Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
From the stoop, I collected Tuesday’s newspaper as the night sky dissolved behind pillows of pink-lavender clouds and a crested golden crown.
Under the Claxtons’ porch light, I dropped my gaze to the paper, eager to search for the latest news about the polio outbreak at Jackson’s prison. Instead, the July seventh headline screamed “The Notorious Black Widow Sassyann Sipes to Be Executed Today.”
The woman’s arms and legs were bound by leather straps, her face and eyes hidden beneath a leather mask. Underneath the slightly blurred photograph, an article explained the history of the electric chair, noting Thomas Edison and a dentist had killed countless animals while testing the invention.
I couldn’t help imagining Ruth’s writhing body and wheezing breaths and tasted the bile rising and knocking at my throat. Unable to help myself, I turned back to the morbid photograph, witnessing the woman suspended between heaven and earth.
Horrified, I examined the picture of Sassyann closely, studying the photograph they had used.
Sassyann was clad in her scarlet-red prison clothing, her small frame shackled, gripped by brutish law officials as she was escorted down a long, darkened hall lined with newsmen.
I stared into her blank eyes and know’d that as far as she was concerned, they couldn’t torture her anymore—they’d already killed her long ago.
Again, I choked, fighting against my stomach’s rebellion.
I looked to the skies, knowing there was a good chance they’d kill me along with the babe if they could. I wondered, if I started walking now, how long it would take to lose myself in this big city.
Somewhere nearby an automobile door slammed, and then came the roar of a motor, awakening the natters of nested birds.
Startled, I spun around. The taillights of a distant vehicle disappeared.
The yellow glow of the city’s lamplights grew faint as dawn summoned the morning.
The street was quiet except for a striped tabby’s loud yowling as it made its way across neighbors’ yards, demanding its morning meal.
I stepped off the stoop and looked up and down the street, tempted to run.
The door opened. “Good, I see the paper’s early today,” Reverend said, poking his head out.
I thrust it into the ol’ man’s hands, ducked past his wiry frame, and escaped to the washroom to dry my eyes.
When I came out, I asked if I could help with breakfast or set the table. But I was shooed away. The couple had their heads together, resting their arms on the counter, intent on listening to the morning newscast gossip on their wooden radio.
Mrs. Claxton adjusted the knob as the static licked at the speaker’s voice. She barely whispered, “Not now, chile, the governor’s giving an important news report.”
I walked toward the sleeping porch, then stopped cold.
Hearing the governor say Sassyann, I moved closer to the couple, the politician’s shocking news sweeping across the kitchen.
“So, gentlemen, I can only ask of myself,” the governor boomed above the static, “can a mere mortal be more righteous than God? Can even the strongest of men be purer than his Maker?”
The radio quieted except for the sound of newspapermen as they scribbled down his biblical quote, the shifting of paper rattling above the scissoring air.
“Who here is more righteous than Him?” the governor continued. “If I dare try to execute the wretched woman again, her spirit will rise up against me.”
A harsh breath scraped over my tongue.
The Claxtons crowded in closer.
There was a long pause, then a reporter piped up, his voice riding the airwaves clear.
“There’s been a string of botched electrocutions across the country in the last decade.
In ’46, the Louisiana teenager Willie Francis survived the electric chair only to be electrocuted again the following year.
My question is this, sir: Since Sassyann Sipes survived the electric chair, and if there will be no second electrical execution for her, will the state consider seeking a hanging instead—”
“God turned her away and Satan wouldn’t have her!” the governor proclaimed.
“Governor, over here. Governor,” the men rang out, their pleas rising above the rustling papers and buzzing whispers.
“Why, it’s nothing short of a real honest-to-God miracle,” a newsman shouted above the others.
More static had us all pinched head-to-head before we heard the governor’s words again.
“Gentlemen, I’ll take one last question. You, Mr. Hagar, from the Owensboro Messenger.”
I cocked my ear, trying to make out his question wallowing under the squawks of chorusing crows, the newsmen hungering for more.
Reverend grumbled and fiddled with the dial as his wife smacked her fist against the counter.
“Time.”
“Seconds.”
“Precise—”
A quarrel of words fizzled into the governor’s final choppy statement: “…immediately…hospitalized…chair malfunctioned at approximately twenty-four sec—execution was—”
I leaned in closer.
More broken questions rose, and the newsmen’s urgent inquiries collided and dipped under the crackling static.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen; that’s all I have for you at this time. I’ll update you on her medical prognosis as soon I learn more from the doctors.”
“Sinner,” Reverend Claxton muttered, shaking his head, slowly pushing away from the counter.
“Warrior,” Mrs. Claxton said softly, silencing the radio with a click.