3
Hallas stopped and put his face in his hands. At last he lowered them.
"Are you all right, George?" Bradley asked.
"Thirsty is all. I'm not used to talking so much. There's very little call for conversation on Death Row."
I waved my hand at McGregor. He took out his earbuds and stood up. "All finished, George?"
Hallas shook his head. "There's a lot more."
Bradley said, "My client would like a drink of water, Mr. McGregor. Is that possible?"
McGregor went to the intercom by the door to the monitoring station and spoke into it briefly. Bradley took the opportunity to ask Hallas just how big Mary Day Grammar School had been.
He shrugged. "Small town, small school. There couldn't have been more than a hundred and fifty kids, grades one to six."
The door of the monitoring room opened. A hand appeared, holding a paper cup. McGregor took it and brought it over to Hallas. He drank greedily and said thank you.
"Very welcome," McGregor said. He went back to his chair, replaced the earbuds, and once more lost himself in whatever he was listening to.
"And this kid--the bad little kid--was a carrottop? A real carrottop?"
"Hair like a neon sign."
"So if he'd gone to your school, you would have recognized him."
"Yes."
"But you didn't, and he didn't."
"No. I never saw him there before, and never afterward."
"So how did he get the Jacobs girl's lunchbox?"
"I don't know. But there's a better question."
"What would that be, George?"
"How did he get away from that hackberry bush? There was nothing but lawn on either side. He was just gone."
"George?"
"Yes?"
"Are you sure there really was a kid?"
"Her lunchbox, Mr. Bradley. It was in the street."
I don't doubt that, Bradley thought, tapping his Uniball on his legal pad. It would have been if she'd had it all along.
Or (here was a nasty thought, but nasty thoughts were par for the course when you were listening to the bullshit story of a child-killer) maybe you had her lunchbox, George. Maybe you took it from her and threw it into the street to tease her.
Bradley looked up from his pad and saw from his client's expression that what he was thinking might as well have been on a Teletype strip going across his forehead. He felt his face warming up.
"Do you want to hear the rest? Or have you already made up your mind?"
"Not at all," Bradley said. "Continue. Please."
Hallas drank the rest of his water, and took up his tale.
4
For five years or more I dreamed about that bad little kid with the carroty hair and the beanie cap, but eventually the dreams went away. Eventually I got to a place where I believed what you must believe, Mr. Bradley: that it was just an accident, that Mrs. Peckham's accelerator really did stick, as they sometimes will, and if there was a kid over there, teasing her . . . well, kids do tease sometimes, don't they?
My dad finished his job for the Good Luck Company and we moved up to eastern Kentucky, where he went to work doing much the same thing as he had in Alabama, only on a grander scale. Plenty of mines in that part of the world, you know. We lived in the town of Ironville long enough for me to finish high school. In my sophomore year, just for a lark, I joined the Drama Club. People would laugh if they knew, I suppose. A little mousy fellow like me, who made a living doing tax returns for small businesses and widows, acting in things like No Exit? Talk about Walter Mitty! But I did, and I was good. Everyone said so. I thought I might even have a career in acting. I knew I was never going to be a leading man, but someone has to play the president's economic adviser, or the bad guy's second-in-command, or the mechanic who gets killed in the first reel of a movie. I knew I could play parts like that, and I thought people might actually hire me. I told my dad I wanted to major in drama when I got to college. He said okay, great, go for it, just make sure you have something to fall back on. I went to Pitt, where I majored in theater arts and minored in business administration.
The first play I was cast in was She Stoops to Conquer, and that's where I met Vicky Abington. I was Tony Lumpkin and she was Constance Neville. She was a beautiful girl with masses of curly blond hair, very thin and high-strung. Far too beautiful for me, I thought, but eventually I got up enough nerve to ask her out for coffee. That was how it began. We'd sit for hours in Nordy's--that's the hamburger joint in Pitt Union--and she'd pour out all her troubles, which mostly had to do with her dominating mother, and tell me about her ambitions, which were all about the theater, especially serious theater in New York. Twenty-five years ago there still was such a thing.
