I Am an Executioner (12 page)

“What I did, Madam?” I asked. “What you thought I was? Where you had imagined my monies were coming from? This is my good living, Madam. I can’t be executioner one day, then the dogcatcher some other day simply as it is your lady in the death row. There is only one of me. We are a small country, and no one else is capable of my duties but my own self.”

Madam would not hear it none. “You get out of here, you terrible-and-so-on, never show your face to me again.” Even she kicked me in the leg her pointy shoe and spit me. She called for her big bruisy and I ran out of there, even leaving behind my good hat that time. Friendly house came to be a past memory.

That is why I big-time wanted the wife. I thought that having the new wife will solve all that problems, but now I had it and no it didn’t. When my first wife disappeared me, I cried myself, even everyone always wondered what happened to that wife, even her family people they blamed me and spit me.

I wondered, this time is they going to blame me and spit me, although I am the different person now? Margaret was sitting there in the side of the bed, and even I felt like rushing her, I reminded to myself this was not no friendly-house lady. Better me to do things careful. Better me to wear my thinking cap and find the best way of hugging her. Answer was: I had to begin it slowly. I had to begin with talking.

In the death row, talking comes so easy to my tongue—even fierce and terrible killers provide sympathetic ears.
Captive audience is best audience
, Warden always jokes me. But somehow standing before this new wife of mine, my tongue became like the tube sock. My stomach twisted knotty, as if only one or two pegs of Johnny Walker could soften it up. There she was, sitting in the bed, awaiting. I thought so hard, yet was unable to come up with a single item conversational. I concluded: Okay, I will ask
her
to converse
me
.

“Listen here, dear Margaret,” I told. “Don’t you sit there sulking and skulking. I myself am in a drabbish mood. Talk your husband.”

She remained muted, eye-facing to the wall. I began to feel little sadly for her, sitting so far from her native place with no familiars nearby. No wonder she is pouty. Again I gave a try. “What you did today, Margaret? Please tell.” Only then I seed it: the suitcase pulled up from beneath the belly of the bed, sitting
out with some of the shiny women’s jutties piled up already inside of it like coconut shavings.

“What is this?” I exclaimed.

Margaret still provided silence.

“You are leaving now already, is it?”

She gave no reply, only staring away.

“Where you going? Your mummy-daddy’s living very far from here. Will they be so happy to see you after only last week spending numerous thousand bank notes for a hotel wedding?”

Continually she kept mum.

“How you going to go home, Margaret? Who will pay for the boat ticket? I don’t have so much money.”

Now I heard a funny noise, like water squeaking at high pressures from the insides of a cat. I worried for a moment—had she did something awful to Catty? Where was Catty? But then I realized that sounds was coming only from my wife, from Margaret.

“Oh, there-there-there,” I told to her. “I meant nothing by it.”

I went quickly to where Margaret was sitting in the bed and putted my hand on her shoulder. But she curled her shoulder in a big circle to disperse me. I offered to her the kerchief but she ignored. Then she closed all her eyes hard like squeezing a lemon and insufflated noisily the nose-jellies.

She sat with her face crisscrossed with all the ribbons of sticky fluids, making only a little bit of whimpering. Finally, I coerced my mouth to start talking. And I talked to her of the only thing that was in my head: “Hey, Margaret, the new prisoner arrived in the death row. We comfortabled her so much as possible. Shortly she will be off. Young girl, very young little miss.”

Had I been more thought-provoking, I might have been care-fuller than to tell my wife of my job, as it was only my job which had so much disturbed and upsetted her from the beginning. Now I stood up and tied a towel over my bottom part so I could
change my pants and jutties. Even she was my wife now, I was little shy concerning Margaret.

“She looks so soft and flimsy, Margaret. Almost like it was her first days in the village school.”

Then I heard Margaret turn her body slight bit. Through the mirror’s inside, I seed she was staring me with some expressions in her face. Her big eyes was giving off a blinky shine, and the eye tears and nose ribbons was not flowing, but drying rather. Could it be my talking offered something to curious her? Her face gaved off a puffy glow, which very much appealed me. She was lost in her thought bubble; I could not wonder what it was she was thinking.

