Six

      “Erin Hayes has exhausted all her appeals and now waits for a last-minute reprieve from the Texas governor. Her legal team is not optimistic, given the state’s well-known record on stays of execution. Crowds have already begun to gather here outside the state penitentiary in Huntsville. Some will hold candlelight vigils, others say they’ll cheer if and when Hayes goes to the electric chair.”

      —Isabel Murphy, ANN News, Huntsville, Texas.

      An overripe banana was the only health food in the Huntsville 7-Eleven. Isabel picked it up, felt the oblong bruise running along its backside and wondered if she could make herself eat around it.

      “Is that it?” the cashier asked.

      “Yes,” Isabel replied while putting the brown banana back into the basket by the register. “That’s it.”

      “Three seventy-eight.”

      Isabel picked through her change purse for quarters but remembered she’d used all of them for laundry. “Cigarettes sure are cheap here.”

      “Where you from?” the cashier asked politely, though Isabel thought she saw a bit of a sneer.

      “New York.”

      The cashier smiled as if she’d won a bet and made change from the five-dollar bill. “Have a nice day.”

      “Thanks,” said Isabel, shaking her Snapple. “By the way, could you tell me how far to the Motel 6?”

      “It’s about four miles from the prison gates. Two stop lights.” She was already ringing up the next customer.

      Before getting back into the rental car Isabel popped the safety seal on the Snapple and took a long swig. She balanced the glass bottle on the roof of the car while she opened her Marlboro Lights, turning her back to the highway to block the wind from passing trucks. After several failed attempts, she finally managed to light her first cigarette of the day.

      Breakfast.

      “This is one remote outpost,” Tom said, barreling out of the 7-Eleven, his camera equipment rattling against his back. “How does a 7-Eleven not have a Slurpee machine?”

      “I think the better question is, Who wants a Slurpee at 6:00 a.m.?”

      “Says the girl with the Snapple and cigarettes.”

      “At least I’ve gotten my fruit in.”

      “Ex-squeeze me?”

      “It’s raspberry iced tea Snapple. And raspberries are a super food. High in vitamin C. Or maybe it’s A. Vitamin A. I’m pretty sure it’s A.”

      “Guess you should be a personal trainer instead of a reporter. You’re one healthy chick.”

      “Says the guy choking down a ninety-nine-cent heart attack. I’m guessing there’s some sort of sausage ingredient in it, judging by the hieroglyphic grease markings on that waxed paper.”

      “That’s affirmative. Sausage-cheese biscuit,” Tom said with a full mouth. “Want a bite?”

      Tom lowered himself into the car and Isabel stepped on her cigarette and got back behind the wheel.

      “Tom?” Her tone serious.

      “Isabel?” His tone joking.

      “Seriously. About last night.” She shifted uncomfortably.

      “Forget it.”

      “No, I want to say this.” Isabel cleared her throat. “I drank way too much. I know that. I just…I mean…I just really…oh, God.”

      “Hey. Colonel. It’s me.”

      “I know, I know. It’s just that my life is going way too fast. And then I feel this pressure thing up here at my temples and I see spots and I go blank. It’s like I’m spiraling or something. Do you ever feel that way? Don’t you ever want to slow it all down so you can think, really think for a minute? I never mean to get out of control like that. I don’t plan it. God, listen to me. I just want you to know that I’m really grateful to you for taking such good care of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

      “There’d be no one for the bartender to call to carry your ass home, that’s what you’d do without me.”

      Isabel winced with the memory.

      “I’ve been there, believe me,” Tom said. “I’m no one to talk. But you gotta be more careful, Iz. A woman passing out in a bar isn’t exactly cool, you know?”

      “I know, I know.” Isabel knew she was sounding defensive. “I’m just going through a phase.”

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You say that every time.”

      I do?

      “This phase of yours is gettin’ old and dangerous, know what I’m saying?”

      Isabel looked as if she’d been slapped.

      “Hey, listen.” Tom softened. “What goes on in the field stays in the field. Copy that? You read me? I’ll always cover you.”

      Several minutes later Isabel looked at Tom.

      “Hey, Tommy, the nineties called. They want all Wayne’s World references back.”

      “Huh?”

      “I haven’t heard ‘ex-squeeze me’ in years.”

      “Very funny. Let’s go, huh? I want some fries to go with my biscuit. Get it? Fries? Execution? Get it?”

      Five minutes later reporter and photographer were inching their car back into the prison parking lot jammed with news vans and satellite dishes smiling up at the sun. Overworked generators crowded parking spaces alongside the trucks. Worried producers scurried into and out of their makeshift offices while reporters scribbled on notepads and talked to whomever was speaking in their ears.

      “How long till the magic hour?” Tom asked.

      “Six hours. Long enough. Why? You in a hurry to get to the hotel?”

      “Motel 6? That’s a negative.”

      Seven hours later she collapsed on the top of the natty motel bedspread, too exhausted to undress.