Vernon God Little

twenty-three

On the second of December I was sentenced to death by lethal injection. Christmas on Death Row, boy. To be fair, ole Brian Dennehy tried his best. In the end, it doesn't look like they'll cast the real Brian in the TV-movie, I guess because he doesn't lose his cases. But my appeal will draw out the truth. There's a new fast-track appeals process that means I could be out by March. They reformed the system, so innocent folks don't have to spend years on the row. It can't be bad. The only news about me is that I put on twenty pounds since the sentence. It keeps out some of this January chill. Apart from that, my life hangs still while the seasons whip around me.

Taylor 's eyes flicker brightly through the screen. TV makes them sparkle, but they move strangely, as if she holds them back on a leash. Her grin is frozen like it came out of a jelly mold. I watch her almost-but-not-quite staring at me, until, after a minute, I realize she's reading something behind the camera. Her lines must be written there. After another moment I realize she's reading something about me. My skin cools as understanding dawns.

'Then, when the big day arrives,' she says, 'everybody else, including witnesses, will assemble at five fifty-five in the lounge next to the visiting room. The final meal will be served between three-thirty and four o'clock in the afternoon, then, sometime before six, he'll be allowed to shower, and dress in fresh clothes.'

A stray, impassive thought bubbles up through my mind: that Pam will have to supervise my last meal. 'Oh Lord, it's getting soggy...'

'Right after six o'clock,' says Taylor, 'he'll be taken from the cell area into the execution chamber, and strapped down to a gurney. A medical officer will insert an intravenous catheter into his arm, and run a saline solution through it. Then the witnesses will be escorted to the execution chamber. When everyone is in place, the warden will ask him to make any last statement…'

The host of the show chuckles when she says that. 'Heck,' he says, 'I'd recite War and Peace as my last statement!' Taylor just laughs. She still has that killer laugh.

I've seen a whole lot of Taylor these last weeks, actually. First I saw her on Today, then she was with Letterman, talking about her bravery, and our kind of relationship together. I never realized we got so close, until I saw her talking about it. She came out in November Penthouse too, real pretty pictures taken at the prison museum. That's where they keep 'Old Sparky', the State's first electric chair. November Penthouse has these pictures of Taylor posing around Old Sparky, real fetching, if it's not too bold to say. I have one posted in my cell, not the whole body or anything, just the face. You can see a piece of the chair too, in back. I guess lethal injection wouldn't look so good for modeling, like with Taylor draped over the gurney or something.

On the bench in my cell I have one of those ole distractions with the metal balls that hang on fishing wire, in a row, and clack into each other. Next to it sits my towel, with my art project tools hidden under. Yeah, I still hide things under my laundry. Some habits are a real challenge to break. Then, next to my towel, is the baby TV Vaine Gurie loaned me. I reach up and change the channel.

'The Ledesma man is wrong, is criminel, they are many more fax hiden than come out in court.' It's my ole attorney, Abdini, speaking to a panel of ladies on local TV. Lookit ole Ricochet there, my man the underdog. He's dressed like for a Turkish disco.

'Vernon Little's appeal is in process now, isn't it?' asks the hostess.

'It is,' says another lady, 'but it's not looking good.'

'Police neber fine the other way-upon, for instants,' continues Abdini.

'Excuse me?' says one of the panel.

'I think he means they never found that other weapon,' prompts her colleague.

The ladies all laugh politely, but Abdini just scowls at the camera. 'I will fine it…'

I flick channels again, to see who else is on the gravy train. On another show, a reporter talks to Lally. 'But what do you say to those sectors of the community that accuse you of trash-mongering?'

'Tch, nonsense,' says Lally. 'First, the broadcast itself is a nonprofit venture. Revenues flow right back to the State, instead of taxpayers' money flowing out to support some of the worst criminals in the land. Second, it upholds our basic right to see justice being done.'

'So you're effectively proposing to fund the State's penal system by selling broadcast rights to the prisoners' executions? I mean – isn't a prisoner's last hour a little personal?'

'Not at all – don't forget that all executions are witnessed, even today. We're simply expanding the audience to include anyone with an interest in the proper function of law.' Lally puts a hand on his hip. 'Not so long ago, Bob, all executions were public – even held in the town square. Crime went down, public satisfaction went up. Throughout history it's been society's right to punish delinquents by its own hand. It makes plain sense to give that right back to society.'

'Hence the web-vote?'

'Exactly. And we're not just talking executions here – were talking the ultimate reality TV, where the public can monitor, via cable or internet, prisoners' whole lives on death row. They can live amongst them, so to speak, and make up their own minds about a convict's worthiness for punishment. Then each week, viewers across the globe can cast a vote to decide which prisoner is executed next. It's humanity in action – the next logical step toward true democracy.'

'But surely, due process dictates the fate of prisoners?'

'Absolutely, and we can't tamper with that. But the new fast-track appeals process means prisoners' last recourses at law are spent much sooner, after which I say the public should have a hand in the roster of final events.' Lally lets fly a hooshy laugh at the reporter, and spreads his hands wide. 'In the tradition of momentous progress, it's blindingly simple, Bob: criminals cost money. Popular TV makes money. Criminals are popular on TV. Put them together and, presto – problem solved.'

The reporter pauses as a helicopter settles in the background. Then he asks, 'What do you say to those who claim prisoners' rights will be breached?'

'Oh please - prisoners, by definition, live in forfeit of their rights. Anyway, cons today can languish in institutions for years without knowing their fate – wouldn't you say that was cruel? We're finally giving them what the law has always promised but never delivered – expediency. Not only that, they'll have greater access to spiritual counsel, and musical choices to accompany their final event. We'll even craft a special segment around their final statement, with the background imagery of their choice. Believe me – prisoners will welcome these changes.'

The reporter smiles and nods at Lally. 'And what of reports that you're gearing up for a shot at the senate?'

I switch off the set. I ain't looking forward to cameras in here. We just have an open toilet, see? I guess that's where the money gets made. Internet viewers will be able to choose which cells to watch, and change camera angles and all. On regular TV there'll be edited highlights of the day's action. Then the general public will vote by phone or internet. They'll vote for who should die next. The cuter we act, the more we entertain, the longer we might live. I heard one ole con say it'd be just like the life of a real actor.

Before lights-out I sit up to play with the clacking metal balls, something I've been doing a lot of lately. Ella Bouchard mailed me a pome that I sometimes read too, about true hearts and what-all. I know it's spelled poem, but she don't, not yet anyway. I avoid the pome tonight, and just play with the cause-and-effect balls. Then Jones the guard brings the phone to my cell. The cell-phone is one good thing about Lally's operation. That, and cubicle doors in the shower block, and electronic cigarette lighters, even though they don't give a flame.

I take the phone from Jonesy. 'Hello?'

