The next morning, Alan and I went to the prison for what we knew could be our last visit with Cecil. His brother, David, was already there visiting, but the guards said we could go in anyway. While we said we would wait, David told them it'd be fine with him for us to come in.
We signed the guest book, and as that last door opened to the closet-sized visiting room, two middle-aged men turned their heads toward us and broke into smiles. David, who Alan had met once before, was standing as I had been the day before, the two plastic garden chairs pushed back into the corners. Cecil, on the other side of the glass, was so happy to have a gathering of guests, he looked like he was hosting a get-together on his patio. Come on in!
The brothers' childhood had bonded them closer than any circumstance could break apart, and each knew his brother's love would never end. They were reminiscing when we came in and stopped long enough for us to hug David and wave hello to Cecil.
"Do you remember that Christmas with the slippers?" David, continuing his story, said, and they both burst out laughing. Their mother had wanted some house shoes, and they were determined to give them to her. They had ended up stealing a pair because they had no money for gifts.
Another time, they recalled, one of their sisters had thrown a butcher knife at David, and they covered for her, so she wouldn't get in trouble from their father. The boys took the blame, and the beating from their father had been so severe, blood splattered on a wall. Tale after tale began to flow as they laughed—even as my mouth dropped open at the horror of some of it—and finished each other's sentences because they knew the stories by heart.
The brothers relived their childhoods and were proud to have each other's shared history. They hardly took breaths in between the end of one story and the start of the next, as they disregarded the unspoken shadow that this might be their last chance to be together. Witnessing the two of them, I would not have guessed about the abusive family, the hunger, the betrayals, and the other dysfunctions had I not already read Cecil's memoir. Every story they told had a boisterous punchline between them; an outside observer could see that the common thread was about overcoming terribly tragic circumstances, but that was not the focus that day. For a short time, there in that cold, hard room, there was warmth. To have a person in this world who understood every nuance of where he came from and what he had lived through was a gift no one else could give Cecil. His little brother who knew him so well was there when it counted, and we were honored to witness such a love. It is the most sincere and genuine family reunion I've ever been to.
The new suit reminded me of the media circus and the purpose of our visit. It was not a picnic or a proper family reunion. It was the last time we would see him.
The warden then came in, smiling, and we turned as he approached the open door to our closet-space.
"How ya doin', Cecil? Do you need anything?" he said, and we shook his hand to meet him like we were at a business event, a grand opening of the death chamber or something. As the warden turned to leave, I noticed the string that comes on a new suit coat—the one that holds the flaps together at the back until you clip it when you buy it—was still connected. It appeared that the warden had bought a new suit for the occasion, possibly even a career-defining event where he would be in front of a lot of media. I shared an ironic smile and an eyeroll with Cecil after the warden left. I wanted to say, "Oh no, we're all good here! Couldn't be better—except for the part where you are about to kill my friend here—if you could work on that, we'd really be all set." The new suit reminded me of the media circus and the purpose of our visit. It was not a picnic or a proper family reunion. It was the last time we would see him.
A woman came and took Cecil's temperature, reaching through the mail slot.
"They want to make sure I'm well," Cecil said. "That's funny." We all laughed with him, a little more forced this time, realizing that the State cared only about his health because it would mean fewer complications when it came time to kill him. That rolled off Cecil easily; he had learned early in his life that the appearance of thoughtfulness did not always indicate real caring or sympathy.
On that last visit, while Cecil was waiting to hear from his lawyers in hopes of a stay of execution, he also must have been privately preparing to die, thinking about tying up loose ends.
At least, that was on my mind. Through the glass, I said, "After you're gone … how—"
"No, we're not going to talk like that," he broke in, waving his arm.
"But what is your favorite hymn? Who will—"
"We don't need any of that. We can talk about all kinds of stuff next week."
The State cared only about his health because it would mean fewer complications when it came time to kill him.
That's when I realized he was sticking full force with the line of thinking that the execution that night was not going to happen.
He had a lot on his mind, I know, but he acted like it was a jinx or bad luck to even discuss the possibility that the execution would happen. I did not want to talk about it either, but I knew we would want to know his wishes. He started talking about fishing, his daughter, and how his grandkids were doing—anything to fill the otherwise dead air. Finally, he slowed down, looked straight at me, and said steadily, "Tell Anne Grace and Allie not to worry about me." He was thinking about our two daughters who he had known for all these years.
As we prepared to leave, words didn't come easily for any of us. Visitation was nearly over; we wanted to leave first, so the brothers could have their own moment. The knowledge that it was fewer than twelve hours until the execution time hung in the air smothering us, with just a touch of hope floating nearby.
Cecil put his palms up on the glass as Alan and I each matched a hand up to his. We sensed this was the real goodbye, and after a moment, we began backing away from the glass. Like the day before, I looked him in the eye and said, "See you tomorrow!" as if it were just another day. But Alan is always much more direct than I ever am and knew he must say what was in his heart.
"I haven't ministered to you enough," Alan stammered, recalling the original purpose of their visits a decade and a half ago. "You always end up ministering to me."
Cecil just smiled and said, "See you, brother. And you take care, little sister. I love you both."
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