“Why not? We’re only twelve, so we have, what, six years to prepare?”
“We don’t have a boat?”
They think about this as the breeze picks up and the catamaran glides across the water.
Keith repeats, “We don’t have boat.”
“Well, those three didn’t either. There must be a thousand old sloops dry-docked around Biloxi. We can find one cheap and get to work.”
“Our parents won’t allow it.”
“Their parents didn’t like it either, but they were eighteen years old and determined to do it.”
Another long pause as they enjoyed the breeze. They were drawing closer to Ship Island.
“What about baseball?” Keith asked.
“Yeah, that might get in the way. Do you ever wonder what’ll happen if we don’t make it to the big leagues?”
“Not really.”
“Neither do I. But, what if? My cousin told me that this year, 1960, there’s not a single player from the Coast in the majors. He said the odds of getting there are impossible.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Okay, but let’s say something happens and we don’t make it. We could have our sailing adventure as a backup. We’ll set sail for Portugal the day after graduation.”
“I like it. We might need a third mate.”
“We have plenty of time. Let’s keep it our secret for a couple of years.”
“Deal.”
* * *
From a few miles away they saw the blinking lights of two helicopters hovering over the prison like fireflies. Highway 49 saw little traffic on the busiest of days, but by 9 p.m. cars were backed up north and south of the main entrance. The shoulder on the west side was covered with protesters holding candles and hand-painted signs. They sang softly and many of them prayed. Across the road, a smaller group watched and listened respectfully and waved their own signs. Both sides were monitored closely by what seemed like an entire army of county deputies and highway patrolmen. Directly across from the gate was a makeshift press compound with a dozen news vans. Cameras and wires ran here and there as reporters scurried about waiting for news to break.
Keith noticed a brightly painted van from WLOX-Biloxi. Of course the Coast would be there.
His driver turned at the gate and waited behind two other patrol cars. County boys. It was an execution, a big night for law enforcement, and an old tradition was being revived. Every sheriff in the state was expected to drive to Parchman, in a late-model patrol car, and sit and wait for the good news that things had gone as planned. Another murderer had been eliminated. Many of them knew each other and they gathered in groups and gossiped and laughed while a team of inmates grilled burgers for dinner. If and when the good news came, they would cheer, congratulate one another, and drive home. The world was safer.
At the door of the administration building, Keith brushed off a reporter, one who had enough credentials to get inside the prison. Word spread quickly that the attorney general had arrived. He qualified as a victim and was permitted to witness the execution. His name was on the list.
Agnes had asked him not to go. Neither Tim nor Laura had the stomach for it, but they wanted revenge. Beverly was wavering and resented the governor for putting pressure on the family. The family just wanted it to be over.
Keith went straight to the superintendent’s office and said hello. The prison attorney was there and confirmed that the defense lawyers had surrendered. “There’s nothing left to file,” he said somberly. They chatted for a few minutes, then climbed into a white prison van and headed for the Row.
* * *