Vernon God Little

'Don't let's start that again. I just don't want the day to arrive and you not be – you know, ready – it's March twenty-eight tomorrow, I mean, that'll be another vote under the bridge…'

Death Row always hushes when my ole lady calls. I guess it's like that in TV-land too, you know how entertaining she can be.

'Did you get the thing I sent for Pam?' I ask.

'Well yes, and thank you very much, from both of us. You know, we were even saying…'

'Mom – I think you should use it at the, you know – the time…'

'Well that's what we were saying…' I wait while she gives a bitty sob, and blows her nose. My eyes mist up too. She leaves the receiver for a second to compose herself, and returns with a sigh. 'Then we can just remember you the way you were – just imagine you're out on your bike…'

'Sure,' I say. 'That's why I sent the token – you can use it at any branch y'know.'

'Well we're very grateful, specially if you saw the price of a Chik'n'Mix lately. Pam and I will use the token, and Vaine can pay for her own…'

'And Ma – tell Nana she don't have to come up here either.'

There's a pause on the line. 'Well – Vernon, I haven't told your nana about, you know – the trouble. She's old, and she only watches Shopping anyway, she won't have seen the news – I think it should just be our little secret, okay?'

'And when I don't show up for lawnmowing this spring?'

'Oh hell – Vernon, the gals just arrived and I haven't finished Vaine's skirt.'

'Vaine's wearing a skirt?'

'Listen baby, we're canvassing votes for you, so don't worry – some people end up waiting years on drrth rhrw…'

After the call, I lay back on the bunk and plough things over in my mind. Needs, boy, human needs. Mom once said Palmyra was into food because it was the only thing she could control in her life. It wouldn't run from the plate, or stand up to her. I think about it, and see Leona sucking attention like sunrays; ole Mr Deutschman savoring his mangle-headed tangs. Sympathy dripping giddy into the aching sponge of Mom's life. Melted cheese and Vaine Gurie. Give 'em all what they want, I say.

I know the Barn token is a good want to give Palmyra, but I should think of something especially for Mom, even though another death in the family will probably fix her true need, like for sympathy. Shame it has to be me, though. And, know what? Who else I'd like to fulfil before I go is ole Mrs Lechuga. She's had a hard time of things, and I regret the stuff I said about Max, I guess I'm just pumping cream pie about it all, this giving of wants and whatever, but – what the heck. You only die once. Strangely, I even feel I should grant something for the ole jackrabbit media. You can only guess what they really want.

Then there's Taylor. Oh Tay. She's tight with all these media types now, reporters and all, with helicopters and stuff, so it won't be easy granting a wish for her. What she really wants is a big new story to launch her career. Maybe just a real nice call or something would do the trick. Maybe that could solve all the more difficult wants, a nice phone call.

I work my way through the list of wanters, until I hit Vaine Gurie. She seems to have fallen in with Pam now, don't even go there really. The only thing I can think she wants is a homicidal maniac for her SWAT team to practice on. She ain't easy. To be honest, though, I think I only linger on Vaine to avoid working on Lally's want. I know the Godly thing, the forgiving thing to do, is to give a want to Lally, even though he has just about everything. Just some bitty token, y'know?

The appliances return early this Sunday morning, giving the day a brisk feel. March twenty-eight. Execution day for somebody. Engineers set the TVs up permanently this time, and install a system to shut them down during the vote. Emotions howl like pack-dogs in my soul when a bunch of paperwork arrives with my breakfast tray. First is a brochure about how to act for the cameras, and what not to say or do. The whole Row must've got that one, on account of everybody's saying and doing the wrong thing. Under the brochure is a glossy page showing some cartoon convicts, with arrows on their clothes and all, giving hints for your last statement. Then another form has a list of musical choices for the Final Event: you get to choose one tune before the witnesses come into the chamber, and one for the Event itself. It's mostly real ole music on the list. I know I'll regret my choices when the time comes. I'll just have to be brave to that wave.

As I digest things, the regular Sunday quiet falls over the Row. You hear some papers rustle. Then a con calls out, softly.

'Burnem – you okay, my man?'

I turn over the last sheet of paper on my pile. Under it lays an order for my execution, effective six o'clock tonight. I look at it like it was a napkin or something. Then I fall down on my knees, bawl like a storm cloud, and pray to God.

twenty-six