Ten months later:
     "Closure," Tobias Beecher says. "That'd be the word. You believe in that kind of stuff,right, McManus? Always did. Get someone's Mom to come see them 'cause they're on drugs; make someone go talk to the woman whose kid they ran over--or the judge who sent them to Oz, some smooth move like that. Very...oh, YOU know: *Therapeutic*."
     Cold words, well-chosen, and offered with an equally cold smile to top them off. But then, everything about Beecher is fairly cold, these days: His sleek, blond little beard, regrown into a pseudo-goatee, like a parody of Tim McManus's own; his cropped hair and overcast eyes, behind that *new* new pair of glasses. His pale skin, rarely--if ever--lit, anymore, by that infamous customary flush of temper, embarassment, arousal. His voice, his mind. His...
     (...heart.)
     Or so McManus assumes. Really, he knows nothing about Beecher's heart--or anything else that might be going on inside the former lawyer, for that matter. On occasion, he passes Beecher caning his slow, deceptively mild-mannered way through the usual inmate crowd, in between Em City council meetings--the only prisoner in Oz with a medically-based license to carry a potentially deadly weapon. Limp and all, however, even the newest and most aggresive fish routinely get told enough to know to avoid him: Don't stick your dick anywhere near Beecher, you wanna keep your shit intact--may LOOK like a pussy, yo, but the dude's *bad fuckin' luck*.
     "Widow Beecher", "Poet" Jackson calls him; widow-MAKER, more like. Or--
     --and *what* was it they used to call the Queen of Spades, back in the wild, wild west? McManus remembers reading it, somewhere: That sulky, sultry card, its headdress set rakishly askew, chief ingredient in Wild Bill Hickock's famous dead man's hand...
    (...oh, yeah: The BITCH.)
    Well--*that* fits.
    Ryan O'Reilly's favored confidante and Cyril O'Reilly's duly elected chaperone; still the official Em City Others rep; kept hard at work on Cyril's pending appeal, plus continually ahcking away at his own personal civil suits against Oz, Warden Glynn, Em City and former Governor Devlin's administration. In the wake of Vern Schillinger's infirmary meltdown, Beecher's spent almost a year demanding both "wrongful death" restitution on behalf of the late Christopher Keller's three wives and a substantial "pain and suffering" monetary settlement for himself, the bulk of which (if he's ever awarded it) will end up going to defray the cosmetic surgical cost of removing that swastika from his ass.
     Of course, McManus's name has yet to be mentioned on the roll-call of those held "responsible" for Schillinger's carnage--a deliberate, vaguely insulting oversight, and one for which Tim can't *quite* manage to be properly grateful. It's just more evidence of Beecher's current mindset: Hollowed and hard, infinitely logical. With whatever conflicted currents of passion and hatred once burned in him long doused, and all love burnt out of him, apparently--save for the vague, fatherly affection he has for Cyril, the semi-friendship (buddyhood?) he preserves with Ryan...
     A walking reminder of McManus's failure, one way or another, all down along the line. Failure to recognize, or halt, Beecher's suffering at Schillinger's hands--*or* Keller's--
     (...or his own, now he comes to think about it...)
     Failure, utter and total, to prevent all three men's descent into a self-destructive whirlwind of psychosexual strike and counterstrike, a close-quarters power struggle whose afllout has left Em City cleansed--for the moment--of virtually all Aryan presence. Once Fritz Duchene's misguided try for the tits trade crown attracted Antonio Nappa's attention, after all, "Der Fuhrer"'s murder became pretty much of a foregone conclusion; since then, the rest of the Neo-Nazi Cause's remaining adherents have either been transferred back to Gen Pop--some at their own request--or absorbed, sheepishly, into other groups. *One* actually came out and joined the Gays, if you can believe THAT unlikely turn of events...
     (As much as anything else that's happened, McManus guesses.)
     And now here Beecher is, right in Tim's office: Talking to him directly for what must be the first time in months; trying to be *polite*, if not exactly ingratiating. And all of this effort expended, believe it or not--
     (NOT)
     --expressly for the purpose of getting permission to visit Schillinger...*Schillinger*, for Christ's sweet sake...on Death Row, now that the last of ol' Vern's automatic appeals has been turned down, and a date for his execution finally set.
