"When are you coming back?" Sam asked.
"Monday. Listen, Sam, this is not a pleasant subject, but we need to address it. You're gonna die one of these days. It might be on August 8, or it might be five years from now. At the rate you're smoking, you can't last for long."
"Smoking is not my most pressing health concern."
"I know. But your family, Lee and I, need to make some burial arrangements. It can't be done overnight."
Sam stared at the rows of tiny triangles in the screen. Adam scribbled on a legal pad. The air conditioner spewed and hissed, accomplishing little.
"Your grandmother was a fine lady, Adam. I'm sorry you didn't know her. She deserved better than me."
"Lee took me to her grave."
"I caused her a lot of suffering, and she bore it well. Bury me next to her, and maybe I can tell her I'm sorry."
"I'll take care of it."
"Do that. How will you pay for the plot?"
"I can handle it, Sam."
"I don't have any money, Adam. I lost it years ago, for reasons which are probably obvious. I lost the land and the house, so there are no assets to leave behind."
"Do you have a will?"
"Yes. I prepared it myself."
"We'll look at it next week."
"You promise you'll be here Monday."
"I promise, Sam. Can I bring you anything?"
Sam hesitated for a second and almost seemed embarrassed. "You know what I'd really like?" he asked with a childish grin.
"What? Anything, Sam."
"When I was a kid, the greatest thrill in life was an Eskimo Pie."
"An Eskimo Pie?"
"Yeah, it's a little ice cream treat on a stick. Vanilla, with a chocolate coating. I ate them until I came to this place. I think they still make them."
"An Eskimo Pie?" Adam repeated.
"Yeah. I can still taste it. The greatest ice cream in the world. Can you imagine how good one would taste right now in this oven?"
"Then, Sam, you shall have an Eskimo Pie." "Bring more than one."
"I'll bring a dozen. We'll eat 'em right here while we sweat."
Sam's second visitor on Saturday was not expected. He stopped at the guard station by the front gate, and produced a North Carolina driver's license with his picture on it. He explained to the guard that he was the brother of Sam Cayhall, and had been told he could visit Sam on death row at his convenience between now and the scheduled execution. He had talked to a Mr. Holland somewhere deep in Administration yesterday, and Mr. Holland had assured him the visitation rules were relaxed for Sam Cayhall. He could visit anytime between H A.m. and 5 P.m., any day of the week. The guard stepped inside and made a phone call.
Five minutes passed as the visitor sat patiently in his rented car. The guard made two more calls, then copied the registration number of the car onto her clipboard. She instructed the visitor to park a few feet away, lock his car, and wait by the guard station. He did so, and within a few minutes a white prison van appeared. An armed, uniformed guard was behind the wheel, and he motioned for the visitor to get in.
The van was cleared through the double gates at MSU, and driven to the front entrance where two other guards waited. They frisked him on the steps. He was carrying no packages or bags.
They led him around the corner and into the empty visitors' room. He took a seat near the middle of the screen. "We'll get Sam," one of the guards said. "Take about five minutes."
Sam was typing a letter when the guards stopped at his door. "Let's go, Sam. You have a visitor."
He stopped typing and stared at them. His fan was blowing hard and his television was tuned to a baseball game. "Who is it?" he snapped.
"Your brother."
Sam gently placed the typewriter on the bookshelf and grabbed his jumpsuit. "Which brother?"
"We didn't ask any questions, Sam. Just your brother. Now come on."
They handcuffed him and he followed them along the tier. Sam once had three brothers, but his oldest had died of a heart attack before Sam was sent to prison. Donnie, the youngest at age sixty-one, now lived near Durham, North Carolina. Albert, age sixty-seven, was in bad health and lived deep in the woods of rural Ford County. Donnie sent the cigarettes each month, along with a few dollars and an occasional note. Albert hadn't written in seven years. A spinster aunt had written until her death in 1985. The rest of the Cayhalls had forgotten Sam.
It had to be Donnie, he said to himself. Donnie was the only one who cared enough to visit. He hadn't seen him in two years, and he stepped lighter as they neared the door to the visitors' room. What a pleasant surprise.
Sam stepped through the door and looked at the man sitting on the other side of the screen. It was a face he didn't recognize. He glanced around the room, and confirmed it was empty except for this visitor, who at the moment was staring at Sam with a cool and even gaze. The guards watched closely as they sprung the handcuffs, so Sam smiled and nodded at the man. Then he stared at the guards until they left the room and shut the door. Sam sat opposite his visitor, lit a cigarette, and said nothing.
There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't identify him. They watched each other through the opening in the screen.
"Do I know you?" Sam finally asked.
"Yes," the man answered.
"From where?"
"From the past, Sam. From Greenville and Jackson and Vicksburg. From the synagogue and the real estate office and the Pinder home and Marvin Kramer's."
"Wedge?"
The man nodded slowly, and Sam closed his eyes and exhaled at the ceiling. He dropped his cigarette and slumped in his chair. "God, I was hoping you were dead."
"Too bad."
Sam glared wildly at him. "You son of a bitch," he said with clenched teeth. "Son of a bitch. I've hoped and dreamed for twenty-three years that you were dead. I've killed you a million times myself, with my bare hands, with sticks and knives and every weapon known to man. I've watched you bleed and I've heard you scream for mercy."
"Sorry. Here I am, Sam."
"I hate you more than any person has ever been hated. If I had a gun right now I'd blow your sorry ass to hell and back. I'd pump your head full of lead and laugh until I cried. God, how I hate you."