His face was pale, his hands shaking so badly that he was making quite some production of those buttons. I almost wanted to knock his fingers aside and do the coat up myself, like you would with a little kid. The irony was that Melinda had looked better when Jan and I went to see her the previous weekend than Hal had looked earlier on John Coffey’s execution evening.
“I won’t be staying for this one,” he had said. “Curtis will be there, and I know Coffey will be in good hands with you and Brutus.”
“Yes, sir, we’ll do our best”, I said. “Is there any word on Percy?” Is he coming back around? is what I meant, of course. Is he even now sitting in a room somewhere and telling someone – some doctor, most likely – about how we zipped him into the nut-coat and threw him into the restraint room like any other problem child … any other lugoon, in Percy’s language? And if he is, are they believing him?
But according to Hal, Percy was just the same. Not talking, and not, so far as anyone could tell, in the world at all. He was still at Indianola – “being evaluated”, Hal had said, looking mystified at the phrase –
but if there was no improvement, he would be moving along soon.
“How’s Coffey holding up?” Hal had asked then. He had finally managed to do up the last button of his coat.
I nodded. “He’ll be fine, Warden.”
He’d nodded back, then gone to the door, looking old and ill. “How can so much good and so much evil live together in the same man? How could the man who cured my wife be the same man who killed those little girls? Do you understand that?”
I had told him I didn’t, the ways of God were mysterious, there was good and evil in all of us, ours not to reason why, -hotcha, hotcha, row-dee-dow. Most of what I told him were things I’d learned in the church of Praise Jesus, The Lord Is Mighty, Hal nodding the whole time and looking sort of exalted. He could afford to nod, couldn’t he? Yes. And look exalted, too. There was a deep sadness on his face – he was shaken, all right; I never doubted it – but there were no tears this time, because he had a wife to go home to, his companion to go home to, and she was fine. Thanks to John Coffey, she was well and fine and the man who had signed John ‘s death warrant could leave and go to her. He didn’t have to watch what came next. He would be able to sleep that night in his wife’s warmth while John Coffey lay on a slab in the basement of County Hospital, growing cool as the friendless, speechless hours moved toward dawn. And I hated Hal for those things. Just a little, and I’d get over it, but it was hate, all right. The genuine article.
Now I stepped into the cell, followed by Dean and Harry, both of them pale and downcast. “Are you ready, John ?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, boss. Guess so.”
“All right, then. I got a piece to say before we go out.”
“You say what you need to, boss.”
“John Coffey, as an officer of the court…”
I said it right to the end, and when I’d finished, Harry Terwilliger stepped up beside me and held out his
hand. John looked surprised for a moment, then smiled and shook it. Dean, looking paler than ever, offered his next. “You deserve better than this, Johnny” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”
“I be all right”, John said. “This the hard part; I be all right in a little while.” He got up, and the St.
Christopher’s medal Melly had given him swung free of his shirt.
“John, I ought to have that”, I said. “I can put it back on you after the… after, if you want, but I should take it for now.” It was silver, and if it was lying against his skin when Jack Van Hay switched on the juice, it might fuse itself into his skin. Even if it didn’t do that, it was apt to electroplate, leaving a kind of charred photograph of itself on the skin of his chest. I had seen it before. I’d seen most everything during my years on the Mile. More than was good for me. I knew that now.