a diner. They ate in silence as the miles flew by.
The director of the Mississippi State Hospital at Whitfield was waiting at the front gate. Nix followed him through the grounds and to building 41, where Liza Banning had spent the last fourteen months. Two doctors were waiting. Stiff introductions were made, and Pete followed them to an office where they closed the door.
Dr. Hilsabeck did the talking. “Your wife is not doing well, Mr. Banning, sorry to say. And this will only make matters worse. She is in complete withdrawal and speaks to no one.”
“I had to come,” Pete said. “There was no other way.”
“I understand. You will be surprised by her appearance, and don’t expect much in the way of a response.”
“How much does she know?”
“We’ve told her everything. She was showing some improvement until she was informed of the murder, several months ago. That caused a dramatic setback and her condition has only deteriorated. Two weeks ago, after I spoke with the sheriff, when it became apparent that the execution was inevitable, we tried to break it to her gently. That has caused a complete withdrawal. She eats almost nothing and hasn’t spoken a word since then. Frankly, if the execution takes place, we have no idea of the impact. Obviously, we are deeply concerned.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“Very well.”
Pete followed them down the hall and up one flight of stairs. A nurse was waiting beside an unmarked door. Hilsabeck nodded at Pete, who opened the door and stepped inside. The nurse and the doctor waited in the hall.
The room was lit by only a small dim ceiling light. There was no window. A door was opened to a tiny bathroom. On a narrow, wood-framed bed Liza Banning was propped up by pillows and awake, waiting. She wore a faded gray gown and was tucked in by sheets. Pete carefully walked to the bed and sat by her feet. She watched him closely, as if afraid, and said nothing. She was almost forty but looked much older, with graying hair, gaunt cheeks, wrinkles, pale skin, and hollow eyes. The room was dark, quiet, motionless.
Pete finally said, “Liza, I’ve come to say good-bye.”
In a voice that was surprisingly firm she replied, “I want to see my children.”
“They’ll be here in a day or so, after I’m gone, I promise.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled, as if relieved. Minutes passed and Pete began gently rubbing her leg through the sheets. She did not respond.
“The children will be fine, Liza, I promise. They’re strong and they’ll survive us.”
Tears began running down her cheeks, then dripping off her chin. She did not reach to wipe them, nor did he. Minutes passed and the tears continued. She whispered, “Do you love me, Pete?”
“I do. I always have and I’ve never stopped.”
“Can you forgive me?”
Pete looked at the floor and stared blankly for a long time. He cleared his throat and said, “I cannot lie. I’ve tried many times, Liza, but, no, I cannot forgive you.”
“Please, Pete, please say you’ll forgive me before you go.”
“I’m sorry. I love you and I’ll go to my grave loving you.”
“Just like in the old days?”
“Just like in the old days.”
“What happened to those days, Pete? Why can’t we be together again with the kids?”
“We know the answer, Liza. Too much has happened. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, Pete.” She started sobbing and he moved closer and gently embraced her. She was frail and brittle and for a second he flashed back to the skeletons he was forced to bury on Bataan, once healthy soldiers starved to death and weighing less than a hundred pounds. He closed his eyes and pushed those thoughts away and somehow managed to remember her body back in the glory days when he couldn’t keep his hands off her. He longed for those days, for the not too distant past when they lived in a state of near-constant arousal and never missed an opportunity.
He finally broke down and cried too.
* * *
—
The last supper was cooked by Nineva and it was Pete’s favorite: fried pork chops, whipped potatoes and gravy, and boiled okra. He arrived after dark with the sheriff and Roy, who sat on the porch and rocked in wicker chairs as they waited.
Nineva served the family in the dining room, then left the house, in tears. Amos walked her home, after saying his good-byes.
Pete carried the conversation, primarily because no one else had much to say. What were they