You won’t ‘splode, he’d said, smiling a bit at the very idea, and I hadn’t … but something had happened to me, all the same. Something lasting.
“Read the rest of it”, I said. “What answers I have are in there.”
“All right”, she almost whispered. “I’m a little afraid to, I can’t lie about that, but … all right. Where will you be?”
I stood up, stretched, listened to my spine crackle in my back. One thing that I knew for sure was that I was sick to death of the sunroom. “Out on the croquet course. There’s still something I want to show you, and it’s in that direction.”
“Is it … scary?” In her timid look I saw the little girl she had been back when men wore straw boaters in the summer and raccoon coats in the winter.
“No”, I said, smiling. “Not scary.”
“All right.” She took the pages. “I’m going to take these down to my room. I’ll see you out on the croquet course around…” She riffled the manuscript, estimating. “Four? Is that all right?”
“Perfect,” I said, thinking of the too-curious Brad Dolan. He would be gone by then.
She reached out, gave my arm a little squeeze, and left the room. I stood where I was for a moment, looking down at the table, taking in the fact that it was bare again except for the breakfast tray Elaine had brought me that morning, my scattered papers at last gone. I somehow couldn’t believe I was done … and as you can see, since all this was written after I recorded John Coffey’s execution and gave the last batch of pages to Elaine, I was not. And even then, part of me knew why.
Alabama.
I filched the last piece of cold toast off the tray, went downstairs, and out onto the croquet course. There I sat in the sun, watching half a dozen pairs and one slow but cheerful foursome pass by waving their mallets, thinking my old man’s thoughts and letting the sun warm my old man’s bones.
Around two-forty-five, the three-to-eleven shift started to trickle in from the parking lot, and at three, the day-shift folks left. Most were in groups, but Brad Dolan, I saw, was walking alone. That was sort of a happy sight; maybe the world hasn’t gone entirely to hell, after all. One of his joke-books was sticking out of his back pocket. The path to the parking lot goes by the croquet course, so he saw me there, but he didn’t give me either a wave or a scowl. That was fine by me. He got into his old Chevrolet with the bumper sticker reading I HAVE SEEN GOD AND HIS NAME IS NEWT. Then he was gone to wherever he goes when he isn’t here, laying a thin trail of discount motor oil behind.
Around four o’clock, Elaine joined me, just as she had promised. From the look of her eyes, she’d done a little more crying. She put her arms around me and hugged me tight. “Poor John Coffey”, she said. “And poor Paul Edgecombe, too.”
Poor Paul, I heard Jan saying. Poor old guy.
Elaine began to cry again. I held her, there on the croquet course in the late sunshine. Our shadows looked as if they were dancing. Perhaps in the Make Believe Ballroom we used to listen to on the radio back in those days.
At last she got herself under control and drew back from me. She found a Kleenex in her blouse pocket and wiped her streaming eyes with it. “What happened to the Warden’s wife, Paul? What happened with Melly?”
“She was considered the marvel of the age, at least by the doctors at Indianola Hospital,” I said. I took her arm and we began to walk toward the path which led away from the employees, parking lot and into the woods. Toward the shed down by the wall between Georgia Pines and the world of younger people.
“She died – of a heart attack, not a brain tumor – ten or eleven years later. In forty-three, I think. Hal died of a stroke right around Pearl Harbor Day-could have been on Pearl Harbor Day, for all I remember – so she outlived him by two years. Sort of ironic.”