The Green Mile Read online

  Later, as I drove to the prison, I got to thinking that very soon we would have to start rehearsing for Delacroix's execution. That thought led to how Percy was going to be out front this time, and I felt a shiver of dread. I told myself to just go with it, one execution and we'd very likely be shut of Percy Wetmore for good . . . but still I felt that shiver, as if the infection I'd been suffering with wasn't gone at all, but had only switched locations, from boiling my groin to freezing my backbone.

  7

  "COME ON," Brutal told Delacroix the following evening. "We're going for a little walk. You and me and Mr. Jingles."

  Delacroix looked at him distrustfully, then reached down into the cigar box for the mouse. He cupped it in the palm of one hand and looked at Brutal with narrowed eyes.

  "Whatchoo talking about?" he asked.

  "It's a big night for you and Mr. Jingles," Dean said, as he and Harry joined Brutal. The chain of bruises around Dean's neck had gone an unpleasant yellow color, but at least he could talk again without sounding like a dog barking at a cat. He looked at Brutal. "Think we ought to put the shackles on him, Brute?"

  Brutal appeared to consider. "Naw," he said at last. "He's gonna be good, ain't you, Del? You and the mouse, both. After all, you're gonna be showin off for some high muck-a-mucks tonight."

  Percy and I were standing up by the duty desk, watching this, Percy with his arms folded and a small, contemptuous smile on his lips. After a bit, he took out his horn comb and went to work on his hair with it. John Coffey was watching, too, standing silently at the bars of his cell. Wharton was lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and ignoring the whole show. He was still "being good," although what he called good was what the docs at Briar Ridge called catatonic. And there was one other person there, as well. He was tucked out of sight in my office, but his skinny shadow fell out the door and onto the Green Mile.

  "What dis about, you gran' fou?" Del asked querulously, drawing his feet up on the bunk as Brutal undid the double locks on his cell door and ran it open. His eyes flicked back and forth among the three of them.

  "Well, I tell you," Brutal said. "Mr. Moores is gone for awhile--his wife is under the weather, as you may have heard. So Mr. Anderson is in charge, Mr. Curtis Anderson."

  "Yeah? What that got to do with me?"

  "Well," Harry said, "Boss Anderson's heard about your mouse, Del, and wants to see him perform. He and about six other fellows are over in Admin, just waiting for you to show up. Not just plain old bluesuit guards, either. These are pretty big bugs, just like Brute said. One of them, I believe, is a politician all the way from the state capital."

  Delacroix swelled visibly at this, and I saw not so much as a single shred of doubt on his face. Of course they wanted to see Mr. Jingles; who would not?

  He scrummed around, first under his bunk and then under his pillow. He eventually found one of those big pink peppermints and the wildly colored spool. He looked at Brutal questioningly, and Brutal nodded.

  "Yep. It's the spool trick they're really wild to see, I guess, but the way he eats those mints is pretty damned cute, too. And don't forget the cigar box. You'll want it to carry him in, right?"

  Delacroix got the box and put Mr. Jingles's props in it, but the mouse he settled on the shoulder of his shirt. Then he stepped out of his cell, his puffed-out chest leading the way, and regarded Dean and Harry. "You boys coming?"

  "Naw," Dean said. "Got other fish to fry. But you knock em for a loop, Del--show em what happens when a Louisiana boy puts the hammer down and really goes to work."

  "You bet." A smile shone out of his face, so sudden and so simple in its happiness that I felt my heart break for him a little, in spite of the terrible thing he had done. What a world we live in--what a world!

  Delacroix turned to John Coffey, with whom he had struck up a diffident friendship not much different from a hundred other deathhouse acquaintances I'd seen.

  "You knock em for a loop, Del," Coffey said in a serious voice. "You show em all his tricks."

  Delacroix nodded and held his hand up by his shoulder. Mr. Jingles stepped onto it like it was a platform, and Delacroix held the hand out toward Coffey's cell. John Coffey stuck out a huge finger, and I'll be damned if that mouse didn't stretch out his neck and lick the end of it, just like a dog.

