Food Memory
Sep. 10th, 2012 02:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
n3m3sis43Sweating in the sticky Louisiana heat, 8-year-old Dobie spread his haul out on the grass in front of him. He'd scored twelve candy bars, all the chocolate he and Jean could eat. There were Baby Ruths for him, Hershey bars for Jean, and a couple of Snickers bars for good measure. After all, who didn't like Snickers?
I'm gonna be real sorry I didn't listen to my mama, he thought.
His hands trembled with anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. It was always a bad thing when he didn't listen to his mama. Mama had told him time and time again that stealing was bad, but sometimes the devil just got in him and he couldn't help himself.
He knew that stealing was a sin, but he'd be damned if he'd go back and apologize to Old Man Maynard, who always peered at him over his glasses and whispered the R word when he thought Dobie couldn't hear him. Today, he hadn't even bothered to whisper, shouting after him as he ran, spitting out not just the R word but also a string of curse words that'd have mama washing his mouth out with soap if he repeated them.
Sweet Jean would never call him the R word. She never talked to him like he was stupid, the way other people did, all slow and overly patient. She spoke to him like she'd speak to anyone else, and he loved her. Picking up his forbidden treasure, he swallowed his fear and sauntered down the road toward her house.
*****
Sweating despite the air conditioning in the small and lonely room, 38-year-old Dobie spread out the twelve candy bars on the fake-wood top of the table in front of him. Just as he'd requested, there were Baby Ruth, Snickers and Hershey bars.
If only I had listened to Mama in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess now, Dobie thought. It's always a bad thing when I don't listen to my mama.
His hands trembled with trepidation and the effort of making his twisted, arthritic fingers tear open a wrapper. He stared down at the gray-tiled floor and wished that Jean could be with him now to share this feast. Hunched stiffly in his plastic chair, Dobie bit into the first candy bar, remembering.
*****
Mama made him promise not to drink when he came home to visit for the weekend. He was visiting on a weekend furlough from Camp Beauregard, where they'd sent him the last time he'd gotten caught stealing. Mama knew he tried to be a good boy, but she knew the devil just got in him sometimes too. She didn't want him to get in any more trouble.
He should have listened to his mama, but instead he went and sat out back of Fred Harris's store, drinking with his friends. They spent the evening sipping cold beer and sweet cognac. On their drinking nights, no one called him names and there was no smart or stupid. There was just him and his buddies, sitting out under the stars and telling yarns.
The cognac made his stomach hurt. He started to feel like he was going to puke, so he stumbled to his Grandpa's house to lie down. He collapsed on the couch and fell asleep.
He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. It was a policeman and he said he had to come with him to the station. He said they'd be there all night and all morning and all the next day 'til he got to the bottom of things. The policeman kept asking about a white lady and a knife and Dobie was scared and confused.
Dobie knew he shouldn't disobey his mama. He knew he shouldn't drink and that stealing was a sin. He knew that sometimes the devil got in him and he couldn't help himself, but he also knew he didn't kill that white lady.
*****
Dobie unwrapped and ate one candy bar after another, savoring each bite. He thought about Jean and how she'd never doubted him this whole time. He thought about the hat she'd given him, a black ball cap with the words "Fear Not" sewn on the front. He wished he still had that hat, but they'd taken it when they brought him here to the death house to wait for his execution.
Dobie did fear. He feared a lot, but he was trying to be brave.
Warden Cain had asked him earlier if he wanted to be taken to the execution room in a wheelchair. Ever since the arthritis started five years ago, he walked all slow and bent and the other inmates in "The Farm" made fun of him. Dobie just ignored them. He was used to being called names. It hurt his pride, but he wouldn't let them see that.
Dobie would be damned if he'd be rolled to his death in a wheelchair. If he was going to the death chamber, he was getting there on the two feet God gave him.
Warden Cain had tried to get Dobie to have his last meal with him, too, but Dobie'd said no. The warden liked to share the prisoners' last meals, because it was the Christian thing to do. Dobie had heard about the meals the warden had taken with other prisoners who'd gone before him. They were big affairs with fancy white tablecloths and special food and guests of honor and singing and prayer.
"I ain't going to eat with those people," Dobie had said to Sister Helen, "It's not like, you know, real fellowship. When they finish eating they're going to help kill me."
Sister Helen was the nun who'd been coming to see him in jail for the past eight years. He liked Sister Helen. She never talked to him like he was stupid, and she said she was going to write his story in a book someday.
Dobie was afraid of death, but he wasn't afraid to eat his last meal alone. He knew that God loved him and his mama loved him and Sister Helen loved him and Jean did too. He was alone in body but not in spirit.
Hands still shaking, but heart a little steadier now, Dobie unwrapped his last candy bar, a Snickers. He pictured Jean's sweet face, her kind smile, and her beautiful eyes. He pretended they were sharing the candy bar, just like they'd done on a hot summer day long ago.
