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Choking would be a mercy, he thinks. The electric chair sits in the next room. Why would they make him eat so close to where they plan to kill him?
Roscoe go9781496710031t out of bed
?????
Even though he refused to talk about it, she’d already heard through the prison grapevine that two men were killed in the fields earlier that day at the hands of Roscoe’s guards. Men of questionable nature were attracted to the jobs at Greenmount, and it gave her pause to think even Roscoe couldn’t keep their aggression in check.
Just months before Ginny was hired, several inmates cut their Achilles tendons to protest conditions at the prison, including the slop they were fed.
The superintendent’s chief complaint—besides Roscoe taking reform a little too seriously—was he failed to kiss anyone’s ass, which was mandatory in the Louisiana penal system.
As she ran down the hall, the haunting urgency that came with each execution nipped at her heels.
There weren’t words to describe the vicious churning of Ginny’s gut when executions were scheduled, or the heart-pounding terror that she might fail the inmate in some way.
Her mama and daddy may have pretended they had a normal life, but normal wasn’t hearing the wails of men being beaten long into the night or watching inmates shuffle in heavy, iron chains on their way to tend the prison crops.
Each time she entered the dank death house, she became an eight-year-old again, overwhelmed by the bloodlust the prison guards exhibited at the execution of her daddy’s murderer, deafened by the shrieking of Silas Barnes’s soon-to-be widow, and jealous his young son was allowed to sit outside on the dusty ground.
The remarks riled Ginny when she was younger, but now they seemed wholly unconnected to her, just the rantings of madmen. Anger seemed a normal consequence of living one’s last days like an animal.
Panic attacks sometimes gripped her when she thought she might be force-feeding them memories they’d sooner forget. Yet, something deep in her gut told her it was the gesture that meant something to them, not the act of eating. The cruelty and darkness in that place sometimes overwhelmed her. Dot and Roscoe were the light Ginny needed to keep on working there. Maybe Ginny’s meals were the light those men needed to make it through the final hours before death claimed them.
She knew just about everything there was to know about every man on death row in Louisiana.
She damn well knew that last suppers weren’t going to change anything: They wouldn’t make bad men good, they wouldn’t make up for any brutality exacted by the guards, they wouldn’t ease the suffocating fear of meeting death. The closest thing she could liken it to was bringing a casserole to a family after a funeral. For her, food did what words could not. It said, “I’m sorry for the loss. I’m sorry I can’t do more to help.”
Aida held tightly to Eileen’s hand. She’d clearly taken the black girl in as family. That was a risk in the South and especially a small town like Jonesville. But Eileen’s son was a remembrance of Samuel and something they’d always share. Ginny found the sight comforting. That kind of compassion was rare.
All these years later, Ginny wondered if taking one life for another meant justice had been served.
“You think God forgives us when we die?” Eileen wiped her wet cheeks, but new tears just took the place of those she’d cleared. “I don’t want Samuel to go to hell.”
When she was a child, her grandma Nan had said a person’s soul drifted up from his body at the moment of death and some folks could see it. When Ginny watched her father’s murderer die, she prayed to see a wisp of smoke, a flash of white light, anything to prove there was a merciful God. Perhaps it was a foolish notion, but at every execution since then, her eyes sought out such signs.
“There was another death today,” he finally said. “And another inmate almost dead. Probably won’t make it through the night.” By death, he meant murder—a beating that went too far. Either by his guards or the inmates who were given power to serve as guards themselves. Somewhere along the way, some genius thought it was a good idea to arm inmates and allow them to keep their own in line.
She never thought one inmate was less deserving of a last meal than another. She never took into account their crimes. Giving up on Samuel—on any one of them—was unfathomable.
In those moments, Joe almost seemed a decent man, capable of at least loving his daughter.
oh ?
Joe hadn’t died at the prison, but rather just outside of Baton Rouge, in the dark of night and off duty. Yet, Miriam blamed the prison and probably would until the day she died.
oh ?????
Her questions about her daddy wouldn’t stop. And there were too many Roscoe didn’t dare answer. Like the real reason Joe died that night outside Baton Rouge.
whooooooaaaaaaaa
They figured the worst ones were about watching a man being executed. That wasn’t it at all. The worst ones were those where she ran toward the young son of her father’s murderer and begged his forgiveness. He’d just stare at Ginny with accusation in his eyes. She’d say, “It’s not my fault. Please don’t hate me. Your daddy killed my daddy.” And he’d say, “And now you’ve killed mine.”
