Symbiosis, part two

She sighed again. “I haven’t had an exciting life. Prepare to be bored.”

“That’s OK. I’ve got nowhere else to be for a little while,” he said. “Please. Tell me.”

“OK. Well, here goes." She took a deep breath. "I don’t remember my parents too well. They died before I was 1 year old, and I went to live with Aunt Clara. She was a nice old lady and I loved living with her. She bought me clothes and toys, took me to school and told me about my mother. She taught me how to read, and how to sew, and was starting to teach me how to cook.

“A few days after my 11th birthday, she got really sick and had to go to the hospital. There was nobody else who could care for me, so I went into foster care. When she died, I bounced around for awhile, going from family to family, staying in one place no longer than four months at a time. I was 15 when I went to live with the McCulloughs.

“Some things happened that I’d rather not talk about. It was a hard place to live. I ran away from there a few times, but Mr. McCullough always found me before I could get out of town. He said I was special and belonged at their house. Things would be good for awhile, but if Mrs. McCullough left the house with her other children while her husband was home, he would get too friendly with me. I started thinking of a way to get out of that house for good.

“Once I was too sick to go to school. Mrs. McCullough had gone to the store to get me some medicine. I was laying in bed feeling pretty awful. I heard the front door open, and figured it was her coming home. I called out to her, but it was Mr. McCullough. He had just gotten fired from his job.

“He stood at the door to my room and I could tell he was drunk. He could barely stand up and staggered when he stepped toward me. Usually, when he touched me, I let him. He was a big man and there was no way I could fight him off. Plus, I figured his wife would never believe me if I told her, so I kept quiet.

"He called me a no-good whore as he sat on my bed and unbuckled his pants. He pulled it out and told me to suck it.

“Well, I had never done anything like that before, and I sure wasn’t going to do it then. Despite having a stuffy head and fever, I suddenly felt strong. Powerful. I looked up at his face, then I looked down at it. That was my chance. I grabbed it and yanked really hard, and then bit down on the end of it as hard as I could. I bit harder than I thought, because I saw blood.

“Mr. McCullough screamed, started to wail and hold his crotch. I got out of bed and pushed him over. I kicked him real hard a few times in the ribs. Then I stuffed some clothes in my backpack and left.

“I didn’t really know where to go. I’d always gotten caught at the bus station, so I figured I would hitchhike instead. I wanted to be anywhere else than there. Made my way to the interstate, and a trucker picked me up and dropped me off at a town north of here.

“I met a guy I thought was nice, and lived with him for a few years. He smoked a lot of dope, so we were always out of money. I started stripping because I didn't know how to do anything else. And then I found out I could make three times as much if I was willing to do a little more than take my clothes off. That guy is long gone, but I’m still trying to make ends meet the only way I know how. Not too exciting, huh?

“I think it’s very interesting. And very sad. I’m sorry about the hard times you’ve had.” He felt tears welling up under his eyes, but he pushed them back.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” She looked down to study her hands carefully, gently rubbing them together. “What about you? Did you do what they say you did? I mean ... um, did you kill your wife?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t. I saw on TV about you the other day, how you never admitted ... um, or said ... that you did it. Just curious.”

“I loved my wife with all my heart.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

They sat quietly, not knowing what else to say. Both were jolted when a knock on the door broke the silence. It opened, and the warden’s head appeared. “It’s time.”

Johnson reached over and grabbed Melissa’s hand. He squeezed it, not being able to look her in the eye any longer. He continued to supress the tears. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

She put her other hand on his chin and turned his head to face her. “You’re welcome,” she said, smiling. Their hands unlocked and she stood up. She smoothed out her robe and smiled at him. “I forgot to ask you, did you have any kids?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asked softly.

“No, I guess it doesn’t.” She turned away, but looked at him over her shoulder. “Goodbye.”

She walked out the door as the warden held it open for her. “I’ll give you a few minutes to rest in here, if you like,” the warden said to Johnson.

Johnson wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “No, I’m ready.”

A guard led him to his cell and then remained on watch outside. Johnson sat on his bunk and thought about Melissa. He knew there was no way he could tell her about him, about her mother, about what happened. She wouldn’t believe him, or if she did, it wouldn’t improve her life any. He couldn’t convince anyone of his innocence before. But every few minutes he thought about writing it down.

