Read Online Dead Man Walking by Helen Prejean - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Helen Prejean
Ads: Link
comes from his diaphragm. He is talking and laughing like this and I can see the terror in his eyes.
“Be a man my son.” The line from Hemingway’s “Big Two-Hearted River” wells up in my mind, the words of a priest to Sam Cardinella, who loses control of his anal sphincter muscle on the way to the gallows.
As if one can be brave by simply willing it. I wonder what kind of dignity I would muster if I were facing my executioners.
It’s surreal, all of it. My mind keeps casting about for something familiar to reassure myself that it is just a question of time before the stay of execution comes, that this is all a bad dream. Unreal.
At about two o’clock I go to the major’s office to make the phone call.
“Sorry,” Tom says, “no word yet from the court. You just have to help him wait it out.”
I go back to the visiting room. He is standing up, peering eagerly through the heavy mesh screen. “No word yet,” I tell him. “Would you like to pray?”
He nods his head. I don’t remember the exact words of the prayer — a prayer, I’m sure, of essentials: forgiveness, courage, sustenance for the final big step if it should come.
When the prayer is over I say to him, “If you die, I want to be with you.”
He says, “No. I don’t want you to see it.”
I say, “I can’t bear the thought that you would die without seeing one loving face. I will be the face of Christ for you. Just look at me.”
He says, “It’s terrible to see. I don’t want to put you through that. It could break you. It could scar you for life.”
I know that it will terrify me. How could it not terrify me? But I feel strength and determination. I tell him it won’t break me, that I have plenty of love and support in my life.
“God will give me the grace,” I tell him.
He consents. He nods his head. It is decided. I will be there with him if he dies.
He says, “If only I knew I’d die right away when the first jolt hits me. Will I feel it? They say the body burns. [Later, his deathcertificate will record that death took four to five minutes.] 2 My poor mother …”
Yes, his poor mother. She had been raised by her grandmother, lived out in the middle of cane fields, and at a young age had married an older man. The marriage had brought a trail of sorrows, no companionship, just poverty. Once, Eddie, her “baby,” had cried for two days and two nights with a toothache because she had no money for a dentist. And then had come the ultimate tragedy — her sons’ terrible deed, the trial, the sentencing. She did not come much to Angola, but when her sons were awaiting trial in the parish jail close to home, she had brought them home cooking. She had earned money by sitting at night with an elderly sick man so she could get them cigarettes and warm winter clothes. But she has been able to visit death row only once or twice. It makes her ill to see her son here.
Pat says, “When they put that hood on my head, I don’t want that ‘Lord is my shepherd’ prayer. It will only delay things. I just want to get it over.”
I ask him if he believes God has forgiven him or does he feel condemned forever for what he has done? Now, for the first time, he talks to me about the murders.
“At first, no,” he says, “I felt that even God hated me, but I know now that God forgives me. I went to confession to the old priest.
“Nobody was supposed to get killed. Eddie was upset. We had just gotten him out of jail. He had come unglued over a girl who was pregnant with his child. She wouldn’t marry him, and he had gone to her house with a sawed-off shotgun, cut the telephone wires, and threatened to shoot her and her whole family. They had him put in jail and every day Mama was calling me at work. ‘Get your brother out. Get my baby out.’ We got him out, got the charge dropped, but his nerves was messed up. Something I think the boy David said to him teed him off and he shot the kids. I should’ve known he could blow. I
“Be a man my son.” The line from Hemingway’s “Big Two-Hearted River” wells up in my mind, the words of a priest to Sam Cardinella, who loses control of his anal sphincter muscle on the way to the gallows.
As if one can be brave by simply willing it. I wonder what kind of dignity I would muster if I were facing my executioners.
It’s surreal, all of it. My mind keeps casting about for something familiar to reassure myself that it is just a question of time before the stay of execution comes, that this is all a bad dream. Unreal.
At about two o’clock I go to the major’s office to make the phone call.
“Sorry,” Tom says, “no word yet from the court. You just have to help him wait it out.”
I go back to the visiting room. He is standing up, peering eagerly through the heavy mesh screen. “No word yet,” I tell him. “Would you like to pray?”
He nods his head. I don’t remember the exact words of the prayer — a prayer, I’m sure, of essentials: forgiveness, courage, sustenance for the final big step if it should come.
When the prayer is over I say to him, “If you die, I want to be with you.”
He says, “No. I don’t want you to see it.”
I say, “I can’t bear the thought that you would die without seeing one loving face. I will be the face of Christ for you. Just look at me.”
He says, “It’s terrible to see. I don’t want to put you through that. It could break you. It could scar you for life.”
I know that it will terrify me. How could it not terrify me? But I feel strength and determination. I tell him it won’t break me, that I have plenty of love and support in my life.
“God will give me the grace,” I tell him.
He consents. He nods his head. It is decided. I will be there with him if he dies.
He says, “If only I knew I’d die right away when the first jolt hits me. Will I feel it? They say the body burns. [Later, his deathcertificate will record that death took four to five minutes.] 2 My poor mother …”
Yes, his poor mother. She had been raised by her grandmother, lived out in the middle of cane fields, and at a young age had married an older man. The marriage had brought a trail of sorrows, no companionship, just poverty. Once, Eddie, her “baby,” had cried for two days and two nights with a toothache because she had no money for a dentist. And then had come the ultimate tragedy — her sons’ terrible deed, the trial, the sentencing. She did not come much to Angola, but when her sons were awaiting trial in the parish jail close to home, she had brought them home cooking. She had earned money by sitting at night with an elderly sick man so she could get them cigarettes and warm winter clothes. But she has been able to visit death row only once or twice. It makes her ill to see her son here.
Pat says, “When they put that hood on my head, I don’t want that ‘Lord is my shepherd’ prayer. It will only delay things. I just want to get it over.”
I ask him if he believes God has forgiven him or does he feel condemned forever for what he has done? Now, for the first time, he talks to me about the murders.
“At first, no,” he says, “I felt that even God hated me, but I know now that God forgives me. I went to confession to the old priest.
“Nobody was supposed to get killed. Eddie was upset. We had just gotten him out of jail. He had come unglued over a girl who was pregnant with his child. She wouldn’t marry him, and he had gone to her house with a sawed-off shotgun, cut the telephone wires, and threatened to shoot her and her whole family. They had him put in jail and every day Mama was calling me at work. ‘Get your brother out. Get my baby out.’ We got him out, got the charge dropped, but his nerves was messed up. Something I think the boy David said to him teed him off and he shot the kids. I should’ve known he could blow. I
Similar Books
