Riven (63 page)

“I don’t want you to go, but ’course I know why. When are you going to die?”

“I don’t know. When it’s my time. The doctor thinks it could be another whole year. I hope so, because that gives me more time with you. But I’m okay either way because God knows best. He’ll decide.”

“I’m going to be sad.”

“Sure you will, just like I was when my grandparents and my parents died. But they’re all in heaven waiting for me, which is where I will be, waiting for you.”

“I hope I never get lookameany or whatever that is.”

Grace chuckled despite a grimace. “I hope you don’t either. It’s no fun.”

“Don’t die tonight, okay?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Okay, bye.”

Adamsville State Penitentiary

The next time Thomas wandered to the Row to listen, he was sobered to hear one dramatic line delivered by Brady from the Gospel of Matthew, when Jesus was speaking to His disciples: “We’re going up to Jerusalem, where the Son of Man will be betrayed to the leading priests and the teachers of religious law. They will sentence Him to die. Then they will hand Him over to the Romans to be mocked, flogged with a whip, and crucified. But on the third day He will be raised from the dead.”

To Thomas Carey, that passage alone signaled the end was near, not only for the story, but for his dear friend as well.

“It’s going to be hard, seeing this done to you,” Thomas whispered.

“It’s not going to be ‘done to me,’ Reverend. This is my choice.”

“The beauty of it is that it was Jesus’ choice too.”

“In case you’re wondering, I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“That makes two of us,” Thomas said.

“But there’s no turning back,” Brady said.

“You know you could be given tranquilizers first.”

Brady shook his head. “That would defeat the whole purpose. I want to experience it and let the viewer see what it really was. I didn’t expect this to be easy.”

Thomas shook his head.

“Will you be with me, Reverend?”

“I don’t want to watch, but if that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do.”

“I’d like for you to come with me from my house to the chamber.”

“Done.”

As soon as Thomas got back to his office, Gladys said, “Caregiver called and says you need to get home.”

“Oh no. What’d Nellie say?”

“Grace is fine, Thomas. Fact is, she’s a little feisty. Nellie says Grace is insisting she call and order the pay-per-view for tomorrow.”

“That can’t be. That’s the last thing Grace would choose to see.”

“I’m just telling you what was told me. You want me to call Nellie back, or—?”

“Tell her I’m on my way. No way that’s going to happen.”

As Thomas drove out the front gate, he carefully picked his way through a thousand protesters, who by now recognized him from the newspapers and TV. They shouted and banged on his car and pleaded with him to stop the barbarism.

He couldn’t find a radio station that wasn’t airing opinions on both sides of the issue. All Thomas could hope was that everything would work as Brady had envisioned from the beginning and that millions would see what he wanted them to see—what Jesus endured for their sins.

At home, the matronly Nellie, who had agreed to stay until dawn, threw her hands up. “Talk some sense into her, will ya? I mean, I’ll be gone, but if I was here, I wouldn’t let her near that TV.”

Thomas asked Nellie to fix Grace a light supper, then went in to talk with his wife. He intended to let her know he was not going to allow this. But she had an impish look, and he had to smile.

“What in the world?” he said. “You’re not serious about this.”

“And you’re not going to deny me a last wish, are you?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not being morbid. I’m just saying that I’m asking for only this one thing, and I promise not to cross you on anything else as long as I live.”

“Gracie, you turn your head when I squash a bug. You can’t look when I’m emptying a mousetrap. When everyone else is craning their necks at an accident, you cover your eyes. Now you’re telling me you want to see a man die?”

“The last thing in the world I want is to see anyone die, Thomas.”

“I know, so—”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what he wants. Brady could have just taken the lethal injection, and justice would have been served. But God put it in his heart to show us something, to teach us something. Well, I think I need to see that too. When he was quoted about all the pretty pictures of the crucifixion, I knew exactly what he was talking about. If this will give me a truer picture of what it was really all about, I owe it to myself to see it.”

Where was the timid little thing Thomas married?

