The Reservoir (29 page)

• CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX •

B
UT WHAT ARE
thirty-seven days? The waking hours Tommie spends in feverish activity—there is his life’s story to write, endless reading, and a stream of visitors, any one of whom might be the key to his salvation. The two pretty girls from Philadelphia who are curious—he lets them come by and talk for a few minutes. Perhaps one of them will see somebody who is friendly with the governor … He knows he should be concentrating more on his spiritual life, but while he is alive there is still hope.

Willie is now writing letters to every state legislator—a hundred and forty in all—asking them to request of the governor a further reprieve until the February session of the general assembly, at which time that body might recommend a further stay. He is also trying to get the Honorable John S. Wise to consider taking the case to the United States Supreme Court, and he has another meeting scheduled with the governor, at which he plans to ask him to personally visit his brother.

Then at night, all the ceaseless activity and clamor of the day dies away and Tommie is again alone in the dark, faced with the void. What is the point of sleep, when there is work to do, when he will most likely awaken sweating and terrified? Some nights he can fall right into a dreamless, uninterrupted sleep of several hours. But as one week is chipped away, and then another, he finds this harder to do. His head will pop up after what seems hours. Then he’ll lie back down and listen to the coils of the furnace hiss and rattle, and after a while all will be quiet again. Only his breathing for company and nothing to stop the image of the noose, dangling there in the darkness.

So many times in his life he has wanted things to come quickly—the trip to Richmond with his father seemed like it would never come, but finally it did. Going off to school and college, sleeping with a girl, with Lillian—with what a voracious, impetuous appetite he had craved these things and more. There was so much he wanted to see and do, and yet now it is all running out of his grasp. Only twice in his life has he wanted the clock to reverse itself: After the reservoir the days had spun out of control, and so had the hours after his little brother drowned. But now he finds himself in a carriage careening down a steep hill, a mad blindered horse galloping hell-bent for whatever lies at the bottom. His life can seem so paltry and insignificant, then suddenly so dear, and then he prays to God for peace in his heart.

Letters of support pour in during these last weeks, far outweighing the voices of those who say hanging is too good for him. Yet only twenty-four state legislators respond favorably; a few others write letters of sympathy, but say the case is out of their jurisdiction. The governor is disinclined to make a visit to the prisoner.

For his Christmas dinner Tommie eats heartily of roast turkey and ham, sweet potatoes, and plum pudding. The silver-tongued tenor Captain Frank Cunningham calls on Tommie that afternoon and entertains him with ballads and sacred songs. He sings “Annie Laurie” and “Home of the Soul,” and they seem to Tommie the most beautiful music he has ever heard. Cunningham is a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome brick of a man with flashing blue-green eyes and a firm handshake. Tommie shakes his hand for a long time, not wanting to let go.

“Please come again,” he says. “I want you to know that whatever anybody else says, I’m not guilty, and one day we’ll meet in heaven, and you’ll know it.” He wants to say more, but Cunningham seems more comfortable when he’s singing.

Then the days slip by, and it is the final week. And even those days dissolve away like snow falling in the river. Tommie’s parents want to come, but an ice storm makes the journey too hazardous. Out in the jail yard men are at work finishing the scaffold. Most of it has been constructed in a workshop in another part of the city, but the pieces have to be assembled on site and so the knocking and buzzing of hammers and saws carries up to the room where Tommie stands looking out at the shifting clouds. The colored prisoners below sing more fervently, drowning out the hammers with their own unleashed lament. Fights break out as the work goes on, and guards have to disperse the men back to their cells.

On Wednesday Cunningham calls again and sings for Tommie until late into the night. Jane comes for a final visit the next day, but can do little more than sit beside Tommie on the cot, holding his hand and looking at it as if to sear it on her memory.

“You’ve stood right by me, Aunt Jane,” he says. “And the Lord knows it.”

“What they’re doing is wrong, I don’t care if you’re guilty or not, it’s just wrong wrong wrong. But I won’t hold it against anybody, and, Tommie, hard as it is, neither should you.” That is as much as she can get out before the sobs constrict her throat.

“I don’t, Aunt Jane,” he says. “I can’t repay you, but will you take some of the money from the sale of my book and fix up the best garden you ever had? With lots of flowers? I’m sorry I won’t get to put one in for you this year.”

“I don’t need any garden, Tommie, but I’ll put one in if you want.”