The men working the fields were singing hymns. They were far enough away that the words were unintelligible, but a deep melody carried; as if all the men sang bass and were in need of a baritone or two. The singing could almost mask the sound of the beatings.
“My mama made a pork stew that was similar,” he said. “Yours was much better.” “I’m sorry Mrs. Dunner didn’t like it.” “Did you see her turn up her nose at the chow-chow?” he asked. “How can she say she’s from Louisiana?”
“I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a good warden.” A heavy sigh punctuated his words. “Especially here.”
Even though Roscoe had entered the house without a sound that day, she didn’t startle when he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. It was as if Ginny had been waiting for just such a thing to happen even though she couldn’t remember ever desiring it. Among the many emotions she’d felt when sleeping with him the first time, the strongest was relief. Like a century’s old puzzle had been solved; one that ensured her survival. The reasons for staying in the relationship eluded them. They just continued, the way they’d always done—as warden and cook.
“You know, just because I promised your daddy I’d look after you, doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Ginny.” Those words—heard for the first time—were a shock. She almost thought she misheard him. “Thank you, Roscoe.” She nuzzled closer.
As a child, she just assumed her mama vexed him the same way she vexed her; that she and her father were bonded against a common enemy who was out to spoil their fun in whatever way she could. Miriam had always swooped in and demanded that Ginny clean up, or do her homework, or go to bed—anything to stop an activity her mama had not been invited to join. Even when the three of them played cards or marbles together, Ginny thought of herself and her daddy as a team trying to beat Miriam.
I figured you’d be too stubborn to quit your job no matter how much I begged. So, I wanted you to have someplace special you could go that didn’t seem a part of the prison,” he said. Some men were good with fancy words, telling you how much they loved you and such. Words didn’t come easy to Roscoe, so he’d made this house a declaration of his devotion. She’d never be loved by someone as much as she was by Roscoe in this very moment, and the realization made her sad as well as happy.
In his quietness, Roscoe had developed a sense for what went on deep below her surface. It was probably why he’d been able to put her stubbornness and other faults into perspective.
“I’m glad Ginny and I are leaving this hellhole,” she said. “This place killed Joe.” “You know the prison didn’t kill him,” he said. “It was his own goddamn fault.”
She couldn’t fathom why her mind allowed her to hear some of what went on around her, like her mama’s piercing criticisms, but not Roscoe’s explanation of how Samuel had died. The brain’s ability for self-protection made Ginny shudder.
How ridiculous, though, that in the past she’d worried about things like wrinkled clothes or hosiery with runs, or cakes that fell or whether it’d be a rainy winter. Those trivial concerns just masked the unchangeable things that bred hopelessness: like murderers and rapists who would kill and rape again given the chance, starving inmates who work half the day with bleeding feet and hands, and guards whose humanity was erased permanently by a system decades older than the hills.
Unrolling it carefully to keep the dust down, Ginny soon saw it was two pieces. One resembled a long robe. The other piece was smaller and cone-shaped. Dot moved backward so suddenly, she fell against the bed. Her face was like a child’s after a bad dream, twisted with fear that couldn’t be eased.
WHAT
Ginny slept very little. One persistent nightmare woke her over and over. She had been standing underneath a large tree, in the dark of night, clothed only in a thin nightgown. Hooded men with glowing torches surrounded her. One looped a rope around her neck. Her daddy’s hazel eyes shone through the eyeholes. In the dream, Ginny started screaming, “I’m white, Daddy. Don’t do it. I’m white.”
HUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Her mama’s house was dark and still. The door was unlocked, as it always was. Miriam feared nothing, unlike Dot’s family, who were hypervigilant, especially when Klan raids were prevalent.
Her mama blew a cloud of smoke in her direction. “Well, what? So you found out Roscoe was a Klansman.”
literally what
The robe was something physical she wanted to show Roscoe. Something that could bolster her resolve. Without even thinking it through, she’d already decided to leave him.
She twisted and pounded the pale bread dough, imagining she was bashing in the face of a hooded Klan member. Cowards. Cowards who deserved to be in prison themselves.
