The Speed Queen by Stewart O’Nan Read Free Book Online
Authors: Stewart O’Nan
I didn't believe them at first because, honestly, some of them sounded crazy. A lot of them talked about the Last Times and the Rapture, things only crazy people would say. I didn't write any of them back and after we lost they stopped writing, all but a few of them.
One day a few months later Janille had a package for me. It had been opened and taped back up like they thought it was a bomb. It was from the Reverend Lynn Walker in Duncan. He'd sent letters before, saying I needed to remember the trials of Job. Now he'd sent me a new Bible, still in its shrink-wrap. He also sent a yellow highlighter with it. His note said I should mark the words that spoke to me, and that I might start with the Psalms. I wasn't forgotten, Reverend Walker said. Every Sunday the congregation of the Duncan House of Prayer was remembering me.
"Got any use for this?" I asked Janille, and stuck it through the bars.
"I already got one," she said, flipping the thin pages. She rubbed her thumb over the gold edges and the rough leather cover like a salesman and handed it back to me. "It's a nice one though."
"Think the library would want it?"
"I think they have enough of them."
"What am I supposed to do with it?" I asked.
And I remember Janille backing away from the bars like it wasn't her problem.
Remember that, Janille —the day my Bible came?
Janille's been a friend. She switched shifts so she could be here tonight. We read a little earlier in Revelations, the seven angels. I haven't told her yet but I want her to have my Bible. Sister Perpetua said that was kind of me, but it's not. Janille knew what I needed then. In a way, she saved me.
I didn't start reading it right then. I put it away where I wouldn't have to look at it. It wasn't for another year that I dug it out again.
It was June because the TV was all repeats and the floors had just started to sweat. The cement turned slick and you had to be careful if you were a pacer. Next door Darcy was listening to her boombox. I had my atlas out, and I was driving through Oak Creek Canyon on Alternate 89, curving along with the water, the red rocks piled high on both sides. Darcy turned her box off, then on again, then off. I rolled out of my bunk and went over to the corner where the bars meet the wall.
"What's up?" I said.
"Your girlfriend Natalie's gettin' out."
"What?" I said, except I didn't say, "What?" Back then I used a lot of unnecessary language. "How?" I said.
"She's done two of her six."
The numbers made sense but it was impossible, like a bill you've forgotten and can't afford to pay.
"When?" I said.
"August first."
I thanked her and went back to my bunk and wondered if I could have Natalie fixed. I couldn't. I didn't have any money, and everyone thought I was crazy. She'd be free and I'd be stuck here the rest of my life.
A little after midnight, I opened the Reverend Lynn Walker's Bible to Psalms and read:
Happy if the man
who does not take the wicked for his guide
nor walk the road that sinner tread
nor take his seat among the scornful;
the law of the Lord is his delight,
the law his meditation night and day.
I uncapped the highlighter and colored the whole thing in.
Sometimes in your books you make fun of religious people. You make them crazy or evil, like in "Children of the Corn" or Needful Things. I'd appreciate it if you didn't this once. Just make me the way I am.
13
I was wondering if you'd do a 13. It's like a yellow car's supposed to be unlucky, like our Roadrunner. Lamont said you make your own luck. Maybe he was right.
The worst thing about being executed is the waiting, knowing it's going to happen. Five years ago, when they scheduled that Connie gal, Mr. Jefferies said it was just a matter of time for me.
The last woman they did before that was back in the thirties, this woman who ran a tourist court with her husband out west on Route 66. This was in the Dust Bowl days, when families packed everything in the Model A and headed for
One day a few months later Janille had a package for me. It had been opened and taped back up like they thought it was a bomb. It was from the Reverend Lynn Walker in Duncan. He'd sent letters before, saying I needed to remember the trials of Job. Now he'd sent me a new Bible, still in its shrink-wrap. He also sent a yellow highlighter with it. His note said I should mark the words that spoke to me, and that I might start with the Psalms. I wasn't forgotten, Reverend Walker said. Every Sunday the congregation of the Duncan House of Prayer was remembering me.
"Got any use for this?" I asked Janille, and stuck it through the bars.
"I already got one," she said, flipping the thin pages. She rubbed her thumb over the gold edges and the rough leather cover like a salesman and handed it back to me. "It's a nice one though."
"Think the library would want it?"
"I think they have enough of them."
"What am I supposed to do with it?" I asked.
And I remember Janille backing away from the bars like it wasn't her problem.
Remember that, Janille —the day my Bible came?
Janille's been a friend. She switched shifts so she could be here tonight. We read a little earlier in Revelations, the seven angels. I haven't told her yet but I want her to have my Bible. Sister Perpetua said that was kind of me, but it's not. Janille knew what I needed then. In a way, she saved me.
I didn't start reading it right then. I put it away where I wouldn't have to look at it. It wasn't for another year that I dug it out again.
It was June because the TV was all repeats and the floors had just started to sweat. The cement turned slick and you had to be careful if you were a pacer. Next door Darcy was listening to her boombox. I had my atlas out, and I was driving through Oak Creek Canyon on Alternate 89, curving along with the water, the red rocks piled high on both sides. Darcy turned her box off, then on again, then off. I rolled out of my bunk and went over to the corner where the bars meet the wall.
"What's up?" I said.
"Your girlfriend Natalie's gettin' out."
"What?" I said, except I didn't say, "What?" Back then I used a lot of unnecessary language. "How?" I said.
"She's done two of her six."
The numbers made sense but it was impossible, like a bill you've forgotten and can't afford to pay.
"When?" I said.
"August first."
I thanked her and went back to my bunk and wondered if I could have Natalie fixed. I couldn't. I didn't have any money, and everyone thought I was crazy. She'd be free and I'd be stuck here the rest of my life.
A little after midnight, I opened the Reverend Lynn Walker's Bible to Psalms and read:
Happy if the man
who does not take the wicked for his guide
nor walk the road that sinner tread
nor take his seat among the scornful;
the law of the Lord is his delight,
the law his meditation night and day.
I uncapped the highlighter and colored the whole thing in.
Sometimes in your books you make fun of religious people. You make them crazy or evil, like in "Children of the Corn" or Needful Things. I'd appreciate it if you didn't this once. Just make me the way I am.
13
I was wondering if you'd do a 13. It's like a yellow car's supposed to be unlucky, like our Roadrunner. Lamont said you make your own luck. Maybe he was right.
The worst thing about being executed is the waiting, knowing it's going to happen. Five years ago, when they scheduled that Connie gal, Mr. Jefferies said it was just a matter of time for me.
The last woman they did before that was back in the thirties, this woman who ran a tourist court with her husband out west on Route 66. This was in the Dust Bowl days, when families packed everything in the Model A and headed for
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