“I’m giving my clothes and books to Willie, though the clothes probably won’t fit. I’d say give them to Ma and Daddy, but they’d just be sad. Willie finished paying off my buggy, so it’s his. I don’t have anything else much except my watch, which you can have back. Or find somebody to give it to.”

She seems relieved when Willie comes to take her back to her hotel. She kisses Tommie again and says she loves him, and then Willie holds her to keep her steady as she makes her way out of the room and down the steps. When Willie returns he says that he’s putting her on the early morning train.

For a long while Willie just sits beside his brother on the cot, as Aunt Jane had done. It’s much easier than having to look at each other. Finally Willie speaks. “I’m going to see the governor again this evening. And in the morning.”

Tommie makes no response. Then, “You get that contract with the Richmond and Chesapeake company?”

“Yeah, project could last two years.”

“I expect you’ll be wanting to get married.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I’ve heard there’s a young lady you’re awfully fond of.”

“You have, huh? I haven’t heard much about that.” Then, in a serious tone: “Her name’s Clara, Clara Allan. Her father’s a Presbyterian minister over in Manchester. She’s forming a unit of the Salvation Army. She’s been so helpful to me these past weeks, more than just about anybody. I’d’ve brought her around today, but she didn’t want to be in the way.”

“No, no, don’t bother her with me. I’d only scare her off. What a terrible way to meet a girl.”

“I’ve heard of worse.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” Willie laughs. “Well, maybe not.”

“Willie,” he says, “do you know Romans 8?”

“Remind me.”

“ ‘There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.’ That’s been a big comfort to me. But there are some things I need to tell you.”

“I’ll hear whatever you want to tell me and I’ll take it to my grave, and no matter what you say I’ll always love you.”

“I know that. But listen. I’ve always wanted more things than you, ever since we were little, so maybe you won’t understand me exactly. I wanted—I don’t know how to explain. I wanted everything and I wanted it right away, and when things didn’t go according to plan I had to blot it out, as if it wasn’t there, and then go on. When Charles died I just blotted him out of my mind, but I don’t think you did. And then you fell in love with Lillian, and I’d already been with women before but not in love and that made me want her. I think that was it at first, but then I did fall in love with her, but I hated myself for it at the same time. And when she got—when she got in trouble and moved away I tried to blot her out of my mind, but she wouldn’t let me go.

“I’ve had a good life, and I’m about ready to go. It’s just—”

“What?”

“It seems unfinished. I was looking out at the clouds before Aunt Jane came. They were sliding away to the east toward home, changing shape, and the sky was so blue I just wanted to fall into it and float away. I think I’ll be there in heaven waiting for you, Willie. I’ve prayed and prayed on it. Sometimes I’m scared, but I’m not scared to die, even if it hurts for a while. It’ll all be over soon—”

“There’s still hope,” Willie says, his jaw clenching. “It’s not over yet.”

Tommie puts his arm around his brother. “You did everything possible,” he says. “You’re going to be more successful than I ever could’ve been. I see that now. You’re like an ox—you just keep plowing on, and no stump gets in your way.”

“I’ve failed you though, brother.”

“No. I failed you.”

Willie shakes his head but will not look at his brother. Out in the yard, the hammering dies away, and the black voices are lifted on the wind and carried beyond the prison walls, heavenward. Neither of them speaks for a moment.

“Could you do me one more favor?” Tommie asks. “Tomorrow—I don’t want you to be there at the end. I don’t want you to see me like that.”

• CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN •

D
UNN COMES IN LATE
on the last night and offers Tommie a dram of whiskey; they sit together for an hour or so drinking and smoking cigars, Tommie mostly listening to Dunn talk about his wife and sons, one of whom has gotten into some trouble. Tommie has polished off a plate of beefsteak, cabbage, and slaw, followed by some ginger snaps, and still he finds himself not satisfied. Dunn sends out for more food; presently a boy returns with a plate of macaroni and grated cheese, with rolls.

“I feel alive again,” Tommie says. “I think I could eat an entire turkey right now.”

“Shall I send out for more then?”

“Only if you’d share it with me.”

Dunn, who often eats Tommie’s leftover desserts, says, “If they’d send up some of those pastry puffs I think I could oblige.”

Before Dunn finally leaves for the night he lingers at the door of Tommie’s cell. “Sir?” he says.

“What is it?” Tommie asks.

