice to that monster. The chair had a distinct personality, a menace and a malevolence that exceeded the sum of its various straps, panels, wires, and braces. It seemed to be alive and waiting. It carried a threat not just for the artist but for all humanity.

Almost with relief she turned the page. But the drawing she saw next stunned her. The sketchbook fell from her lap and lay shut on the floor for a long moment before she picked it up and forced herself to open it again. Viridis felt her face growing very hot, and she felt embarra.s.sment as if she were a voyeur standing right beside the bed where the naked couple clenched in a tangle of arms, legs, elbows, knees, at the center of which their genitals seemed to be trying to devour each other. The man was Nail. There was no mistake, although his face was in profile. Nail, with a full head of handsome blond hair disheveled and matted by the sweat from his exertions. The woman...she certainly wasn't Dorinda Whitter, or anyone else Viridis could recognize, just a typical country girl, an earth G.o.ddess, very pretty and very shapely and very pa.s.sionate. Had Ernest simply "borrowed" Nail for an imagined scene? Or had he re-created an actual event that Nail had described and narrated to him? Viridis was surprised at how grudging she felt; she turned three shades of green, jealous of whoever the lucky girl had been. And this answered, perhaps, her longstanding question, which she had vaguely worded to Nail's mother: "Did Nail ever have a girlfriend?" But as she stared in awe at Ernest's drawing, trying to forget the subject long enough to fully appreciate the draughtsmanship, she realized that it had the unexpected power to arouse her s.e.xually. She was burning.

Not the Arkansas Gazette but its rival, the Arkansas Democrat, on pages 8 and 9 of the issue of Monday, April 26, 1915, carried Viridis' story about Ernest Bodenhammer, with two ill.u.s.trations: a fuzzy photograph of the boy taken about two years before, and a fair reproduction of his masterpiece, "Old Sparky." This was the first picture of the electric chair that had ever appeared in the pages of the Democrat, whose readership has always been more plebeian and democratic than that of the Gazette. A younger newspaper with an inferiority complex (it was founded at the time of the Mexican War in 1846, whereas the Gazette has been "the oldest newspaper west of the Mississippi" since 1819), the Democrat has occasionally resorted to sensationalism, if not outright yellow journalism, in its circulation rivalry, and Tom Fletcher himself suggested that Viridis try the piece on the Democrat, because he and his paper felt that the "Chism case" had already been given maximum exposure and readers were not interested in yet another story of "wrongful electrocution." In Europe, Germany was making war on Holland and invading Baltic Russia and preparing its submarines to torpedo the Lusitania (the ship Viridis had taken abroad), and the Gazette's readers were beginning to turn their attention away from small local events to the international crisis and the growing issue of America's nonintervention, which most Gazette readers supported. Letters to the editor were preponderantly concerned with the war in Europe, and a total of only three letters had been received about the Chism case, two of them demanding to know why the governor didn't go ahead and pull the switch himself, "like he said he would."

Tom Fletcher said to her, "Very, this Bodenhammer piece is a serious mistake. It will only divert the public's attention from the Chism case."

Viridis' story in the Democrat, which an editor t.i.tled GIFTED YOUNG ARTIST MUST GO TO MEET HIS NIGHTMARE, was the only publicity that Ernest Bodenhammer ever received. She was disappointed that the Democrat showed only one of Ernest's drawings, but, as an editor candidly admitted to her, the typical Democrat reader "didn't know Rembrandt from Rumpelstiltskin." Viridis paid to have matted and framed behind gla.s.s a dozen of Ernest's best drawings (omitting of course that one), and tried to find a good place to show them concurrently with the appearance of her Democrat article, but the only place she could hang them was the Little Rock Public Library. She had photoengravings printed of those twelve drawings and mailed them out to her friends at a.s.sociated Press, as well as to the men who had come to Nail's thwarted execution and her party. She sent a special note along with the mailing to the Houston Chronicle man who had proposed to her. But if his newspaper, or any other newspaper in America, used her Bodenhammer story, she never received clippings or heard about it.