Sleep Toward Heaven Read online

  Our Death Row Women was primarily made up of articles from People and the Gatestown Messenger. Franny felt as if she were in a movie, looking at the pictures of crazy women who were living just a few blocks away, eating, sleeping, dreaming. She drank wine and leafed through the pages until she came to Karen, who Franny recognized as the woman who had come into the Medical Center while Franny had been waiting for the warden. They called Karen the “Highway Honey.” In the picture from People, she was skinny, with sad eyes.

  The article said that Karen Lowens was a serial killer, one of the few female serial killers in Texas history. She had grown up in a desperately poor household, and started prostituting when she was twelve. Her first known murder was in 1988, when she was twenty. She worked along the side of the highway, approaching men at rest stops or along the road. She lived with her lover, Ellen Girand, in the Hi-D-Ho Motel in South Austin. Karen supported Ellen, who was a junkie.

  There was a picture of Karen and Ellen together, in a bar. Ellen, who was lovely, with long curled hair and blue eyeshadow, was talking to someone, but it was Karen’s face that stopped Franny’s heart. Karen gazed at Ellen with such awe and yearning. I’ve never loved anyone like that, thought Franny. She felt a sharp pang of jealousy, before she remembered where Karen had ended up.

  Karen was due to be executed on August twenty-fifth, less than six weeks away.

  Franny turned the page to see a picture of Karen as a young girl. Karen Lowens, future serial killer, at six years old, the caption said, outside her trailer in Uvalde, Texas, 1974.

  1974: It was the same year Franny’s parents had died. At age six, in small Texas towns, Franny and Karen had been the same.

  On the last page of Our Death Row Women, Louise the librarian had compiled a list of names and food. As Franny read down the list she began to feel sick. Written in Louise’s neat cursive, it was the last meals ordered by executed male prisoners:

  Ed Skooner: 2 chicken-fried steaks with white gravy, french fries, 4 pieces of white bread, apple, 2 Cokes.

  Brendan James Young: Double cheeseburger, french fries topped with cheese, baked potato topped with sour cream, cheese, and butter, 2 fried pork chops, 3 beef enchiladas, chocolate cake.

  Aaron Lonn: 1/2 pound of chitterlings, fried chicken (dark meat), 10 slices of bacon, 1 raw onion, fried shrimp, peach cobbler, 1 pitcher whole milk.

  Kerry Polender: Beef fajitas, stir-fry beef, 6 cinnamon rolls, 1 pecan pie, 1 cherry pie, 1 diet cream soda, 3 eggs.

  Steven Morris: Salmon croquettes, scrambled eggs, french fries, biscuits.

  Dennis King: Venison steak, baked potato, Lite beer. (Water substituted. Alcohol prohibited by TDCJ policy.)

  José Robles: Heaping portion of lettuce, 1 sliced tomato, 1 sliced cucumber, 4 celery stalks, 4 sticks of American or cheddar cheese, 2 bananas, 2 cold half-pints of milk. Asked that all vegetables be washed prior to serving.

  Gary B. Waldon: God’s saving grace, love, truth, peace, and Freedom.

  Martin Hewett: Barbecued chicken, refried beans, brown rice, sweet tea, bubble gum. (No gum. Bubble gum is not permitted under TDCJ regulations.)

  Clay Dellacort: Steak, french fries, wine. (Water substituted. Alcohol prohibited by TDCJ policy.)

  Franny could just see Louise, carefully writing this list. Where had she gotten this information? Why the hell couldn’t they allow someone a glass of wine? Franny imagined the man’s face, when he saw that water had been substituted.

  On her bedside table, Franny had dumped the contents of her pockets. There, amidst loose change and a receipt from lunch, was Warden Gaddon’s card, her home phone number written in green pen.

  Franny picked up the phone and slowly dialed the number. “Janice?” she said, when the warm voice answered. “Janice, it’s Franny Wren.”

  The next night, Franny drove her uncle’s car to Janice Gaddon’s house. She idly turned the radio dial, trying to find an appealing song. The air-conditioner hummed, and Franny turned the headlights on. The twin lights brushed over the ground. In the distance, the prison loomed, yards glowing, guard towers lit at the top like candles. The warden had said that her house was farther on down the same road as the prison. Franny did not see any women in the yards.