'Well,' says Mom, 'I don't know who's been talking to Lally…'

'Who hasn't been talking to him, more like it.'

'Well don't get snotty Vernon, God. I'm just saying, that's all. People came snooping about your father, and they've been hassling the gals as well. You'd think Lally'd be busy enough, what with everything. Meantime I have to scrape up the money to do something about that damn bench, it sinks more every day…'

'Snooping?'

'Well, you know, asking why they never found your daddy's body and all. Lally's been so antsy since he dumped Georgette – even Pam and Vaine noticed it.'

'Vaine's in your club now, huh?'

'Well she's been through a lot, what with Lalicom pulling out of the SWAT team. The sheriff's taking all his home troubles out on her, and she's under real pressure to prove herself – you just don't empathize, Vernon.'

'There ain't a whole lot I can do, Ma.'

'I know, I'm just saying, that's all. If he'd only come home, things'd be different.'

'Don't wait up for him.'

'Well there's love at stake, a woman senses these nancies.'

'Nuances, Ma.'

'Oops – I have to run, Pam and Vaine just arrived, and I haven't finished the zipper on Pam's pants. Harris's is floating the e-store today and there are specials galore. Promise me you'll be okay…'

'Palmyra's wearing pants...?'

She hangs up. Taylor's voice oozes out of a TV in the next cell, so I go back to clacking the balls, just watching them. I have too much pain right now to work on my art project. Maybe later.

'Jeezus, Little,' screams a con up the row. 'Fuck up with yer cunted fuckin noise!'

He's an okay guy, the con. They're all cool, actually. They all planned a beer together, with ribs and steak, when they get to heaven. Or wherever. I still plan to have some here on earth, to be honest. The truth's still out there, virginal and waiting. Anyway, I don't take much notice of the row. That's one thing about these balls, once you set them clacking. You focus right in. Drop two balls, and an equal two clack off the other side; just this one metal ball in the middle passes on all the shock.

'Burnem Little you motherfuckin scroted cunt-ass shitsucker,' screams the con.

'Je-sus Ch-risst,' hollers Jonesy, 'keep it down, willya?'

'Jones,' says the con, 'I swear I'm gonna waste my fuckin self if he don't quit clickin them fuckin balls.'

'Chill out, the kid's entitled to a little diversion,' says the guard. 'Y'all know what it's like with an appeal pending.' He's actually okay, ole Jonesy, though he's none too smart. Stops by my cell sometimes to tell me my pardon came through. 'Little, your pardon came through,' he says. Then he just laughs. I laugh too, these days.

'Jonesy, I ain't kiddin,' calls the con. 'That fuckin click, click, click goes on day and fuckin night, the kid's losin his sense – fix him a little time with Lasalle for chrissakes.'

'Oh yeah, like you give the orders around here. Gimme a fuckin million dollars and I'll think about it,' says Jones. 'Anyway, he don't need Lasalle. He don't need no Lasalle at all, now shut the fuck up.'

'Little,' screams the con, 'fuck your goddam appeal, I'll ream your ass with a fuckin Roto-Rooter if you don't quit them balls.'

'Hey,' barks Jones. 'What am I now tellin you?'

'Jonesy, the kid's bended up, he need some Lasalle to help him face his God.'

'Take more'n damn Lasalle to straighten this boy out,' says Jones. 'Git some sleep now, go on.'

'I have some goddam basic fuckin human rights in this fuckin joint!' screams the con.

'Git to sleep goddammit,' barks Jonesy. 'I'll see what I can do.'

I go real quiet. Who's Lasalle? The idea of facing my God sticks in my brain like a burr.

A guard comes for me after breakfast and takes me out of my cell.

'Yeah, yeah,' go the cons as I shuffle along the row.

We go down some stairs into the lower tract of the building, which is like the bowels, if it's not too rough to say, and end up in a dark, wet kind of corridor with only three cells running off it. The cells have no bars or windows, just these bank-vault kind of doors, with reinforced peepholes.

'If you wuzn't who you wuz, you wun't even be comin down here,' says the guard. 'Only you celebrity killers git to come down here.'

'What's down here?' I ask.

'Think of it as a chapel.'

'The pastor's down here?'

'Pastor Lasalle's down here.' He stops at the last door, and unlocks it with a set of keys.

'You lock the pastor in there?' I ask.

'I lock you in there.'

The guard flicks a switch outside the door, and a pale green light glows into the shadows of the cell. It's empty except for two metal bunk frames that fold out of the wall on each side.

'Siddown. Lasalle be along just now.'

He steps back into the corridor, throwing an eye into the gloom of the stairwell. After a minute you hear clinking and shuffling, and an ole black man appears in a beat-up mechanic's cap, and regular gray shirt and pants. He wears a bemused kind of smile. You sense it's been around awhile.

'Knock when you want out,' the guard tells him, locking the door.

The ole black man unfolds the opposite bunk, and squeaks down onto the bare springs, as if I wasn't here. Then he pulls his cap down low, folds his hands in his lap, and shuts his eyes, real comfortable.

'So – you're a preacher?' I ask.

He doesn't answer. After a minute you hear a gentle wheezing from his nostrils, and see his tongue laze around his mouth. Then his face nods onto his chest. He's asleep. I study him for about six decades, until I get bored of the shadows and the damp, then I slide off the bunk, and step away to knock for the guard.

Lasalle stirs behind me. 'Crusty young outcast,' he says, 'all brave and lonely, older than his years…'

My feet weld to the floor.

'Lopin away to hop another bus outta town.' I turn to see a yellow eye pop open and shine at me. 'Only one bus leaves these parts, son – and you know where it's goin.'

'Excuse me?' I stare at his ole slumped form, watch his lip hang dopey from his jaw.

'Know why you down here with me?' he asks.

'They didn't say.' I sit back down on the opposite bunk, and slouch to see under the shadow of his cap. His eyes glisten through the dark.

'Only one reason, boy. Becausen you ain't ready to die.'

'I guess not,' I say.

'Becausen you spent all these years tryin to figure things out, and in figurin them out you got tangled up worse'n before.'

'How do you know?

'Becausen I'm human.' Lasalle creaks to the edge of his bunk. He takes a big pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, and puts them on. Huge moon eyes swim through the glass. 'How you feel about us humans?'

'Heck, I don't know anymore. Everybody's just yelling their heads off about their rights, and stuff, and saying, "Nice to see you," when they'd rather see you in the river with your neck cut. I know that much.'

'Boy, ain't it the truth,' says Lasalle with a chuckle.

'Ain't it just? Folks lie without even thinking about it, like every day of their lives, "Sir, I woke up with a fever," then they spend the whole rest of their lives telling you not to lie…'

Lasalle shakes his head. 'Amen. Sounds to me like you plain don't want to associate with those people no more, you rather not even be around.'

'You're right there, Pastor.'