Finally, she speaked. “Why is a little girl in the death row?”

To my ears, Margaret’s voice was like a small box within pink wrapping papers.

“Even I asked that question, Margaret!” I told to her as I squirmed off my thingies. “Warden shoved her such a rough way down. That Warden sometimes is so bad. So strange it all is, Margaret.” And then I was combing my hairs in the mirror.

Wordlessness again came from Margaret. She shuffled her bottom once more. And seeing Margaret’s wall-facing body, her bottom making bed-crumples there, made me feeling even more, that I have a wife now and it is time to enjoy her. After some more time, she spoke me a very interested voice.

“But what she did to end up in there?”

This was a shocker to me: two questions from Margaret regarding my job! I wondered, why had she this interest? Was she only seeking to fire up her angry? Or was she really the friendly curious wife of me? I was too much confused and excited. I wanted to catch her into my hands and tell her all the stories, but I grew nervous.

“What she did to end up in there,” I told to her, thinking myself carefully what to tell, “what she did to end up in there, Margaret, is she committed some crime.”

“Don’t simply say she committed some crime, fellow. Tell:
What
crime has she committed?”

Now I seed she was looking at me full interest. I splashed little bit of the after shaves against my cheeks to finish the grooming. I felt my leg start to give a tremble, so to calm myself, I satted in the bed near to Margaret.

I observed that when I satted, she did not shift off away from me.

“You want to know what she did, is it?”

“Tell!”

Being close to Margaret made my armpits to give water. Even I had just splashed the after shaves, I could smell my own flesh odors rising up. I knew that I could not hold on very much time longer, and so I took a bold move: I put my hand on gentle Margaret’s thigh. I found it big and firm and dolphin-shapely. I steeled myself for some shove-off from Margaret, but what a wonder to me: She did not push away my hand. I said to her: “Dear Margaret, human being’s heart has capable of great and terrible passions. Who can explanate? It’s my lot in life, to witness it in a daily basis. In the end, what differences to me? I do my job-duty only. What did she do, didn’t she do, young, old, guilty, innocency is not my issue. Duty is there for doing, simple as that, not everyone can do it save for me. If I have any special talent in it, modestly I accept it.”

I observed that what I was saying had some effects in her. Jealous Catty jumped into the bed behind us, but only we ignored. I moved my face very close to Margaret’s face. Her breath smelled to me of warmed potatoes, and I detected a jiggle-tremble in her lips. My eyes went downtown to see what’s inside her blouses.

“But what did she
do
?” she asked.

“In just plain facts, Margaret, such informations oftentimes they don’t tell to me.”

“Hunh!” Margaret said. She pushed off my hand and moved to the farthest Antarctica corner of the bed.

•   •   •

Some people always assume that because of natures and necessities of my job, my heart must be hard and jagged and full of holes, like old and tored-up city roads. Nothing could be further off from true. When I was a schoolboy once in days of yore, I read a poem, the gists of which I still remember. I used to be very moved by poetry, those days. It is true! My papa always yelled me for having too many girlish eye tears. (My papa was tall and liked to speak of too many things, so that the government taked him away and never returned him. This was in the olden regime, before the liberation of our good and famous country. My papa’s hero name is the only reason I received my appointed job, Warden always he jokes me.) Anyhow, I liked one poem. Near the lonely path, one grass leaf is dying. That is, the poem I am remembering. Leaf is thirsty for water that leaf is dying. One dewdrop feels sadly for that leaf. Dewdrop rolls down and feeds itself to that leaf. Dewdrop did such a good deed. But on the time sun raises next day, grass leaf is any case dead, also Mr. Dewdrop has sunk away into forever. Nobody will ever hear of him: So brief is the life, so brief.

I observed that, even Margaret was rejecting me, I had to go on my job. It was my patriot’s duty. Every day I saw that little girl, I watched her and cared her. I asked to her, “Would you like the refreshing water?” I asked to her, “Why you didn’t eat your food that was brought for you? Was it too cold for your tongue?” I told her of the things what was happening in our country on the TV newses what she was not allowed to watch. One time I brought a candy that I had and kept for her. She ate it! I liked to see her face then. Even she didn’t show the emotionals, I knew she was finding it sweet.