  "Come on, Del, quit lingerin," Brutal said. "These folks're settin back a hot dinner at home to watch your mouse cut his capers." Not true, of course--Anderson would have been there until eight o'clock on any night, and the guards he'd dragged in to watch Delacroix's "show" would be there until eleven or twelve, depending on when their shifts were scheduled to end. The politician from the state capital would most likely turn out to be an office janitor in a borrowed tie. But Delacroix had no way of knowing any of that.

  "I'm ready," Delacroix said, speaking with the simplicity of a great star who has somehow managed to retain the common touch. "Let's go." And as Brutal led him up the Green Mile with Mr. Jingles perched there on the little man's shoulder, Delacroix once more began to bugle, "Messieurs et mesdames! Bienvenue au cirque de mousie!" Yet, even lost as deeply in his own fantasy world as he was, he gave Percy a wide berth and a mistrustful glance.

  Harry and Dean stopped in front of the empty cell across from Wharton's (that worthy had still not so much as stirred). They watched as Brutal unlocked the door to the exercise yard, where another two guards were waiting to join him, and led Delacroix out, bound for his command performance before the grand high poohbahs of Cold Mountain Penitentiary. We waited until the door was locked again, and then I looked toward my office. That shadow was still lying on the floor, thin as famine, and I was glad Delacroix had been too excited to see it.

  "Come on out," I said. "And let's move along brisk, folks. I want to get two run-throughs in, and we don't have much time."

  Old Toot-Toot, looking as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, came out, walked to Delacroix's cell, and strolled in through the open door. "Sittin down," he said. "I'm sittin down, I'm sittin down, I'm sittin down."

  This is the real circus, I thought, closing my eyes for a second. This is the real circus right here, and we're all just a bunch of trained mice. Then I put the thought out of my mind, and we started to rehearse.

  8

  THE FIRST REHEARSAL went well, and so did the second. Percy performed better than I could have hoped for in my wildest dreams. That didn't mean things would go right when the time really came for the Cajun to walk the Mile, but it was a big step in the right direction. It occurred to me that it had gone well because Percy was at long last doing something he cared about. I felt a surge of contempt at that, and pushed it away. What did it matter? He would cap Delacroix and roll him, and then both of them would be gone. If that wasn't a happy ending, what was? And, as Moores had pointed out, Delacroix's nuts were going to fry no matter who was out front.

  Still, Percy had shown to good advantage in his new role and he knew it. We all did. As for me, I was too relieved to dislike him much, at least for the time being. It looked as if things were going to go all right. I was further relieved to find that Percy actually listened when we suggested some things he could do that might improve his performance even more, or at least cut down the possibility of something going wrong. If you want to know the truth, we got pretty enthusiastic about it--even Dean, who ordinarily stood well back from Percy . . . physically as well as mentally, if he could. None of it that surprising, either, I suppose--for most men, nothing is more flattering than having a young person actually pay attention to his advice, and we were no different in that regard. As a result, not a one of us noticed that Wild Bill Wharton was no longer looking up at the ceiling. That includes me, but I know he wasn't. He was looking at us as we stood there by the duty desk, gassing and giving Percy advice. Giving him advice! And him pretending to listen! Quite a laugh, considering how things turned out!

  The sound of a key rattling into the lock of the door to the exercise yard put an end to our little po
st-rehearsal critique. Dean gave Percy a warning glance. "Not a word or a wrong look," he said. "We don't want him to know what we've been doing. It's not good for them. Upsets them."

  Percy nodded and ran a finger across his lips in a mum's-the-word gesture that was supposed to be funny and wasn't. The exercise-yard door opened and Delacroix came in, escorted by Brutal, who was carrying the cigar box with the colored spool in it, the way the magician's assistant in a vaudeville show might carry the boss's props offstage at the end of the act. Mr. Jingles was perched on Delacroix's shoulder. And Delacroix himself? I tell you what--Lillie Langtry couldn't have looked any glowier after performing at the White House. "They love Mr. Jingles!" Delacroix proclaimed. "They laugh and cheer and clap they hands!"

  "Well, that's aces," Percy said. He spoke in an indulgent, proprietary way that didn't sound like the old Percy at all. "Pop on back in your cell, old-timer."