“When I was first to come out here, my wife told me to bring along a pistol because you might give me some trouble. After I saw what a small, well-mannered fellow you was, I went outside and had a right good laugh. I don’t think they gave you a fair trial atall, sir.”

After Dunn goes out Tommie tries to stay awake praying.
Lord, not as I will, but as thou wilt
. He falls asleep for an hour or two, but wakens before dawn and waits for the light to come once more to his window. He eats a few bites of bread and butter, then shaves and combs his hair and dresses in the black corkscrew twill suit that the jail has provided for him—a simple straight-back jacket and pants. Outside a gray mist is rising, giving way to a cold and clear morning, with bright blades of sun touching the snow and the rooftops and the distant hills.

Reverend Hatcher arrives, looking more careworn and depressed than Tommie has ever seen him. He asks if there is anything in particular Tommie wants to talk about. “I’d just like to pray with you,” Tommie says. “Until it’s time. And if you could give me a prayer to say on the gallows, that would be a big help.”

“I think you could say, ‘Lord Jesus receive my spirit.’ ”

Tommie nods and repeats it a few times. Then Willie arrives and says that the governor turned him down last night. “But I had the feeling he was seriously mulling it over in his mind,” he says. “I told him Judge Crump would come back in the morning. When he gets here I’ll see if he thinks I should go over there myself. Mr. Crump thought it was best not to apply too much pressure today, let him come to a decision on his own.”

Then he takes a closer look at his brother. “Where did you get that suit?”

“They gave it to me to wear.”

Willie’s brow furrows. “All right, then, dammit, if it has to be a black suit, I’ll send out for one. You don’t have to wear that.” An hour later a man comes back with a diagonal-weave black suit with a cutaway coat.

Meanwhile, friends new and old come by and shake hands with Tommie, until he begins to feel as if he were going on a great trip. But the person he most wants to see is Crump, with news of a reprieve.

Suddenly it’s noon, and Tommie thanks everyone for coming and asks if he can be alone now with his brother and Reverend Hatcher and Captain Cunningham. He gets down on his knees on the bare wood floor, facing the window, Willie kneeling alongside him. Hatcher comes and stands with his Bible on the other side of Tommie. Cunningham positions himself near the door, singing softly.

“Blessed are they that mourn,” Hatcher says, “for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.” And Tommie opens his eyes and sees the sun edging around a cloud and glinting in through the top of the window so brightly he has to shut his eyes again, the afterimage a purple orb pulsing beyond the bars.

“Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”

Tommie feels afraid, for the first time, of the pain. Would it end? A cold sweat trickles from his armpits.
Lord Jesus receive my spirit
.

“God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.” Then Hatcher touches Tommie’s shoulder and says, “We humbly beseech thee, Lord, to look upon thy servant now in this his hour of supreme affliction, and grant him thy tender mercy when human friendship and sympathy is unavailing. O God, we commit his spirit into thy hands.”

At twelve-thirty, Crump returns with word that the governor has declined to interfere. Willie gets up. He embraces his brother one more time and says simply, “Good-bye.” Then he hurries from the jail and strides briskly, not seeing anything, back to his hotel room, where friends are waiting.

Crump takes his leave. Then Dunn comes in and asks Tommie if he doesn’t want to relieve himself one more time. “I think that’s a good idea,” Tommie says. When he’s finished, Dunn and Hatcher and Cunningham step back in, and presently an officer comes to the room. Tommie holds his hands out while the sergeant ties them at the wrists. Only now does he notice that his knees are, and have been, trembling violently. Then Dunn places Willie’s black derby on Tommie’s head and they start off.

At the stairs they’re joined by two deputies, and the procession moves forward, past the other prisoners, locked in their cells. Tommie bids many of them farewell, though most are new to him since his confinement on the second floor. “Rock of ages,” Cunningham sings, “cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee.” When they are out in the yard, he shakes Tommie’s tethered hand and leaves.

A few steps on, a great shout arises from a flock of thousands, as they catch sight of the prisoner. The hanging is supposed to be closed to the public, but scores have talked their way past the guards, claiming one special privilege or another. In the jail yard, Charles Meredith mills with cronies, making the most of a final chance for a boost from the Cluverius case into the lieutenant governor’s office. And on the hills and housetops beyond the walls, multitudes have gathered as though for a miracle. Lithe young men have staked out perches in trees; others, affixing spurs to their shoes, have clambered up telegraph poles. Standing room on rooftops is sold out, the roofs sagging dangerously under the weight of gawkers passing telescopes and field glasses.

