they wheel them down the last mile? Sitting in his cage, regarding the preacher through the bars, through the smoke of his cigarette, Frank could imagine the man shifting in his living-room easy chair, thoughtfully rattling the ice in his scotch, gravely considering the question—and then pontificating for the guests out of his vast experience. He understood what the bastard wanted here, all right.
Reverend Shillerman’s chest expanded and he set his shoulders. He was winding up to deliver his pitch. “Frank,” he said earnestly with an earnest frown, “I understand you’re a Bible-reading man. That’s right, isn’t it?”
The clock on the cinderblock wall behind him swept along, the second hand in its unstopping circle, and Frank wanted to shoot to his feet, to shout at the man: Go on, get out, get out of here. It would be easy to do it. To let himself go. It was easy to think: Why not? Do it. What have I got to lose? Benson would be sure as hell to hustle the chaplain out of there in a hurry if it looked like the prisoner was getting upset.
But Frank did not jump up or shout out. He was afraid. He was holding on to himself so hard. Bonnie was coming, Bonnie and Gail, and all he had to give them was his unshaken face, his appearance of serenity, so they could rememberit sometimes and be serene. If he raised his voice now—if he lost control, he did not know if he’d be able to get it back again. He couldn’t let this windbag take his last good thing away from him. His hand shook as he slowly raised the cigarette to his lips. He replied nothing.
But Shillerman went on as if he’d answered the question in the affirmative. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s real good, Frank. That Bible-reading, that’s gonna hold you in good stead today—and ever afterwards too. But you know, Frank …” He tilted back on his heels, digging in for the long sermon. His face took on a comtemplative cast. “Just reading the Bible, that isn’t quite enough, is it? It can’t be enough, Frank. You know that as well as I do. A man can’t go to his maker with the sins on his soul unrepented of, with the hurt he’s done to folks just … you know, unrepented of.”
Sitting there, hating him, fighting to contain his anger and his panic, Frank noticed everything. The watchful calculation in the bedrock of the chaplain’s eyes. His eyebrows—he must’ve clipped them to keep them so neat. The way he used three words where one would’ve done it, and the way he tried to sound important and biblical but couldn’t quite come up with all the fancy language.
Shillerman took another step toward the cage bars. “Now, you know, no one could blame you up to now for proclaiming your innocence. Heck, you’re fighting for your life here. That’s a natural thing, I understand that, everyone does. But I don’t need to tell you that the time is drawing nigh. And there’s a lot of folks out there who would feel a whole lot better to hear that you were … remorseful for the pain you caused them. You could do a lot of good with just those words, Frank. I’m saying this for
you
, for
your
sake. I’m saying this because I don’t want you to go to God without making straight the things that can be made straight.”
Frank rolled his inner eye at the God who was always watching him.
Would you get this clown out of here please
, he thought.
Shillerman lifted one hand and pointed back over his shoulder at the clock. “Observe the time, Frank, and fly from evil,” he said. “That’s what the good book says.”
“Thanks.” Frank’s voice was now a hoarse whisper. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“Frank …”
“I want you to leave me alone,” Frank said.
The smile on Shillerman’s lips never faltered. But some subtle darkening of his expression—and Frank noticed everything—told the true measure of the preacher’s scorn. Scorn for Frank, scorn for all the prisoners whom he in his moral immensity
Reverend Shillerman’s chest expanded and he set his shoulders. He was winding up to deliver his pitch. “Frank,” he said earnestly with an earnest frown, “I understand you’re a Bible-reading man. That’s right, isn’t it?”
The clock on the cinderblock wall behind him swept along, the second hand in its unstopping circle, and Frank wanted to shoot to his feet, to shout at the man: Go on, get out, get out of here. It would be easy to do it. To let himself go. It was easy to think: Why not? Do it. What have I got to lose? Benson would be sure as hell to hustle the chaplain out of there in a hurry if it looked like the prisoner was getting upset.
But Frank did not jump up or shout out. He was afraid. He was holding on to himself so hard. Bonnie was coming, Bonnie and Gail, and all he had to give them was his unshaken face, his appearance of serenity, so they could rememberit sometimes and be serene. If he raised his voice now—if he lost control, he did not know if he’d be able to get it back again. He couldn’t let this windbag take his last good thing away from him. His hand shook as he slowly raised the cigarette to his lips. He replied nothing.
But Shillerman went on as if he’d answered the question in the affirmative. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s real good, Frank. That Bible-reading, that’s gonna hold you in good stead today—and ever afterwards too. But you know, Frank …” He tilted back on his heels, digging in for the long sermon. His face took on a comtemplative cast. “Just reading the Bible, that isn’t quite enough, is it? It can’t be enough, Frank. You know that as well as I do. A man can’t go to his maker with the sins on his soul unrepented of, with the hurt he’s done to folks just … you know, unrepented of.”
Sitting there, hating him, fighting to contain his anger and his panic, Frank noticed everything. The watchful calculation in the bedrock of the chaplain’s eyes. His eyebrows—he must’ve clipped them to keep them so neat. The way he used three words where one would’ve done it, and the way he tried to sound important and biblical but couldn’t quite come up with all the fancy language.
Shillerman took another step toward the cage bars. “Now, you know, no one could blame you up to now for proclaiming your innocence. Heck, you’re fighting for your life here. That’s a natural thing, I understand that, everyone does. But I don’t need to tell you that the time is drawing nigh. And there’s a lot of folks out there who would feel a whole lot better to hear that you were … remorseful for the pain you caused them. You could do a lot of good with just those words, Frank. I’m saying this for
you
, for
your
sake. I’m saying this because I don’t want you to go to God without making straight the things that can be made straight.”
Frank rolled his inner eye at the God who was always watching him.
Would you get this clown out of here please
, he thought.
Shillerman lifted one hand and pointed back over his shoulder at the clock. “Observe the time, Frank, and fly from evil,” he said. “That’s what the good book says.”
“Thanks.” Frank’s voice was now a hoarse whisper. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“Frank …”
“I want you to leave me alone,” Frank said.
The smile on Shillerman’s lips never faltered. But some subtle darkening of his expression—and Frank noticed everything—told the true measure of the preacher’s scorn. Scorn for Frank, scorn for all the prisoners whom he in his moral immensity
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