into the light security wing to undergo a complete physical and a battery of vocational
tests. While he’s there, his old cell is completely cleaned out. Instead of getting his parole,
Andy would have gotten a long turn downstairs in solitary, followed by some more time
upstairs … but in a different cell.
If he broke into the shaft in 1967, how come he didn’t escape until 1975?
I don’t know for sure – but I can advance some pretty good guesses.
First, he would have become more careful than ever. He was too smart to just push
ahead at flank speed and try to get out in eight months, or even in eighteen. He must have
gone on widening the opening on the crawlspace a little at a time. A hole as big as a
teacup by the time he took his New Year’s Eve drink that year. A hole as big as a dinner-
plate by the time he took his birthday drink in 1968. As big as a serving-tray by the time
the 1969 baseball season opened.
For a time I thought it should have gone much faster than it apparently did – after he
broke through, I mean. It seemed to me that, instead of having to pulverize the crap and
take it out of his cell in the cheater gadgets I have described, he could simply let it drop
down the shaft. The length of time he took makes me believe that he didn’t dare do that.
He might have decided that the noise would arouse someone’s suspicions. Or, if he knew
about the sewer-pipe, as I believe he must have, he would have been afraid that a falling
chunk of concrete would break it before he was ready, screwing up the cellblock sewage
system and leading to an investigation. And an investigation, needless to say, would lead
to ruin.
Still and all, I’d guess that, by the time Nixon was sworn in for his second term, the
hole would have been wide enough for him to wriggle through … and probably sooner
than that Andy was a small guy.
Why didn’t he go then?
That’s where my educated guesses run out, folks; from this point they become
progressively wilder. One possibility is that the crawlspace itself was clogged with crap
and he had to clear it out But that wouldn’t account for all the time. So what was it?
I think that maybe Andy got scared.
I’ve told you as well as I can how it is to be an institutional man. At first you can’t
stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you get so you accept
them … and then, as your body and your mind and your spirit adjust to life on an HO
scale, you get to love them. You are told when to eat, when you can write letters, when you can smoke. If you’re at work in the laundry or the plate-shop, you’re assigned five
minutes of each hour when you can go to the bathroom. For thirty-five years, my time
was twenty-five minutes after the hour, and after thirty-five years, that’s the only time I
ever felt the need to take a piss or have a crap: twenty-five minutes past the hour. And if
for some reason I couldn’t go, the need would pass at thirty after, and come back at
twenty-five past the next hour.
I think Andy may have been wrestling with that tiger — that institutional syndrome –
and also with the bulking fears that all of it might have been for nothing.
How many nights must he have lain awake under his poster, thinking about that sewer
line, knowing that the one chance was all he’d ever get? The blueprints might have told
him how big the pipe’s bore was, but a blueprint couldn’t tell him what it would be like
inside that pipe – if he would be able to breathe without choking, if the rats were big
enough and mean enough to fight instead of retreating … and a blueprint couldn’t’ve told
him what he’d find at the end of the pipe, when and if he got there. Here’s a joke even
funnier than the parole would have been: Andy breaks into the sewer line, crawls through
five hundred yards of choking, shit-smelling darkness, and comes up against a heavy-
gauge mesh screen at the end of it all. Ha, ha, very funny.
That would have been on his mind. And if the long shot actually came in and he was
able to get out, would he be able to get some civilian clothes and get away from the
vicinity of the prison undetected? Last of all, suppose he got out of the pipe, got away
from Shawshank before the alarm was raised, got to Buxton, overturned the right rock …
and found nothing beneath? Not necessarily something so dramatic as arriving at the right
field and discovering that a high-rise apartment building had been erected on the spot, or
that it had turned into a supermarket parking lot. It could have been that some little kid
who liked rocks noticed that piece of volcanic glass, turned it over, saw the deposit-box
key, and took both it and the rock back to his room as souvenirs. Maybe a November
hunter kicked the rock, left the key exposed, and a squirrel or a crow with a liking for
bright shiny things had taken it away. Maybe there had been spring floods one year,
breaching the wall, washing the key away. Maybe anything.
So I think – wild guess or not – that Andy just froze in place for a while. After all, you
can’t lose if you don’t bet. What did he have to lose, you ask? His library, for one thing.
The poison peace of institutional life, for another. Any future chance to grab his safe
identity.
But he finally did it, just as I have told you. He tried … and, my! Didn’t he succeed in
spectacular fashion? You tell me!
But did he get away, you ask? What happened after? What happened when he got to
that meadow and turned over the rock … always assuming the rock was still there?
I can’t describe that scene for you, because this institutional man is still in this
institution, and expects to be for years to come.
But I’ll tell you this. Very late in the summer of 1975, on 15 September to be exact, I
got a postcard which had been mailed from the tiny town of McNary, Texas. That town is
on the American side of the border, directly across from El Porvenir. The message side of
the card was totally blank. But I know. I know it in my heart as surely as I know that
we’re all going to die someday.
McNary was where he crossed. McNary, Texas.
So that’s my story, Jack. I never believed how long it would take to write it all down,
or how many pages it would take. I started writing just after I got that postcard, and here I
am finishing up on 14 January 1976. I’ve used three pencils right down to knuckle-stubs,
and a whole tablet of paper. I’ve kept the pages carefully hidden … not that many could
read my. hen-tracks, anyway.
It stirred up more memories than I ever would have believed. Writing about yourself
seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and roiling up the muddy
bottom.
Well, you weren’t writing about yourself, I hear someone in the peanut-gallery saying.
You were writing about Andy Dufresne. You’re nothing but a minor character in your
own story. But you know, that’s just not so. It’s all about me, every damned word of it Andy was the part of me they could never lock up, the part of me that will rejoice when
the gates finally open for me and I walk out in my cheap suit with my twenty dollars of
mad-money in my pocket That part of me will rejoice no matter how old and broken and
scared the rest of me is. I guess it’s just that Andy had more of that part than me, and used
it better.
There are others here like me, others who remember Andy. We’re glad he’s gone, but a
little sad, too. Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too
bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to
feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to
imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much
more drab and empty for their departure.
That’s the story and I’m glad I told it, even if it is a bit inconclusive and even though
some of the memories the pencil prodded up (like that branch poking up the river-mud)