Robert Coover - Public Burning

The two matrons accompanying her — Helen Evans and Lucy Many — hesitate. Ethel turns to them, smiles warmly, shakes Mrs. Evans’s hand and kisses her cheek, shakes Mrs. Many’s hand — they flee, genuinely touched, dabbing at their eyes with clutched handkerchiefs. Then, unassisted, Ethel walks directly to the electric chair and plumps herself down in it with all the familiarity of a daily commuter taking her seat in the subway. Her husband’s voice meanwhile, accompanied by friendly street noises from the Lower East Side of their childhood, is speaking of June and love and how happy they were as young radicals, first as lovers and students, then as man and wife…. “ I look up at the calendar and June 18th catches my eye — hoir vividly I remember that lovely Sunday in June! We were so full of joie de vivre, so happy and so much in love — I never dreamed I could love anyone so much! Remember the photos from our honeymoon at Spring Glen? In many ways, my bunny, you are prettier and lovelier now even than then!” She shifts her body to make it easier for the guards strapping her in, helping them place the leather bands across her chest and lap, smiling at their embarrassed awkwardness. She is so tiny she had to scoot down in the seat for her feet to reach the footrests and the electrode there. “And the many wonderful summers we spent together — do you recall our summer vacations with the boys? Can you picture all of us together in the country or at the beach? You carrying Robbie on your back and Michael on my back, and the big race was on. Do you remember the procession when it came time for the little one to be put to bed? You led the way holding his feet. I held his shoulders and Michael marched in the middle with his brother’s back resting on his head. By now it seems so far away, but the beauty of it lingers…. Gosh, how sad without you…” Up on the Claridge, Julius is zooming the little one through the prison visiting room like an airplane. Ethel tips her head to one side to help the Executioner attach the electrode to the shaved place on her scalp, wincing briefly when the wet sponge touches it. Her husband’s voice has begun to whine…. “The days are lonely, sweetheart, and the dark long nights are empty without you. Many times during the day I ask myself over and over why and I have to put it out of my mind because it doesn’t make sense. Somehow it seems so long ago that I saw you and everything is strange and distant. An empty feeling grips me and everything seems so unreal and out of focus. Tears fill my eyes as I —” She shakes her head as though shuddering and interrupts him. When his voice returns, it is once again deep and proud and reassuring: “You and I must steel ourselves, my love, although our hearts are breaking: the approaching darkest hour of our trial and the grave peril that threatens us require every effort on our part to avoid hysterics and false heroics! We will have to call on the great strength of the solid union of our hearts and souls to find the stamina to face what is in store for us!” Her smile returns. She watches the guards strap her arms in, flexing her fingers to show them she’s comfortable. “We can face the lies, the pain and even death, as long as we are united in heart and soul, in love and truth. What we are and all that we have no one can take away from us even though they keep us apart and threaten us with death. And come what may I am sure that our name will eventually be cleared… .” She looks straight ahead at all the people in the special section down front as the black strap is placed across her mouth, gazing at them above the leather gag without hatred, without malice, but not letting them forget either what they are doing to her. Her eyes are open and shining brightly as the black leather hood comes down, covering her face. “Be of good courage,” the rabbi is saying huskily, “and He shall strengthen your heart.” Above her Julius and the boys are looking through a barred window at a tugboat pulling a string of barges on the Hudson River. “Nobody welcomes suffering, honey, but as long as we do the right thing by our children and the good people of the world, nothing else matters!” The guards exit. Warden Denno checks the connections. Up on the Claridge, her sons are being taken to a baseball game. Executioner Francel returns to his alcove. “Oh my darling, how beautiful you look! I want to sit beside you, my love, stroke your hair, I want to look into your eyes while I hold your hands in mine. Ethel, you are just my girl and nothing on earth can change that. I can only say that life has been worthwhile because you have been beside me. Good night, sweet woman! I caress you tenderly and send all my love. I am happy that you have made my life so—“

There is a sudden harsh metallic rattle, as before, and Ethel leaps against the straps, her body lifting clear of the seat, her dress fluttering as though caught in a wind, her hands balling into fists. Again there’s the odor of burning meat and smoke curling up from her scalp, as her body temperature pitches up to 140 degrees. Francel opens the switch and she falls back into the chair like a soft Raggedy Ann doll with its face wiped away. Before the crowds can swallow and catch their breath, Francel pulls the long handle again, holds it, releases it, then pulls it down again, her delicate white throat gorged twice over by the driving current, her body plunging against the leather straps each time, the air filled with a fierce crackling whine: they’ve heard it six times now, but it’s not something you can get used to. Then, as suddenly, it is over. Her body slaps limply back into the chair, all its poise, all its proud strength and compelling tension expunged.

Executioner Francel glances out briefly at the body from his alcove. Then, wiping his hands with a dustcloth, he makes a cursory examination of his switch panel and prepares to shut the system down. A guard steps forward, brushes his hand in front of his face as though sweeping away something unpleasant, and unbuckles the black leather strap binding Ethel’s breasts. She’s fallen so limp now: she seems almost childlike. While a second guard proceeds to unstrap her arms and legs, the two prison doctors approach, extracting their stethoscopes. Out front, there is a soft rustle and a deep communal sigh, as the people settle back, gazing around them as though in some surprise at finding themselves where they are, exchanging perfunctory but sympathetic church-lawn smiles, murmured remarks, a few whispered jokes — just to loosen up a little — about what they have seen, or think they might have seen. Someone points up at the clock on the Paramount Building and they all watch the second hand sweep past the uppermost star: 8:13. Just in time. The Sabbath has begun. You have to credit Uncle Sam, they all agree. The houselights are already starting to come up. Newsmen have left their places and arc running, as they have been assigned to do, toward the bank of telephones inside the Times Tower to cable their stories in, although above them the news of Ethel’s death is already being flashed around the tower in moving lights. Up at the far ends of the VIP aisles, Paddy and Bobo are already in their fighting togs, puffing and snorting and punching the air, warming up for the big fight due to begin shortly.

The guard unstrapping Ethel’s limbs apologizes to the doctors for holding them up and steps out of their way, leaving one leg still bound. Dr. Kipp routinely rips her dress open down the front, and Dr. Mc-Cracken applies his stethescope to her bare chest. It seems to take him longer than usual. He frowns and asks Dr. Kipp to have a listen.

What’s happening? An uneasy murmur ripples through the crowd. Warden Denno and Marshal Carroll look startled. Herb Brownell is on his feet, Irving Saypol as well, Tom Clark, some of the jurors — the President gropes absently for his field glasses and, not finding them, grabs Brownell’s elbow instead: what’s wrong? The people look up at the images of the Rosenberg boys being projected onto the Claridge, but the film has got caught in the projector, and all they see is a frozen shot of Ebbetts Field with a gaping hot hole in the center, melting its way horrifically out toward the edges—