'Well,' he says, eyeing up the cell. 'You got your wish.'

That kind of hits me sideways. I sit up.

'What else did you wish for, son? I bet you wished you could shut your mama up once or twice before, I bet you dreamed of quittin home.'

'I guess I did…'

'Presto,' he says, opening out his hands. 'You lookin more and more lucky.'

'But, wait – that ain't the right logic…'

His eyes bore through me, a hardness comes to his voice. 'Ahhh, so you a logical boy. You all strung out on everybody else's lies, and everybody else's habits that you hate, becausen you logical. I bet you can't even tell me a thing you love.'

'Uh…'

'That cos you such a big man, all crusty and independent? Or wait, lemme guess – it's probably cozza you ole lady – I bet she the type of lady makes you feel guilty about the leastest thing, the type who probably gives the same dumb ole cards on you birthday, with puppy-dogs, and steam trains on 'em…'

That's her.'

Lasalle nods, and blows a little air through his lips. 'Boy that woman must be one stupid cunt. Must be the dumbest fuckin snatch-rag that ever roamed this earth, probably is so butt-spastic…'

'Hey, hey - you sure you're a pastor?'

'Boy, she one selfish fuckin piss-flap…'

'Wait, goddammit!'

There's a noise at the door, the peephole darkens. 'Keep it down,' says the guard.

I realize I'm on my feet, with my fists clenched tight. When I look back to Lasalle, he's smiling. 'No love, huh, kid?'

I sit down on the bunk. Velcro maggots crawl up my spine.

'Lemme tell you something for free – you'll have a honey of a life if you love the people who love you first. Ever see your ma choose a birthday card for you?'

'No.'

He laughs. 'That's becausen there ain't the hours in a boy's agenda to watch her stand and read every little word in those cards, turn every feeling over in her soul. You probably too busy hiding the thing in you closet to read the words inside, about rays of sunshine the day you came into the world. Huh, Vernon Gregory?'

Heat comes to my eyes.

'You messed up, son. Face it.'

'But I didn't mean for anything to happen…'

'Stuff needed to happen, kid. Different stuff from this. You just ain't faced your God.' Lasalle goes to his pants pocket and pulls out a rag for me to wipe my eyes. I use my sleeve instead. He reaches over and wraps a wrinkly hand around mine. 'Son,' he says, 'ole Lasalle gonna tell you how it all work. Lasalle gonna give you the secret of this human life, and you gonna wonder why you never saw it before…'

As he says it, I hear movement in the corridor outside. Footsteps. Then Lally's voice.

twenty-four

'The key to this first public vote', says Lally, 'is not to give too many choices. We need to pick a shortlist of prisoners, advertise them well, then open the voting lines and see who performs.'

It sounds like he's with at least three other men. The guard knocks urgently on our door, but doesn't open it, like he just wants us to shut up.

'We have a hundred and fourteen ready to go,' says another man. 'You mean put up three dozen or so, for the first vote?'

'Tch, no way. I mean put up two or three, at most. Flesh-out their characters for the audience, show interviews, reconstructions of their crimes, tears from the victims' families. Then give the candidates web-cam access for the last week, live to air – a head-to-head battle for sympathy.'

'I see,' says the guy. 'Kinda Big Brother, huh?'

'Precisely, just how we sold it to the sponsors.'

'But how do we select the first two?' asks a third man.

'It doesn't really matter, provided the crimes are strong enough. I heard a concept the other day that kind of interested me, though, I think it was on a game show or something – "The last shall go first," it said. Has a ring to it, don't you think?'

'Nice,' says the fourth man. 'Top-of-mind recall.'

'Precisely.'

Their footsteps slow as they approach the cell, you hear the guard clink to attention.

'Any reason for you to be down here, Officer?' asks Lally.

The guard shuffles on the spot, then a shadow passes over the peephole. 'Open this door,' says Lally. The key turns, and he looks inside. 'What have we here?' He turns to the guard. 'Aren't the men supposed to be segregated?'

'Oh sure, sure,' says the guard, fidgeting with his keys. 'It's just like, therapy, you know? A little counseling makes the living easier up on the Row.'

Lally frowns. 'This boy is a mass-murderer – surely it's a little late for counseling. Anyway, these cells are out of bounds, we're installing sound post-production down here.'

'How's your mama?' I ask Lally. The words skim from my lip like spit. 'Motherfucker.'

'Jesus, kid!' chokes the guard.

Lally stifles an impulse to lash me, his business cronies keep him chilled. I stare slow deaths at him. 'There ain't prayers enough in heaven to stop me paying your fucken ass back,' I hear myself whisper. Even Lasalle recoils.

Lally just smirks. 'Break them up.'

'Yes, sir,' says the guard. He straightens, and waves an angry hand at Lasalle and me. I try to catch Lasalle's eyes, but he just shuffles away.

'Lasalle – what's the secret?' I hiss after him.

'Later, kid, later.'

Lally smiles at me as I leave the room. 'Still trying to figure things out, eh, Little man?' He gives an asthma laugh, then his voice folds into echoes as he leads his men away. 'So, February fourteenth we launch the first vote.'

'You mean Valentine's Day?' asks another man.

'Precisely.'

Guess what: you can receive junk-mail on Death Row. The week before the first vote I get a sweepstakes letter that says I definitely won a million dollars; at least that's what it says on the envelope. I think you have to buy encyclopedias to get it or something, or to maybe get it. I also find a Bar-B-Chew Barn token entitling me to a Chik'n'Mix for two, at any of their branches across the State. Yeah, they're across the State now. Tomorrow the world, I guess.

I'm working on my art project when I hear Jonesy making his way down the Row towards me. Banter from the other cells lets you know where he is. He's bringing the phone. I stiffen, and stash away my art stuff. As it happens though, the big news reaches me before Jonesy arrives with the phone. I hear it from a TV up the Row.

'… The body of the American will be flown home today. Forty refugees also died in the skirmish,' says the news. 'After the break – the end of the road for serial killer Vernon Gregory Little; we'll have the latest on that failed appeal, and also – the duck and the hamster that just won't take no for an answer!'

Jones doesn't look at me, he just passes me the phone. ' Vernon, I'm sorry,' my attorney crackles through the receiver. 'I don't have the words to tell you how I feel.'

I just stay quiet.

'There's nothing more we can do.'

'What about the Supreme Court?' I ask.

'In your case, I'm afraid the fast-track process puts that option out of our reach. I'm sorry…'

I put the phone down on my bunk, hearing every crease of the blanket like gravel in my ears.

Tonight they install cameras in my cell, and remove all the TVs and radios from the Row. We ain't allowed to see how the voting's going, that's why. I just sit quiet in the darkest corner and think about things, I don't even play with the clacking balls. Eight squillion valentines turned up for me, from sickos all over the world. Somebody in the mail room was kind enough to just send up the one from Ella Bouchard. I left her on my mail list, don't ask me why. I don't open it, though. The Row is extra-quiet tonight, out of respect, I guess. They're called the worst in the land, but my Row mates know something about respect.

