Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

“Listen, I gotta know. Was it Willie sent you? Willie Parks?”

“Shush,” the chaplain said nervously, looking at the strolling guard. “Let us not speak of earthly matters...”

“It is Willie,” Finlay breathed. “I knew Willie wouldn’t let me down.” As the chaplain opened his little black book, he grinned and leaned back on the cot. “Go on, pal, I’m listening.”

“The Bible tells us to have courage, my son,” the chaplain said meaningfully. “The Bible tells us to keep faith in ourselves, our friends, and our Lord. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Finlay said.

That night, he slept well for the first time since his imprisonment. In the morning, he asked for the chaplain again, and the guard raised an eyebrow at the sudden conversion. When the little man arrived, Finlay smiled broadly at him and said: “What’s the Bible say this morning, chaplain?”

“It speaks of hope,” the chaplain said gravely. “Shall we read it together?”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.”

The chaplain read a lengthy passage, and Finlay began to stir restlessly. Then, just as he was about to explode with impatience, the chaplain handed the small book over, and Finlay saw the written message in the binding:

Everything’s set.

The chaplain smiled at the prisoner, patted his shoulder, and called the guard.

On the beginning of what was officially his last day on earth, Finlay was visited by his attorney, a small man with a perennially moist upper lip. He had nothing to offer in the way of hope for commutation of the sentence, and Finlay gathered that his visit was merely to satisfy the contract. He seemed surprised by the condemned man’s congeniality, a sharp contrast to the hostility he had shown before. In the afternoon, the prison warden came by and asked Finlay again if he cared to reveal the name of his accomplice in the murder of the storekeeper, but Finlay merely smiled and wanted to know if he could see the chaplain. The warden pursed his lips and sighed. At six that evening, the chaplain returned.

“How’s it gonna work?” Finlay whispered to him. “Do I crash outa here, or—”

“Shush,” the little man warned. “We must trust a Higher Power.”

Finlay nodded, and then they read the Bible together.

At ten-thirty that night, two guards entered Finlay’s cell and performed the ugly duties of shaving his head and slitting the cuffs of his trousers. The ceremony made him nervous, and he began to doubt that his escape was ordained. He started to rave and demanded to see the chaplain; the little man appeared hurriedly and talked to him in quiet, firm tones about faith and courage. As he spoke, he placed a folded slip of paper into the boy’s hands; Finlay swiftly hid it under the blanket of his cot. When he was alone once more, he opened the note and read it. It said:

Last-minute escape

Finlay spent the rest of the time tearing the note into the tiniest possible shreds and spreading them around the floor of the cell.

At five minutes to eleven, they came for him. The two guards flanked him, and the warden took up the rear. The chaplain was permitted to walk beside him all the way to the green metal door at the end of the corridor. Just before they entered the room, with its silent audience of reporters and observers, the chaplain bent toward him and whispered:

“You’ll be meeting Willie soon.”

Finlay winked and allowed the guards to lead him to the chair. As they strapped him in, his features were calm. Before the hood was dropped over his face, he smiled.

After the execution, the warden asked to see the chaplain in his office.

“I suppose you heard about Finlay’s accomplice, Willie Parks. He was shot and killed this afternoon.”

“Yes, I did. Rest his poor soul.”

“Strange, how Finlay took it all so calmly. He was a wild man before you started working on him. What did you do to that boy, chaplain?”

The chaplain put his fingertips together, his expression benign.

“I gave him hope,” he said.

I started to give Sidney Castille my usual rappity-rap. “This is Jack Beatts,” I said, “with the Grief Protection Unit of the county coroner’s office...”

That was as far as I got before he hung up.

Sidney’s wife, Dawn, had died two days before in a freak accident. He’d found her with a broken neck and her copy of Vince Mattrone’s 30-day Yoga Actualizing Plan lying on the floor beside her. It was open to the section on headstands.

I’d called him because it was my job. After the death certificates are signed, they’re sent to me or one of the other grief counsellors so we can get in touch with the victim’s families.

As soon as Sidney hung up, I knew he was out of touch with his feelings. He was in the first phase of the grief cycle — what we psychologists call the stage of “disbelief and denial.” He was refusing to deal with death.

That’s normal and that’s okay, but I wanted Sidney to know he had alternatives. I had things I could share with him. So I decided to pay him a visit.

I meditated a few minutes to get myself centered and then I drove my Volkswagen over to Sidney’s house on Bay Laurel Lane. It was a typical northern California redwood house set back from the road in a grove of eucalyptus. Smoke was coming out of the chimney.

As I got closer, I could see the living room through sliding glass doors that opened onto a deck. Several cats prowled in the room like tigers in a forest. Dozens of plants hung from the ceiling and took up most of the floor space as well. There was nothing to sit on but oversized cushions.

On the far wall of the room was a fireplace with a pile of books in front of it. A man was squatting there, burning the books, feeding them one by one into the fireplace.

“Sidney?” I said. “I’m Jack Beatts from...”

“Oh, yes, the man from the coroner’s office.”

He let me in and waved me to a cushion, but he didn’t seem pleased about it. In fact, he went right back to feeding the fire.

“Sidney,” I said, “I’m going to be up front with you. When you hung up, I sensed I’d better get over here right away.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I guess I panicked when you said ‘coroner’s office.’ ”

“A lot of people are uptight about that. But I’m going to ask you to forget about the bureaucracy and just be open with me.”

“I guess we may as well get it over with.” He put a copy of Zen Flesh, Zen Bones in the fireplace and turned around to face me. A tear rolled down each cheek.

“That’s it, Sidney,” I said. “Flow with it. Experience your feelings.”

“You talk like Dawn.”

“I know how it is, Sidney. Everything reminds you of her, doesn’t it? But that’s okay at this stage. I don’t want you to be negative about it.”

“Negative!” he snorted. “What am I supposed to...”

“I’ll bet those are Dawn’s books you’re burning.” He nodded. “And it looks like you’re about to take the cats to the pound. You’re getting rid of everything that reminds you of Dawn, aren’t you?”

Tears came into his eyes again. “I couldn’t take it any more, Mr. Beatts. I never should have married her in the first place.”

“I know where you’re coming from, Sidney. You felt inadequate because you were a lot older than Dawn, right?”

“She was twenty-two,” he said, “and looking for a Daddy. A rich daddy. And I was just lonely, I guess. I picked her up hitchhiking on my way out here from Ohio after my first wife died.” He winced. “But she died of natural causes.”

“Death is natural, Sidney. I mean life is a circle, you know? I want you to choose to recognize that. And if burning books is what’s happening for you, I don’t want you to feel guilty behind it. Just acknowledge that it’s okay.”