I knew she got pills at the Nordenberg Wellness Center--maybe for anxiety, maybe for depression, maybe for both--but I thought, That's just because she's ambitious and creative, probably most really great actors and actresses take those pills. Probably Meryl Streep takes those pills, or did before she got famous in The Deer Hunter. And you know what? Vicky had a great sense of humor, which is something many beautiful women seem to lack, especially if they suffer from the nervous complaint. She could laugh at herself, and often did. She said being able to do that was the only thing that kept her sane.
We were cast as Nick and Honey in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and got better reviews than the kids who played George and Martha. After that we weren't just coffee buddies, we were a couple. Sometimes we made out in a dark corner of the Union, although those sessions often ended with her crying and saying she knew she wasn't good enough, she'd fail at acting just like her mother said she would. One night--this was after the cast party for Deathtrap, our junior year--we had sex. It was the only time. She said she loved it, it was wonderful, but I guess it wasn't. Not for her, anyway, because she'd never do it again.
In the summer of 2000, we stayed on campus because there was going to be a summer production of The Music Man in Frick Park. It was a huge deal because Mandy Patinkin was going to direct it. Vicky and I both tried out. I wasn't a bit nervous, because I didn't expect to get anything, but that show had become the biggest thing in Vicky's life. She called it her first step to stardom, saying it the way people do when they're joking but not really. We were called in by sixes, each of us holding a card saying the part we were most interested in, and Vicky was shaking like a leaf while we waited outside the rehearsal hall. I put my arm around her and she quieted, but just a little. She was so white her makeup looked like a mask.
I went in and handed over my wish-card with Mayor Shinn written on it, because that's a smallish part in the show, and damned if I didn't end up getting the lead role--Harold Hill, the charming con man. Vicky tried out for Marian Paroo, the librarian who gives piano lessons. She's the female lead. She read all right, I thought--not great, not her best, but all right. Then came the singing.
It was Marian's big number. If you don't know it, it's this very sweet and simple song called "Goodnight, My Someone." She'd sung it for me--a capella--half a dozen times, and she was perfect. Sweet and sad and hopeful. But that day in the rehearsal hall, Vicky screwed the pooch. That girl was just clench-your-fists-and-close-your-eyes awful. She couldn't find her note and had to start again not once but twice. I could see Patinkin getting impatient, because he had half a dozen other girls waiting to read and sing. The accompanist was rolling her eyes. I wanted to punch her right in her stupid, horsey face.
By the time Vicky finished, she was trembling all over. Mr. Patinkin thanked her, and she thanked him, all very polite, and then ran. I caught up with her before she could get out of the building and told her she had been great. She smiled and thanked me and said we both knew better. I said that if Mr. Patinkin was as good as everyone said, he'd look past her nerves and see what a great actress she was. She hugged me and said I was her best friend. Besides, she said, there will be other shows. Next time I'll take a Valium before I try out. I was just afraid it wou
ld change my voice, because I've heard that some pills can do that. Then she laughed and said, But how much worse could it be than it was today? I said I'd buy her an ice cream at Nordy's, she said that sounded good, and off we went.
We were walking down the sidewalk, hand in hand, which made me remember all the times I walked back and forth to Mary Day Grammar holding hands with Marlee Jacobs. I won't say those thoughts summoned him, but I won't say they didn't, either. I don't know. I only know that some nights I lie awake in my cell, wondering.
I guess she was feeling a little better, because as we walked along she was talking about what a great Professor Hill I'd make, when someone yelled at us from the other side of the street. Only it wasn't a yell; it was a donkey bray.
GEORGE AND VICKY UP IN A TREE! F-U-C-K-I-N-G!
It was him. The bad little kid. Same shorts, same sweater, same orange hair sticking out from under that beanie with the plastic propeller on top. Over ten years had passed and he hadn't aged a day. It was like being thrown back in time, only now it was Vicky Abington, not Marlee Jacobs, and we were on Reynolds Street in Pittsburgh instead of School Street in Talbot, Alabama.
