I saw similar thoughts on Brutal’s face, but Wharton just went on grinning his stoned, loose-lipped grin –
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. It came out something like Wherra fink yerr gone?
Coffey stood still, looking first at Wharton, then at Wharton’s hand, then back into Wharton’s face. I could not read that expression. I mean I could see the intelligence in it, but I couldn’t read it. As for Wharton, I wasn’t worried about him at all. He wouldn’t remember any of this later; he was like a drunk walking in a blackout.
“You’re a bad man,” Coffey whispered, and I couldn’t tell what I heard in his voice – pain or anger or fear. Maybe all three. Coffey looked down at the hand on his arm again, the way you might look at a bug which could give you a really nasty bite, had it a mind.
“That’s right, nigger,” Wharton said with a bleary, cocky smile. “Bad as you’d want.”
I was suddenly positive that something awful was going to happen, something that would change the planned course of this early morning as completely as a cataclysmic earthquake can change the course of a river. It was going to happen, and nothing I or any of us did would stop it.
Then Brutal reached down, plucked Wharton’s hand off John Coffey’s arm, and that feeling stopped. It was as if some potentially dangerous circuit had been broken. I told you that in my time in E Block, the governor’s line never rang. That was true, but I imagine that if it ever had, I would have felt the same relief that washed over me when Brutal removed Wharton’s hand from the big man towering beside me.
Coffey’s eyes dulled over at once; it was as if the searchlight inside his head had been turned off.
“Lie down, Billy,” Brutal said. “Take you some rest.” That was my usual line of patter, but under the circumstances, I didn’t mind Brutal using it.
“Maybe I will,” Wharton agreed. He stepped back, swayed, almost went over, and caught his balance at the last second. “Whoo, daddy. Whole room’s spinnin around. Like bein drunk.”
He backed toward his bunk, keeping his bleary regard on Coffey as he went. “Niggers ought to have they own ‘lectric chair,” he opined. Then the backs of his knees struck his bunk and he swooped down onto it.
He was snoring before his head touched his thin prison pillow, deep blue shadows brushed under the hollows of his eyes and the tip of his tongue lolling out.
“Christ, how’d he get up with so much dope in him?” Dean whispered.
“It doesn’t matter, he’s out now,” I said. “If he starts to come around, give him another pill dissolved in a glass of water. No more than one, though. We don’t want to kill him.”
“Speak for yourself,” Brutal rumbled, and gave Wharton a contemptuous look. “You can’t kill a monkey like him with dope, anyway. They thrive on it.”
“He’s a bad man,” Coffey said, but in a lower voice this time, as if he was not quite sure of what he was saying, or what it meant.
“That’s right,”. Brutal said. “Most wicked. But that’s not a problem now, because we ain’t going to tango with him anymore.” We started walking again, the four of us surrounding Coffey like worshippers circling an idol that’s come to some stumbling kind of half life. “Tell me something, John – do you know where we’re taking you?”
“To help,” he said. “I think … to help … a lady?” He looked at Brutal with hopeful anxiety.
Brutal nodded. “That’s right. But how do you know that? How do you know?”
John Coffey considered the question carefully, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he told Brutal. “To tell you the truth, boss, I don’t know much of anything. Never have.”
And with that we had to be content.
6.
I had known the little door between the office and the steps down to the storage room hadn’t been built with the likes of Coffey in mind, but I hadn’t realized how great the disparity was until he stood before it, looking at it thoughtfully.