Twenty-Nine
THE CINDER BLOCK-WALLED room with its steel table bolted to the floor and two metal chairs feels warm today.
I swallow and repeat the words of the prayer of Saint Michael the Archangel as I wait for my appointment to arrive. I finger the beads of the Rosary in my pocket, and think for the millionth time that this is not the best idea I’ve ever had.
No one knows I’m here. I didn’t tell Helen about it, because I knew that she’d try to persuade me not to do it. When that failed, she’d contact the warden to have me barred from entering the county jail.
She’d ask me, why did I want to do this? What did I hope to accomplish?
I wouldn’t have been able to answer, because I don’t know myself.
It’s not logical. It’s against all reason and good sense.
But it’s something I must do.