    McManus can still remember sitting in on that last interview in Ad Seg, at Warden Glynn's request: Listening, with a kind of horrified awe, as Vern--still suffering the after-effects of getting the shit repeatedly kicked out of him by various guards, more out of general principle than anything else, for shanking C.O. Karl Metzger--reeled off a seemingly endless list of additional reasons to fry his big white ass, name by name by name...
    "...Sippel, I did that one myself, that fuckin' pervert--oh, and Jordaire, I ordered that done. And that big Jew, whatever the fuck his name was--Vogel, right, *that* roadkill fuckin' mutt; needed a symbol, some sign we were back on top, so...Metzger got Hanlon to cop to it after, which I guess means you might as well let THAT cocksucker back into population now. Uhhhh, and--what else, what else."
     (What else, indeed.)
     Spitting blood into a proffered paper cup, clearing his throat, and continuing: "Set up Keller to break Beecher's arms and legs. Beat him up, later, when he wouldn't let go--fell in *love* with the little slut, dumb faggot; more fuckin' fool him..." Another pause. "That enough yet?"
     "I think we had you back at killing Keller."
     "Hey: *Duchene* killed Keller. His shank, right?"
     Glynn, pointing out--from the sidelines--"Yeah. But YOUR fingerprints."
     "From when I pulled it *out* of Keller."
     "Apparently, he might've lived, if you'd left it in."
     "I look like a doctor to you?" A grim red smile, through lips bruised almost black. "Prag was dead 'fore I had time to do much more than stare, anyway."
     "Not according to Beecher."
     "Yeah, well--Beecher's...bereft. Tell him I understand."
     (So why don't you just do me for Metzger, and call it even?)
     In typically grandiose fashion, Schillinger--claiming he "didn't want anybody confusing [him] with that nutbag Groves"--hadn't ended up opting for the firing squad after all. Instead...
     "HANGing?" Then-Governor Devlin spat in amazement, when Glynn broke the bad news. "Nobody's been *hung* in this state since we stopped riding horses to work!"
     Glynn, typically practical: "We could do it in the gym--rig a scaffold. Ceiling's probably high enough to get the right kind of drop."
     "Yeah, fine, whatever. And how much is all this going to COST, exactly?"
     While McManus, feeling his stomach lurch, could only think: Oh, God.
     (Not again.)
     Roll-call of the dead and missing, all those phantoms clustering around the window during the riot: Dino Ortolani, Jefferson Keane, Richard L'Italien, Donald Groves. Glynn's "cousin", the undercover cop; Johnny Post, canoli-boxed dick in hand. Plus Nino Schibetta, his killer several times removed, bleeding out through every orifice; plus Mark Mack and friend, suffocated in their collapsing escape tunnel. Anybody and everybody McManus didn't try--or *care*--hard enough to save, up to and including Scott fucking Ross...
     And now, three more. Keller. Metzger.
     (Schillinger)
     But: "McManus. Hey, *McManus*." Sing-song: "Heh-LO-hoo?"
     (Ground control to Major Tim?)
     The sound of his own name, patiently repeated, bringing him back to the here and now, with an abrupt jerk--where he finds Beecher leaning on his cane, hands crossed: A civilized stance, as used by...*civilized* people. Educated people.
     (People like you and me, Timmy-boy. Right?)
     ...*right*.
     Lingering, attentive. And pointing out, with eerie calm--
     "I mean, it's a fairly simple question: Yes..."
     (...or no?)
     The answer, apparently, being--

--yes.

Which is how, a mere half hour later, Beecher finds himself waiting behind C.O. Diane Whittlesey as she keys the contact door into Death Row: Palms wet, back stiff. Hearing nothing but the dull drum of his own heart going thud, thud, thud...
     ...and, somewhere behind that--beyond that opening door, as the screech springs it free--another sound, equally rhythmic: The grunting breath of someone--
     (Vern, natch)
     --working out, doing diffident pull-ups against the bars of their cell. And humming, tunelessly, just under their breath, as they count each movement off: One-ninety-nine, two, two-one, two-two, two-three...
     Not really a *necessary* part of the daily routine anymore, considering. But old habits--
     (like old Nazis)
     --die hard.
