Chapter twenty-nine

I sat at a long white table in a long white room, waiting. I stared at my fingers raveling and unraveling on the Formica in front of me. Now and then my gaze lifted to Howard Marks. He was leaning back in his chair with his hands laced on his stomach. He looked slender and frail in the billowing sweater he wore. His face looked drawn, weary.

The attorney had been disappointed when I arrived without Susannah. I told him she was ill. He nodded silently. I couldn’t see how her presence could have made much difference. But I could see how everything mattered to him now.

When he saw me looking at him, he smiled a little. I smiled back. We were in Indiana State Prison, waiting for Jersey to be brought from his cell.

When the door opened, I stood. Nathan Jersey came in. I caught a glimpse of the guard as he closed the door behind him.

Jersey was a shambling black man, six feet tall or so. He was massive and substantial, with long heavy arms and a broad solid chest behind his khaki prison uniform. His skin was a thick, dark brown. It seemed to have an almost liquid texture. He was about forty-five, no more than that, but the skin sagged on his face as if he were dragging it down with his fingers. It made his eyes seem blurry and bloodshot. It made it seem as if he were melting.

Marks stood up. He and Jersey shook hands. Then Marks said:

“Nathan, this is Michael Turner.”

I waited for him to react. He turned to me heavily. He nodded heavily. He shook my hand. His hand was hard and callused, but his grip was lax.

“Pleased to meetcha,” he said. “I don’t get to meet too many people nowadays. I really am pleased to meet you.”

His voice was mellow, flowing. It made me think of a man sitting on a hill, smoking a pipe, watching the clouds. He smiled as if he were thinking of the same thing. But it seemed an effort to lift that sagging skin, and the smile dropped away.

We all sat down at the table. Jersey was at the head. Marks and I were on either side of him. I leaned forward with my hands clasped to begin speaking.

But Jersey said: “You like …? Excuse me, but—do you like the baseball games?”

“Uh … what?” I said. “Well—yeah, sure. Sure I do”

He nodded. “I like the baseball games. You ever see a real baseball game? Live?”

“Well … yeah.”

“You did?”

“Sure.”

“What that like?”

“Uh …” I looked to Marks for help. Marks looked down at the table. “Uh … it’s very … nice,” I said.

His eyes glistened. “Yeah. Yeah, I think about that. I think about that.” He kept nodding at the middle distance. He said: “You ever see Charlie Hustle?”

Slowly, I nodded too. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve seen Rose.”

“Seen him hit?”

“Yeah, sure, he was great, great.”

“George Foster, he was there, too, used to be.”

“Yeah, sure. The big red machine. Georgie was there.”

“And it’s nice out there? At the stadium?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s special, all right.”

“Special.” He rolled the word on his tongue. I wished I’d given him a better one, but he stuck with it: “Special.”

Finally Marks broke in with a quiet drawl: “Now, Nathan … Nathan, uh, Mr. Turner here, he … he didn’t come to talk about baseball.…”

Jersey chuckled like a naughty child. “Mr. Marks, he don’t like baseball.”

“Well, it’s not that,” said Marks. “It’s just … he’s come to talk about your case.”

I saw that work its way in behind Jersey’s eyes. “Mr. Marks,” Jersey said to me slowly, “Mr. Marks, he’s trying to work it so they let me see the games again this year. I like to see the games, even on the TV. Not like live, but I like to see ’em. Except they want to electrocute me for what I done to that guard. Mr. Marks gonna tell ’em I didn’t mean to hurt that boy. I forgive him for what he be doing to me all the time. It was a sin, but I forgive him so the Lord forgive me. I don’t even know what come over me. He just done that to my mouse I had, Davy. I caught that little mouse, trained him up just like you would a dog. Now, I never put up a fuss against what that boy done to me, not ever, sin though it was. But Davy didn’t do him no harm. Davy never hurt anyone. When I saw the way hebe hurting Davy, and torturing him … I guess I just lost my mind … I guess I just went right out of myself. But Mr. Marks, he’s gonna tell ’em I didn’t mean to kill no one, never. I just went out of my head about Davy, that’s all. Then they gonna let me watch the games again this year.”

Marks looked down at the table. “I’m gonna do the best I can, Nathan. I promise you,” he said quietly.

“That’s all, that’s all,” said Nathan Jersey. “I ain’t afraid or nothing. I just don’t like missing the games, that’s all.”

I sighed. I said: “Mr. Jersey, do you remember Robert Turner?”

He considered it a. minute. “I remember they said I killed him,” he said sadly.

“Did you? Can you think back?”

“Well, I don’t remember it exactly. But I don’t remember killing the guard boy either. I just seem to come right out of myself.”

“Mr. Jersey …” Without thinking I leaned toward him, put my hand on his arm. “Mr. Jersey, do you remember a man with a scar? Can you think of anytime you ever saw a man who had a scar like this?” I reached up and traced the line of it with a finger down the center of my face.

Nathan Jersey watched the finger move. Then he shook his head. He smiled a little. “You know, the people come to me. They ask me these questions. Seems like lifting a shovelful of mud to think about them. I try to look back—I don’t see nothing back there. Nothing but mud and fog.” He paused. His smile broadened. “Except the games sometimes. Sometimes, I look back—I see the games as clear as day. I see Pete up there, he’s like a fist flashing open into a hand in front of your eyes. Little white ball up the middle like a casting line, plunking down in the water. Old Pete at first again.” He tilted his head to one side and chuckled. “Yeah. That’s the only thing sometimes. Sometimes, I remember the games.”