  The warden’s house was one-story, and her car, a red Taurus, was parked in the driveway. Franny parked behind it, and stepped out of the Cadillac. The night air smelled of approaching rain.

  In Janice’s yard was a large, low oak tree with a porch swing hung from its branches. The house was built of pale limestone. Franny walked up the path of narrow stones. The door was wooden, and painted gray. There was a brass mail slot in the center. Franny knocked.

  “Hi,” said Janice, opening the door, and letting the smell of tomato sauce escape into the damp evening. “Come in,” she said. Janice wore her hair down over a gray cable-knit sweater. With jeans and bare feet, she looked years younger than she had in the prison. She was holding a wine glass.

  “Can I pour you some?” she asked, and Franny nodded. The entrance hall to Janice’s house was painted yellow and had hardwood floors. “Come on into the kitchen,” said Janice.

  Franny followed her, past a framed Jasper Johns poster and pictures of a teenage boy with curly hair. “That’s my son, Daven,” said Janice, stepping over a baby gate that was stretched across the kitchen entrance. Franny followed, and was immediately jumped on by a giant dog.

  “For God’s sake!” said Janice. “Sorry about him. Harrison, sit!” She looked apologetically at Franny.

  “What is he?” said Franny, accepting a glass of white wine and looking around the large kitchen.

  “A Burnese Mountain Dog,” said Janice. “Stuck in Texas,” she added. She patted the dog roughly, and then moved to the stove, where a large pot bubbled. Janice lifted the lid.

  “Smells wonderful,” said Franny. The wine was cold in her mouth.

  Janice laughed. “It’s from a jar,” she said, pointing to the empty Ragu bottle on the counter. “I can’t cook a damn thing,” she said. “One of the many reasons my marriage ended.” Her smile was rueful.

  “What a nice kitchen,” said Franny. The floor and walls were tiled in blue and white.

  “Thanks,” said Janice. “The wife of the last warden was big on dinner parties. She got the tiles in Mexico.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Four years. I was in Huntsville before—one of the first female guards.”

  “Really?”

  Janice stirred the sauce. “Used to be,” she said, “that women couldn’t work in men’s prisons. My husband was a guard, and the only work I could get was filing papers.” She shook her head. “And sewing the sheet,” she said.

  “The sheet?”

  Janice faced Franny. She took a sip of her wine. “When the first man was given lethal injection in Huntsville,” she said, “they had some dirty old sheet on the gurney. The warden got all sorts of flack for it when the newspapers published the pictures.” She put her hands on her hips. “My husband—John—and I were at a barbecue at the warden’s. We had a few beers and got to talking, and the warden asks me if I’ll sew a new sheet for the gurney. Can you believe it? But what could I do? We needed money, so I sewed the sheet. Cut out all the holes—for the straps, you know—with my pinking shears.”

  Franny did not know what to say. “I know, not like life in New York, is it?” Janice said. Franny shrugged. She suddenly felt that calling Janice had been a terrible idea. She wished she could leave, go back to her uncle’s house, pack her bags, and head somewhere else. Or at least go back to her uncle’s house and get drunk.

  “I’m so glad you called,” said Janice.

  “Yes, well,” said Franny.

  “When are you going back to New York?”

  “I don’t know,” said Franny. Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back. Janice came close to Franny, and folded her in her arms. Franny flinched, but then gave in to Janice’s warmth. Janice smelled of garlic an
d shampoo. “I miss him,” said Franny, her face pressed into Janice’s collarbone. “I don’t think I knew him, in the end.”

  “Shhh,” said Janice.

  “It’s true,” said Franny, wiping beneath her eyes. “I left here so long ago, and I never came home, or asked about his life.”

  “He loved you very much. He talked about you,” said Janice.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, honey,” said Janice. “You were his whole world.” She took Franny’s glass and refilled it. “Why don’t you just relax,” she said. “Just sit at the table there and read some catalogs. Then we’ll have spaghetti. What do you say?”

  Franny nodded. She sat down and opened a Lillian Vernon catalog. Janice’s kitchen was warm.