I need another date with Lasalle. As the first public vote gets underway, I find myself thinking hard on some of that stuff he said. Not that it made a whole lot of sense, back when I had a chance to live. But it laid an egg in my mind that started growing. Face my God. In between trading junk-mail, the other cons get talking about this week's public vote, laying bets who'll be first to go. That's what they do in between griping for their TVs and radios. They don't bet on anyone from this Row, but you know the feeling of being the last one in the dentist's waiting-room? That's me right now. The problem with the voting is that you don't get to hear if it's you until the last day. You have to stay prepared. Sometimes I get grand schemes to be wacky for my execution, wear socks on my ears or something, or say something bizarre for my last statement. Then I just bawl a little. These days I'm bawling way too much really, for a man, I know it.

By the last day of voting, I can't bear it anymore. In an hour the world will know who's going to die. I bitch to Jonesy about some more time with Lasalle, but he ain't interested. He argues with another guard over who gets to mind the governor's phone-line in the execution chamber, for the first executions. Occasionally he snaps down the Row at me.

'Mr Laid-his-ma ordered no more visits,' he says. 'Anyway, in a while you mayn't have to worry about nothin no more.'

In the end I take up clacking the metal balls again, until the other cons join in griping. All it does is ruffle Jonesy's feathers. 'Which one a you fucks got a million bucks to pay for special favors?'

'Git outta here,' yell the cons.

I just sigh. The swirl of musty air rustles a paper on my bench. An idea rustles with it. 'Jonesy,' I say, gabbing the sweepstakes letter. 'Here's your million.'

'Yeah, right,' he says.

'I ain't fooling – look,' I hold up the envelope.

'You think I was born yesterday?' snorts Jonesy. 'I just about have to shovel that mail-order fuckin bullshit off my driveway every mornin.'

I try a hooshy laugh on him. 'We-ell,' I hoosh. 'O-kay – but this is a legally binding promise for a million bucks – you know they can't say it unless it's true, and they say it right here in red and white.'

'Hey, Little!' calls a con. 'You sayin you got the latest sweepstakes letter?'

'That's right.'

'Does it have black writin on it, or red writin?'

'It's the red one, all right.'

'God, Jesus in Heaven – I'll give you two hundred for that letter,' he says.

'Lemme see that,' Jonesy snatches the letter through my grille. He studies it a second, then says, 'It's got your name on it, that ain't no good to me.'

'Officer Jones,' I say, like a schoolteacher or something, 'my execution-kit has a last will and testament in it – I can leave it to you, see?'

'Little, wait!' yells another con. 'I'll give you three hundred for that letter.'

'Fuck that,' hollers another, 'I'll make it five!'

'Pipe the fuck down,' shouts Jonesy. 'Didn't y'all hear he gave it to me?' He checks his watch, then points through the grille at my slippers. 'Get ready.'

When the clinking of his keychain is out of earshot, a giggle flutters along the Row. 'Hrr-hrr-hr, fuckin Jonesy,' go the cons.

'Little,' says the con next door. 'You finally learnin how to git along.'

Officer Jones personally marches me along the Row, and down the stairs to find Lasalle. We have to sidestep a porter pushing a trolley loaded with TVs and radios on their way back to the cells. That means the vote is over. Behind the appliances struts the dark-suited man with the execution papers. It's his job to deliver the papers to the head warden of a Row, so that he can deliver them to the condemned man. As the suited man passes, I see Jonesy flash him an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. The man just as imperceptibly shakes his head, and walks right on by.

'None of my boys dyin today,' says Jones. My gut relaxes. I live again, for now. When we reach the floor below, a different floor this time, Jones sticks his head into a regular-looking room, but nobody's there. He calls to a guard up the Row.

'Lasalle around?'

'In the cans,' says the guard, 'takin a dump.'

Jonesy takes me to the shower block on the floor below, and marches me right inside.

'Ain't we gonna wait for him to come out?' I ask.

'No time – it's execution day, I have to get downstairs. You got five minutes.' He casts a shifty eye around, then he leaves me with this echoey drip of brown-sounding water, and goes to stand outside the door.

I crouch on the wet concrete floor, and scan under the cubicles for evidence of life. Two cubicle doors are shut, not that you can lock them or anything. Under one door hangs a pair of jail slippers, and regular jail pants. Under the other is a pair of polished black shoes, and blue suit pants. I knock on that cubicle.

'Lasalle – it's Vern.'

'Aw Jesus. What you think I can do for you from a prison fuckin toilet?'

'Uh – help me face my God.' I hoosh it ironically. I guess it's ironic, hooshing when you're in the prison shithouse on some poor bastard's execution day.

'Shit,' he gripes.

Everybody's tense today, see. Tension even buzzes through this can door, like we just met in the freezer section of Death-Mart or something. Waves rise to engulf me.

'Really wanna meet you God?' says Lasalle. 'Then git on you damn fuckin knees.'

'Uh – it's kinda wet out here, actually, Lasalle…'

'Then make a fuckin wish to Santa. Ask for what you most want in this damn world.'

I think for a second, mostly wondering if I should just leave. Then, after a moment, I hear Lasalle's clothes rustle inside the cubicle. The toilet flushes. He opens the door. His ole turkey neck appears, poking out of a collar and tie. His bottom lip juts dumb.

'Well?' he says, looking around. 'You a free man?' I look around, like a dumbo, while he straightens his tie, and raises a polite hand to the door. 'Officer Jones,' he calls, 'any news on the boy's pardon?' Jonesy just laughs, a real dirty laugh. Lasalle glares at me. 'So much for fuckin Santa.'

'Some preacher you are,' I say. I turn for the door but he grips my arm and spins me around. One tubular vein stands out from his neck, throbbing like it lives on a reproductive organ.

'Blind, dumb shit,' he spits, his breath like hot sandpaper in my ear. 'Where's this God you talk about? You think a caring intelligence would wipe out babies from hunger, watch decent folk scream and burn and bleed every second of the day and night? That ain't no God. Just fuckin people. You stuck with the rest of us in this snake-pit of human wants, wants frustrated and calcified into needs, achin and raw.'

The outburst takes me aback. 'Everybody needs something,' I mutter.

'Then don't come cryin to me becausen you got in the way of another man's needs.'

'But, Lasalle…'

'Why you think the world chewin its own legs off? Becausen the goodies are right there, but we can't fuckin get 'em. Why can't we get 'em? Becausen the market for promises need us not to. That ain't the work of no God. That's human work, animals who dreamed up an outside God to take the heat.' Lasalle pokes a trembling lip at my face. 'Wise the fuck up. Intermingling needs make this world go round. Serve that intermingling, and you needs can get fulfilled. Ever hear say, "Give the people what they want?"'

