Moonrise

  tight huddle.

  Ed smells sour – like he hasn’t showered in days,

  but I don’t let go.

  I breathe him in until he unpeels himself

  from us,

  waves towards a table.

  ‘KFC!’ he announces.

  ‘I told them I didn’t want anything special,

  but the warden ordered this anyway.

  Chicken, fries, coleslaw, potato salad.

  Looks good, right?’

  He drums the air with his hands.

  ‘And what made me happiest of all …’

  He points to a bucket filled to the brim

  with cans of Dr Pepper.

  ‘Soda!’ he shouts.

  ‘You’ll spend all day in the bathroom,’ Aunt Karen says,

  crossing her legs,

  pawing the gold crucifix

  hanging around her neck.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she says,

  touching an electric fan next to her which

  is slowly whisking hot air around the room.

  At the table,

  Ed fills a plate with food and

  brings it to Angela. ‘Wanna drink?’

  ‘You eat it.

  We’ll get something later,’ she says.

  Ed shakes his head.

  ‘I want us to eat together.

  A last supper.

  You can pretend I’m Jesus.’

  The guard laughs, but not unkindly.

  Ed turns to him.

  ‘You want something to gnaw on, John?’ he asks.

  ‘You haven’t had lunch yet.’

  ‘No, Ed. I’m good. You dig in.’

  Ed fills a second plate,

  hands it to Aunt Karen,

  then another for me.

  I stare at the food on my lap.

  How will I force it into my mouth?

  Ed fills his own plate and sits next to me,

  hands me a can of Dr Pepper.

  ‘This is nice,’ he says. ‘Right?’

  I try for a smile

  cos Ed’s right – it is nice

  not spending our last hours

  fenced off from each other

  by Plexiglas.

  But I can think of better days

  we’ve had

  together.

  LIBERTY STATE PARK

  It was spring.

  Ed was fifteen.

  I was five.

  Angela had made

  a lopsided spongecake

  with Reese’s Pieces stuck into the cream frosting.

  Aunt Karen brought a bag of cold burgers.

  Mom was wearing sunglasses.

  We sat on a blanket and ate.

  Ed cut the cake and we all sang him ‘Happy Birthday’.

  He said,

  ‘That’s a kickass cake, Ange,’

  biting into the first slice.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off the jungle gym,

  wondering when we’d be done

  so I could play.

  Ed noticed. ‘Let’s go have fun, Joe!’

  He reached for two more slices of cake,

  handed one to me,

  stuffed the other piece into his mouth.

  Then

  he grabbed my arm,

  pulled me up.

  ‘God, Angela, you’re some baker,’ he said.

  And we were off.

  That was a better day.

  SIX O’CLOCK

  Father Matthew shows up at six.

  As Ed is introducing him to Angela and Karen

  a yellow phone attached to the wall rings.

  The guard answers it,

  mumbles into the mouthpiece.

  He holds the receiver over his head,

  calls over. ‘It’s Alan Mitchell.’

  Angela puts her hand over her mouth.

  Ed shuffles to the phone.

  Everyone in the room is silent.

  ‘Yeah. OK.

  I understand.

  Yeah. OK.

  Yup.

  OK, thanks, Al.’

  Angela goes to Ed, puts a hand on his arm.

  ‘Gotta wait,’ Ed says.

  ‘Al’s driving up here now. Said he’ll explain.’

  I exhale;

  I’ve been holding my breath since the phone rang.

  Ed looks at the clock over the door.

  Six hours left.

  Six hours and one minute.

  IRREGULAR

  Al storms in at seven thirty,

  shakes everyone’s hands,

  takes a seat.

  His blue suit is creased.

  His tie is undone.

  He’s out of breath.

  He glances at the guard,

  the door.

  ‘I was in the governor’s office in Austin earlier

  to file the petition for clemency.

  As I was doing it,

  I looked over at his secretary’s desk

  and the denial was coming out of the printer.’

  Father Matthew sits up. Aunt Karen frowns.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ Angela asks.

  She twirls her hair

  around and around her

  pointer finger.

  Despite the fan it is sweltering in here.

  I need air

  but I can’t leave.

  Not now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Al says.

  ‘But it’s highly irregular and probably illegal.

  I asked to speak to the governor personally.

