The Green Mile (35 page)

I skipped lunch, wrote until four o'clock or so, and when I finally put my pencil down, my hand was aching. I walked slowly down to the end of the second-floor corridor. There's a window there that looks out on the employee parking lot. Brad Dolan, the orderly who reminds me of Percy—and the one who is altogether too curious about where I go and what I do on my walks—drives an old Chevrolet with a bumper sticker that says
I HAVE SEEN GOD AND HIS NAME IS NEWT
. It was gone; Brad's shift was over and he'd taken himself off to whatever garden spot he calls home. I envision an Airstream trailer with
Hustler
gatefolds Scotch-taped to the walls and Dixie Beer cans in the corners.

I went out through the kitchen, where dinner preparations were getting started. “What you got in that bag, Mr. Edgecombe?” Norton asked me.

“It's an empty bottle,” I said. “I've discovered the Fountain of Youth
down there in the woods. I pop down every afternoon about this time and draw a little. I drink it at bedtime. Good stuff, I can tell you.”

“May be keepin you young,” said George, the other cook, “but it ain't doin
shit
for your looks.”

We all had a laugh at that, and I went out. I found myself looking around for Dolan even though his car was gone, called myself a chump for letting him get so far under my skin, and crossed the croquet course. Beyond it is a scraggy little putting green that looks ever so much nicer in the Georgia Pines brochures, and beyond that is a path that winds into the little copse of woods east of the nursing home. There are a couple of old sheds along this path, neither of them used for anything these days. At the second, which stands close to the high stone wall between the Georgia Pines grounds and Georgia Highway 47, I went in and stayed for a little while.

I ate a good dinner that night, watched a little TV, and went to bed early. On many nights I'll wake up and creep back down to the TV room, where I watch old movies on the American Movie Channel. Not last night, though; last night I slept like a stone, and with none of the dreams that have so haunted me since I started my adventures in literature. All that writing must have worn me out; I'm not as young as I used to be, you know.

When I woke and saw that the patch of sun which usually lies on the floor at six in the morning had made it all the way up to the foot of my bed, I hit the deck in a hurry, so alarmed I hardly noticed the arthritic flare of pain in my hips and knees and ankles. I dressed as fast as I could, then hurried down the hall to the window that overlooks the employees' parking lot, hoping the slot where Dolan parks his old Chevrolet would still be empty. Sometimes he's as much as half an hour late—

No such luck. The car was there, gleaming rustily in the morning sun. Because Mr. Brad Dolan has something to arrive on time for these days, doesn't he? Yes. Old Paulie Edgecombe goes somewhere in the early mornings, old Paulie Edgecombe is up to something, and Mr. Brad Dolan intends to find out what it is.
What do you do down there, Paulie? Tell me.
He would likely be watching for me already. It would be smart to stay right where I was . . . except I couldn't.

“Paul?”

I turned around so fast I almost fell down. It was my friend Elaine Connelly. Her eyes widened and she put out her hands, as if to catch me. Lucky for her I caught my balance; Elaine's arthritis is terrible, and I probably would have broken her in two like a dry stick if I'd fallen into her arms. Romance doesn't die when you pass into the strange country that lies beyond eighty, but you can forget the
Gone with the Wind
crap.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“That's all right,” I said, and gave her a feeble smile. “It's a better wake-up than a faceful of cold water. I should hire you to do it every morning.”

“You were looking for his car, weren't you? Dolan's car.”

There was no sense kidding her about it, so I nodded. “I wish I could be sure he's over in the west wing. I'd like to slip out for a little while, but I don't want him to see me.”

She smiled—a ghost of the teasing imp's smile she must have had as a girl. “Nosy bastard, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“He's not in the west wing, either. I've already been down to breakfast, sleepyhead, and I can tell you where he is, because I peeked. He's in the kitchen.”

I looked at her, dismayed. I had known Dolan was curious, but not how curious.

“Can you put your morning walk off?” Elaine asked.

I thought about it. “
I could
, I suppose, but . . .”