     The door slams shut again behind them, locking, and Whittlesey takes up her position beside it: Relaxed, but wary. Meeting Beecher's automatic glance back with a raised brow and a vague grimace--well, go on, here's what you wanted; what'cha waiting for, Spring?
Shit or get off the pot, law-boy.
     (So to speak.)
     Hey, bitch. You think I *won't*?
     (Well--think again.)
     Before he can think better of it, therefore, Beecher's already stepped forward into Vern's line of sight: Those pale blue eyes, last seen over Chris's cooling corpse, locking with his for the first time in almost a year. Widening, ever-so-slightly, in recognition.
     And--
     "Well," Vern says, slowly. "*This* is...cute."
     (Though not--entirely--unexpected.)
     Just standing there, silent, his bulky body lightly sheened with sweat; guess you don't lose much weight, penned here under the suicide watch cameras like veal in a stall. And staring at Beecher with an expression of mild surprise, like he still can't understand how Beecher ever got the idea he could *do* this to him--let alone grew balls big enough to actually make it so.
     Yeah, well, Beecher thinks, unsympathetically. Not the world's hardest equation, really: You fucked me, so I fucked you back.
     (And turnabout is fair fuck.)
     Vern wipes his forehead, looks over at a towel hanging by the sink. To Beecher, ironically polite: "You mind?"
     "Feel free."
     (I mean--you LIVE here, after all.)
     Stripping his t-shirt off and turning his back on Beecher, then using the towel to wipe under both armpits: A sour smell of fresh, middle-aged sweat, released into the air like some caged animal's spoor. Under one rib, Beecher can see the reddish curl of scar tissue that marks Duchene's shank-wound, stretching as Vern works the kinks from his spine and  shoulders with a few brief neck-rolls.
     "Heard they turned down your parole," he says, running water. Then, over his shoulder, with a brief flash of his old nasty bonhomie: "*Sucks*, don't it?"
     Beecher snorts. "The, uh--dick-biting incident didn't sit too well with most of the panel, no."
     "Wouldn't think. Guess you never expected to get it first time 'round, though." Sarcastic: "You being such an--EXPERT."
     A shrug. "Well. That's what appeals are for."
     A small pause ensues. Beecher can hear Whittlsey shifting stance, back near the door; her shoes squeak. Reminds him of just how uncomfortable *he*'s getting, balancing here with his bad leg already starting to twinge and burn. And Vern, well aware there's nowhere for his "guests"--crippled or not--to sit, just flops back down onto his bunk and stretching, lazily. Rumbling:
     "Soooo...to what DO I owe the pleasure? You findin' it kinda hard to cope, out there all on your lonesome; just wanted to remind yourself what I look like, or something? Or--oh, *I* know, now..."
     Voice dropping further, then, growing sly--nostrils practically flaring as he senses the remotest chance to probe an unhealed wound, even here in the death-house; to suck out some tiny bit of pain to give him pleasure after he's left alone, once again, to contemplate his own impending demise--
     "...you're missin' CHRIS. Right, cupcake?"
     (And: Oh, you sick Nazi fuck.)
     It's true that Beecher used to dream of Chris and wake up hard, his face wet. But not anymore--
     (--well, not as often.)
     After the infirmary, he spent three days in a half-empty pod, staring at the wall and trying not to think about the fact that no one had come to take Chris's stuff away yet,  before McManus finally stuck a new guy in with him--some huge gangsta named Binks, who took one look at Beecher, and licked his lips.
     (Yet *another* good call on Timmy's part, that one.)
     But Binks' brief tenure in the House of Beecher ended...badly, so now Beecher shares with the Mole, who barely says two words to anybody, most days. Drifting quiet, almost shell-shocked, since Bob Rebadow died in his sleep of a massive coronary: Reconciled with God at last, perhaps, in the split second before his heart wheezed to a halt--though no longer there to tell, if so.
     And speaking of God...
     "In case you're wondering," Beecher once found himself blurting out to Sister Peter Marie, abruptly--they having found themselves briefly trapped between two sets of contact doors--"yes."
     "Yes what, Tobias?"
     "...it *was* worth it."
     Worth every fucking penny of the price he'd had to pay, all told: The same price he'd gladly pay again--and again, and again--just to see the look on Vern's face...
     Because: That's my version, Sister. And I'm sticking to it.
