In Cold Blood - Truman Capote [164]
"The chaplain and four guards had charge of Andy, and when they got to the door they stopped a second. Andy was looking at the gallows - you could sense he was. His arms were tied in front of him. All of a sudden the chaplain reached out and took off Andy's glasses. Which was kind of pitiful, Andy without his glasses. They led him on inside, and I wondered he could see to climb the steps. It was real quiet, just nothing but this dog barking way off. Some town dog. Then we heard it, the sound, and Jimmy Latham said, "What was that?"; and I told him what it was - the trap door.
"Then it was real quiet again. Except that dog. Old Andy, he danced a long time. They must have had a real mess to clean up. Every few minutes the doctor came to the door and stepped outside, and stood there with this stethoscope in his hand. I wouldn't say he was enjoying his work - kept gasping, like he was gasping for breath, and he was crying, too. Jimmy said, 'Get a load of that nance.' I guess the reason he stepped outside was so the others wouldn't see he was crying. Then he'd go back and listen to hear if Andy's heart had stopped. Seemed like it never would. The fact is, his heart kept bearing for nineteen minutes.
"Andy was a funny kid," Hickock said, smiling lopsidedly as he propped a cigarette between his lips. "It was like I told him: he had no respect for human life, not even his own. Right before they hanged him, he sat down and ate two fried chickens. And that last afternoon he was smoking cigars and drinking Coke and writing poetry. When they came to get him, and we said our goodbye, I said, ‘I’ll be seeing you soon, Andy. 'Cause I'm sure we're going to the same place. So scout around and see if you can't find a cool shady spot for us Down There.' He laughed, and said he didn't believe in heaven or hell, just dust unto dust. And he said an aunt and uncle had been to see him, and told him they had a coffin waiting to carry him to some little cemetery in north Missouri. The same place where the three he disposed of were buried. They planned to put Andy right alongside them. He said when they told him that he could hardly keep a straight face. I said, 'Well, you're lucky to have a grave. Most likely they'll give Perry and me to the vivisectionist.' We joked on like that till it was time to go, and just as he was going he handed me a piece of paper with a poem on it. I don't know if he wrote it. Or copied it out of a book. My impression was he wrote it. If you're interested, I'll send it to you." He later did so, and Andrews' farewell message turned out to be the ninth stanza of Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard": The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
"I really liked Andy. He was a nut - not a real nut, like they kept hollering; but, you know, just goofy. He was always talking about breaking out of here and making his living as a hired gun. He liked to imagine himself roaming around Chicago or Los Angeles with a machine gun inside a violin case. Cooling guys. Said he'd charge a thousand bucks per stiff." Hickock laughed, presumably at the absurdity of his friend's ambitions, sighed, and shook his head. "But for someone his age he was the smartest person I ever come across. A human library. When that boy read a book it stayed read. Course he didn't know a dumb-darn thing about life. Me, I'm an ignoramus except when it comes to what I know about life. I've walked along a lot of mean streets. I've seen a white man flogged. I've watched babies born. I've seen a girl, and her no more than fourteen, take on three guys at the same time and give them all their money's worth.