this whole to-do so that somebody like you will come out of the woodwork and keep him from being executed?'
Well, I'd already considered that. 'It doesn't matter if it's all a big ruse,' I said. 'As long as I can get the court to buy it, it's still a blow against the death penalty.' I imagined myself being interviewed by
Stone Phillips. Who, when the cameras cut, would ask me out to dinner.
'Promise me you won't be one of these lawyers who falls for the criminal and marries him in the prison...'
'Mom!'
'Well, it happens, Maggie. Felons are very persuasive people.'
'And you know this because you've personally spent so much time in prison?'
She held up her hands. 'I'm just saying.'
'Rachel, I think Maggie's got this under control,' my father said.
'Why don't we get ready to go?'
My mother started clearing the dishes, and I followed her into the kitchen. We fell into a familiar routine: I'd load the dishwasher and rinse off the big platters; she'd dry. 'I can finish,' I said, like I did every week.
'You don't want to be late for temple.'
She shrugged. 'They can't start without your father.' I passed her a dripping serving bowl, but she set it on the counter and examined my hand instead. 'Look at your nails, Maggie.'
I pulled away. 'I've got more important things to do than make sure my cuticles are trimmed, Ma.'
'It's not about the manicure,' she said. 'It's about taking forty-five minutes where the most important thing in the world is not someone else... but you.'
That was the thing about my mother: just when I thought I was ready to kill her, she'd say something that made me want to cry. I tried to curl my hands into fists, but she threaded our fingers together. 'Come to the spa next week. We'll have a nice afternoon, just the two of us.'
A dozen comments sprang to the back of my tongue: Some of us have to work for a living. It won't be a nice afternoon if it's just the two of us. I may be a glutton, but not for punishment. Instead, I nodded, even though we both knew I had no intention of showing up.
When I was tiny, my mother would have spa days in the kitchen, just for me. She'd concoct hair conditioners out of papaya and banana; she'd rub coconut oil into the skin of my shoulders and arms; she'd lay slices of cucumber on my eyes and sing Sonny Cher songs to me. Afterward, she would hold a hand mirror up to my face. Look at my beautiful girl, she would say, and for the longest time, I believed her.
'Come to temple,' my mother said. 'Just tonight. It would make your father so happy.'
'Maybe next time,' I answered.
I walked them out to their car. My father turned the ignition and unrolled his window. 'You know,' he said. 'When I was in college, there was a homeless guy who used to hang out near the subway. He had a pet mouse that used to sit on his shoulder and nibble at the collar of his coat, and he never took that coat off, not even when it was ninety-five degrees out. He knew the entire first chapter of Moby-Dick by heart. I always gave him a quarter when I passed by.'
A neighbor's car zoomed past-someone from my father's congregation, who honked a hello.
My father smiled. 'The word Messiah isn't in the Old Testament... just the Hebrew word for anointed. He's not a savior; he's a king or a priest with a special purpose. But the Midrash-well, it mentions the moshiach a lot, and he looks different every time. Sometimes he's a soldier, sometimes he's a politician, sometimes he's got supernatural powers. And sometimes he's dressed like a vagrant. The reason I gave that bum a quarter,' he said, 'is because you never know.'
Then he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. I stood there until I couldn't see them anymore, until there was nothing left to do but go home.
M I CHAEL
Before you can go into a prison, you're stripped of the trappings that make you you. Take off your shoes, your belt. Remove your wallet, your watch, your saint's medal. Loose change in your pockets, cell phone, even the crucifix pin on your lapel. Hand over your driver's license to the uniformed officer, and in return, you become one of the faceless people who has entered a place the residents aren't allowed to leave.
'Father?' an officer said. 'Are you okay?'
I tried to smile and nod, imagining what he saw: a big tough guy who was shaking at the thought of entering this prison. Sure, I rode a
Triumph Trophy, volunteered to work with gang youth, and broke the stereotype of a priest any chance I got- but inside here was the man whose life I had voted to end.
And yet.
Ever since I had taken my vows and asked God to help me offset what I had done to one man with what I might yet be able to do for others-I knew this would happen one day. I knew I'd wind up face-toface with Shay Bourne.
Would he recognize me?
Would I recognize hurt?
I walked through the metal detector, holding my breath, as if I had something to hide. And I suppose I did, but my secrets wouldn't set off those alarms. I started to weave my belt into the loops of my trousers again, to tie the laces of my Converse sneakers. My hands were still trembling. 'Father Michael?' I glanced up to find another officer waiting for me. 'Warden Coyne's expecting you.'
'Right.' I followed the officer through dull gray hallways. When we passed inmates, the officer pivoted his body so that he stood between us-a shield.
I was delivered to an administrative office that overlooked the interior courtyard of the state prison. A conga line of prisoners was walking from one building to another. Behind them was a double line of fencing, capped with razor wire.
'Father.'
The warden was a stocky man with silver hair who offered a handshake and a grimace that was supposed to pass for a smile. 'Warden
Coyne. Nice to meet you.'
He led me into his private office, a surprisingly modem, airy space with no desk-just a long, spare steel table with files and notes spread across it. As soon as he sat down, he unwrapped a piece of gum. 'Nicorette,' he explained. 'My wife's making me quit smoking and to be honest, I'd rather cut off my left arm.' He opened a file with a number on its side-Shay Bourne had been stripped of his name in here as well. 'I do appreciate you coming. We're a little short on chaplains right now.'
The prison had one full-time chaplain, an Episcopal priest who had flown to Australia to be with his dying father. Which meant that if an inmate requested to speak to a clergyman, one of the locals would be called in.
'It's my pleasure,' I lied, and mentally marked the rosary I'd say later as penance.
He pushed the file toward me. 'Shay Bourne. You know him?'
I hesitated. 'Who doesn't?'
'Yeah, the news coverage is a bitch, pardon my French. I could do without all the attention. Bottom line is the inmate wants to donate his organs after execution.'
'Catholics support organ donation, as long as the patient is braindead and no longer breathing by himself,' I said.
Apparently, it was the wrong answer. Coyne lifted up a tissue. frowned, and spit his gum into it. 'Yeah, great, I get it. That's the party line. But the reality of the situation is that this guy's at the twenty-third hour. He's a convicted murderer, two times over. You think he's suddenly developed a humanitarian streak... or is it more likely that he's trying to gain public sympathy and stop his execution?'
'Maybe he just wants something good to come out of his death...'
'Lethal injection is designed to stop the inmate's heart,' Coyne said flatly.