     And yes, I DO miss Chris--like I miss Gen, miss my kids. Miss *me*.  All my dead loves, come back to roost in memory and dream--every tangled thing, this never-ending knot of tenderness and pain that tightens further every time he thinks of ANY of them for too long. Even...
     (...Vern himself.)
     So--
     "Sometimes," Beecher says, cool. Inquiring, sweetly: "*You*  missin' ME?"
     Vern looks at him again, for a long moment. Then replies, quiet:
     "...sometimes."
     (Parts of you, sure. 'Cause--I ain't dead yet.)
     Adding: "But don't tell me there haven't been any new...takers."
     "Oh, people pretty much leave me alone, these days."
     Vern nods. "Yeah, right, 'course. 'Cause you're O'Reilly's bitch, now."
     But: "No," Beecher snaps back, eyes suddenly sparking. "That'd be 'cause I'm ME."
     And Vern feels a perverse, twisting little stab of pride. Thinking, unable to stop himself:
     Oh, and *that*'s my baby.
     So much between them, even now. He can hear it in Beecher's voice, in his own: A coiling, boiling flood of rising memories, pulling all their long-buried ancient history up into the light for one more go-'round. And bringing, with it, the shadow--equally long-buried--of certain...
     ...other things.
     Well, who else is gonna hear this, Vernon, now the Day Of The Rope draws near for real? That little voice inside asks, impatiently. 'S not like you're planning to spill your guts to that slant-eyed fuckin' PRIEST.
     "Did my first hitch in Oz," Vern says, without preamble. "I ever tell you that?"
     (Can't...even remember *what* I told you, anymore. Really.)
     Hmmm, Beecher thinks; well, let's see. You told me going to Harvard made me an honorary Jew. Woke me up in the middle of the night, once, to ask me where I was from-- like it suddenly occurred to you I could actually be FROM somewhere. Told me Baltimore had more niggers per capita than any other city in America. Gasped out, during our next-to-last time in the shower room, that I was "tighter than [your] wife."
     Told me--
     (--your wife was dead.)
     He hauls his mind back to the conversation at hand, however, shedding memory like dead skin. And says, aloud:
     "You told me a lot of things, Vern...and to be frank, I wasn't always paying attention."
     And: Huh, Vern snorts, to himself. *Clever* little bitch, ain'tcha?
     (Still.)
     "So: I'm 19," he begins, ignoring Beecher's apparent lack of interest. "And I come home from the post office, right? For supper. Mom's cookin', the Old Man's off on a tear somewhere--they had some kinda dance earlier that day, not like I'm gonna know. But."
     He pauses, remembering--trying to figure out just the *right* way to phrase this, never having done so before. Even with...
     (...Rachel.)
     "She gets up to take the meatloaf out of the stove, and I can see she's not looking too good. Pale, a little--like she's gonna puke, or something. Ever see your Mom look like that, *Toby*?"
     Beecher doesn't answer. Just shifts himself, restless--like he's got Whittlesey's disease, all of a sudden. Like he wants to up cane and limp off, fast as his busted little legs will take him.
     (No. Didn't think so.)
     But anyway--
     "She gets up, and she puts her hand on the oven door. And she--falls over. KEELS over. Like somebody hit her with a two-four..."
     Pausing again. As Beecher interjects:
     "Look, I don't want to hear this."
     Now it's Vern's turn to snap back. Growling: "Yeah? Well, so fuckin' what? Don't like it, get up and leave--not like *I* care."
     (Much.)
     Beecher quiet now, listening. As Vern goes on--
     "So--she falls down, and her skirt--comes up. And there's blood, everywhere..."
     (...lot like Chris, come to think about it.)
     Smiling to himself, briefly. And thinking: Now, THAT was *sweet*.
     Beecher: "You took her to the hospital?"
     "Sure."
     (And she bled to death, on the way there.)
     All messed up inside, that's what the doctors said--those miscarriages, and the fact that the Old Man never left her alone between repair work, never really gave the stitches time to...heal up. Got some kind of infection, down there, and that was that.
     They came out to find him, waiting in the hallway by the coffee machine. 19 years old, and even big as he was, there's no WAY they could have thought *he* was Karl fucking Schillinger Senior--but they let him sign the death certificate anyway. 'Cause SOMEBODY had to.
     (Better the Schillinger you know...)