  After they had eaten, they went into Janice’s backyard, so Janice could have a cigarette. She offered Franny one and Franny took it. They sat on lawn chairs, listening to crickets.

  “Are you happy in New York?” asked Janice.

  Franny thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally. Franny looked at Janice, her kind eyes. “How did you end up here?” she said.

  Janice paused, as if deciding something. “I married John when I was eighteen,” she said, “I was pregnant, and I thought I loved him. I grew up in a tiny town west of here. Lovelady.” She took the bottle of wine they had brought outside with them, refilled her glass and then Franny’s, settling the bottle between her feet on the ground. She leaned her head back. “Look at the stars,” she said. Franny looked up, saw the bowl of sky dusted with silver.

  “I went away to school,” said Franny, “when I was sixteen.”

  Janice nodded, sipped her wine. When Franny did not continue, Janice said, “Well, my marriage was fine, at first. John got the job in Huntsville, and I was happy at home, for a while. But the prison changes you.”

  “Changes you?” said Franny. “What do you mean?”

  “You spend all day enforcing rules. Especially in the men’s prisons, it can get violent. You can smell the aggression—it’s everywhere, this potential for a fight. To keep order, you end up treating the inmates like children. When they disobey, you punish them, usually with force.” Franny was silent, and Janice went on. “John didn’t start out as a violent man. I believe that. But he had it in him, and eventually, he began to bring it home.”

  “He hit you?”

  “It was what he knew. When the baby acted up, he didn’t know how to reason anymore. He told me it was the same as the inmates, that he couldn’t handle messiness anymore, in any part of his life. The lines began to blur in his mind. Of course he was always sorry.”

  “So you left him,” said Franny.

  “I wish I could tell you that, but it isn’t true. John left me, and the baby, fell for someone else. I was so young, we both were. So I got a job, and eventually they let women become guards, and then…”

  “Warden.”

  “I’m one of the only female wardens in the state,” said Janice.

  Franny felt lightheaded. “Do you…take it home?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” said Janice. “Maybe some people have it in them and some don’t.”

  Franny was silent. “How often did my Uncle Jack come to the prison?” she asked finally.

  “Once a week. We’re desperate without him. Most of the doctors who apply to work in prisons…” She shook her head. “Your uncle was one of a kind. He really cared about the women, raised their standard of care. But now, I don’t know what will happen.”

  Franny took a long sip of her wine. She opened her mouth, but then closed it.

  “What?” said Janice.

  Franny shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Janice turned to Franny, put a hand on her hand. “Please,” said Janice. “What?”

  There was a quiet moment, and then Franny said, “I could come in. I could help. Just until you find a permanent replacement. Why not?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know,” said Franny. And then she said, “Yes.”

  celia

  I was talking to Henry’s parents and eating a peach. “I just …don’t think it’s necessary,” I told them. They were calling from their home in Vermont. I was resting my feet on Priscilla, who was on the floor. Priscilla did not like summer. She lay on her back, exposing her pink stomach and wriggling around. The whole street smelled sweet, and azaleas burst like fireworks from their buds. It was almost shameful in Texas this time of year. Everything open, lusty, and raw.

  “We need to see it,” said Henry’s mother, Ursula. “I’m not proud of it, Celia, but there it is.” I sighed, and looked at Henry’s watering can. I could not remember the last time I had touched it. Henry’s gardening tools still hung in a row in the garage. I hired a neighbor boy named Seth to mow the lawn every other week, but let the garden go to hell. I couldn’t bear to kneel down in that fertile soil, the smell reminding me. Henry’s tomato vines were wild; I asked Seth to leave those alone.

  “We’re looking at plane fares,” added Henry’s father.

  “Can you recommend a place to stay there in…” Ursula paused.

  “Huntsville,” I said. “They take them to Huntsville.”

  “Yes,” said Ursula. “Huntsville, Texas. Where do we even fly in?”

  Henry’s parents had never come to visit us during our marriage. They had been angry about the elopement, horrified to hear about Vegas and the Elvis chapel. I hadn’t met them in person until their son was already dead. “I’ll do some planning,” I said. “Why don’t you fly in here? I can show you around…”

  “Celia!” cried Ursula. “This is hardly a sightseeing tour.”

