The Solemn Sabbath

On the first and third sundays of each month, prisoners at the state penitentiary whose names begin with A through K are permitted to receive visitors; on the second and fourth Sundays, the Ls through the Zs. When fifth Sundays occur, special permission must be secured, but it is invariably granted. Each prisoner is entitled to have three persons visit him, two of whom must be members of his immediate family.

The visiting area is a square, enclosed on two sides by open-sided shelters with picnic tables and benches. At one end of the square there are rest rooms and a booth where soft drinks, candy and cigarettes may be purchased. The prisoners come through the gate at this end; two guards are stationed there who examine the prisoners' passes before they let them go through the unlocked gate. At the other end of the square is the gate through which the visitors come; this gate is electrically operated from a glassed-in observation hut just outside the square.

The cell dormitories, two three-story buildings, are on the left of the square, about one hundred yards away. These buildings shut off the view but not the sounds of the recreation area. The prison hospital is on the far right, and at center right, a good three hundred yards from the square, standing apart, there is a small two-story building, like the others a dull yellow color and badly in need of paint. This building is the death house, and contains four cells, quarters for the guards and the room with the electric chair.

Visiting hours are from ten a.m. to four p.m., but no one is permitted in or out of the square between twelve and two, when the guards and turnkeys take their lunch breaks. Visitors are allowed, in fact encouraged, to bring picnic lunches, and those who bring them spread them out on the tables. After the lunch is over, they sit at the tables and talk, or walk about the square. There is no restriction to the number of children under twelve, and the square is busy with them, darting about in the purposeless fashion of children at loose ends on Sunday.

Two men – an inmate in a hospital orderly jacket and blue prison trousers, and his visitor – had been walking the square all afternoon, and had now stopped, both looking toward the death house.

"Negroes die the easiest," the inmate said. "After them, the Catholics – born ones, not converts. I understand about the Catholics, after all, if you know, I mean really know, not just think so, or hope so, or wish so, what have you got to lose, but Negroes? They live easy and they die easy. Do you know why, Deacon?"

He turned and looked at his brother, whom he called Deacon, who called him Little Horse, names struck up in childhood and never abandoned, and who had just hurt him badly by a simple, sensible, straightforward request. The hurt did not show save in the dancing brightness of his eyes, which were very blue and never still.

"Well, I suppose if they love life, as you say, are on easy terms with it," Deacon said, knowing that wisdom was expected, careful not to disappoint, "then, perhaps, they can let it go without regret. But if you don't, don't love life or find it easy, then, at the end, you have this pinched, cheated feeling that you're being cut off before you make something out of it."

"I mark you E for effort," Little Horse said. "Now, let me tell you about Quantock and Lundy, the last two who died over there. Neither was a Catholic or a Negro, but they put up a good show, each one completely different."

"I'd just as soon change the subject," Deacon said. "I don't have much longer to be here, Little Horse."

He came about four times a year. Although he never brought a picnic lunch, he always gave his brother ten dollars, and each month he didn't come, he sent a money order for five dollars. He was busy, he had problems of his own, and it was three hundred miles from his home to the prison. It was the very best he could do.

He was the elder brother, the exact image of their father, and he had just asked Little Horse to write him General Delivery instead of to his home address. His children were getting older, and letters with the state penitentiary return address on them were bound to raise embarrassing questions sooner or later. "Now, be sure you tell him," his wife had said as he left the house, but now he knew he should not have agreed to it. Yet, he was relieved that it was done. And Little Horse had simply nodded in agreement and had changed the subject to the death house.

"I'll tell you, anyway," Little Horse said. "After all, Mama's well, Stella's well, Sid and Agnes send their warmest regards, and we have nothing else to talk about. But Quantock and Lundy, now – who they were, what they did, how they died – are interesting and instructive. What the hell, there may even be a moral for the young in them, for you to pass on to your classes."