“Now, Thomas, the news says the phone lines are jammed with procrastinators who are just now trying to sign up for this thing. So it may take you a while. I’m a grown woman, and I’ve decided it’s what I want. If you won’t do it for me, bring me the phone.”

“I’ll do it,” he muttered.

Thomas skulked out into the kitchen, where Nellie was cooking. He dug out his credit card and gave her a sheepish look as he grabbed the phone.

“Wimp,” she said.

73

Death Row

“No TV tonight, brothers!” Skeet said. “Let the man think.”

All the TVs went off. Brady heard quiet conversations but nothing else. “Thanks, Skeet,” he whispered.

He lay on his back in the darkness, pleading with God to make this whole thing be about Jesus and not about himself. Brady found himself naturally petrified at the thought of dying.
Lord, don’t let that get in the way.

He knew he should sleep, but there was no way he would be able to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time. His mind raced. Occasionally he had to rise and pace.

About four in the morning, wide-awake, Brady suddenly found himself enveloped in an agonizing fear. He had been so immersed in all the memorizing and reciting that he had somehow shoved from his mind the stark reality of his fate. He was going to die and in one of the most horrible ways imaginable. He had no doubt he was right with God and that he would be with Jesus in heaven, but to be crucified . . . and he himself had insisted on this!

“God, give me peace!” he whispered, realizing when he heard sounds from nearby cells that he had awakened some of the others. He covered his mouth, but his chest was heavy, his throat full.

Could he really go through with this? It was coming too quickly; he had been rash. Everyone said so, even his lawyer. Could she be reached in time to slow this, even stop it? His point had been made, people had heard his message, knew what he was about, knew what Jesus had done for them. Sure, there would be those who would call him a charlatan, a coward, an attention seeker, but he didn’t care anymore.

He rolled out of bed and onto his knees on the cold floor. “Oh, God!” he cried out, unable to stifle himself. Suddenly Brady understood why Jesus had pleaded with His father to let “this cup” pass from Him. But Jesus had also insisted that His Father’s will, not His own, be done. Brady couldn’t do that, couldn’t say it, didn’t want to.

“I want out!” Brady said, sobbing. “God, please!”

He fell silent when he heard others rising from their beds, and he knew they stood at the fronts of their houses, watching, listening.

“We’re with you, man,” someone whispered.

“Yeah, Brady. Hang tough, bro.”

Then Skeet, voice coarse and diction poor: “If any of you wants to be My follower, you must turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross, and follow Me. If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for My sake, you will save it.”

The others tapped and rattled stuff against their cages, and Brady was overcome. He wept bitterly, pleading with God to give him the willingness Christ had exhibited in His darkest hour.

After nearly an hour of mental anguish, as his neighbors gently encouraged him with comments, scraping, rattling, Scripture verses, and even singing, Brady managed to rasp, “Not my will but Yours be done.”

As he collapsed back onto his cot, Brady realized he still had ninety minutes before first count and breakfast. He had been asked what he wanted for his last meal, and he had said he wanted what everyone else was having. The warden told him that was a first. Brady couldn’t imagine caring about food when you were about to die.

He rose and sat at his tiny table, sliding from the envelope his latest letter from Aunt Lois.

Brady,

We love you and we’re going to watch this thing only because you made us promise. I go back and forth between being mad because you made us say we would and knowing that we probably need to see it like everybody else.

Just know we’ll be praying for you all day. Carl and I will be there for the burial, but we know you’ll be in heaven. No word yet from your mama about whether she can make it. You never know.

We’re so proud of you, Brady. Just think, you’ll be with Petey soon. We’ll miss you, but we know we’ll see you again someday.

Love, Aunt Lois

With ten minutes to go before the officers came around for the count, Brady found himself jumpy. One knee was bouncing, and he just wanted to get on with this. He prayed he would be able to be like Jesus, who was at once submissive and authoritative, enduring what He had to endure, willing but not eager.

