Brutal had clamped one of John ‘s wrists, Dean the other. Over Dean’s shoulder I could see the doctor, unobtrusive as ever, standing against the wall with his black bag between his feet. Nowadays I guess they just about run such affairs, especially the ones with the IV drips, but back then you almost had to yank them forward if you wanted them. Maybe back then they had a clearer idea of what was right for a doctor to be doing, and what was a perversion of the special promise they make, the one where they swear first of all to do no harm.
Dean nodded to Brutal. Brutal turned his head, seemed to glance at the telephone that was never going to ring for the likes of John Coffey, and called “Roll on one!” to Jack Van Hay.
There was that hum, like an old fridge kicking on, and the lights burned a little brighter. Our shadows stood out a little sharper, black shapes that climbed the wall and seemed to hover around the shadow of the chair like vultures. John drew in a sharp breath. His knuckles were white.
“Does it hurt yet?” Mrs. Detterick shrieked brokenly from against her husband’s shoulder.”I hope it does!
I hope it hurts like hell!” Her husband squeezed her. One side of his nose was bleeding, I saw, a narrow trickle of red working its way down into his narrow-gauge mustache. When I opened the paper the following March and saw he’d died of a stroke, I was about the least surprised man on earth.
Brutal stepped into John ‘s field of vision. He touched John ‘s shoulder as he spoke. That was irregular, but of the witnesses, only Curtis Anderson knew it, and he did not seem to remark it. I thought he looked
like a man who only wants to be done with his current job. Desperately wants to be done with it. He enlisted in the Army after Pearl Harbor, but never got overseas; he died at Fort Bragg, in a truck accident.
John, meanwhile, relaxed beneath Brutal’s fingers. I don’t think he understood much, if any, of what Brutal was telling him, but he took comfort from Brutal’s hand on his shoulder. Brutal, who died of a heart attack about twenty-five years later (he was eating a fish sandwich and watching TV wrestling when it happened, his sister said), was a good man. My friend. Maybe the best of us. He had no trouble understanding how a man could simultaneously want to go and still be terrified of the trip.
“John Coffey, you have been condemned to die in the electric chair, sentence passed by a jury of your peers and imposed by a judge of good standing in this state. God save the people of this state. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?”
John wet his lips again, then spoke clearly. Six words. “I’m sorry for what I am.”
“You ought to be!” the mother of the two dead girls screamed. “Oh you monster, you ought to be! YOU
DAMN WELL OUGHT TO BE!”
John’s eyes turned to me. I saw no resignation in them, no hope of heaven, no dawning peace. How I would love to tell you that I did. How I would love to tell myself that. What I saw was fear, misery, incompletion, and incomprehension. They were the eyes of a trapped and terrified animal. I thought of what he’d said about how Wharton had gotten Cora and Kathe Detterick off the porch without rousing the house: He kill them with they love. That’s how it is every day. All over the world.
Brutal took the new mask from its brass hook on the back of the chair, but as soon as John saw it and understood what it was, his eyes widened in horror. He looked at me, and now I could see huge droplets of sweat standing out on the curve of his naked skull. As big as robin’s eggs, they looked.
“Please, boss, don’t put that thing over my face,” he said in a moaning little whisper. “Please don’t put me in the dark, don’t make me go into the dark, I’s afraid of the dark.”