He got to the spool, though, got to it just fine and nosed it back to Delacroix with all his old enthusiasm. I turned to John Coffey, who was standing at his cell door and smiling. It was a tired smile, and not what I’d call really happy, but the sharp urgency I’d seen in his face as he begged for the mouse to be given to him was gone, and so was the look of pain and fear, as if he were choking. It was our john Coffey again, with his not-quite-there face and strange, far-looking eyes.
“You helped it,” I said. “Didn’t you, big boy?”
“That’s right,” Coffey said. The smile widened a little, and for a moment or two it was happy. “I helped it. I helped Del’s mouse. I helped …” He trailed off, unable to remember the name.
“Mr. Jingles,” Dean said. He was looking at John with careful, wondering eyes, as if he expected Coffey to burst into flames or maybe begin to float in his cell.
“That’s right,” Coffey said. “Mr. Jingles. He’s a circus mouse. Goan live in ivy-glass.”
“You bet your bobcat,” Harry said, joining us in looking at John Coffey. Behind us, Delacroix lay down on his bunk with Mr. Jingles on his chest. Del was crooning to him, singing him some French song that sounded like a lullaby.
Coffey looked up the Green Mile toward the duty desk and the door which led into my office and the storage room beyond. “Boss Percy’s bad,” he said. “Boss Percy’s mean. He stepped on Del’s mouse. He
stepped on Mr. Jingles.”
And then, before we could say anything else to him – if we could have thought of anything to say – John Coffey went back to his bunk, lay down, and rolled on his side to face the wall.
3.
Percy was standing with his back to us when Brutal and I came into the storage room about twenty minutes later. He had found a can of paste furniture polish on a shelf above the hamper where we put our dirty uniforms (and, sometimes, our civilian clothes; the prison laundry didn’t care what it washed), and was polishing the oak arms and legs of the electric chair. This probably sounds bizarre to you, perhaps even macabre, but to Brutal and me, it seemed the most normal thing Percy had done all night. Old Sparky would be meeting his public tomorrow, and. Percy would at least appear to be in charge.
“Percy,” I said quietly.
He turned the little tune he’d been humming dying in his throat, and looked at us. I didn’t see the fear I’d expected, at least not at first. I realized that Percy looked older, somehow. And, I thought, John Coffey was right. He looked mean. Meanness is like an addicting drug – no one on earth is more qualified to say that than me – and I thought that, after a certain amount of experimentation, Percy had gotten hooked on it. He liked what he had done to Delacroix’s mouse. What he liked even more was Delacroix’s dismayed screams.
“Don’t start in on me,” he said in a tone of voice that was almost pleasant. “I mean, hey, it was just a mouse. It never belonged here in the first place, as you boys well know.”
“The mouse is fine,” I said. My heart was thumping hard in my chest but I made my voice come out mild, almost disinterested. “Just fine. Running and squeaking and chasing its spool again. You’re no better at mouse-killing than you are at most of the other things you do around here.”
He was looking at me, amazed and disbelieving. “You expect me to believe that? The goddam thing crunched! I heard it! So you can just—!”
“Shut up.”
He stared at me, his eyes wide. “What? What did you say to me?”
I took a step closer to him. I could feel a vein throbbing in the middle of my forehead. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so angry. “Aren’t you glad Mr. Jingles is okay? After all the talks we’ve had about how our job is to keep the prisoners calm, especially when it gets near the end for them, I thought you’d be glad. Relieved. With Del having to take the walk tomorrow, and all.”