'Sure, but – where's that leave God?'

'Boy you really missed the boat. I'll make it simple, so's even fuckin you can understand. Papa God growed us up till we could wear long pants; then he licensed his name to dollar bills, left some car keys on the table, and got the fuck outta town.' Water rushes to his eye-holes. 'Don't be lookin up at no sky for help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers.' He takes hold of my shoulders, spins me around, and punches me towards the mirror on the wall. 'You're the God. Take responsibility. Exercise your power.'

Four men appear at the door: two guards, a chaplain, and the guy in the dark suit. 'Time for the final event,' says the suit.

My eyes snap to the cubicle where the other prisoner takes a quiet dump, but the men walk right past it and grab hold of Lasalle. His lip juts dumb again, his shoulders droop. Through the corner of my eye I see Jonesy calling me out.

'Lasalle? You a con?' I ask.

'Not for long,' he says softly. 'Looks like not for long.'

'C'mon, Little,' calls Jones from the door. 'Lasalle won the first vote.'

'But Lasalle, was that like – the secret of life?'

He tuts and shakes his head as the group march him to the door.

'I mean – what's the practical…?'

He holds a hand up to the guards. They stop. 'You mean, how do you do it? Big yourself up – watch any animal for clues. As for us humans – check this…' He pulls a lighter from his pocket, and motions us to hush. He clicks the lighter once, softly, then cranes an ear toward the toilet cubicles, where the other con still sits out of sight. After a moment, you hear rustling in the cubicle. Then a lighter clicks inside. We watch a puff of smoke rise up, as the con drags on a cigarette he didn't even know he wanted. The power of suggestion. Lasalle turns to me with a smile, and clicks his lighter in the air. 'Learn their needs, and they'll dance to any fuckin tune you play.'

Jonesy grabs my arm as the group turns to the corridor. I wrassle free, and pounce a couple of steps after Lasalle, but Jonesy threads his arms through mine, Deadlocking me from behind. It's what he needs. I don't struggle.

'Thanks, Lasalle,' I holler.

'No sweat, Vernon God,' comes the voice.

'Boy,' says Jonesy, when he gets me to the stairs, 'you really bought his bullshit.'

'Somebody told me he was a preacher.'

'Yeah, right. Clarence Lasalle, the fuckin axe-murderer.'

I lie awake on my bunk tonight as Lasalle's execution buzzes from the TVs along the row. I expect to hear Taylor 's voice, but one of my fellow inmates says she left the show to try and be a roving reporter. She has all the contacts now, I guess. Just needs that one big story. Anyway, we only catch the last hour of the show. Lasalle doesn't make any final statement, which seems kind of cool. He chooses 'I Got You under my Skin' for his final tune. What a guy.

This view of my ceiling grows familiar over the rest of the week, I even work on my art project, underneath a towel, lying here on my back. The entertainment appliances disappear again, right after Lasalle's event, and I get to thinking about his last talkings. It all sounded too simple, like a TV-movie or something, like just any ole thing they'd run violin music to. It gets me thinking though, about my wasted ole damn life. They don't even have job descriptions for the kind of talents I have. I guess the tragedy is that I should've been up there as the prosecutor, or even Brian Dennehy – I'm the one that can sense stuff about people, and situations and all. Sure, I'm not a great student or anything, or athlete or anything, but I have these talents, I'm sure I have. I guess the way their powerdimes mount up against mine, the final tally of dimes in the power system means they go through, and I don't. One learning, though: my big flaw is fear. In a world where you're supposed to be a psycho, I just didn't yell loud enough to get ahead. I was too darn embarrassed to play God.

Watch any animal, said Lasalle. Give them what they want, and watch any animal. I can understand the giving thing, but I spend nights all the way to the Ides of March, I survive two, then three more execution votes, trying to place the animal clues. I end up watching these useless brown moths that thwack around the light in my cell, felty splinters torn from nighttime, lost and confused. I guess they're animals. I hear moths are actually programmed to fly a straight line, steered by the moon. But these supermarket kind of lights mess up their navigation. Now look at them. I watch one snag behind the light cage, spanking dust off its wings in puffs. Then, 'Thp,' it spins to the floor, broken. The light just buzzes on. So much for the moon. I can relate to moths, boy.

Fantasy animals start to infect my dreams, linen spaniels that romp with Jesus, but in daylight I struggle to make sense of Lasalle's concept. I guess the only permanent animal I know is Kurt the dog, and I ain't sure he counts when it comes to the Secret of Everything. Ole Kurt, who drives himself crazy with the smell of next door's barbecue, who props up his self-esteem by being president of the barking circuit. You know he wouldn't be president of anything, if the circuit knew how damn measly he was. He would've been laughed out of town, if they knew. But they don't.

I sit up on the bunk. Kurt gets by with the bark of a much bigger dog.

twenty-five

'Well but, Vernon, are you using the bathroom every day?' 'Heck, Ma.'

'It's just that this week you're up against that sweet cripple who supposedly killed his parents. And he cries all the time. All the time.'

'You sayin I look guilty?'

'Well on camera you always just lie staring at the ceiling, Vernon, you can be so impassive.'

'But I didn't do nothin.'

'Don't let's start that again. I just don't want the day to arrive and you not be – you know, ready – it's March twenty-eight tomorrow, I mean, that'll be another vote under the bridge…'

Death Row always hushes when my ole lady calls. I guess it's like that in TV-land too, you know how entertaining she can be.

'Did you get the thing I sent for Pam?' I ask.

'Well yes, and thank you very much, from both of us. You know, we were even saying…'

'Mom – I think you should use it at the, you know – the time…'

'Well that's what we were saying…' I wait while she gives a bitty sob, and blows her nose. My eyes mist up too. She leaves the receiver for a second to compose herself, and returns with a sigh. 'Then we can just remember you the way you were – just imagine you're out on your bike…'

'Sure,' I say. 'That's why I sent the token – you can use it at any branch y'know.'

'Well we're very grateful, specially if you saw the price of a Chik'n'Mix lately. Pam and I will use the token, and Vaine can pay for her own…'

'And Ma – tell Nana she don't have to come up here either.'

There's a pause on the line. 'Well – Vernon, I haven't told your nana about, you know – the trouble. She's old, and she only watches Shopping anyway, she won't have seen the news – I think it should just be our little secret, okay?'

'And when I don't show up for lawnmowing this spring?'

'Oh hell – Vernon, the gals just arrived and I haven't finished Vaine's skirt.'

'Vaine's wearing a skirt?'

