Kenner responded that he was a mature person and thus not prey to hostile thoughts. He begged her to leave the room so that he could continue his entries. I told her I was writing a novel, but she didn’t believe me. She knows everything.
She laughed at him and dared him to make her leave the room. Kenner stared at her mutely, whereupon she laughed again and said if looks could kill, she’d certainly be dead right now. Then she said, “But if I were dead, you’d be lost; you’d fall apart altogether. You need me and you don’t really want me dead, you know, even though as I’m talking to you you’re probably filling up pages with more vicious fantasies. I’ll bet I even know what you’re writing this very minute. You’re imagining me dead, aren’t you? You’re writing down right this minute that I’m dead.”
She’s dead.
She’s dead.
She — is — dead!
Kenner murdered his wife for the eleventh time on July 29 or July 30, in her bedroom in their New York apartment. He did it for the usual reasons, and he did not attempt to be elaborately clever as to method and execution. In fact, he chose to repeat the procedure of the previous evening. While she lounged in bed as was her custom on weekends (this was either Saturday or Sunday), I made her breakfast and poisoned her coffee with eleven capsules of nitrous oxide.
When Kenner took the tray into her bedroom, she was sitting up in bed and there were three cigarettes burning on the nightstand. She smiled at him maliciously as she lifted her cup, and asked if he had “put in a few drops of arsenic or something to sweeten the taste.” After which she laughed in her diabolical way and drank some of the coffee.
With clinical curiosity, Kenner watched the cup slip from her fingers and spill the rest of the liquid over the bedclothes; watched her expression alter and her face and body once more assume the characteristic attitude of oxide poisoning as she fell back against the headboard. The faint green color looked quite well on her, he concluded.
This time Kenner did not arrange the scene in what he thought to be a natural manner. He also did not open the windows. He simply left the apartment and took a subway to Times Square, where he consumed a breakfast of indeterminate nature in a restaurant or perhaps a cafeteria. Once finished he browsed through a bookstore, purchased a candy bar, and finally took the subway home again. Upon entering his apartment, I think the time was 10:51 A.M., he proceeded directly to his wife’s bedroom.
She was still lying in bed, and she was still quite surprisingly dead. The scene, however, had after all been changed in certain ways. The coffee that he was sure had been spilled across the bedclothes had not been spilled at all; the cup, in point of fact, rested empty on the breakfast tray. Her color was not greenish, but rather a violent purple. The three cigarettes had become four, and each had burned down to skeletal fingers of gray ash. Her hands were clutched somewhat pathetically at her breast.
Kenner stared at her for a long time, after which scrutiny he went to his room and attempted to write in his journal. I could not seem to think, I knew I would have to wait until later. Returning to his wife’s bedroom once more, he paused to study the empty coffee cup and the remains of the cigarettes. It was then that he understood the truth.
The cigarettes and the coffee, not Kenner, had done her in.
What he did next is not clear. Very little is clear even now, many hours later. He does seem to have telephoned his wife’s doctor, since the physician arrived eventually and pronounced her dead of a heart attack. Two or three interns also came with a stretcher and took her away. As I write this I can still smell the after-shave lotion one of them was wearing.
One thing, therefore, is quite clear: she’s dead.
Damn her, she really is dead and gone forever.
What am I going to do now?
Kenner murdered his dead wife for the first time on August 1, or possibly August 6, in the bathroom of their New York apartment...
Sweet Fever
Quarter before midnight, like on every evening except the Sabbath or when it’s storming or when my rheumatism gets to paining too bad, me and Billy Bob went down to the Chigger Mountain railroad tunnel to wait for the night freight from St. Louis. This here was a fine summer evening, with a big old fat yellow moon hung above the pines on Hankers Ridge and mockingbirds and cicadas and toads making a soft ruckus. Nights like this, I have me a good feeling, hopeful, and I know Billy Bob does too.
They’s a bog hollow on the near side of the tunnel opening, and beside it a woody slope, not too steep. Halfway down the slope is a big catalpa tree, and that was where we always set, side by side with our backs up against the trunk.
So we come on down to there, me hobbling some with my cane and Billy Bob holding onto my arm. That moon was so bright you could see the melons lying in Ferdie Johnson’s patch over on the left, and the rail tracks had a sleek oiled look coming out of the tunnel mouth and leading off toward the Sabreville yards a mile up the line. On the far side of the tracks, the woods and the rundown shacks that used to be a hobo jungle before the county sheriff closed it off thirty years back had them a silvery cast, like they was all coated in winter frost.
We set down under the catalpa tree and I leaned my head back to catch my wind. Billy Bob said, “Granpa, you feeling right?”
“Fine, boy.”
“Rheumatism ain’t started paining you?”
“Not a bit.”
He give me a grin. “Got a little surprise for you.”
“The hell you do.”
“Fresh plug of blackstrap,” he said. He come out of his pocket with it. “Mr. Cotter got him in a shipment just today down at his store.”
I was some pleased. But I said, “Now you hadn’t ought to go spending your money on me, Billy Bob.”
“Got nobody else I’d rather spend it on.”
I took the plug and unwrapped it and had me a chew.
Old man like me ain’t got many pleasures left, but fresh blackstrap’s one; good corn’s another. Billy Bob gets us all the corn we need from Ben Logan’s boys. They got a pretty good sized still up on Hankers Ridge, and their corn is the best in this part of the hills. Not that either of us is a drinking man, now. A little touch after supper and on special days is all. I never did hold with drinking too much, or doing anything too much, and I taught Billy Bob the same.
He’s a good boy. Man couldn’t ask for a better grandson. But I raised him that way — in my own image, you might say — after both my own son Rufus and Billy Bob’s ma got taken from us in 1947.I reckon I done a right job of it, and I couldn’t be less proud of him than I was of his pa, or love him no less, either.
Well, we set there and I worked on the chew of blackstrap and had a spit every now and then, and neither of us said much. Pretty soon the first whistle come, way off on the other side of Chigger Mountain. Billy Bob cocked his head and said, “She’s right on schedule.”
“Mostly is,” I said, “this time of year.”
That sad lonesome hungry ache started up in me again — what my daddy used to call the “sweet fever.” He was a railroad man, and I grew up around trains and spent a goodly part of my early years at the roundhouse in the Sabreville yards. Once, when I was ten, he let me take the throttle of the big 2-8-0 Mogul steam locomotive on his highballing run to Eulalia, and I can’t recollect no more finer experience in my whole life. Later on I worked as a callboy, and then as a fireman on a 2-10-4, and put in some time as a yard tender engineer, and I expect I’d have gone on in railroading if it hadn’t been for the Depression and getting myself married and having Rufus. My daddy’s short-line company folded up in 1931, and half a dozen others too, and wasn’t no work for either of us in Sabreville or Eulalia or anywheres else on the iron. That squeezed the will right out of him, and he took to ailing, and I had to accept a job on Mr. John Barnett’s truck farm to support him and the rest of my family. Was my intention to go back into railroading, but the Depression dragged on, and my daddy died, and a year later my wife Amanda took sick and passed on, and by the time the war come it was just too late.