August 2014
Willard Shoat, quiet and barely responsive on Anna’s first jailhouse visit, was talkative this time, even with Henry hovering nearby. It took only seconds for him to reduce his sister to tears.
They met in the visiting room of the county lockup, face-to-face through a reinforced glass partition while seated on round stools bolted to the floor. Armed guards were posted on both sides. The room could hold five visitors at a time, but, due to Willard’s infamy and mental limitations, the jailer was letting Anna visit outside normal hours.
They spoke to each other over an in-house telephone. The deputy who escorted Anna into the room insisted that Willard had showered the night before, but he looked dirty and disheveled. The orange uniform was clownishly baggy, and as Willard crossed the room to take his seat he kept shoving the sleeves up his arms. When he saw Anna, his face bloomed with a shy smile as he picked up the phone.
“Hi, Anna.”
“Hi, Willard.” To Henry, her voice sounded fragile, and the next exchange broke her.
“You’re still here, so that part’s happening.”
“What part, Willard?”
“Have they got up yet? Mom and Dad? Have they got up?”
Anna bit her lip and lowered her head. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening.
“Got up?”
“From bed. Ain’t they got up yet?”
“No, Willard.” Her voice cracked. “They ain’t got up.”
She pressed her free hand against the glass, maybe hoping he’d do the same. But either he hadn’t seen that movie or didn’t understand. Instead he looked down at his lap, seemingly befuddled.
“Why ain’t they?”
“They’re in the ground now, Willard. They’re at peace, but they’re in the ground.”
She pulled her fingers away from the glass to wipe her eyes. Willard rocked back and forth on the stool. It was plain on his face that these weren’t the answers he’d expected.
“I’m sorry, Willard. Give me a few seconds, okay?”
“Okay,” he said meekly.
Henry felt awkward being there, but couldn’t look away. He was surprised by the familial resemblance, which hadn’t been evident in newspaper photos. It was mostly their eyes, oval pools of brown, although Anna’s were more animated. There was a similar sculpting to their face, although Willard’s cheeks were flabbier.
The guard perked up when Anna reached inside her purse, then lost interest as she withdrew a handkerchief to blow her nose. She folded it and dabbed her eyes before picking up the phone again.
“Okay, then. Let’s talk about you, Willard. Tell me how you’re doing.”
He shrugged.
“I eat a lot. But there’s no chicken. No cotton candy. There’s no movies here. I sleep. They let me sleep a whole lot.” Then his face lit up, and he sat up straighter. “Can I go home with you?”
“No, Willard. You have to stay.”
“When can I go?”
“I don’t know, Willard, but it might be a long time.”
“Real long?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you count it, count the number? How many days?”
“No one knows yet. It depends on…” She paused, again biting her lower lip. Henry stepped forward to offer his handkerchief, which again brought the guard to attention, but she waved it away.
“Depends on what?”
“On what the court decides about what happened to Mom and Dad. Can you talk about that? Do you know why it happened?”
He shrugged, as if she’d just asked why the jail wasn’t serving chicken, yet another question beyond his ability to answer. Anna’s fingers squirmed on the receiver, and her voice sharpened.
“Tell me why it happened, Willard. Why you did that to Mom and Dad. With your rifle, I mean. Why’d you shoot them, can you tell me?”
They stared at each other, faces rigid. Henry wondered if there was a history behind these sibling confrontations. Even between such different minds there must have been jealousies, rivalries, some fights along the way.
Willard’s face folded in on itself and he gasped for air with a sound like a sob.
“Those numbers!” he said, louder than he’d yet spoken. The guard on his side frowned and stood a little straighter.
“What numbers, Willard?”
“The numbers! Why hasn’t it happened?”
“Why hasn’t what happened, Willard? What numbers?”
Henry, unable to contain himself, stepped toward the glass and spoke toward the mouthpiece. “The numbers on the sign? The sign for Poston? Is that what you mean?”
Willard looked up in surprise, recoiling at the sound of a new voice.
“Sorry,” Henry whispered.
“Do you mean the sign?” Anna asked, drawing her brother’s attention back to her.
Willard nodded slowly.
“What do the numbers mean? What was supposed to happen?”
Willard grimaced and shook his head. He looked lost in thought. Anna repeated the question, but he remained silent. She lowered the receiver to her side.
“This was a bad idea, the whole thing—hiring you, coming here, all of it. I’ll never know why. He’ll never even know, so how the hell will anyone else?”
“It’s okay.”
“No. None of this is okay. I’m wasting your time, and God knows what I’m doing to my brother. When we came in he seemed fine. Now look at him.”
Willard was slumped on the stool. He stared at the floor, his face red with frustration.
Henry rested a hand on Anna’s shoulder.
“Don’t give up. Too early for that.”
Willard’s voice crackled from the receiver.
“He said…He said that the numbers, that they would finish it.”
The words affected them like the crack of a whip. Anna picked up the receiver and asked slowly, carefully, “Who said that, Willard? Who said the numbers would finish it?”
Willard looked from Anna to Henry, and then back at his sister. His eyes widened and, for the first time, he looked mistrustful, maybe a little scared.
“No!” He backed away, nearly stumbling as he stood from the stool.
“It’s okay, Willard. You’re all right. You’re okay.”
She placed her free hand back against the glass. Willard’s grimace softened and he slowly settled back onto the stool.
“Are you better now? Do you feel okay?”
He nodded.
“It’s just one small question, Willard, that’s all. And it’s okay to answer it. Who said the numbers would finish it? Was it someone like Joey? Is that the kind of person you’re talking about?”
Willard shook his head. His gaze returned to the floor.
“Not Joey,” he said sullenly.
“I know that,” she said. “I know Joey wouldn’t do that. But was it someone like Joey? You know, someone I wouldn’t be able to see?”
He continued to stare at the floor.
“Who was it, Willard. Who told you that?”
When Willard looked up, his eyes seemed to be pleading for mercy, or a little understanding.
“I can’t. I promised, Anna. I can’t.”
“You promised him?”
Willard nodded.
“Promised him what, Willard?”
“No. I can’t. I can’t, Anna, or it won’t never happen!”
He dropped the receiver, which bounced against the partition as he again slid off the stool. He raised a hand as if to wave goodbye and then thought better of it. Then he turned and walked away, toward the back of the room where the guard stood. Anna knocked on the glass and shouted.
“Willard. Willard!”
He kept going, not even turning to say goodbye.