Bert turned doggedly away. “You tell them good-bye for me,” he said. “I’m feeling too rotten.” And he strode quickly away.
A week later Bert Munroe drove to the Banks farm and stopped his Ford in front of the gate. Raymond came from behind a bush where he had been trying a shot at a hawk. He sauntered out and shook hands with his caller.
“I’ve heard so much about your place, I thought I’d just come down for a look,” Bert said.
Raymond was delighted. “Just let me put this gun away, and I’ll show you around.” For an hour they walked over the farm, Raymond explaining and Bert admiring the cleanliness and efficiency of the chicken ranch. “Come on in and have a glass of beer,” Raymond said, when they had covered the place. “There’s nothing like cold beer on a day like this.”
When they were seated Bert began uneasily, “Did you write that letter to the warden, Mr. Banks?”
“Yes—I did. Ought to have an answer pretty soon now.”
“I guess you wonder why I asked you? Well, I think a man ought to see everything he can. That’s experience. The more experience a man has, the better. A man ought to see everything.”
“I guess that’s right, all right.” Raymond agreed.
Bert drained his glass and wiped his mouth. “Of course I’ve read in the papers about hangings, but it isn’t like seeing one really. They say there’re thirteen steps up to the gallows for bad luck. That right?”
Raymond’s face wore an expression of concentration. “Why, I don’t know, Mr. Munroe. I never counted them.”
“How do they—fight and struggle much after they’re dropped?”
“I guess so. You see they’re strapped and a black cloth is over their heads. You can’t see much of anything. It’s more like fluttering, I’d say, than struggling.”
Bert’s face was red and intent. His eyes glistened with interest. “The papers say it takes fifteen minutes to half an hour for them to die. Is that right?”
“I—I suppose it is. Of course they’re really what you might call dead the minute they drop. It’s like you cut a chicken’s head off, the chicken flutters around, but it’s really dead.”
“Yes—I guess that’s right. Just reflex, they call it. I suppose it’s pretty hard on some people seeing it for the first time.”
Raymond smiled in faint amusement. “Sure. Nearly always somebody faints. Then the kid reporters from the papers cry sometimes, cry like babies, and some people are sick, you know, really sick—lose their dinner right there. Mostly first timers are that way. Let’s have another bottle of beer, Mr. Munroe. It’s good and cold, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s fine beer all right,” Bert agreed absently. “I’ll have to get your recipe. A man ought to have a little beer ready for the hot weather. I’ve got to go now, Mr. Banks. Thank you for showing me around the place. You could give some pointers to these Petaluma people about chickens, I guess.”
Raymond flushed with pleasure. “I try to keep up with new things. I’ll let you know when I hear from Ed, Mr. Munroe.”
During the next two weeks Bert Munroe was nervous and extremely irritable. This was so unusual that his wife protested. “You’re not well, Bert. Why don’t you drive in and let a doctor look you over.”
“Oh! I’m all right,” he insisted. He spent most of his time at work on the farm, but his eyes roved to the county road every time an automobile drove by. It was on a Saturday that Raymond Banks drove up in his light truck and parked before the Munroe gate. Bert dropped a shovel and went out to meet him. When one farmer meets another they seldom go into a house. Instead, they walk slowly over the land, pulling bits of grass from the fields, or leaves from the trees and testing them with their fingers while they talk. Summer was beginning. The leaves on the fruit trees had not yet lost their tender, light greens, but the blossoms were all gone and the fruit set. Already the cherries were showing a little color. Bert and Raymond walked slowly over the cultivated ground under the orchard trees.
“Birds are thick this year,” said Bert. “They’ll get most of the cherries, I guess.” He knew perfectly well why Raymond had come.
“Well, I heard from Ed, Mr. Munroe. He says it will be all right for you to go up with me. He says they don’t let many come, because they try to keep the morbidly curious people away. But he says any friend of mine is all right. We’ll go up next Thursday. There’s an execution Friday.” (Bert walked along in silence, his eyes on the ground.) “Ed’s a nice fellow. You’ll like him,” Raymond went on. “We’ll stay with him Thursday night.”
Bert picked up an overlooked pruning from the ground and bent it to a tense bow in his hands. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “Would it make any difference to you if I pulled out the last minute?”
Raymond stared at him. “Why, I thought you wanted to go. What’s the matter?”
“You’ll think I’m pretty soft, I guess, if I tell you. The fact is—I’ve been thinking about it and—I’m scared to go. I’m scared I couldn’t get it out of my head afterwards.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Raymond protested.
“Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know about that. But I’m scared it would be bad for me. Everybody don’t see a thing the same way.”
“No, that’s true.”
“I’ll try to give you an idea how I feel, Mr. Banks. You know I don’t eat chicken. I never tell anybody why I don’t eat it. Just say I don’t like it. I’ve put you to a lot of trouble. I’ll tell you—to kind of explain.” The stick snapped in his hands, and he threw the two ends away and thrust his hands in his pockets.
“When I was a kid, about twelve years old, I used to deliver a few groceries before school. Well, out by the brewery an old crippled man lived. He had one leg cut off at the thigh, and, instead of a wooden leg, he had one of those old fashioned crutches—kind of a crescent on top of a round stick. You remember them. He got around on it pretty well, but kind of slow. One morning, when I went by with my basket of groceries, this old man was out in his yard killing a rooster. It was the biggest Rhode Island Red I ever saw. Or maybe it was because I was so little that the chicken looked so big. The old man had the crutch braced under his arm pit, and he was holding the rooster by the legs.” Bert stopped and picked another pruning from the ground. This one, too, bent under his hands. His face was growing pale as he talked.
“Well,” he continued, “this old man had a hatchet in his other hand. Just as he made a cut at the rooster’s neck, his crutch slipped a little bit, the chicken twisted in his hand, and he cut off one of the wings. Well, then that old man just about went crazy. He cut and cut, always in the wrong place, into the breast and into the stomach. Then the crutch slipped some more and threw him clear off balance just as the hatchet was coming down. He cut off one of the chicken’s legs and sliced right through his own finger.” Bert wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Raymond was heaping a little mountain of dirt with the side of his shoe.
“Well, when that happened, the old man just dropped the rooster on the ground and hobbled into the house holding on to his finger. And that rooster went crawling off with all its guts hanging out on the ground—went crawling off and kind of croaking.” The stick snapped again, and this time he threw the pieces violently from him. “Well, Mr. Banks, I’ve never killed a chicken since then, and I’ve never eaten one. I’ve tried to eat them, but every time, I see that damned Rhode Island Red crawling away.” For the first time he looked directly at Raymond Banks. “Do you see how that would happen?”
Raymond dodged his eyes and looked away. “Yes. Yes, sir, that must have been pretty awful.”
Bert crowded on. “Well, I got to thinking about this hanging. It might be like the chicken. I dreamed about that chicken over and over again, when I was a kid. Every time my stomach would get upset and give me a nightmare, I’d dream about that chicken. Now suppose I went to this hanging with you. I might dream about it, too. Not long ago they hung a woman in Arizona, and the rope pulled her head right off. Suppose that happened. It would be a hundred times worse than the chicken. Why, I’d never get over a thing like that.”