     And when he got home, the Old Man was back. Drunk.
     "Drunk like I've seen *you*, ToBIas..."
     Vern told him what happened, and Karl--laughed. And said: *Guess it's time to start shoppin' around again...*
     So Vern picked him up, by the throat, and threw him down the stairs.
     Strained his fuckin' arm doing it, too--suprised he didn't  BREAK it, size of the bastard. Went down and stomped on him some more, 'till he thought the cocksucker really was dead. Then went off to Karl's usual bar and ordered his usual drinks. Made the bartender call him Karl. Made *everybody* call him Karl--even the cops he rumbled with, when they came to pick him up.
     That's why there's a K. next to Vern's name, in his file--as Beecher, having studied that puppy, well knows. Because, for the whole of his first stretch in Oz...he made everyone call him by his father's name.
     Beecher gives him another long, questioning stare--scanning for hidden meaning. Finding none. And saying, carefully:
     "This is some pretty...intimate stuff you're telling me..."
     "Yeah, well. I think we been pretty--*intimate*--already."
     (You and me.)
     "Did my first hitch in Oz," Vern repeats. "Not Em City, 'cause there wasn't one, back then--Oz, Gen Pop. And you know what? It hasn't changed much. Never does."
     Pausing, slightly: Breath a little ragged, but game face intact. As Beecher watches, feeling--what? That same horrid stab of empathy? Of, almost--
     (--affection?)
     This ruined man, wrecked from the inside out. This many-layered monster, holding Beecher's eyes with his--voice dropping, lulling. Saying:
     "Oz was there before I was, will be after, and me being gone? Won't change a thing. Won't make it any better. Won't make it any worse."
     Adding, hesitant--feeling his way--
     "'Cause, believe it or not...believe it or not, I am *not* the MOST terrible thing, ever. Here--"
     (--or anywhere.)
     Beecher resists the urge to look away. Forces himself, instead, to look back--look deeper. To meet the force of Vern's gaze with his own. And reply, with equal certainty:
     "I never really thought you were."
     (Oh...*no*?)
     A second of mutual understanding, no more--a micro-, nano-, split nanosecond. And then...
     ...Vern's mouth twitches; his eyes lid, turn cold. Like shutters coming down over an exposed soul: A dry, amused, lizard-brain intelligence, slitted and gelid, peering forth. Like a rough hand thrust deep inside, pitilessly--obscenely--*knowing*.
     Drawling, silky:
     "BullSHIT, you didn't."
     (*Sweetpea*.)
     Oh...
     ...whoo.
     So much for detente, let alone reconciliation.
     "Sleep well, Vern," Beecher forces himself to say, dryly--
     (--die well. Rot well. Go to hell--well--)
     --and turns, balancing on his cane: Stomach abruptly empty, full of wind and terror. Sick aftershocks prickling his spine. Knees giving, he takes a shaky step towards Whittlesey, saying--*yelling*, almost--
     "Ready, I'm READY--"
     She nods. Goes for the door. While, behind him--
     (--like a cold tongue up the small of his back, a dry finger twisting inside--like the pressure of his face crushed up against the back window of their pod, staring blindly out into Em City's darkness as that searing, intrusive pain cramps him again and again--like that constant, demeaning fear of soiling himself, or Vern, and being forced to clean it up, on hands and knees--)
     Like knowing everyone's watching, and nobody gives a damn.
     Like knowing you don't deserve it. And like knowing--
     (--you don't deserve. Anything. Better.)
     From behind him, that *voice* he knows so well, SO well. Calling out, undererred:
     "Hey, Beecher. Hey, *Tobias*. TOBY. *HEY*."
     And Beecher, not turning, not reacting. Holding himself as straight as possible, as the Whittlesey's shadow slips into place, keying the lock.
     Trying the block his ears, somehow. But hearing, all the same, over the contact door's screech--
     "Just how much jizz you think you're gonna have in here, Bitch-er--being my *ex*, and all--when there's nobody left even remembers who I WAS anymore?"
     But the door's already closing. And Beecher...is gone.
     Vern lies back on the bed, suddenly exhausted. Massages his throbbing hand. Shuts his eyes. Telling Toby-baby, in his mind:
     You think you're gonna be free of me when I'm dead, babydoll? Hell, you won't even be free when you're *free*. 'Cause every time you fuck somebody, you're gonna think of Keller--and every time somebody's fucking *you*, you're gonna think of ME.
