Robert Coover - Public Burning

“This woman,” gasps the doctor, “is still alive!”

Now they’re all up on their feet! This is impossible! Executioner Francel steps out of his alcove scratching his head in stupid bewilderment. “Want another?” he asks, but he seems confused, indecisive. The Warden, too, seems to have lost the initiative, and the doctors, thrown into this ad lib situation, are lost. There’s but a moment’s hesitation — long enough to reflect perhaps that it’s too late, the Sabbath has already begun — and then, as a gaunt hoary figure rises up from the front-and-center section in his familiar star-spangled plug hat to cry, “A little more grape, Captain Bragg!” , they all rush forward, led by young Dick Nixon, followed by Joe McCarthy, Herb Brownell, Bill Knowland, Lyndon Johnson, Foster Dulles and Allen, Engine Charlie, and Estes Kefauver, virtually the entire VIP section, scrambling up over the side of the stage, fighting for position as though their very future depended on it, racing for the switch — it’s hard to tell who gets his hands on it first, maybe the Vice President with his head start, maybe Francel himself, or young Senator Kennedy, more athletic than most, or perhaps all of them at once, but whoever or how many, they throw themselves on it with such force they snap the thing clean off! The guard nearest the chair, seeing what was about to happen, has been frantically trying to belt Ethel up again, but he only gets one of the straps done up, and loosely at that, when the charge hits, hurling him backwards off the stage and cutting a wide swath through the VIPs as he flies by. Ethel Rosenberg’s body, held only at head, groin, and one leg, is whipped like a sail in a high wind, flapping out at the people like one of those trick images in a 3-D movie, making them scream and duck and pray for deliverance. Her body, sizzling and popping like firecrackers, lights up with the force of the current, casting a flickering radiance on all those around her, and so she burns — and burns — and burns — as though held aloft by her own incandescent will and haloed about by all the gleaming great of the nation—

“You shall know, my sons, shall know

why we leave the song unsung,

the book unread, the work undone

to rest beneath the sod…”

It was her voice. She was singing her poem, the one she’d written when the year began. I could hear her outside the spare-room window…

“Mourn no more, my sons, no more

why the lies and smears were framed,

the tears we shed, the hurt we bore

to all shall be proclaimed…”

Ah, tears, hurt: what did she know? I sat inside on the carpeted floor, curled up in the dark, there among all those dog biscuits and blankets, kennels, knitted sweaters, and rubber bones that the American people in their love and simplicity had sent to Checkers, whimpering softly to myself, nuzzling the curtains, scratching my itches, feeling sick and bitter and hairy and abused. I’d worked myself ill over this thing, and where had it got me? Cast out. Disgraced. Triped and fell on and kiked in the side — oh Jesus, I felt a pain all over…

“Earth shall smile, my sons, shall smile

and green above our resting place,

the killing end, the world rejoice

in brotherhood and peace…”

I hadn’t stayed around after for Uncle Sam’s new instant-replay gimmick or for the boxing or wedding ceremonies, I’d had all I could take for one night, and besides I smelled too bad — instead I’d dashed off to that country-club boodle banquet in New Jersey, hoping to lose myself in the smoke of old-fashioned backroom politicking. But I hadn’t been able to get up any appetite for that shit either, I’d just sat there amid all those beaming fatsos, part of the waxworks, feeling ugly, very low-down and smarmy and ugly, deep in post-crisis fatigue, suffering their smirks and grimaces and thinking: Ah fuck, I’ve done it again. No matter how many times I warn myself, no matter how many goddamn notes I write myself or how many quotations I copy out, I always forget: the point of greatest danger is not in preparing to meet the crisis or fighting the fucking battle — it occurs after the crisis of battle is over. It is then, with all his emotional resources shot to shit and his guard down, that a guy can easily, if confronted with another battle, even a minor skirmish, blow it.

When I got home I was very sore, feeling restless and troubled. I’d wanted to talk about it all somehow with Pat, but she’d been busy with the girls, still up and overexcited apparently by all the big-city entertainments, and she’d looked completely pooped. Of course, she always looked pooped, it was her way of advertising to the world what a joy it was to be married to me, but tonight there was something zombielike in her eyes that hinted at a final turning-off, an end of the road. She’d only had one thing to say to me all night. That was when I’d collapsed into my seat beside her at the burnings after having had to run the gauntlet of the VIP aisles from the Whale’s mouth. I’d been close to tears. I’d wanted her to hug me close and comfort me. Instead, she’d patted my hand absently and, staring blankly up at the electric chair, had said: “That was a nice speech, dear.”

Now she’d come into the bedroom where I’d just commenced to get undressed, thinking to take a bath, and had asked flatly: “What does ‘I am a scamp’ mean, Dick?”

“How the hell should I know?” I’d yelped. I was still very jumpy.

“I don’t know. But it’s written there on your backside,” she’d said.

“What—?!!” I’d turned my butt toward a mirror: sure enough, there it was, in big greasy red letters, still more or less legible though badly smeared. “Ah…well…that!” A moustache too, stuck there on one cheek, that one I’d bought for a disguise — I’d wondered where I’d lost the damned thing. All the time, feeling it pasted back there, I’d thought I’d somehow fouled myself. I’d snatched it away irritably and pulled my pants back up: “It’s, uh, it’s my enemies, Pat…they—”

But Pat had already left the room: she was back in the bathroom picking up Julie, who’d fallen asleep on the toilet. I’d chased after her, holding my pants up, feeling hurt and misunderstood. Hated even: Jesus Christ, what an anniversary…! She’d brushed past me impatiently, carrying Julie into the girls’ bedroom, and I’d followed. Tricia was in there, jumping about in little circles with her hands over her eyes, singing out: “Help, help, the Phantom’s got me!” Checkers was bounding at her heels, yapping and wagging his tail.

“Pat!” I’d cried. “Listen to me! It’s not what you think!” It had welled up in me: that new fondness for her I’d been feeling ever since the near-betrayal. “I did it for the nation, Pat! For the Party!” I’d be nowhere without her, I knew. She was the only one I trusted, the only one I loved — I needed her, couldn’t she see that? “I did it for you , Pat! For us!” But she’d acted like I didn’t even exist. I’d recalled suddenly that game we used to play when we were just engaged: “Hey, look, Pat! Rrowf! Snort! Gr-r-roww-ff!” I’d squatted down and hunched my shoulders, roughed up my hair, bared my teeth, and gone lumbering about the room, barking and yelping and rolling my eyes up at Pat and Tricia. If I’d had a tail, I would have wagged it.

“Oh, Dick, grow up,” Pat had snapped irritably.

“I don’t wanna play monsters, Daddy,” Tricia had whined, breaking into tears. “I wanna play Run, Sheep, Run with Mommy!”

“We’re not playing anything, young lady. Your Daddy’s leaving this room right now and you’re going nighty-night! It’s very late! Now get your pajamas on!”