  Delacroix gave him a comical look of distrust, and the old Percy came busting out. He bared his teeth in a mock snarl and made as if to grab Delacroix. It was a joke, of course, Percy was happy, not in a serious grabbing mood at all, but Delacroix didn't know that. He jerked away with an expression of fear and dismay, and tripped over one of Brutal's big feet. He went down hard, hitting the linoleum with the back of his head. Mr. Jingles leaped away in time to avoid being crushed, and went squeaking off down the Green Mile to Delacroix's cell.

  Delacroix got to his feet, gave the chuckling Percy a single hate-filled glance, then scurried off after his pet, calling for him and rubbing the back of his head. Brutal (who didn't know that Percy had shown exciting signs of competency for a change) gave Percy a wordless look of contempt and went after Del, shaking his keys out.

  I think what happened next happened because Percy was actually moved to apologize--I know it's hard to believe, but he was in an extraordinary humor that day. If true, it only proves a cynical old adage I heard once, something about how no good deed goes unpunished. Remember me telling you about how, after he'd chased the mouse down to the restraint room on one of those two occasions before Delacroix joined us, Percy got a little too close to The Pres's cell? Doing that was dangerous, which was why the Green Mile was so wide--when you walked straight down the middle of it, you couldn't be reached from the cells. The Pres hadn't done anything to Percy, but I remember thinking that Arlen Bitterbuck might have, had it been him Percy had gotten too close to. Just to teach him a lesson.

  Well, The Pres and The Chief had both moved on, but Wild Bill Wharton had taken their place. He was worse-mannered than The Pres or The Chief had ever dreamed of being, and he'd been watching the whole little play, hoping for a chance to get on stage himself. That chance now fell into his lap, courtesy of Percy Wetmore.

  "Hey, Del!" Percy called, half-laughing, starting after Brutal and Delacroix and drifting much too close to Wharton's side of the Green Mile without realizing it. "Hey, you numb shit, I didn't mean nothin by it! Are you all ri--"

  Wharton was up off his bunk and over to the bars of his cell in a flash--never in my time as a guard did I see anyone move so fast, and that includes some of the athletic young men Brutal and I worked with later at Boys' Correctional. He shot his arms out through the bars and grabbed Percy, first by the shoulders of his uniform blouse and then by the throat. Wharton dragged him back against his cell door. Percy squealed like a pig in a slaughter-chute, and I saw from his eyes that he thought he was going to die.

  "Ain't you sweet," Wharton whispered. One hand left Percy's throat and ruffled through his hair. "Soft!" he said, half-laughing. "Like a girl's. I druther fuck your asshole than your sister's pussy, I think." And he actually kissed Percy's ear.

  I think Percy--who had beat Delacroix onto the block for accidentally brushing his crotch, remember--knew exactly what was happening. I doubt that he wanted to, but I think he did. All the color had drained from his face, and the blemishes on his cheeks stood out like birthmarks. His eyes were huge and wet. A line of spittle leaked from one corner of his twitching mouth. All this happened quick--it was begun and done in less than ten seconds, I'd say.

  Harry and I stepped forward, our billies raised. Dean drew his gun. But before things could go so much as an inch further, Wharton let go of Percy and stepped back, raising his hands to his shoulders and grinning his dank grin. "I let im go, I 'us just playin and I let im go," he said. "Never hurt airy single hair on that boy's purty head, so don't you go stickin me down in that goddam soft room again."

  Percy Wetmore darted across the Green Mile and cringed against the barred door of the empty cell on the other side, breathing so fast and so loud that it sounded almost like sobbing. He had finally gotten his lesson in keeping to the center of the Green Mile and away from the frumious bandersnatch, the jaws that bite and the claws that catch. I had an idea it was a lesson that would stick with him longer than all the advice we'd given him after our rehearsals. There was an expression of utter terror on his face, and his precious hair was seriously mussed up for the first time since I'd met him, all in spikes and tangles. He looked like someone who has just escaped being raped.

  There was a moment of utter stop then, a quiet so thick that the only sound was the sobbing whistle of Percy's breathing. What broke it was cackling laughter, so sudden and so completely its own mad thing that it was shocking. Wharton was my first thought, but it wasn't him. It was Delacroix, standing in the open door of his cell and pointing at Percy. The mouse was back on his shoulder, and Delacroix looked like a small but malevolent male witch, complete with imp.