     Oh, and he can SEE Beecher's face, still, glaring at him. Like: But nobody's ever gonna FUCK me again, you son of a bitch.
     (Not *you*, that's for damn sure.)
     And hey, that's okay. In fact--
     --that's even *better.*
     First and last, cupcake, just like I told you that night--same night I took a lighter to your ass, popped your cherry, and made you come for me while I did it. And you really thought I couldn't hear you crying, right? Afterward?
     (*Hoped*, I guess.)
     First and last. Beginning and end.
     (One...flesh.)
     Mine, mine, now and forever. Just like--
     (Well.)
     That'd be the single side-benefit of his current condition--his next *scheduled* visitor. One who should be arriving right about now, even as we speak, same way she does EVERY Monday...

...and out in the hall, pausing between doors--Beecher, bent over and shaking, with Whittlesey at his elbow--her touch on his shoulder, brisk and expect, yet weirdly comforting. Telling him, not with sympathy:
     "Gotta move on, Beecher."
     Beecher, hoarse: "A fucking *minute*, okay? Is that too much to ask?"
     Letting go, shrugging. And then turning again, surprised, as the next set of doors springs open, revealing McManus, C.O. Hensley. And--
     (--who...)
     ...the *fuck*...
     (...IS *THAT*?)
     Beecher straightens up, slowly--every inch of him singing, instinctually, with a terrible, unspoken premonition. And his eyes rivetted, *rivetted* to the figure by McManus's side--this tiny, *female*, flat-faced, wry-mouthed, blue-eyed, dull-gold-haired, GLASSES-wearing version of...
     ...*HIMSELF*.
     Whispering, through lips gone numb:
     "Who..."
     As she, SHE, whispers--as almost the same time--
     "...*is*--this?"
     McManus looks from one to the other, then back again. And says, pointing--
     "Tobias Beecher--Rachel..."
     Her eyes still on his: "...Schillinger."
     And: *Ohhhhhh.* THIS must be--
     (--the WIFE.)
     Beecher looks at McManus, eyes shining, face twitching. Feels himself shift and burn, gone temporarily pointilescent: A febrile, glowing cloud of energy trapped in vaguely human form. A red-black mass of hate and anger, hot enough to burn Em City down on contact--to burn his way from Oz, one wall at a time, and out into the universe, melting everything he touches as he goes.
     And is it better to know, now--to learn the truth, even if it comes like this? Better than the cold, the hollow shell over frozen grief? Better than fear and self-disgust? Than misplaced physical pleasure in the midst of pain, mimicking an ugly mirror version--so cracked, so bent, so utterly grotesque--of something resembling, in some hideous way...
     (...a twisted form of...love?)
     It *is* better, isn't it? Must be. 'Cause--it really couldn't be worse.
     (Or...could it?)
     There's Oz, back through that door: Ryan, brooding over a postcard Dr Nathan sent him yesterday--no signature, just a tropical slice of paradise on the front and a message on the back: BET YOU WISH YOU WERE HERE. Cyril sitting by, sad-eyed. And a slot left open for Beecher to fill, near as O'Reilly's Irish thug pride can bear to have him--so they can sit there, coccooned in mutual misery, and feel this crazy, utilitarian friendship they share slowly recharge them far enough to start the whole endless game up again. Lie, cheat, steal, connive...do whatever, however, to stay on top of Em City's shifting political quicksand, last long enough to get Cyril out, make parole. To stay *alive*, plain and simple, in the only way which makes that fact worth something: With POWER.
     Oz, Hell's heart, the scene of the crime--every and any, past and present, now and to come. Home sweet fuckin' home.
     (No place like it, after all.)
     Toby, Rachel; Rachel, Toby. Toby, looking at Rachel, seeing both the obvious similarities--and the subtle, but equally legitimate, differences. How they define each other, counter each other. Cancel each other out.
     Feeling himself begin to smile again, slowly. And say--
     "Well. This explains a *lot*."
     Nodding to her, then--and hitching his head back in the direction he just came from. Adding:
     "He's all yours."

End MY WIFE AND MY DEAD WIFE.

Continue to Liberation.

Write to Gemma.