Executioner's Song, The - Norman Mailer [325]
A couple of guards had been standing in the doorway and they were gawking with envy. Gibbs laughed and made a call to Salt Lake, and had a friend come down for the check and put it in the bank.
That evening, Gibbs wrote to Gary again, thanked him for the money, and mentioned how Maximum was filled now, six prisoners altogether, including Powers. Gary answered, "If I were there, we'd keep all of them lying on their bunks like little church mice and we'd put Powers in charge of licking out the Open Pit Sulphur Mine with his tongue." In the letter he also said he was still on the hunger strike and wasn't going to eat "until they let me talk to my sweet lady Nicole."
"I've been trying," Gary wrote, "to keep my thoughts and my mood pretty constant, but lately I've been growing increasingly irritated and angry. I don't like the idea they got Nicole down there brainwashing her."
"Just as a matter of my personal curiosity," Moody said, "is there any way you will stop this hunger strike other than the phone call to Nicole?"
"Nothing," said Gary, "that's it." He paused to indicate that he knew the price of the remark. "I'm awful goddamned hungry, man," he whispered over the phone.
"I admire you for your courage," said Moody.
"It," said Gilmore, "is just goddamned stubbornness."
"Not very many guys," Moody told him, "have the strength of their convictions like you do."
"I spent eighteen straight months in the hole one time," said Gilmore. "I don't think this even compares."
Ron felt that Gary was putting on a show of strength. Each day, he made a point of going through his exercises, and he would do a headstand on a chair to show he wasn't suffering. He was, however, not only losing a considerable amount of weight, but it seemed lately to have an effect on his thinking. He would stumble on words. His cheeks started to sink in. For the first time, Ron became conscious of Gary's false teeth. His loss of weight seemed to change their placement on his gums, and he said everything slowly and deliberately, as if working around a marble in his mouth, sort of a tongue-tied orator.
At this point, Gary told Vern he definitely wanted Ida and him to go visit his mother. Bring her the thousand dollars. Vern talked to Schiller, who latched on immediately. Bessie, once she got talking to Vern, might allow an interview.
So Moody drew up the papers. Schiller said, "I'll pay for the airplane fare, the phone calls, and put a thousand dollars on the top for her release. If you need more, just call." Vern said, "I think I'll need more. Come on, Schiller, you know you can give it to Gary's mother." And Larry knew he would, but a thousand might be right for starters.
So Vern and Ida took the plane from Salt Lake to Portland, rented a little Pinto hatchback, found the trailer park on McLaughlin Boulevard, and knocked on Bessie's door.
At first, it looked like they wouldn't get in. They stood on a little half porch for the longest time with no answer. It was cold, and Vern's leg was aching again from the operation. Bessie's first words were, "Go away. I can't let you in. I'm not presentable."
They had to talk pretty loud to be heard through the door. Finally they identified themselves. Said they'd come clear from Provo. Had things to talk over. Things Gary wanted to tell. Finally Bessie let them in.
They hadn't seen her since the funeral of Grandpa Brown almost eighteen years ago. She had certainly changed. She was no longer beautiful. She had the washed-out, unhealthy look of someone who was in a great deal of pain and rarely saw fresh air. Ida couldn't get over it. Bessie's green eyes had been bright as gems. Now there seemed to be a dull gray film on them.
Ida knew why she hadn't wanted to let them in. With her arthritis she could hardly clean up the litter. When Bessie had lived in Provo, waiting for Frank Sr. to get out of prison, her