here?”
“It’s a long story,” said the warden, but she did not continue. “Dr. Wren, I don’t know what we’re going to do without Jack.”
“I know,” said Franny. There was a silence, and then the phone rang and the warden answered it. Her tone was markedly different: cold, stern. She looked at Franny and rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “You tell him the rule is long pants and I don’t care if he has to go to Wal-Mart in Waco. What? All right, I’m coming.” She hung up the phone. “Problems at the front gate,” she said, standing. “Can I walk you out?” Franny stood.
“Here’s my home phone,” said the warden, scribbling a number on the back of her card and handing it to Franny. “And call me Janice, please.” The warm voice was back, and Franny nodded.
After Janice had escorted Franny back out through the astonishing number of gates and bars and to Uncle Jack’s Cadillac, Franny started the car and began to drive. Uncle Jack’s house was only a few miles from the prison, but she did not turn, drove right past the Motor Inn, past the Last Chance Saloon. The houses were mostly small and one-level. The car radio scanned from one country station to another. Flushed men and women watered their lawns and walked dogs. Everyone was sweating. Franny tried to recognize people, but no one looked familiar. It felt good to be driving. The air coming in the window smelled of grass.
On the corner of Farm Road 116 and Oak Street, a blue building caught Franny’s eye: Gatestown Public Library. She pulled into a parking spot. The library was open, and Franny felt a small thrill. She and Uncle Jack had come to the library a hundred times.
Franny pulled open the screen door, and then the wooden one. She peeked in. To her left, on mismatched recliners, two elderly men in Stetsons sat reading the paper. One looked up, “Come on in, honey,” he said. “They’re open.” Franny blushed and stepped inside.
To her right, rows of colorful books lined the shelves. The sign above them said MYSTERIES. An elderly woman with white hair filed cards at a tall desk. Behind her, more shelves stretched into another room. The woman said, “Welcome to the Gatestown Public Library, dear.”
“Hi,” said Franny. “Thanks.” She pretended to look at the mysteries.
“You here for the Satan Killer?” asked one of the men.
“No,” said Franny.
“Here for the Hairdresser of Death?”
“No,” said Franny. She looked more intently at the row of mysteries, finally choosing one called Murder in Manhattan.
“That’s a good one,” said the librarian. “My name’s Louise.”
Franny smiled. “I’m Franny,” she said, “Franny Wren.” Louise’s hand was warm and soft.
“You related to Doc Wren?” said one of the men.
Franny nodded. “I’m his niece.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” said the man. His face was lined and brown. “Little Franny Wren! You used to come into my pharmacy and buy lipstick.”
Franny smiled. “Yup,” she said. “That’s me.”
“My son—he was near your age, Donny? He took over the pharmacy and sold it to CVS. He and that wife of his.”
“Well,” said Franny.
“How is the Doc?” said the man.
“Oh,” said the elderly librarian, covering her mouth with her hand.
“What?”
“He’s dead,” said Franny. She blinked. “Do I need a library card?” she said. Her voice was unsteady.
Louise waved her hand, a dismissal. “Just bring it back,” she said.
Franny nodded, and then saw a book on the shelving cart: Our Death Row Women. “What’s that?” she said, pointing.
“Oh,” said Louise, “I put that together myself.” She pulled out the book. It was a collection of newspaper clippings about the women on Death Row, photocopied and bound.
“May I borrow it?”
Louise smiled. “Well, sure,” she said. “But I’ve got to add in the Satan Killer. So bring it back real soon.”
“I will,” said Franny.
“Hey,” said the brown-faced man.
“It’s a long story,” said the warden, but she did not continue. “Dr. Wren, I don’t know what we’re going to do without Jack.”
“I know,” said Franny. There was a silence, and then the phone rang and the warden answered it. Her tone was markedly different: cold, stern. She looked at Franny and rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “You tell him the rule is long pants and I don’t care if he has to go to Wal-Mart in Waco. What? All right, I’m coming.” She hung up the phone. “Problems at the front gate,” she said, standing. “Can I walk you out?” Franny stood.
“Here’s my home phone,” said the warden, scribbling a number on the back of her card and handing it to Franny. “And call me Janice, please.” The warm voice was back, and Franny nodded.
After Janice had escorted Franny back out through the astonishing number of gates and bars and to Uncle Jack’s Cadillac, Franny started the car and began to drive. Uncle Jack’s house was only a few miles from the prison, but she did not turn, drove right past the Motor Inn, past the Last Chance Saloon. The houses were mostly small and one-level. The car radio scanned from one country station to another. Flushed men and women watered their lawns and walked dogs. Everyone was sweating. Franny tried to recognize people, but no one looked familiar. It felt good to be driving. The air coming in the window smelled of grass.
On the corner of Farm Road 116 and Oak Street, a blue building caught Franny’s eye: Gatestown Public Library. She pulled into a parking spot. The library was open, and Franny felt a small thrill. She and Uncle Jack had come to the library a hundred times.
Franny pulled open the screen door, and then the wooden one. She peeked in. To her left, on mismatched recliners, two elderly men in Stetsons sat reading the paper. One looked up, “Come on in, honey,” he said. “They’re open.” Franny blushed and stepped inside.
To her right, rows of colorful books lined the shelves. The sign above them said MYSTERIES. An elderly woman with white hair filed cards at a tall desk. Behind her, more shelves stretched into another room. The woman said, “Welcome to the Gatestown Public Library, dear.”
“Hi,” said Franny. “Thanks.” She pretended to look at the mysteries.
“You here for the Satan Killer?” asked one of the men.
“No,” said Franny.
“Here for the Hairdresser of Death?”
“No,” said Franny. She looked more intently at the row of mysteries, finally choosing one called Murder in Manhattan.
“That’s a good one,” said the librarian. “My name’s Louise.”
Franny smiled. “I’m Franny,” she said, “Franny Wren.” Louise’s hand was warm and soft.
“You related to Doc Wren?” said one of the men.
Franny nodded. “I’m his niece.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” said the man. His face was lined and brown. “Little Franny Wren! You used to come into my pharmacy and buy lipstick.”
Franny smiled. “Yup,” she said. “That’s me.”
“My son—he was near your age, Donny? He took over the pharmacy and sold it to CVS. He and that wife of his.”
“Well,” said Franny.
“How is the Doc?” said the man.
“Oh,” said the elderly librarian, covering her mouth with her hand.
“What?”
“He’s dead,” said Franny. She blinked. “Do I need a library card?” she said. Her voice was unsteady.
Louise waved her hand, a dismissal. “Just bring it back,” she said.
Franny nodded, and then saw a book on the shelving cart: Our Death Row Women. “What’s that?” she said, pointing.
“Oh,” said Louise, “I put that together myself.” She pulled out the book. It was a collection of newspaper clippings about the women on Death Row, photocopied and bound.
“May I borrow it?”
Louise smiled. “Well, sure,” she said. “But I’ve got to add in the Satan Killer. So bring it back real soon.”
“I will,” said Franny.
“Hey,” said the brown-faced man.
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