The way it was, at least she wouldn’t hate the man she met today. She would live the rest of her life thinking her father had died years earlier, not like a rat in an experiment. He decided not to try to get a message to her, for her own good.

The warden had exited the private room and turned to Melissa. “Can I get you anything before you go?” he asked her. She shook her head and grabbed her coat from a hook on the wall. “Let me walk you out then.”

They walked a few yards in silence. “You know, he’s really not a bad man,” the warden told her. “He has a quick temper, but he’s never been violent. More bark than bite. Oh, there have been rumors ... like one about how he roughed up one of his lawyers. In reality, I think Johnson scared the guy off with his bad language.”

“He was very nice to me,” Melissa said. “We just talked. And mostly, I talked and he listened.”

“I’ve only talked to him a couple of times,” he said. “The first time was when he was moved to this prison, about 12 years ago. We talked about the rules here, and how he could make it easier on himself if he cooperated. After awhile, he opened up about his case.”

They were edging closer to the outside door. Melissa stopped. “Does he have any family still alive?” she asked.

“Well, when he first came in here, he asked me if I could track down his daughter,” the warden said. “After his wife’s death, he said he took her to his aunt’s house and then left the state. He didn’t know what to do, and he thought he would be pursued by some pretty bad people.

“I found out his aunt had died a year or so before he got here. But nobody I knew at Child Protective Services could tell me what became of his daughter. I had a few leads, but with the trail growing cold, I stopped looking.”

“How old would she be?”

“Probably about your age, maybe a little older,” he said. “I wish I could have found her for him. He told me he just wanted to know she was safe, and that if I did find her, not to reveal who her father was.”

Melissa rubbed her hands together gently. “Do you think he is guilty?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

The warden gestured at the door. “Well, here we are.” He dug into his pocket and fished out an envelope. “This is the agreed payment. I hope I don’t have to remind you not to tell anyone you were here, or why.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “And you don’t have to pay me, either. Like I said, we just talked.”

“Please take it. For your time and trouble.” He pressed the envelope into her hand. “And be careful.”

“Thanks,” she said sheepishly. The warden unlocked the door for her. She stepped out into the twilight and walked toward the security gate. The guards opened it up just enough to let her through, and she disappeared in a sea of anti-death penalty protestors.

The warden smiled, knowing he had accomplished an important favor.

Melissa stuffed the envelope into her coat pocket and walked toward her apartment. Though she had never heard the word "symbiosis," she knew in her heart what it meant. Two people in need had found each other that night. A fleeting relationship, to be sure, but for the first time she had hope that there was more to life than how she was living. She was not an unloved orphan. Even if only for a few hours, she had a father who loved her.

Later, at home, she opened the envelope. There were five $100 bills in it, and she knew that money, plus her savings, was enough to start a new life.

***

Hours later, when the time came, Johnson savored the hunger pangs in his stomach. He had not eaten all day. The pain told him he was alive. At least for now. At least for a few more minutes. He calmly allowed the guard to handcuff his wrists together. He wore anklecuffs at his feet.

He was strapped down onto a gurney in the death chamber. A technician swabbed his arm with alcohol and inserted an I.V. needle. The small pain felt good and was welcome. It air in the chamber was cold. The hair on the backs of his hands stood up, and goose-pimples popped out. Johnson was thankful for that sensation, too.

He closed his eyes as the curtains to the witness room were drawn back. He didn’t want to see another living face. He had refused the chance to make a statement, so the silence was unbroken. The signal was given to begin the flow of chemicals into his body at one minute after midnight. He felt the feeling in his body start to fade. His eyes fluttered for a few seconds, and then stopped.

As the poison took its toll, flowing through him, overcoming him, he started to dream. This time, the images were slow and easy, more like gentle waves lapping on the shoreline.

The sun was setting, and he was sitting out on the porch, cleaning his shotgun. He and his wife Tammy just finished having another knock-down fight. She was packing up a suitcase for her and their 8-month-old daughter Melissa.

“Naw,” Johnson said. “It really doesn’t matter.”