“I’m sorry. Should’ve taken the Valium.”
“The what?”
“Never mind.”
“I got ’em here and there. Garage sales, flea markets, library fundraisers, used-book shops. Never paid more than a dollar for one.”
“And you read all of them before you sent them to me?”
“Well, almost all of them. I really don’t like the dirty stuff, writers like Harold Robbins, you know? Pure filth. But I sent them to you anyway.”
“And I’m so grateful you did, Miss Iris. I love the dirty ones too.”
“Pure filth.”
“Are you sure you didn’t read a few chapters here and there?”
“Well, maybe a little. I had to take a look to see what was there.”
“How about Valley of the Dolls? I’ve read it five times and it still gets me excited.”
“Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
“What? You don’t want to talk about sex?”
“Not really.”
“Miss Iris, I’ve never had sex. Can you believe that? They threw me in jail when I was fourteen and I came here when I was fifteen. Brian always said he had sex when he was thirteen in an orphanage, but he was four years older than me and he lied a lot too. Me, I never got the chance. That’s why dirty books are so much fun.”
“Please, can we talk about something else?”
“No, Miss Iris. I have less than two hours to live so I’ll talk about anything I want.”
“Name your favorite three books.”
This knocks him off his stride and for a moment he doesn’t respond. He stares at the shelves, rubs his hands together in deep thought, and finally pulls out a book. He shows her the cover and says, “The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. The story of the Joads and the Okies and their desperate trip to California during the Dust Bowl. Heartbreaking but also uplifting.” He opens it and looks at the inside cover. “You sent it to me in November of 1984, and I’ve read it seven times.”
He carefully replaces the book on the shelf and finds another. “In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. A true crime masterpiece.” He shows her the cover. “Have you read it, Miss Iris?”
“Of course. I remember when the Clutter family was murdered in 1959. All four of them. It happened down in Kansas, the western part, not too far from where I live.”
“They hung those boys, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith. And you know what, Miss Iris? I was glad when they hung them. Weren’t you?”
“Well, I really wasn’t that sad about it.”
“How weird is that, Miss Iris? Here I am sitting on death row reading a true story about a home invasion where innocent people were sound asleep and some bad guys broke in and killed them. Sound familiar? And I’m actually happy they got caught and put to death.”
“Yes, that’s pretty weird.”
“That’s the strange thing about the death penalty, Miss Iris. Sometimes you hate it because it’s so unfair, and sometimes you catch yourself secretly applauding it because the son of a bitch deserved to die. I mean, I’ve been here for fourteen years and eight men have gone down. Four in the gas chamber, four by the needle. One was probably innocent. The other seven, guilty as hell. I felt sorry for six of them, but the other two got what they deserved.”
“I’m opposed to capital punishment in all cases.”
“Well, you should meet some of my colleagues here on The Row. You’d change your mind.”
“Are these guys going to feel sorry for you?”
“Who knows? I don’t care. I can’t worry about their feelings.”
He puts the book back in its place and admires his collection.
“And your third favorite book?”
He takes his time and finally pulls out another one. “I guess this is the last book I’ll ever read. Finished it yesterday, for the fifth time. It’s all about death and dying young.”
“Sophie’s Choice?”
“How’d you know?”
“You’ve mentioned it more than once in your letters.”
“I’ve gone through hell here, Miss Iris, but it’s nothing compared to what those people went through. Everything is relative, isn’t it? Even suffering.”
“I suppose.”
“Plus it’s full of sex.”
“I couldn’t finish it.”
“It’s brilliant. Such a powerful story, and it’s a novel, a great work of fiction, but so realistic. Styron won the Pulitzer for it, you know?”