He clapped his hands impatiently, and they resumed pacing the square. His mind began to fill with bright images of hot flames licking upward. Quantock and Lundy, he thought, how juicy, rich and rotten ripe, what lovely stories can I tell to spell out those nice and lovely names. He began to talk, slowly at first, then in a rush of words, followed by long silences, quick glances at his brother, aware that he was supremely uncomfortable. From time to time, he put his hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezed it for emphasis.

"Robert Quantock could cure headaches. Put his cool hands on your hot head, never say a word, but in less than three minutes your headache was gone. For a while, when he came here, he was sick and in the hospital, and I saw him do it. Oh, many times.

"Robert Quantock. Unusual name, unusual man. Left a poker game one night where he had won three hundred dollars. Went home and found his wife waiting up for him. She was a lady, and spoke to him in low tones, very civilized. Quantock listened until she ran down, told her she was lucky she had someone to blame her troubles on, and went into the bedroom. She followed him, still talking, still very civilized, and he shot her as she walked in the door, in the middle of a sentence, and in the center of her forehead. He told the police when they came that it was the only way he could get her to shut her mouth."

He stopped and swung his brother around. "Now, Deacon, mark this. Quantock shot that pistol for the second time in his life, and fired in semidarkness, and the odds against the bullet striking her at all must be high, high, but in the middle of her head, her blabbing head, they'd be fantastic. It was an accident, a fluke. But that's the way it goes. Prettiest girl, and the smartest I ever knew, cut her hand opening a can of mushroom soup and died of blood poisoning the next day."

He resumed the walk abruptly, and began to talk faster, keeping the blue betrayal of his eyes away from his brother.

"Quantock's lawyers entered a plea of insanity. They made a big deal of his having won, not lost, three hundred dollars. But the psychiatrists couldn't see it – perfectly normal, they said, for a man to shoot his wife down to get her to shut up. And the jury wasn't out an hour, and by and by, they brought Quantock here, and he cured quite a few headaches before they carried him over there." He indicated the death house.

"It took two years to exhaust all of the appeals. Quantock had nothing to do with it, didn't even seem interested. Read by day and slept by night. When the governor denied the last appeal and set the date, he thanked the warden when he brought the news."

He stopped talking, remained silent for a long time before he looked at his brother, whose face seemed dim and vague to him.

"Deacon, you know they give you a sleeping tablet on the last night? Oh yes, and most of them take it. You'd think that you'd want to stay up all night the very last night, but in the end they take it. But not Quantock, he just laid him down, as he had every other night, and went to sleep. When they came for him the next morning, he was shaved and dressed, waiting.

"When you go, Deacon, you have a guard on each side of you. They take you by the arm, as if you were old or lame or fragile, and they walk you down the corridor, which is not a mile, it's hardly forty feet from death cell to death chamber. But the guards hold you, in case you struggle, which happens sometimes, or faint, which happens quite often.

"But Quantock didn't struggle. Or faint. Oh, he stopped still, Deacon, when the door to the death chamber swung open. Even Jack Lundy did that, later. It's all right if you do that, Deacon; it's expected, quite pardonable. But Quantock only stopped for a second, then walked in, nodded to the witnesses and took his place in the chair."

Against his will, his brother spoke. "He didn't say anything?"

"Well, no message for the human race, nothing suitable for framing or inscription," Little Horse said. "But he did speak. 'This should make it even,' he said, or words to that effect. And the warden signaled and poof, no more Quantock, just a slack bag of burned meat and bones. Never commit another murder. Or cure a headache by laying on those cool, gentle hands."

A guard came walking through the square. Little Horse watched him, and when he passed he spat on the ground.

"Well now, Deacon," he said, "was that a good death? Quietly, neatly, no muss, no fuss, no ends dangling? You teach English, literature and life they call it, don't they? What would Long-fellow say about Quantock? Would old William Makepeace Thackeray call him buddy?"

Deacon shrugged. "Yes, Little Horse," he said, soothingly, "if you're going to die, if there's no help for it, then it's best to just go quietly, not like a rat, squealing."