  “Oh, right,” I said.

  “Jesus,” said Henry’s father. “What’s the matter with you?” I knew they saw me as some hussy Henry had fallen for. I knew they thought his short time with me meant nothing, and the Henry they knew was all the Henry there was.

  My mother felt the same way about me, asked me often when was I coming home to Wisconsin, where I belonged. But I have changed, and I belong in Texas now, where I knew Henry. Where I loved him, and where we sat on our porch swing and watched the moon.

  “Well,” I said. “Keep me posted, will you?”

  “Yes, dear,” said Ursula. She was a hippie who still wore her hair long and parted in the middle. She made batik T-shirts to sell at craft fairs despite the fact that she was rich. She drove a VW van, and only used the Miata when the VW broke down.

  “I’m sorry to snap at you,” said Ursula. “I’m just edgy. It’s not your fault.”

  “You think it is my fault, though, don’t you?” I said. I bit my lip, and looked at Priscilla, who stood and raised her eyebrows at my audacity. I sipped my Coke and listened to the flustered silence.

  “What?” said Henry’s father.

  “Did we hear you correctly?” said Ursula.

  “Forget it,” I said. Priscilla sighed and sank down, all four paws stretched against the floorboards.

  I saw a figure come walking up the street with a loping gait. I recognized with a mixture of horror and happiness that it was my boy, Marc. (Does he mow lawns, I wondered? For a split second, I imagined keeping him around, letting him write all day while I brought him martinis and typed his manuscripts on one of those old typewriters that clicks away romantically. I would be the Sugar Momma with my big librarian salary.)

  “I’m going to have to run,” I said into the phone. Ursula sniffed. “So, keep me posted,” I said.

  “August twenty-fifth, then?” said Henry’s father. “Do you think she’d ask for an appeal at the last minute?”

  “Some of them do that, you know,” said Ursula.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “How could I have any idea?”

  “Goodbye, dear,” said Ursula, and I heard her phone line click. I knew that Henry’s father was in for a big rant.

  “Goodbye,” I said. Henry’s father hung up without saying anything. A month after the wedding, he had ask
ed me to call him “Dad.”

  I swung on my porch swing, bit into my peach. Marc waved shyly and ambled up the walk. Priscilla lifted her head, gave me that tilted look of curiosity, and then watched Marc. Perhaps she thought he was selling candy bars for Little League. Perhaps she thought he had come to check the termite stations, or deliver a package. Perhaps Priscilla even knew that Marc and I were summer lovers. The song “Summer Loving” from Grease popped into my head. I bit down laughter and noted that I was heading rapidly toward certifiable. This was turning into some weekend, all right. And then he was standing before me, his pretentious hairdo as cute as ever.

  He held my letter to Karen Lowens in his hand. “Your address,” he said sheepishly.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Nice house,” he said. I nodded. He said, “Nice dog.” He smelled of all his lotions and cologne. Henry had never even worn deodorant. The boy shuffled his feet on my welcome mat.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  “Yes,” said the boy, Marc.

  I stood, opened the door. He came inside.

  karen

  Reporters, reporters, reporters. All of a sudden, everybody cares about Jackie. Karen can’t hear the people outside, but she can see them on TV. Helicopters, people with signs, reporters with blond hair and gray comb-overs. Everybody is talking to everybody, and there is Jackie, and she is the same. She is sewing her sequins and staying away from Sharleen. Sharleen has crazy things in her cell: stars drawn with chalk, letters from her Satan Killer boyfriend, Markus. On TV, Markus is scary-looking, even now that they have shaved off his dreadlocks for his court appearances. The letters from Markus have big sections cut out, or covered over with ink. Who knows what those parts say? Karen does not want to know.

  It is Jackie’s last day. Some strange friends have visited her over the years, and her poor mother, who is white as chalk, but since she killed her whole family, there haven’t been too many care packages. Now Jane Pauley and Stone Phillips are staying at the Gatestown Motor Inn. On TV, Karen sees Andy’s Home Cookin’ and the Last Chance Saloon. Reporters line the sidewalks, talking to locals, and there is a segment of “Good Morning, America” inside Katie’s Koffee Haus. Jackie had her choice of guests on visiting day.