“You shouldn't.”

“No. I shouldn't.”

Now,
I thought,
she'll ask me where I go, what I have to do down in those woods that's so damned important.

But she didn't. Instead she gave me that imp's smile again. It looked strange and absolutely wonderful on her too-gaunt, pain-haunted face. “Do you know Mr. Howland?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, although I didn't see him much; he was in the west wing, which at Georgia Pines was almost like a neighboring country. “Why?”

“Do you know what's special about him?”

I shook my head.

“Mr. Howland,” Elaine said, smiling more widely than ever, “is one of only five residents left at Georgia Pines who have permission to smoke. That's because he was a resident before the rules changed.”

A grandfather clause, I thought. And what place was more fitted for one than an old-age home?

She reached into the pocket of her blue-and-white-striped dress and pulled two items partway out: a cigarette and a book of matches. “Thief of green, thief of red,” she sang in a lilting, funny voice. “Little Ellie's going to wet the bed.”

“Elaine, what—”

“Walk an old girl downstairs,” she said, putting the cigarette and matches back into her pocket and taking my arm in one of her gnarled hands. We began to walk back down the hall. As we did, I decided to give up and put myself in her hands. She was old and brittle, but not stupid.

As we went down, walking with the glassy care of the relics we have now become, Elaine said: “Wait at the foot. I'm going over to the west wing, to the hall toilet there. You know the one I mean, don't you?”

“Yes,” I said. “The one just outside the spa. But why?”

“I haven't had a cigarette in over fifteen years,” she said, “but I feel like one this morning. I don't know how many puffs it'll take to set off the smoke detector in there, but I intend to find out.”

I looked at her with dawning admiration, thinking how much she reminded me of my wife—Jan might have done exactly the same thing. Elaine looked back at me, smiling her saucy imp's smile. I cupped my hand around the back of her lovely long neck, drew her face to mine, and kissed her mouth lightly. “I love you, Ellie,” I said.

“Oooh, such big talk,” she said, but I could tell she was pleased.

“What about Chuck Howland?” I asked. “Is he going to get in trouble?”

“No, because he's in the TV room, watching
Good Morning America
with about two dozen other folks. And I'm going to make myself scarce as soon as the smoke detector turns on the west-wing fire alarm.”

“Don't you fall down and hurt yourself, woman. I'd never forgive myself if—”

“Oh, stop your fussing,” she said, and this time
she
kissed
me
. Love among the ruins. It probably sounds funny to some of you and grotesque to the rest of you, but I'll tell you something, my friend: weird love's better than no love at all.

I watched her walk away, moving slowly and stiffly (but she will only use a cane on wet days, and only then if the pain is terrible; it's one of her vanities), and waited. Five minutes went by, then ten, and just as I was deciding she had either lost her courage or discovered that the battery of the smoke detector in the toilet was dead, the fire alarm went off in the west wing with a loud, buzzing burr.

I started toward the kitchen at once, but slowly—there was no reason to hurry until I was sure Dolan was out of my way. A gaggle of old folks, most still in their robes, came out of the TV room (here it's called the Resource Center; now
that's
grotesque) to see what was going on. Chuck Howland was among them, I was happy to see.

“Edgecombe!” Kent Avery rasped, hanging onto his walker with one hand and yanking obsessively at the crotch of his pajama pants with the other. “Real alarm or just another falsie? What do you think?”

“No way of knowing, I guess,” I said.

Just about then three orderlies went trotting past, all headed for the west wing, yelling at the folks clustered around the TV-room door to go outside and wait for the all-clear. The third in line was Brad Dolan. He didn't even look at me as he went past, a fact that pleased me to no end. As I went on down toward the kitchen, it occurred to me that the team of Elaine Connelly and Paul Edgecombe would probably be a match for a dozen Brad Dolans, with half a dozen Percy Wetmores thrown in for good measure.

The cooks in the kitchen were continuing to clear up breakfast, paying no attention to the howling fire alarm at all.