'Listen baby, we're canvassing votes for you, so don't worry – some people end up waiting years on drrth rhrw…'

After the call, I lay back on the bunk and plough things over in my mind. Needs, boy, human needs. Mom once said Palmyra was into food because it was the only thing she could control in her life. It wouldn't run from the plate, or stand up to her. I think about it, and see Leona sucking attention like sunrays; ole Mr Deutschman savoring his mangle-headed tangs. Sympathy dripping giddy into the aching sponge of Mom's life. Melted cheese and Vaine Gurie. Give 'em all what they want, I say.

I know the Barn token is a good want to give Palmyra, but I should think of something especially for Mom, even though another death in the family will probably fix her true need, like for sympathy. Shame it has to be me, though. And, know what? Who else I'd like to fulfil before I go is ole Mrs Lechuga. She's had a hard time of things, and I regret the stuff I said about Max, I guess I'm just pumping cream pie about it all, this giving of wants and whatever, but – what the heck. You only die once. Strangely, I even feel I should grant something for the ole jackrabbit media. You can only guess what they really want.

Then there's Taylor. Oh Tay. She's tight with all these media types now, reporters and all, with helicopters and stuff, so it won't be easy granting a wish for her. What she really wants is a big new story to launch her career. Maybe just a real nice call or something would do the trick. Maybe that could solve all the more difficult wants, a nice phone call.

I work my way through the list of wanters, until I hit Vaine Gurie. She seems to have fallen in with Pam now, don't even go there really. The only thing I can think she wants is a homicidal maniac for her SWAT team to practice on. She ain't easy. To be honest, though, I think I only linger on Vaine to avoid working on Lally's want. I know the Godly thing, the forgiving thing to do, is to give a want to Lally, even though he has just about everything. Just some bitty token, y'know?

The appliances return early this Sunday morning, giving the day a brisk feel. March twenty-eight. Execution day for somebody. Engineers set the TVs up permanently this time, and install a system to shut them down during the vote. Emotions howl like pack-dogs in my soul when a bunch of paperwork arrives with my breakfast tray. First is a brochure about how to act for the cameras, and what not to say or do. The whole Row must've got that one, on account of everybody's saying and doing the wrong thing. Under the brochure is a glossy page showing some cartoon convicts, with arrows on their clothes and all, giving hints for your last statement. Then another form has a list of musical choices for the Final Event: you get to choose one tune before the witnesses come into the chamber, and one for the Event itself. It's mostly real ole music on the list. I know I'll regret my choices when the time comes. I'll just have to be brave to that wave.

As I digest things, the regular Sunday quiet falls over the Row. You hear some papers rustle. Then a con calls out, softly.

'Burnem – you okay, my man?'

I turn over the last sheet of paper on my pile. Under it lays an order for my execution, effective six o'clock tonight. I look at it like it was a napkin or something. Then I fall down on my knees, bawl like a storm cloud, and pray to God.

twenty-six

Folks are friendlier to me on the afternoon of my death. The cons are friendlier by not hassling, especially the one I gave my clacker-balls to. Everybody else quietly avoids the issue. It's a busy-feeling day, like one of your mom's urgent baking days gone wrong, with feelings left unattended, a sense that somehow I forgot something, left the oven on, didn't lock the door. A sense that I can do it when I get back.

When my belongings are neatly folded on the table, and my bunk is stripped clean, four executives arrive with a cameraman. My row-mates wave fingers through their grilles, and holler good wishes as I shuffle down the row. 'Yo, Burnem – fuck 'em up man, piss on those muthas…'

Bless them. We pass down the hallway Lasalle disappeared from, not for the ride to the Huntsville unit, but to the new Events Suite here at Ellis, right downstairs. It's a one-stop shop now, carpeted and all, with artwork on the walls. I miss the chance of a last drive, but at least the Suite has windows. It seems gray and cool out, with just a few bugs clicking. A part of me is disappointed there ain't tornadoes and firestorms for the night of my death, but then – who do I think I am, right?

Just like she promised, Pam supervised my last meal. Chik'n'Mix Choice Supreme, with fries, rib-rings, corn relish, and two tubs of coleslaw. How smart she is – she had the kitchen people stuff bread in the tub, to absorb any excess steam, and keep the bottom pieces crisp. You figure the coleslaw ain't Pam though – that'll be Ma, on account of it's healthy. Those gals will be eating the same thing this evening, when I'm on the gurney. It's what they want, to imagine I'm just out and about on my bike, instead of being put to death.

At four-thirty I get to evacuate my tracts in a private restroom. They even give me a copy of Newsweek to read, and a Marlboro to suck on. I'm numb, like anesthetized or something, but I still appreciate these little touches. Newsweek says Martirio has the fastest economic growth rate in the world, with more new millionaires than even California. The cover shows a bunch of Guries throwing banknotes into the air and laughing. It ain't all roses, though: if you read farther down it says they're getting sued by the California tragedy, over the use of their statistics. Typical Martirio, I have to say.

An hour before my execution, I get to make some private phone calls. First I try home, then Pam's. There's no answer, I must've missed them already. Ma's been through a lot, and so's Pam, I guess. Bless them. They don't have answering machines, so I can't just say 'I love you' or something. In a way, though, it gives me the courage to make some other calls.

First I try Lally, to get it over with. His secretary almost hangs up, until I tell her why I'm calling. Lally's in a meeting at the new Martirio mall. She connects me to his phone. 'Big man!' he says when the phone answers. I give him what he wants, and tell him where my gun is stashed. He seems to accept the gesture gracefully.

Next I call Mrs Lechuga. Boy is she surprised, she even tries to change her voice so I'll think it's a wrong number. 'Oh my God,' she says.

'Yes?' I answer. She's been through a lot, bless her. In the end I think she's glad I called. Knowing her love of information, and her ole position as president of the douche-brigade, I'm sure she just loves the want I grant her. In a way, I designated her the command center for this evening's wants.

The next brainwave is to call Vaine Gurie, on her way to meet Mom and Pam at the Barn. I give her just what she really wants – just what she really needs, actually, if you think about it. She ends up being real touched to hear from me, and promises to pass my love on to the gals. I guess it is love after all, in that zany way we humans have.

Finally, for my last call in the world, I try Taylor Figueroa. She answers her phone personally, and her voice immediately takes me back to another time and place – a moist, fruity place, if it's not too smutty to say. And guess what: I give her the break she's been waiting for. She squeals with delight, and says to look after myself. Sounds like she means it too.

When I hang up the phone, two guards appear with a chaplain, and escort me to the make-up suite.

'Don't you worry darlin,' says a make-up lady, 'a little blush'll perk you up.'

Another lady whispers, 'You want toothpaste, or you think you can make it on your own?' I snort when she says it, and she looks at me, confused. Then she kind of gets it, and laughs along too. Not everybody gets the irony of things, that's what I learned.