But never having had someone so strangely young and solitudey, showing neither sad nor happy indications, I asked myself: Maybe would she like something different? What is it to be
a little girl sitting in a strange place, nothing to do? Maybe she would like some amusements?

I liked that idea. “Hey, can I give to you some book, magazine?” I asked to the girl. “Can I give to you some amusements?”

That girl gave no answer. Still I went on. I remembered that my last prisoner Chummy left behind several magazines after his hanging. There was something interesting in them, so I had not thrown them off, but secured them in my own locker for the safekeeping. I went and retrieved them to give to the girl.

Chummy and me was such good friends. He was a dirty fellow with regards to several missing females, so it was said in the TV newses, but to me, he could be the soft character—although sometimes he was tongue-bitey, before the final days came and he started to become regretful. Sometimes together we worked the newspaper crosswords of the daily papers—Chummy knew so many words than me. One time, we even played the words game of “Hangman.” Another time, I mused to Chummy, “It will be very quiet after death, don’t you think so?” (Chummy had complained of my talking-talking.) “No, it won’t be quiet,” Chummy told. “Because your jabbering will stay in my head eternally.” (He knowed of such fine words:
eternally
.)

And I wondered: Is it true? My talk-talk will go on echoing for eternally? Before I dropped the floor on Chummy, I undertaked an experiment. When he was standing in the gallows all ready for go, I whispered something to his ear. I gaved him a secret only I knowed, something I never ever told to no one. And before he could say some responses, I hanged him.

And then, I wondered, still is my secret sitting outside in the world? Or where is it gone? Is my bad secret ringing eternally in Chummy’s ears someplace? Or is it disappeared to nothing?

“Here you go, small madam,” I said to the girl as I handed her the magazines of Chummy. At that moment, I remembered
too late, those were the wrong magazines for that girl! Those magazines were only for the growed people’s eyes, and I became blushed when I saw the girl look over the bad pictures.

But then I thought myself: If she’s going to die, then what is the harm there? Let her see something, anyway, before she goes. I observed that girl’s face in anticipation for the expressions there. What an excitement, first time in a child’s life to learn of the intimate things. How happy
I
would be, if a youngster, to receive such magazine gifts. What a happiness I am bringing to her!

But that dulled little girl gave no such happy expressions. She sat there only glumly turning one page, then another. Then chewing at the page corner like something salty is there. Then closing magazines and snuffling again like she is crying without the tears.

Anyhow, maybe it will take some time, I thought so. I will try again during tomorrow. I went and taked back the magazines to myself; she had no interest now, so why waste it? And again, I locked away the door.

After a certain number the nights of sofa-sleeping (one or two is perhaps acceptable, but five-six?), a man in his own house begins to feel draining off away from him some nonrefundable reserves of what it is called
dignity
. No matter what every man is doing for his professional job, still and all, must he not have dignity?

Am I doing bad things? Is my tone and manner disturbing the people? Is my personality disgusting, like my first wife had told to me? I was in the times of youth in that time, and even I did some of the bad things in life, doesn’t everyone? But I thought them over and sweated myself. Is all the women only going to disappear me?

I took my magazines home with me. Truly that was all there
was for me in the today of my life. I had to keep the magazines beneath the sofa cushions of my own house, so that my wife will not disgust herself. (In those magazines, I discovered several last letters to Chummy’s attention I had stored in my storage locker. Oh no, I never delivered them! It looked like lovermails from some ladies who loved him and believed of his innocency. They proposed of marriage to him. It tickled me, so I kept them aside to read it later.)

Meantime, my wife, Margaret, what was she doing all the day long? Every day I came home, she was wearing same dirty clothings like yesterday, not having moved very far off from bed, so lost in her own downbeat head-thoughts. She did not bend or cower me, like my first wife had did. What had she eaten? What had she done all the day long? She never even spent five coins to go and do the Internet Web surfings. What there was in life, to make one person so frowny?