Tommie turns his eyes on the ground, and, when he looks up, it’s to the sun. There in the middle of the yard is the platform—from the crossbar hangs the rope that has been waiting for him all his life. As though he has rehearsed it, he walks steadily behind the sergeant, toward the steps. Someone says something about olive oil, and a cold knot slipping better with grease, but the words are strands of gossamer.

He and the sergeant climb up, Hatcher and Dunn following. Dunn comes forward and takes Willie’s hat, and the sergeant begins placing a black silk cap over his head. “I’d prefer to wear my own hat,” Tommie says. The sergeant hesitates, then shrugs and puts the derby back on.

Life is so futile, he thinks. But there had been moments of such startling beauty that the veil of the eternal had briefly slipped and you could see that heaven was real. A frog, a brilliant green gem with ruby splotches on its back—he had caught it and watched its eyes, its pulsing throat, he put it in a bowl with some greenery that might be its food and covered it. But the next day it was dead, its lustre gone—he was sorry now he had captured it.

It’s all a trick to make me confess. I’ll step onto the trapdoor, and just before they pull the bolt the sergeant will announce I’ve been given a stay
.

The sergeant reads the death warrant, after which Hatcher begins praying, but Tommie cannot make out the words. There is a roaring larger than life coming from inside his head—a river in flood crashing into the ocean. And then there is perfect stillness and clarity.

“For his anger endureth but a moment,” Hatcher says, “in his favor is life; weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning …”

Tommie is standing now over the square door, looking at his feet. He had meant to take a final look at the sun, but he can feel it on his back. In the sky above, a buzzard circles—then he sees it’s a gas balloon, as if from a dream, and he imagines it’s there to bear him aloft. All the people out there—they’ve gathered not just to gape, he realizes, but so that he won’t have to die alone. There is nothing more they can do for him. Hatcher finishes his prayer, and the sergeant asks Tommie if he has anything to say.

Tommie pauses, then leans to Hatcher and whispers in his ear: “Tell them I bear no ill will toward anyone in the world.” He sniffs in.

Hatcher clears his throat and repeats the words to the people assembled in the yard.

“Is that all?” Hatcher asks Tommie.

“Yes,” Tommie says. And in a voice that only Hatcher can hear he says, “Please try to comfort those at home, and give them my love.”

“God bless you,” Hatcher says.

Then Tommie bows his head again and waits. His legs are bound together below the knees. He looks out and sees, on the hill outside the yard, a little yellow-haired girl in a white dress, standing, watching, waiting for him. He thinks of Lillian once more, smiling up at him with love.
We belong together forever and ever
. The rope is placed over his head, the noose tightened.
Thy will be done
. There in the yard is Justice Richardson, standing at attention in his blue uniform and tall derby, looking at Tommie with an expression of grave certainty. Tommie closes his eyes.

A wind whips over the prison walls, swirls through the yard, and snatches at Tommie’s hat. He can sense a hand upon his head, the hat secured, and Dunn’s voice: “Good-bye, sir.”

Now he wishes his brother were there to make sure he is all right. He doesn’t want to suffer. But it’s too late for that.

Lord Jesus receive my spirit
.

The door springs open and Tommie shoots through space. He bounces, spins around to his right, then to his left, then back again, as the rope stretches. His weight not enough to jerk the knot tighter, he hangs as much by his chin as his neck, the loop up around his ear on one side and digging into his neck on the other. His hat tips over his eyes. He kicks and kicks, trying to launch himself into the next world, his feet nearly touching the ground. But nothing happens. Minutes go by, hours. The world weeps. Aunt Jane, his parents, himself a boy on a journey away from home—all watch through frosted glass, waiting, hoping, the pale winter sun unmoving. Then he kicks furiously against the fire in his lungs, the exquisite pain in his loins, the release, birds fluttering up around him, his blameless heart racing against itself and the insult to its strength, his throat struggling under a fence in a far field, the weight of his life hanging from him, his head dying to explode. Somehow unable to break through.
Willie leaning over him, waiting, waiting
 … 
Lift me up, Willie
 … 
Save me
 … 
Pull me out
 …

And then he is free somehow, the rope loosened, his breathing restored, and the water of the river lapping over him is cool, the most beautiful feeling in the universe, carrying him downstream toward home, the green trees overhead and beyond them the deepest sparkling blue sky he has ever known …