“Say, Mr. Edgecombe,” George said. “I believe Brad Dolan been lookin for you. In fact, you just missed him.”

Lucky me,
I thought. What I said out loud was that I'd probably see
Mr. Dolan later. Then I asked if there was any leftover toast lying around from breakfast.

“Sure,” Norton said, “but it's stone-cold dead in the market. You runnin late this morning?”

“I am,” I agreed, “but I'm hungry.”

“Only take a minute to make some fresh and hot,” George said, reaching for the bread.

“Nope, cold will be fine,” I said, and when he handed me a couple of slices (looking mystified—actually both of them looked mystified), I hurried out the door, feeling like the boy I once was, skipping school to go fishing with a jelly fold-over wrapped in waxed paper slipped into the front of my shirt.

Outside the kitchen door I took a quick, reflexive look around for Dolan, saw nothing to alarm me, and hurried across the croquet course and putting green, gnawing on one of my pieces of toast as I went. I slowed a little as I entered the shelter of the woods, and as I walked down the path, I found my mind turning to the day after Eduard Delacroix's terrible execution.

I had spoken to Hal Moores that morning, and he had told me that Melinda's brain tumor had caused her to lapse into bouts of cursing and foul language . . . what my wife had later labelled (rather tentatively; she wasn't sure it was really the same thing) as Tourette's Syndrome. The quavering in his voice, coupled with the memory of how John Coffey had healed both my urinary infection and the broken back of Delacroix's pet mouse, had finally pushed me over the line that runs between just thinking about a thing and actually
doing
a thing.

And there was something else. Something that had to do with John Coffey's hands, and my shoe.

So I had called the men I worked with, the men I had trusted my life to over the years—Dean Stanton, Harry Terwilliger, Brutus Howell. They came to lunch at my house on the day after Delacroix's execution, and they at least listened to me when I outlined my plan. Of course, they all knew that Coffey had healed the mouse; Brutal had actually seen it. So when I suggested that another miracle might result if we took John
Coffey to Melinda Moores, they didn't outright laugh. It was Dean Stanton who raised the most troubling question: What if John Coffey escaped while we had him out on his field-trip?

“Suppose he killed someone else?” Dean asked. “I'd hate losing my job, and I'd hate going to jail—I got a wife and kids depending on me to put bread in their mouths—but I don't think I'd hate either of those things near as much as having another little dead girl on my conscience.”

There was silence, then, all of them looking at me, waiting to see how I'd respond. I knew everything would change if I said what was on the tip of my tongue; we had reached a point beyond which retreat would likely become impossible.

Except retreat, for me, at least, was already impossible. I opened my mouth and said

“T
HAT WON'T HAPPEN.
”

“How in God's name can you be so sure?” Dean asked.

I didn't answer. I didn't know just how to begin. I had known this would come up, of course I had, but I still didn't know how to start telling them what was in my head and heart. Brutal helped.

“You don't think he did it, do you, Paul?” He looked incredulous. “You think that big lug is innocent.”

“I'm positive he's innocent,” I said.

“How
can
you be?”

“There are two things,” I said. “One of them is my shoe.”

“Your
shoe
?” Brutal exclaimed. “What has your
shoe
got to do with whether or not John Coffey killed those two little girls?”

“I took off one of my shoes and gave it to him last night,” I said. “After the execution, this was, when things had settled back down a little. I pushed it through the bars, and he picked it up in those big hands of his. I told him to tie it. I had to make sure, you see, because all our problem children normally wear is slippers—a man who really wants to commit suicide can do it with shoelaces, if he's dedicated. That's something all of us know.”

They were nodding.

“He put it on his lap and got the ends of the laces crossed over all right, but then he was stuck. He said he was pretty sure someone had showed him how to do it when he was a lad—maybe his father or maybe one of the boyfriends his mother had after the father was gone—but he'd forgot the knack.”

“I'm with Brutal—I still don't see what your shoe has to do with whether or not Coffey killed the Detterick twins,” Dean said.