He was alone, but he was at peace.
This piece is based on the true story of Dobie Gillis Williams. He was convicted of murder based on shaky evidence and an alleged confession that was never recorded. He was executed on January 8, 1999 despite having an IQ of 65 and no known history of violence. The quoted text in this piece are Dobie's own real words, taken from excerpts of his story in Sister Helen Prejean's book.
I'm gonna be real sorry I didn't listen to my mama, he thought.
His hands trembled with anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. It was always a bad thing when he didn't listen to his mama. Mama had told him time and time again that stealing was bad, but sometimes the devil just got in him and he couldn't help himself.
He knew that stealing was a sin, but he'd be damned if he'd go back and apologize to Old Man Maynard, who always peered at him over his glasses and whispered the R word when he thought Dobie couldn't hear him. Today, he hadn't even bothered to whisper, shouting after him as he ran, spitting out not just the R word but also a string of curse words that'd have mama washing his mouth out with soap if he repeated them.
Sweet Jean would never call him the R word. She never talked to him like he was stupid, the way other people did, all slow and overly patient. She spoke to him like she'd speak to anyone else, and he loved her. Picking up his forbidden treasure, he swallowed his fear and sauntered down the road toward her house.
Sweating despite the air conditioning in the small and lonely room, 38-year-old Dobie spread out the twelve candy bars on the fake-wood top of the table in front of him. Just as he'd requested, there were Baby Ruth, Snickers and Hershey bars.
If only I had listened to Mama in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess now, Dobie thought. It's always a bad thing when I don't listen to my mama.
His hands trembled with trepidation and the effort of making his twisted, arthritic fingers tear open a wrapper. He stared down at the gray-tiled floor and wished that Jean could be with him now to share this feast. Hunched stiffly in his plastic chair, Dobie bit into the first candy bar, remembering.
Mama made him promise not to drink when he came home to visit for the weekend. He was visiting on a weekend furlough from Camp Beauregard, where they'd sent him the last time he'd gotten caught stealing. Mama knew he tried to be a good boy, but she knew the devil just got in him sometimes too. She didn't want him to get in any more trouble.
He should have listened to his mama, but instead he went and sat out back of Fred Harris's store, drinking with his friends. They spent the evening sipping cold beer and sweet cognac. On their drinking nights, no one called him names and there was no smart or stupid. There was just him and his buddies, sitting out under the stars and telling yarns.
The cognac made his stomach hurt. He started to feel like he was going to puke, so he stumbled to his Grandpa's house to lie down. He collapsed on the couch and fell asleep.
He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. It was a policeman and he said he had to come with him to the station. He said they'd be there all night and all morning and all the next day 'til he got to the bottom of things. The policeman kept asking about a white lady and a knife and Dobie was scared and confused.
Dobie knew he shouldn't disobey his mama. He knew he shouldn't drink and that stealing was a sin. He knew that sometimes the devil got in him and he couldn't help himself, but he also knew he didn't kill that white lady.
Dobie unwrapped and ate one candy bar after another, savoring each bite. He thought about Jean and how she'd never doubted him this whole time. He thought about the hat she'd given him, a black ball cap with the words "Fear Not" sewn on the front. He wished he still had that hat, but they'd taken it when they brought him here to the death house to wait for his execution.
Dobie did fear. He feared a lot, but he was trying to be brave.
Warden Cain had asked him earlier if he wanted to be taken to the execution room in a wheelchair. Ever since the arthritis started five years ago, he walked all slow and bent and the other inmates in "The Farm" made fun of him. Dobie just ignored them. He was used to being called names. It hurt his pride, but he wouldn't let them see that.
Dobie would be damned if he'd be rolled to his death in a wheelchair. If he was going to the death chamber, he was getting there on the two feet God gave him.
Warden Cain had tried to get Dobie to have his last meal with him, too, but Dobie'd said no. The warden liked to share the prisoners' last meals, because it was the Christian thing to do. Dobie had heard about the meals the warden had taken with other prisoners who'd gone before him. They were big affairs with fancy white tablecloths and special food and guests of honor and singing and prayer.
"I ain't going to eat with those people," Dobie had said to Sister Helen, "It's not like, you know, real fellowship. When they finish eating they're going to help kill me."
Sister Helen was the nun who'd been coming to see him in jail for the past eight years. He liked Sister Helen. She never talked to him like he was stupid, and she said she was going to write his story in a book someday.
Dobie was afraid of death, but he wasn't afraid to eat his last meal alone. He knew that God loved him and his mama loved him and Sister Helen loved him and Jean did too. He was alone in body but not in spirit.
Hands still shaking, but heart a little steadier now, Dobie unwrapped his last candy bar, a Snickers. He pictured Jean's sweet face, her kind smile, and her beautiful eyes. He pretended they were sharing the candy bar, just like they'd done on a hot summer day long ago.
He was alone, but he was at peace.