Once, when he was twelve and Little Horse five, he had gone walking through the woods in back of their house, looking for him. He had found him under a tree, sound asleep, and he had stood there looking down at him, his heart filled to choking, and had turned away without waking him, waiting just out of sight until he woke up. When others – his wife, his mother, his sister, friends – spoke of his brother, this image of the boy sleeping under a tree in the middle of the woods came to the fore of his mind; and it seemed to him that the others were talking about someone he didn't know.

Two years before, Little Horse had stood across the corner of the busiest, most brightly lighted intersection of a large city, late at night, and had fired a steel slug from a slingshot across the street and broken a window in a jewelry store. He had walked across the street and filled his pockets and walked, then run, down the street. He was easily captured six blocks away, and an enterprising photographer had snapped his picture at the time of apprehension. The picture appeared in all the papers, but Deacon saw no resemblance between the boy sleeping under the tree and the nocturnal creature hanging between two policemen.

"Like a man, but not a squealing rat?" (continued on page 158)Solemn Sabbath (continued from page 94) Little Horse said. "Well, time now for Jack Lundy who was neither resigned nor rattish, and never heard of William Makepeace Thackeray, but still did well."

They resumed their walk. Little Horse began to speak in calm, evenly spaced sentences, as though he were reciting a set piece for a special occasion.

"Robert Quantock appeared on the front page. Jack Lundy never got beyond pages five and six. He came to work drunk, as he had many times before, and he got fired, as he had many times before. He collected his pay and resumed his spree. Obnoxious when sober, he was mean when drunk, and he was tossed out of any number of joints before he staggered into the ABC Supermarket and gave Oscar Lang the choice of giving him all his fives, tens and twenties or being beaten to death.

"The ABC Supermarket was not really a supermarket, but Oscar Lang called it that. It belonged to him. It was all he had. It was his life. He stayed open twelve to fourteen hours a day, and slept on a cot in the back room. He was somewhat over seventy years old, a dull, stubborn old man. He had no wife or children or any other kin. All he had was a little grocery store on the edge of town.

"The store was empty when Jack Lundy came in, as it was around six p.m., which is suppertime in such neighborhoods. Now, Jack Lundy was a big man and he had the face of a brute, the kind of face you'd believe when the mouth opened and said it would beat you to death. But Oscar Lang was old and you had to tell him twice to sell you a pound of sugar. And he was stubborn. When he finally got the message, he began to yell.

"As he was old, it didn't take long. I think when Jack got started, he found his real vocation, and he put his heart and soul into it. I say this because after he had finished, he just sat down on the counter and rested. I submit to your attention that he did not take any money nor did he attempt to flee. He simply rested until a customer came in, and later, the police.

"He sat silent, not responding, during his trial, not even when sentence was passed. No appeals were made for Jack Lundy and he wrote no letters to the governor. He sat in his cell and read comic books, and late in the afternoon, he would stand at his one window and yell. No words, just bellow like a wild beast. The chaplain made a few visits and then quit, leaving him to deal directly with the Almighty.

"He was sitting on the edge of his bunk when they came to get him. As soon as the door opened, he jumped up, grabbed the first guard, pulled him into the cell, slammed the door, kept his back against it. He hit the guard three times with his right hand, holding him with his left. Broke his nose with the first punch. Broke his jaw with the second. It took eight stitches over the right eye to repair the damage of the third punch, and when the guard fell, his head struck the steel bunk and fractured his skull. John Wayne could not have done better, let alone Longfellow.

"They got the door open and the other guards worked him over. After that, they began their walk. It was one hell of a walk. They had to pull and kick and drag him all the way. Until they got him to the door. They let him go then. These guards are old hands, and they knew it was safe then."

"He died like a brute," Deacon burst out in anger. "What good did all his ruckus do? He died in the end, didn't he?"

Little Horse smiled. "Ah, Deacon, wait," he said. "Jack Lundy walked in. He sat down in the chair. He gave the witnesses and the warden a long, hard look. This is a time when few men can spit. I will quote his last words, verbatim.

"'OK,' he said, 'Do any of you brave sons of bitches want to sit in my lap?' Not a good joke, Deacon, but fair, considering the circumstances. And it pleased Jack Lundy, for he was laughing when they threw the switch."