  He told me it was a clerical error and that

  he’d be getting to our petition

  before eleven o’clock.’

  ‘We leave at ten,’ Angela says.

  Father Matthew mutters beneath his breath,

  a prayer,

  and Aunt Karen joins him,

  a final call

  to God

  to intervene

  where man has

  stood aside

  and watched.

  TEN O’CLOCK

  Before I’ve time to decide on the last words to say

  to Ed

  it’s ten o’clock.

  A different guard comes in.

  She doesn’t speak,

  stands there seeming sorry for herself,

  like she’s the one being tortured.

  Al stands. ‘Time to go,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  He grabs an envelope, shoots through the door.

  Father Matthew follows along with the guard.

  Aunt Karen takes Ed’s hand.

  ‘I’m praying for you all the time,’ she says.

  ‘And I’m so very, very sorry.’

  Ed kisses her forehead and she scurries out,

  so

  it’s just the kids now,

  the three of us

  alone

  for the first time in ten years.

  Angela holds the back of a chair.

  I steady myself on her arm.

  I want to whimper,

  feel like collapsing.

  But I have to hold it together

  for Ed.

  No use him seeing his siblings crumble.

  He has to know we’re OK.

  Ed faces us. ‘This isn’t the end.

  In an hour Heath McDowell

  will make a call and you’ll be back

  tomorrow afternoon

  wondering when the hell you get to go home.’

  His voice is wispy;

  he hardly believes it himself.

  Ed feels out of reach,

  like I’m seeing him from

  across a football field.

  Will he hear me if I speak?

  Can he understand

  when he’s so far away?

  ‘Ed,’ I whisper.

  ‘Come here, Joe.’ He reaches for me,

  takes me in his arms, squeezes.

  Then he pulls Angela into us too

  and we are silent,
r />   cos nothing can be said now

  that matters

  all that much.

  The clock ticks loudly.

  I don’t know how many minutes pass

  but Al returns. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘They’re calling time.’

  Ed releases the embrace

  and Angela stumbles,

  saves herself by reaching for my hand.

  I hold her up, help her step away from Ed.

  She isn’t crying.

  She sounds like she might be sick.

  I reach forward one last time and hold him.

  ‘I’m glad we got this time together,’ I say.

  Ed pulls away, his eyes swollen with tears.

  ‘Take care of yourselves, OK?’

  And then he turns,

  puts his back to us completely.

  I hold Angela’s hand,

  pull her

  out of the room as quickly as I can.

  The guard shuts the door.

  I fall to the floor.

  And from the closed room we can hear Ed.

  He is howling

  our names.

  WITNESS

  Angela collects her bag,

  about to follow Father Matthew to the visitors’

  cafeteria

  in the main prison,

  where they’ll wait a couple of hours

  until the witness gallery is ready.

  Angela will watch the state murder Ed,

  something she can never unsee,

  a movie that will play

  for the rest of her life.

  ‘There’s no reason to do this,’ I tell her.

  She is crying,

  snot running into her mouth.

  ‘He can’t be alone,’ she snivels.

  ‘But you’ll be alone,’ I tell her.

  Aunt Karen offers Angela a Kleenex.

  ‘I’ll be the witness,’ she tells us. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  But Angela is adamant.

  She will not relinquish this role.

  ‘He’ll be expecting me,’ she says.

  ‘Then I’ll wait with you,’ Aunt Karen insists,

  and all three of them

  leave through a

  heavy metal door.

  BELIEF

  Nell opens her arms and takes me in.

  ‘Let’s go for a drive,’ she says.

  Behind her,

  protesters’ candles blink.

  I could join them, as I planned,

  but my voice will make no difference.

  I’m not in any mood to pray anyway.

  I don’t believe in God today.

  I don’t even believe in people.

  IN THE DARKNESS

  A hill overlooks the farm.

  I drive, Nell grasping my knee.

  She pats it now and then, and asks, ‘Are you OK?’

  I nod, though I’m not.

  I’m afraid I might pass out,

  veer off the road into a ditch,

  vomit all over myself.

  I fix my eyes to the road,

  focus on the car moving.

  If I cause an accident I’ll hurt Nell;

  I don’t want that.

  We stop at the lookout point.

  From up here you can see the whole farm –

  every rotten thing happening below;

  cars and vans come and go,

  lights in cells shut out,

  and Section A

  to the right,

  the only part of the prison lit up –

  bright lights against the black.