Next, a girl with a clipboard arrives and makes me sign a waiver for my final statement. I'm going out quietly, just like Lasalle. I ask her one special favor in return. She calls a producer to check it out, then says it's okay. I can take my shirt off for the Event. She leads the pastor, the officers, and me down a bright hallway to the execution chamber. My knees go weak with the kind of swooniness you get from hospital smells; the pastor even takes hold of my arm when I hear the tune playing down the hall.

' Galveston , oh Galves-ton – I am so afraid of dying…'

We pass the broadcast control room, and guess what: they must've licensed the TV weather theme for the show. I hate that theme. I close my ears until we reach this simple white room with a window along one wall, and theater-like seats beyond.

'Before I dry the tears she's crying…'

I take off my shirt. My skin is mostly healed now, from my art project. Tattooed in big blue letters across my chest are the words 'Me ves y sufres' - 'See me and suffer.' A medical orderly helps me climb onto the gurney, which is kind of person-shaped, like the hole left after a cartoon character crashes through a wall. I catch a glimpse of Jonesy in a room at the back. He must be manning the governor's phone. The governor is the only man who can stop this now. He'd need some damn convincing evidence to do that. Jonesy just turns away when he sees me. He doesn't stand near the phone.

Guards secure me to the gurney using thick cowhide straps with metal buckles, then the orderly raises a vein in my arm, and gives me a tiny shot, of anesthetic I guess. He fixes a long needle onto a tube that runs through the wall from the back room. I look away as he slides the needle into my vein. After a moment, cool solution begins to flow.

An usherette appears behind the glass that separates me from the witness area, and people start filing into their seats. Fragile Mrs Speltz is the only person I recognize. Aside from the wave of sadness I get from her haunted eyes, I actually feel relieved that she's the highlight of the witness area. Nothing in there suggests I'll be missing any parties when I'm gone. Then, just as I'm thinking that, the darnedest thing happens: a tall, beautiful young woman in a pale blue suit squeezes along the back row to her seat, kindling my groin out of retirement. Even the guards turn to watch as she sits, modestly tugging down the hem of her skirt. Then she looks at me. It's Ella Bouchard. Boy did her equipment arrive. Bluebonnet eyes call to me through the glass.

'Sailing' starts to play now, because when Fate opens up, it opens up with both barrels. I try to swallow, but my mouth is woody. A terminal learning comes to me: that for all the sirens, game-show buzzers, and drum-rolls of life, it is the nature of men to die quietly. I mean, what kind of life was that? - a bunch of movies, and people talking about movies, and shows about people talking about movies. Still, I guess I asked for it. By being negative, destructive. I remember once calling my daddy to collect me from a place, but was sad when he came because I'd since grown to love the place. Death takes me like that.

I feel an itch around the needle, and close my eyes. Voices in the chamber soften, and I feel myself slipping away, up and over the gurney, into a reverie. I look down on myself, but instead of panic, instead of sudden death, I float out of the chamber, and over the landscape outside, where my senses are filled with the scent of lawn-clippings. I'm transported, clear as day, back home to Beulah Drive. There's Mrs Porter's, and there's my front yard. It's today, it's right now. The mantis pumpjack beats with my soul as a black Mercedes-Benz sweeps into my driveway. Mrs Lechuga's drape twitches. Mom ain't home this evening, which is unusual. She's eating out with Pam. I watch Lally climb out of the car. Bless the motherfucker to hell. Bless his bones smashed and stuffed through the ligaments of his puking fucked eyes, bless his mouth to suck me off, take my bile so it kills him dead to a place where he stays conscious and fucken broken and cold, shivering fucken worms and slime from organs that pop and fucken waste as I laugh.

He seems excited by the want I granted. I know the question of the second firearm always plagued him. He lets himself into the house through the kitchen, and moves to my bedroom closet, where he finds the shoebox containing the padlock key, just like I told him. Next to it lays a bottle of ginseng. You can't even see the LSD pearls I stuffed in it all those moons ago. He smiles, and picks it up.

An unmistakable sound draws me back out of the house. It's the Eldorado, idling up the street. For the first time in Leona's life, she parks at the unfashionable end of Beulah Drive. Neither she nor George or Betty talk, or adjust their make-up. They don't even breathe. They sit parked under a willow and wait. Nobody, but nobody, overrides Nancie Lechuga's instructions. I watch with the ladies as Lally climbs into his car and drives away. They follow at a discreet distance. Mrs Lechuga's drapes twitch shut behind them. She's back in charge of the brigade, bless her.

Mom and Pam are fretting over the chicken by now, as Muzak boils the life out of some ole song. A two-inch pile of napkins sits soggy with their tears, under a sprinkling of salt and crumbs. I'm touched that my spirit is with them, just like the ole days, when hanging out together was like playing a favorite ole disc, reliving the tickles you got when you first heard it. Neither Pam nor my mom is saying anything relevant, that's the beauty of it. I don't know if it's on purpose, or if it's like a genetic kind of thing that folk just cruise into comfortable, meaningless ole routines when the shit hits the fan.

Mom just says, 'Well but they've moved things around since last time.'

Pam says, 'Lord, you're right, the cashier used to be over there.'

All I can say is they must've moved it in about five seconds, for the time these gals spend out of the joint. But where's Vaine? She's usually so punctual when it comes to chicken.

I race like a breeze over my ole stomping grounds, through Crockett Park towards Keeter's. Lally can't help chuckling when he reaches Keeter's corner. He can't stop laughing as he bounces up the track, and he's positively howling by the time the den comes into view, as the elephant dose of hallucinogens starts to warp his perception. His last steady action is to fit the key into the den padlock, pull back the hatch, and haul out my daddy's rifle. My ole lady bequeathed me that rifle, on condition I never bring it near the house. I had to act fast the day Daddy disappeared. Mom was real antsy. She got over it by shopping for garden furniture – go figure.

Thunder from an approaching helicopter nudges the acid in Lally's bloodstream to a peak. The vista starts to liquefy before his eyes. He's a drug-crazed, homicidal maniac, loose in our community. He turns his back on sunlight beaming low over the escarpment, only to find a spotlight pinning him from the other side.

'Drop it!' barks a voice. It's Vaine with her SWAT team. She shields her eyes against dust from the settling chopper.

Lally reels in a wild circle, confused, caressing the rifle, erasing Mom's fingerprints, and her worries, forever. As Taylor Figueroa ducks out of the helicopter with a news cameraman, Lally raises the rifle and cries in an unearthly tone. 'Ma-mi,' he bawls, finding the trigger with both hands. 'Mamá!'

Watch out Taylor, like – oh my God!

'Open fire!' Vaine screams to her team.

Lally's face is a mask I fucken adore, suspended in time forever as slugs whistle and pierce the evening sky. He dances mid-air as chunks of his body pelt down like rain, before the bulk of him thuds twitching to the ground. Leona Dunt's Eldorado has to swerve off the track to avoid him.