What in the world, Vicky said. Do you know that boy, George?
Well, what was I going to say to that? I didn't say anything. I was so far beyond surprise I couldn't even open my mouth.
You act like shit and you sing worse! he shouted. CROWS sing better than you do! And you're UGLEEE! UGLEE VICKEE is what you are!
She put her hands over her mouth, and I remember how big her eyes were, and how they were filling up with tears all over again.
Suck his dink, why don't you? he shouted. That's the only way an ugly no-talent cunt like you will ever get a part!
I started for him, only it didn't feel real. It felt like it was all happening in a dream. It was late afternoon and Reynolds Street was full of traffic, but I never thought of that. Vicky did, though. She caught me by the arm and pulled me back. I think I owe her my life, because a big bus went past only a second or two later, blaring its horn.
Don't, she said. He's not worth it, whoever he is.
There was a truck right behind the bus, and once they were both by us, we saw the kid running up the other side of the street with his big ass jouncing. He got to the corner and turned it, but before he did, he shoved down the back of his shorts, bent over, and mooned us.
Vicky sat down on a bench and I sat down beside her. She asked me again who he was, and I said I didn't know.
Then how did he know our names? she asked.
I don't know, I repeated.
Well, he was right about one thing, she said. If I want a part in The Music Man, I should go back and suck Mandy Patinkin's cock. Then she laughed, and this time it was real laughing, the kind that comes all the way up from the belly. She threw back her head and just let fly. Did you see that little ugly butt? she said. Like two muffins ready for the oven!
That got me going. We put our arms around each other, and put our heads together cheek to cheek, and really howled. I thought we were okay, but the truth of it--you never see these things at the time, do you?--is that we were both hysterical. Me because it was the same kid from all those years ago, Vicky because she believed what he said: she was no good, and even if she was, she'd never be able to get on top of her nerves enough to show it.
I walked her back to Fudgy Acres, this big old apartment house that rented exclusively to young women--whom we still called coeds then--and she hugged me and told me again that I would make a great Harold Hill. Something about the way she said that worried me, and I asked if she was all right. She said, Of course I am, silly, and went running up the walk. That was the last time I saw her alive.
After the funeral, I took Carla Winston out for coffee, because she was the only girl in Fudgy Acres Vicky had been close to. I ended up pouring her cup into a glass, because her hands were shaking so badly I was afraid she'd burn herself. Carla wasn't just brokenhearted; she blamed herself for what happened. The same way I'm sure Mrs. Peckham blamed herself for what happened to Marlee.
She came across Vicky in the downstairs lounge that afternoon, staring at the TV. Only the TV was turned off. She said Vicky seemed distant and disconnected. She'd seen Vicky that way before, when she lost count of her pills and took one too many, or took them in the wrong order. She asked if Vicky wanted to go to the Wellness Center and get looked at. Vicky said no, she was fine, it had been a hard day but she'd be feeling better very soon.
There was a nasty little kid, Vicky told Carla. I fucked up my tryout, and then this kid started ragging on me.
That's too bad, Carla said.
George knew him, Vicky said. He told me he didn't, but I could tell he did. Do you want to know what I think?
Carla said sure. By then she was positive Vicky had screwed up her meds, smoked some dope, or both.
I think George put him up to it, she said. For a tease. But when he saw how upset I was, he was sorry and tried to make the kid stop. Only the kid wouldn't.
Carla said, That doesn't make sense, Vic. George would never tease you about a part. He likes you.
Vicky said, That kid was right, though. I might as well give up.
At this point in Carla's story, I told her the kid had nothing to do with me. Carla said I didn't even have to tell her that, she knew I was a good guy and how much I cared for Vicky. Then she started to cry.
It's my fault, not yours, she said. I could see she was screwed up, but I didn't do anything. And you know what happened. That's on me, too, because she didn't really mean to. I'm sure she didn't.