He leaned on his brother. The hot flames had died away and he felt sad and spent. He spoke with an effort.

"Well, how now, brown cow?" he said. "Quantock died like a storybook hero – noble, forgiving, above all, quiet. Jack Lundy made a loud, vulgar bang. And the moral seems to be that we must all choose which way to go."

"You could choose neither," Deacon said. "You could die in your own bed, in your own house, looking back on a peaceful and honorable life."

"Well, shout ha ha and wave our wooden legs," Little Horse said. "Now, yes, there is that way. I had forgotten about that way."

"I suggest you start thinking about it," Deacon said. "For your own sake, Little Horse, if not for ours."

"Oh, I will, I am," Little Horse said. "I'll write you and let you know when I have thought my way through it. General Delivery, of course."

So, Deacon thought, and there's nothing to be done about it. I do what I have to do, and there's no turning back. From here on out, we are two animals of the same species, but one wild and the other domestic, like a dog and a wolf, aware of the kinship and of our different fates.

The boy sleeping under the tree was gone, and in his place another image, picked up in the headlights of his car, on the trip down the night before. Coming down the lonely highway, he had seen something move on the side of the road, and had swung over without slacking speed to avoid it. As he passed he saw the dog. The rear half of its trunk was crushed. It was still alive, but he knew it was dying. As he shot past, the dog lifted its head, a look of agony and supplication in its eyes. It had probably died before he had gone as much as a mile, but he knew that on the trip back he would take the other road.

He was grateful that the departure gong began to sound, and knew his brother, Little Horse, felt the same.

"Look, Little Horse," he said. "We all have to serve a sentence of some kind. We must do the best we can."

Little Horse patted his shoulder. "I know, I know," he said. "Look, Deacon, you don't have to come here any more. Visits are no good, letters are no good. The only thing that is good is money orders. They are fine, they build morale, they give hope, and they're such a nice color. Sometimes I keep them a week before I cash them, and hold them and admire that lovely post-office green."

"I'll be back," Deacon said. "When I can. And I'm sorry I can't come more often. And I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. No, to hell with that. I'm sorry it was necessary to hurt your feelings."

"Give my regards to all," Little Horse said. "To our dear mother who raised us better. To dear Stella and her highly held head. To dear old Sid and dear old Agnes who are loyal. And when you think of me, send a money order."

His eyes were no longer dancing, but a still, muddy color. They stood and looked at one another. And Deacon suddenly knew his brother, knew but did not understand, and knew he would never understand. He suddenly embraced him, held him close and rocked him to and fro. Little Horse bit his lip and submitted, but made no response. Deacon released him and turned on his heel and walked into the departing crowd filing through the gate. Usually he looked back and waved, but this time he passed on through the gate and walked on toward the first of the three doors he had to go through before the final exit.

Little Horse stood where he had left him and watched him go. After his brother had passed out of sight, he continued to stand until a passing guard told him to leave the square. He spat ritually on the ground and obeyed. Outside the square, he started toward the hospital, then turned toward the recreation field, then stopped, irresolute.

He had a brief moment of terror, a cold, numbing dread, a sense of slouching, shambling things watching him from dark places, of brightly plumaged cruelties shrieking from the branches of unspeakable trees, and from far off, the sound of low-pitched, hideous, senseless giggling.

The terror passed, or rather, he contained it, and with a clumsy gesture of his hand, he decided in favor of the recreation field.

Quantock and Lundy would be there. They played ball every Sunday. After the game, he would tell them what they had done, how they had died, and they would hash it and rehash it until lights out. Later, months, maybe years, the longer the better, old Deacon would find out there hadn't been an execution in the state in five years or more, and the expression on his face would be worth a handful of postal money orders. And then, there would be no more visits, and he would be left alone.

He rounded the cell dormitories and saw the recreation field, saw Quantock on first, Lundy in left field. The terror had shrunk to a cold whisper, and to silence that whisper, he began to run toward the baseball diamond.