'Wow, but is it supposed to be hidden, like – in the shit?' asks Leona, pouring out of the car in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

'I think Nancie means the story about the shit is what's valuable,' coughs Betty, ashing a cigarette into the dust. 'Just the evidence of the shit, the story rights…'

'Honey,' says George, 'a bonanza is a bonanza, whether it's in or on or about the shit, now hand me that flashlight…'

'Golly,' says Betty, scraping through the bushes around my den. 'Looks like somebody's been here already…'

My vision dissolves, my mind shimmers back to the gurney and I find myself still alive, teeth clenched into a smile. That's some fucken anesthetic, boy. I look over to see the guards nod to each other in readiness. As the day's first thunder crackles outside, I turn to wink at Ella through the glass. Then I close my eyes. I wait for the deep to claim me, for the cool in my arm to turn icy, or not to turn at all, to just vanish through the glare with everything around, including lumpy ole asshole me.

Suddenly, a cannonade of noise swells through the windows and cracks, down the stairs and ducts of the jail, a thousand voices and fists and feet triggered by some invisible cue. My eyes pop open to see if God, or the devil, has come to claim my slimy soul. Instead, Abdini bursts into the witness area, followed be a horde of cameramen. The whole jail must be watching it live on TV. Abdini has a dirty brown ball of paper in one hand, and a melted candle in the other. He holds them up to the glass, singing, jumping. It's Nuckles's notes, the ones I used to wipe my ass that fateful day. 'Test prove it!' he cries.

A phone rings out back. After a moment I crane to see Jonesy toddle into the chamber, shaking his head. He leans over the end of the gurney, cups his hands to his mouth.

'Little – your pardon came through.'

twenty-seven

The ladies study the envelope like it was the body of a dead baby.

'Definitely one of those Italian cars, a Romeo and Juliet or whatever,' says George.

'I know,' says Betty, 'but why send the brochure to Doris 's?'

'Honey, it doesn't say Doris on the front, it says Leona. Just the address is Doris 's.'

'But why?'

George shakes her head. 'Loni wants us to know she's getting one of those sports cars, I guess.'

Betty tightens her lips, and tuts awhile. 'I know, but why doesn't she just come over, like always, or even just call? Maybe she went to have the implants after all…'

George blows a plume of smoke, finishing with a ring that travels up and over the Central-Vac box on the rug. 'Betty, don't piss me off, okay? You know damn well why.'

'Oh Lord,' scowls Betty. 'But that's her ex-ex-husband, the tragedy was nothing to do with her...'

George rolls her eyes. 'I know, I know, but some people might question the quality of a marriage that left a man chasing teenage boys for kicks – you have to admit that's out there even for Marion Nuckles, never mind the phony shrink he hooked up with. And goddammit to hell, Betty, now you've got me saying "I know."'

'I know.'

George clicks her teeth. Then their eyes meet, and they start to froth with helpless laughter.

'Girls, it's here!' calls Mom through the kitchen. 'It's the side-by-side!' She tries to keep her mouth pointed down, in mourning for Lally, but her eyes give her away. My ole lady just loves being in mourning. It's one of her needs, I guess. Bent ole kitten.

I hear Brad hollering up the hall, so I slink into the kitchen where a pile of media paperwork sits on the bench, along with some contracts from my agent. On top of the pile is a faxed cover of next week's Time magazine – the headline reads: 'Stool's Out!' The picture shows the dried remains of my crap, wrapped in Nuckles's class papers, sitting in a scientific laboratory. Behind it, Abdini proudly holds up the note Jesus left in the den, for Nuckles and Goosens, the lovers and internet entrepreneurs. 'You sed it was love you batsards,' reads the note, in his ole baby scribble. My eyes drop for Jesus. One thing, though: his note inadvertently granted a big ole want for Nuckles and Goosens. Now they'll have all the boys they could wish for, up there in prison. Somehow you sense they might be doing a little more receiving than giving, though. But hell. As Nuckles himself would say – 'Beggars can't be choosers.'

Farther along the kitchen bench lies a copy of today's paper, with the headline: 'Old Familiar Feces.' The picture shows Leona out at Keeter's, holding lumps of shit in her hands. Farther down still is an article about Taylor. She'll be fine. Just maybe not filling her panties the way she used to. Maybe they can implant a silicon butt-cheek or something, who knows?

Mom bunts me over the porch and down to the wishing bench, where the man from the morgue hovers. 'Let me shake your hand, son,' he says, 'your daddy would've been mighty proud.'

'Thank you,' I say, breathing in the clear blue day.

'Yessir, that was some turnaround. What's your secret?'

'I went down on my knees and prayed, sir.'

'Mighty fine,' he says, turning to Mom. 'And ma'am – I think we can process that earlier insurance matter just now – the body clearly can't be found.'

'Well thank you, Tuck,' says Mom, running a hand over her wishing bench.

'Mr Wilmer!' calls George from the porch. 'See what you can do for that poor woman in Nacogdoches…'

'Be my pleasure, Mrs Porkorney – you take care now, y'hear?'

After he turns away, Mom frowns at the fridge box being wheeled up the driveway. She frowns extra-hard, not just on account of being a double widow, but because Leona taught her not to show too much joy over new goods. You have to pretend they don't matter, that's what she taught her, that and how to throw her head back when she laughs. Doesn't fool me, though.

I lean over the bench and soak up Mom's clammy warmth. When the ladies join us, Mrs Lechuga comes to her window across the street. She sends a little wave, and I realize who's missing, for the full set of dice in my life – Palmyra. But, hey – I guess it ain't every day you get to play pinball on Oprah.

'Vern,' says Betty, 'Brad's just desperate to show you his birthday present.'

I try to nod politely, but my eyes snag on some dappled pink flesh behind the willows up the street. It's Ella with her suitcase. She wears a wool sweater over a loose cotton dress that swishes full of honey breeze. She grins when she sees me watching her. I told her I'd send a car, but she insisted on taking one last walk through town, crazy girl. Anyway, we'll be back. Mexico ain't so far.

'Kurt, stay!' Ole Mrs Porter bangs through her screen, and struggles down the lawn with a table full of knitted toys. Then, as I cross the driveway to meet Ella, Brad thumps onto the porch behind us.

'B-ooom! Suck shit muthafucka!'

That better not be loaded,' says Betty. 'Bradley Pritchard! Don't you point that thing, or it'll go right back to the store!'

I ignore him by rubbing lips with Ella. Then we both turn to watch Mrs Porter stand her toys by the roadside. She's setting up a fucken stall for chrissakes. We just swallow giggles.

'Ma'am,' I call over the road. 'Mrs Porter!'

She cocks her head, in a kindly way, and flaps a little wave.

'Everybody's gone, Mrs Porter. Everything's back to normal…'