Falconer+-+John+Cheever

Falconer 151
intended for his last rites did not disconcert him. There was
nothing on his mind at all and he entered, completely, into the
verbal pavane he had been taught as a youth. “Holy, Holy, Holy,”
he said in a loud and manly voice. “Heaven and earth are full of
Thy Glory. Praise be to Thee, O Lord most high.” When he had
been blessed with the peace that passes all understanding, he said,
“Thank you, Father,” and the priest said, “God bless you, my son.”
But when the youth had left his cell and the block, Farragut began
to shout, “Now, who in hell was that, Walton? Who in hell was
that?”
“It was some do-gooder,” said Walton. “I have to study.”
“But how did he get in? I didn’t ask for a priest. He didn’t do his
thing for anybody else. Why did he pick on me?”
“This place is going to hell,” said Walton. “No wonder they got
riots. They let anybody in. Salesmen. Encyclopedias. Frying pans.
Vacuum cleaners.”
“I’ll write the governor,” said Farragut. “If we can’t get out, why
can everybody get in here? They take your picture, they give you
the Holy Eucharist, they ask your mother’s maiden name.”
He woke late that night. The toilet woke him. He didn’t check the
time. Naked, he went to his window. Bright lights burned on the
drive. A station wagon with its motor running was parked in front
of the main entrance. A ski rack was lashed to the roof. Then he
saw two men and a woman come down the stairs. All three wore
tennis sneakers. They carried an old-fashioned wooden coffin with
a cross painted on its top. It was built to fit some rudimentary
concept of a Byzantine male, with broad, sloping shoulders and a
slender base. Whatever it contained weighed almost nothing.
Lightly they lifted it onto the ski rack, secured it there and drove
away. Farragut returned to bed and slept.
On Sunday afternoon when he came on duty Tiny brought
Farragut half a dozen tomatoes and asked him to take Chicken