Brady slipped the latest tape from the chaplain’s wife into his player. He was alarmed at how weak and frail she sounded. She took deep breaths between phrases and long pauses between verses, but to Brady that made it only that much more poignant. Someone called out for him to turn it up.

King of my life, I crown You now,

Yours shall the glory be;

Lest I forget Your thorn-crowned brow,

Lead me to Calvary.

Show me the tomb where You were laid,

Tenderly mourned and wept;

Angels in robes of light arrayed,

Guarded You while You slept.

Let me, like Mary, through the gloom,

Come with a gift to You;

Show to me now the empty tomb,

Lead me to Calvary.

May I be willing, Lord, to bear

Daily my cross for You;

Even Your cup of grief to share,

You have borne all for me.

Lest I forget Gethsemane;

Lest I forget Your agony;

Lest I forget Your love for me;

Lead me to Calvary.

As soon as Brady was aware of the officers approaching, he moved to sit on his cot, ready to rise. But today, unlike every other day, there was no shouting or banging. In conversational tones the officers merely announced the count and moved somberly from cell to cell, noting that each man was alive and well.

“Morning, Brady,” one officer said, quickly looking away.

“How you doin’ today, man?” another said.

“Good luck today, or, you know . . .”

Brady just nodded to them.

The same happened when breakfast was delivered. No barking about standing back, no yelling at anyone. Brady had the feeling that this was what it would be like in an old-age home, staff just quietly making the rounds, delivering trays. The officers even seemed to open and shut the meal slot doors quietly, no small feat.

Not surprisingly, Brady was not hungry, and the food did not appeal. But he forced himself to eat and drink everything, knowing how difficult the task ahead would be.

Adamsville

Thomas had barely slept, while Grace was so quiet all night that he had checked three times to be sure she was breathing. She was either at peace about all this—sad as it was—or failing. He tried not to think about that.

He rose before dawn, knowing the day would be a scorcher. It had to be ninety degrees already, and the sun was just a pink hint on the horizon. Thomas had dreaded this day for so long, he didn’t know how he would get through it.

He began on his knees, then showered and shaved and dressed. Then he read his Bible and prayed again. Finally he went to tap on the den door, where Nellie was sleeping, but the door was open and the room empty. He heard her in the kitchen.

“Poached eggs and toast,” she said. “And I’ll stay till your daughter gets here.”

“Thanks, Nellie.”

“You sure you don’t want any day shift here?”

“No, Ravinia will be able to handle things. She’ll be here by eight or so. A woman from my office will be here by then too.”

Thomas had hoped to have breakfast in the bedroom with Grace, but she was still sleeping.

“I’ll keep hers warm,” Nellie said.

Thomas thanked her and headed out to the car. There, parked at the curb in front, was Dirk’s car, and he was asleep behind the wheel.

Thomas tapped lightly on the window, making Dirk jump.

“What’re you doing here?” Thomas said. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just got it in my head to take the morning off and watch this thing here, if that’s okay.”

“You know Rav is coming.”

Dirk nodded. “It might be a little awkward, but this just seems like the kind of thing you do with people you care about, know what I mean?”

“She know you’re coming?”

“I told her I probably would.”

“Well, go ahead on in. Nellie will fix you something. And I’ll see you later.”

The streets were deserted until Thomas reached the road leading to the penitentiary. Police were already having to direct traffic there, with satellite trucks jockeying for position and protesters emerging from tents and huddling around campfires. Their signs read, “Shame! Travesty! Pardon Brady!”

At the guardhouse, the officer ignored Thomas’s badge and merely patted him on the shoulder. “Parking lot’s full,” he said. “Anybody not sick or on vacation is on the job today. We left a cone in front of your spot. Just set it off to the side.”

Thomas was not surprised to find Frank LeRoy already in his office. What was a surprise was that he was wearing a new suit and had his shirt buttoned all the way up, tie tight at the neck. He clearly expected to be on TV today. He merely nodded as Thomas greeted him on the way by.