  "Lookit him, he done piss his pants!" Delacroix howled. "Lookit what the big man done! Bus' other people wid 'is stick, mais oui some mauvais homme, but when someone touch him, he make water in 'is pants jus' like a baby!"

  He laughed and pointed, all his fear and hatred of Percy coming out in that derisive laughter. Percy stared at him, seemingly incapable of moving or speaking. Wharton stepped back to the bars of his cell, looked down at the dark splotch on the front of Percy's trousers--it was small but it was there, and no question about what it was--and grinned. "Somebody ought to buy the tough boy a didy," he said, and went back to his bunk, chuffing laughter.

  Brutal went down to Delacroix's cell, but the Cajun had ducked inside and thrown himself on his bunk before Brutal could get there.

  I reached out and grasped Percy's shoulder. "Percy--" I began, but that was as far as I got. He came to life, shaking my hand off. He looked down at the front of his pants, saw the spot spreading there, and blushed a dark, fiery red. He looked up at me again, then at Harry and Dean. I remember being glad that Old Toot-Toot was gone. If he'd been around, the story would have been all over the prison in a single day. And, given Percy's last name--an unfortunate one, in this context--it was a story that would have been told with the relish of high glee for years to come.

  "You talk about this to anyone, and you'll all be on the breadlines in a week," he whispered fiercely. It was the sort of crack that would have made me want to swat him under other circumstances, but under these, I only pitied him. I think he saw that pity, and it made it worse with him--like having an open wound scoured with nettles.

  "What goes on here stays here," Dean said quietly. "You don't have to worry about that."

  Percy looked back over his shoulder, toward Delacroix's cell. Brutal was just locking the door, and from inside, deadly clear, we could still hear Delacroix giggling. Percy's look was as black as thunder. I thought of telling him that you reaped what you sowed in this life, and then decided this might not be the right time for a scripture lesson.

  "As for him--" he began, but never finished. He left, instead, head down, to go into the storage room and look for a dry pair of pants.

  "He's so purty," Wharton said in a dreamy voice. Harry told him to shut the fuck up before he went down to the restraint room just on general damned principles. Wharton folded his arms on his chest, closed his eyes, and appeared to go to sleep.

  9

  THE NIGHT BEFORE Dela
croix's execution came down hotter and muggier than ever--eighty-one degrees by the thermometer outside the Admin ready-room window when I clocked in at six. Eighty-one degrees at the end of October, think of that, and thunder rumbling in the west like it does in July. I'd met a member of my congregation in town that afternoon, and he had asked me, with apparent seriousness, if I thought such unseasonable weather could be a sign of the Last Times. I said that I was sure not, but it crossed my mind that it was Last Times for Eduard Delacroix, all right. Yes indeed it was.

  Bill Dodge was standing in the door to the exercise yard, drinking coffee and smoking him a little smoke. He looked around at me and said, "Well, lookit here. Paul Edgecombe, big as life and twice as ugly."

  "How'd the day go, Billy?"

  "All right."

  "Delacroix?"

  "Fine. He seems to understand it's tomorrow, and yet it's like he don't understand. You know how most of em are when the end finally comes for them."

  I nodded. "Wharton?"

  Bill laughed. "What a comedian. Makes Jack Benny sound like a Quaker. He told Rolfe Wettermark that he ate strawberry jam out of his wife's pussy."

  "What did Rolfe say?"

  "That he wasn't married. Said it must have been his mother Wharton was thinking of."

  I laughed, and hard. That really was funny, in a low sort of way. And it was good just to be able to laugh without feeling like someone was lighting matches way down low in my gut. Bill laughed with me, then turned the rest of his coffee out in the yard, which was empty except for a few shuffling trusties, most of whom had been there for a thousand years or so.

  Thunder rumbled somewhere far off, and unfocused heat lightning flashed in the darkening sky overhead. Bill looked up uneasily, his laughter dying.

  "I tell you what, though," he said, "I don't like this weather much. Feels like something's gonna happen. Something bad."

  About that he was right. The bad thing happened right around quarter of ten that night. That was when Percy killed Mr. Jingles.