Carla left Vicky and went upstairs to study. A couple of hours later, she went down to Vicky's room.
I thought she might like to go out and get something to eat, she said. Or if the pills had worn off, maybe have a glass of wine. Only she wasn't there. So I checked the lounge, but she wasn't there, either. A couple of girls were watching TV, and one said she thought she saw Vicky going downstairs a little while ago, probably to do a wash.
Because she had some sheets, the girl said.
That worried Carla, although she wouldn't let herself think why. She went downstairs, but there was no one in the laundry room and none of the washers were going. The next room along was the box room, where the girls stored their luggage. She heard sounds from there, and when she went in, she saw Vicky with her back to her. She was standing on a little stack of suitcases. She'd tied two sheets together to make a hanging rope. One end was noosed around her neck. The other was tied to an overhead pipe.
But the thing was, Carla told me, there were only three suitcases, and plenty of slack in the sheets. If she'd meant business, she would have used one sheet and stood some girl's trunk on end. It was only what theater people call a dress rehearsal.
You don't know that for sure, I said. You don't know how many of her pills she might have taken, or how confused she was.
I know what I saw, Carla said. She could have stepped right off those suitcases and onto the floor without pulling the noose tight. But I didn't think of that then. I was too shocked. I just yelled her name.
That loud shout from behind startled her, and instead of stepping off the suitcases, Vicky jerked and toppled forward, the suitcases sliding along the floor behind. She would have hit the concrete floor smack on her belly, Carla said, but there wasn't that much slack in her rope. She still might have lived if the knot holding the two sheets together had given way, but it didn't. Her falling weight pulled the noose tight and yanked her head up hard.
I heard the snap when her neck broke, Carla said. It was loud. And it was my fault.
Then she cried and cried and cried.
I got her out of the coffee shop and into a bus shelter on the corner. I told her over and over again that it hadn't been her fault, and eventually she stopped crying. She even smiled a little.
She said, You're very persuasive, George.
What I didn't tell her--because she wouldn't have believed it--was that my persuasiv
eness came from absolute certainty.
5
"The bad little kid came after the people I cared about," Hallas said.
Bradley nodded. It was obvious that Hallas believed it, and if this story had come out at the trial, it might have earned the man a life sentence instead of a billet in Needle Manor. The jury very likely wouldn't have been completely sold, but it would have given them an excuse to take the death penalty off the table. Now it was probably too late. A written motion requesting a stay based on Hallas's story of the bad little kid would look like grasping at straws. You had to be in his presence, and see the absolute certainty on his face. To hear it in his voice.
The condemned man, meanwhile, was looking at him through the slightly clouded Plexiglas with a trace of a smile. "That kid wasn't just bad; he was also greedy. For him, it always had to be a twofer. One dead; one left to baste in a nice warm gravy of guilt."
"You must have convinced Carla," Bradley said. "She married you, after all."
"I never convinced her completely, and she never believed in the bad little kid at all. If she had, she would have been at the trial, and we'd still be married." He stared through the barrier at Bradley, his eyes dead level. "If she had, she would have been glad that I killed him."
The guard in the corner--McGregor--looked at his watch, removed his earbuds, and stood up. "I don't want to hurry you along, Counselor, but it's eleven thirty, and pretty soon your client has to be back in his cell for the midday count."
"I don't see why you can't count him right here," Bradley said . . . but mildly. It didn't do to get on the mean side of any guard, and although McGregor was one of the better ones, Bradley was sure he had a mean side. It was a requirement for men charged with overseeing hard cons. "You're looking at him, after all."
"Rules are rules," McGregor said, then raised his hand, as if to stifle a protest Bradley hadn't made. "I know you're entitled to as much time as you want this close to his date, so if you want to wait around, I'll bring him back after count. He'll miss his lunch, though, and probably you will too."
They watched McGregor return to his seat and once more replace his earbuds. When Hallas turned back to the Plexi barrier, there was more than a trace of a smile on his lips. "Hell, you could probably guess the rest."