  I reach for the radio. Nell stops me.

  ‘If anything changes, they’ll call,’ she says,

  and she’s right; what else will I hear

  over the airwaves

  but people gunning for Ed?

  Nell hands me a beer and a bottle opener,

  strokes the back of my neck with her fingertips.

  ‘What can I do?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Just sit in the darkness with me.’

  A MINUTE BEFORE MIDNIGHT

  Nell and I have had three beers each,

  shared a titanic pack of Twizzlers.

  My phone pings.

  A message from Al:

  Governor denied our appeal

  for a stay. I’m sorry, Joe.

  I’ll call you afterwards.

  Al

  MIDNIGHT

  I stumble out of the car,

  breathe in the moist air.

  Nell is out the

  passenger side,

  comes to me. ‘What was it?’

  I hold out my phone; she reads the message.

  ‘You’re going to survive this,’ she says.

  She tries to wrap her arms around me,

  but I step away,

  lay my hands flat on the hood,

  face the farm, their lights,

  and imagine

  the strap-down team

  taking Ed from his holding cell

  to the death chamber,

  the murmurings of the priest’s final prayer,

  Angela’s face as the curtains open

  and she sees Ed, IVs in his arms,

  head shaved,

  body fastened down

  too tight

  for him to move.

  And there’s Philip Miller nodding,

  giving the go ahead for poisons to be pumped

  into Ed’s body.

  I stare at the moon,

  round and the colour of oatmeal.

  ‘The moonrise was beautiful all month,’ I tell Ed.

  ‘It’s beautiful underneath this sky.’

  IT IS DONE

  Ed is gone.

  TIME TRAVEL ME

  Time travel me back.

  Let me say goodbye again.

  A minute more,

  a moment,

  a chance to see Ed’s face

  alive,

  hold his hand like we did when I was a kid –

  feel his skin and smell him.

  Time travel me back.

  Let me relive any moment with Ed;

  I’ll take him at his worst,

  his moodiest.

  Anything at all so long as he can hear me.

  Time travel me back

  so I can say goodbye and mean it.

  Give me the final moment again

  to use the words no one in our house

  ever dared say to one another –

  scared of being sappy or overemotional.

  Give me the three seconds with Ed

  and I will tell him the words and I will mean them.

  I will say,

  I love you.

  DRIVING HOME

  Nell drives and we don’t speak.

  Every limb is numb

  or aching.

  My mind is racing

  and then slow.

  Never

  again.

  Never.

  Never

  again.

  That’s when I’ll next see my brother.

  BODY CURLED UP

  I bolt upright on the blow-up mattress

  on the living room floor.

  ‘Angela?’

  She is standing over me,

  body shuddering.

  I pull her down

  and she lies on her side,

  face to the window,

  body curled up like a baby.

  She starts to shake.

  I lie on the sheet next to her,

  wrap her in my arms,

  do nothing useful at all

  except listen to the hurt.

  ANOTHER NEXT MONTH

  I get up early and

  step around the blow-up bed where

  Angela is still curled up into a small ball,

  asleep,

  dressed in her clothes from last night.

  The door to the bedroom is closed.

  May
be Aunt Karen is awake,

  but if she wanted to talk, she would have come out.

  I dress for my run and take off,

  down the apartment block stairs,

  through the parking lot,

  along Main Street to the edge of town.

  Usually this is where I head home,

  where the sidewalk ends.

  But this morning I keep going

  down unlit streets,

  past empty fields

  and buzzing factories.

  I run and run in the pre-dawn light,

  not noticing too much the aching in my legs.

  And I find the prison,

  where I expect to see cameras,

  a few remaining protesters holding banners aloft.

  But it’s finished.

  Over.

  Like nothing ever happened here.

  A janitor collects something from the ground

  and throws it into a trash can.

  The place is strewn with candy bar wrappers,

  cigarette butts,

  candle wax.

  ‘The party’s over, I guess,’ I say to him.

  The janitor shrugs.

  ‘They got another party planned for

  September sixteenth.’

  ‘Another execution?’

  ‘Sure. Dick Reese got a date last week.’

  ‘I missed that news,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, well,

  Dick ain’t got a chance in hell.

  You know what he did?’