sure can, honey. You hang on.”
After five rings, I hear a click. Then a deep male voice speaks two words that somehow convey more emotional subtext than most men could in two paragraphs: reassurance, gravitas, a knowledge of ultimate things.
“Doctor Cage,” it says.
My father’s voice instantly steadies my heart. This voice has comforted thousands of people over the years, and told many others that their days on earth numbered far less than they’d hoped. “Dad, what are you doing home this time of day?”
“Penn? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s up, son?”
“I’m bringing Annie home to see you.”
“Great. Are you coming straight from Florida?”
“You could say that. We’re coming today.”
“Today? Is she sick?”
“No. Not physically, anyway. Dad, I’m selling the house in Houston and moving back home for a while. What comes after that, I’ll figure out later. Have you got room for us?”
“God almighty, son. Let me call your mother.”
I hear my father shout, then the clicking of heels followed by my mother’s voice. “Penn? Are you really coming home?”
“We’ll be there tonight.”
“Thank God. We’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“No, don’t. I’ll rent a car.”
“Oh … all right. I just … I can’t tell you how glad I am.”
Something in my mother’s voice triggers an alarm. I can’t say what it is, because it’s in the spaces, not the words, the way you hear things in families. Whatever it is, it’s serious. Peggy Cage does not worry about little things.
“Mom? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re coming home.”
There is no more inept liar than someone who has spent a lifetime telling the truth. “Mom, don’t try to—”
“We’ll talk when you get here. You just bring that little girl where she belongs.”
I recall Cilla’s opinion that my mother was upset when she called yesterday. But there’s no point in forcing the issue on the phone. I’ll be face to face with her in a few hours. “We’ll be there tonight. Bye.”
My hand shakes as I set the receiver in its cradle. For a prodigal son, a journey home after eighteen years is a sacred one. I’ve been home for a few Christmases and Thanksgivings, but this is different. Looking down at Annie, I get one of the thousand-volt shocks of recognition that has hit me so many times since the funeral. Sometimes Sarah’s face peers out from Annie’s as surely as if her spirit has temporarily possessed the child. But if this is a possession, it is a benign one. Annie’s hazel eyes transfix mine with a look that gave me much peace when it shone from Sarah’s face: This is the right thing, it says.
“I love you, Daddy,” she says softly.
“I love you more,” I reply, completing our ritual. Then I catch her under the arms and lift her high into the air. “Let’s pack! We’ve got a plane to catch!”
One of the nice things about first-class air travel is immediate beverage service. Even before our connecting flight lifts out of Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport, a tumbler of single-malt Scotch sits half-empty on the tray before me. I never drink liquor in front of Annie, but she is conveniently asleep on the adjacent seat. Her little arm hangs over the padded divider, her hand touching my thigh, an early-warning system that operates even in sleep. What part of her brain keeps that hand in place? Did Neanderthal children sleep this way? I sip my whisky and stroke her hair, cautiously looking around the cabin.
One of the bad things about first-class air travel is being recognized. You get a lot of readers in first class. A lot of lawyers too. Today the cabin is virtually empty, but sitting across the aisle from us is a woman in her late twenties, wearing a lawyerly blue suit and reading a Penn Cage novel. It’s just a matter of time before she recognizes me. Or maybe not, if my luck holds. I take another sip of Scotch, recline my seat, and close my eyes.
The first image that floats into my mind is the face of Arthur Lee Hanratty. I spent four months convicting that bastard, and I consider it time well spent. But even in Texas, where we are serious about the death penalty, it takes time to exhaust all avenues of appeal. Now, eight years after his conviction, it seems possible that he might actually die at the hands of the state.
I know prosecutors who will drive all day with smiles on their faces to see the execution of a man they convicted, avidly anticipating the political capital they will reap from the event. Others will not attend an execution even if asked. I always felt a responsibility to witness the punishment I had requested in the name of society. Also, in capital cases, I shepherded the victims’ families through the long ordeal of trial. In every case family members asked me to witness the execution on their behalf. After the legislature changed the law, allowing victims’ families to witness executions, I was asked to accompany them in the viewing room, and I was glad to be able to comfort them.
This time it’s different. My relationship to death has fundamentally changed. I witnessed my wife’s death from a much closer perspective than from the viewing room at the Walls, and as painful as it was, her passing was a sacred experience. I have no desire to taint that memory by watching yet another execution carried out with the institutional efficiency of a veterinarian putting down a rabid dog.
I drink off the remainder of my Scotch, savoring the peaty burn in my throat. As always, remembering Sarah’s death makes me think of my father. Hearing his voice on the telephone earlier only intensifies the images. As the 727 ascends to cruising altitude, the whisky opens a neural switch in my brain, and memory begins overpowering thought like a salt tide flooding into an estuary. I know from experience that it is useless to resist. I close my eyes and let it come.
Sarah lies in the M.D. Anderson hospital in Houston, her bones turned to burning paper by a disease whose name she no longer speaks aloud. She is not superstitious, but to name the sickness seems to grant it more power than it deserves. Her doctors are puzzled. The end should have come long ago. The diagnosis was a late one, the prognosis poor. Sarah weighs only eighty-one pounds now, but she fights for life with a young mother’s tenacity. It is a pitched battle, fought minute by minute against physical agony and emotional despair. Sometimes she speaks of suicide. It is a comfort on the worst nights.
Like many doctors, her oncologists are too wary of lawsuits and the DEA to adequately treat pain. In desperation I call my father, who advises me to check Sarah out of the hospital and go home. Six hours later, he arrives at our door, trailing the smell of cigars and a black bag containing enough Schedule Two narcotics to euthanize a grizzly bear. For two weeks he lives across the hall from Sarah, tending her like a nurse, shaming into silence any physician who questions his actions. He helps Sarah to sleep when she needs
