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I
meant
to
walk
away
then
,
but
I
did
n't
I
looked
at
John
Coffey
,
and
he
back
at
me
as
if
he
knew
everything
I
was
thinking
.
I
told
myself
to
get
moving
,
to
just
call
it
a
night
and
get
moving
,
back
to
the
duty
desk
and
my
report
.
Instead
I
said
his
name
:
"
John
Coffey
.
"
"
Yes
,
boss
,
"
he
said
at
once
.
Sometimes
a
man
is
cursed
with
needing
to
know
a
thing
,
and
that
was
how
it
was
with
me
right
then
.
I
dropped
down
on
one
knee
and
began
taking
off
one
of
my
shoes
.
The
rain
had
quit
by
the
time
I
got
home
,
and
a
late
grin
of
moon
had
appeared
over
the
ridges
to
the
north
.
My
sleepiness
seemed
to
have
gone
with
the
clouds
.
I
was
wide
awake
,
and
I
could
smell
Delacroix
on
me
.
I
thought
I
might
smell
him
on
my
skin
--
barbecue
,
me
and
you
,
stinky
,
pinky
,
phew-phew-phew
--
for
a
long
time
to
come
.
Janice
was
waiting
up
,
as
she
always
did
on
execution
nights
.
I
meant
not
to
tell
her
the
story
,
saw
no
sense
in
harrowing
her
with
it
,
but
she
got
a
clear
look
at
my
face
as
I
came
in
the
kitchen
door
and
would
have
it
all
.
So
I
sat
down
,
took
her
warm
hands
in
my
cold
ones
(
the
heater
in
my
old
Ford
barely
worked
,
and
the
weather
had
turned
a
hundred
and
eighty
degrees
since
the
storm
)
,
and
told
her
what
she
thought
she
wanted
to
hear
.
About
halfway
through
I
broke
down
crying
,
which
I
had
n't
expected
.
I
was
a
little
ashamed
,
but
only
a
little
;
it
was
her
,
you
see
,
and
she
never
taxed
me
with
the
times
that
I
slipped
from
the
way
I
thought
a
man
should
be
...
the
way
I
thought
I
should
be
,
at
any
rate
.
A
man
with
a
good
wife
is
the
luckiest
of
God
's
creatures
,
and
one
without
must
be
among
the
most
miserable
,
I
think
,
the
only
true
blessing
of
their
lives
that
they
do
n't
know
how
poorly
off
they
are
.
I
cried
,
and
she
held
my
head
against
her
breast
,
and
when
my
own
storm
passed
,
I
felt
better
...
a
little
,
anyway
.
And
I
believe
that
was
when
I
had
the
first
conscious
sight
of
my
idea
.
Not
the
shoe
;
I
do
n't
mean
that
.
The
shoe
was
related
,
but
different
.
All
my
real
idea
was
right
then
,
however
,
was
an
odd
realization
:
that
John
Coffey
and
Melinda
Moores
,
different
as
they
might
have
been
in
size
and
sex
and
skin
color
,
had
exactly
the
same
eyes
:
woeful
,
sad
,
and
distant
.
Dying
eyes
.
"
Come
to
bed
,
"
my
wife
said
at
last
.
"
Come
to
bed
with
me
,
Paul
.
"
So
I
did
,
and
we
made
love
,
and
when
it
was
over
she
went
to
sleep
.
As
I
lay
there
watching
the
moon
grin
and
listening
to
the
walls
tick
--
they
were
at
last
pulling
in
,
exchanging
summer
for
fall
--
I
thought
about
John
Coffey
saying
he
had
helped
it
.
I
helped
Del
's
mouse
.
I
helped
Mr.
Jingles
.
He
's
a
circus
mouse
.
Sure
.
And
maybe
,
I
thought
,
we
were
all
circus
mice
,
running
around
with
only
the
dimmest
awareness
that
God
and
all
His
heavenly
host
were
watching
us
in
our
Bakelite
houses
through
our
ivy-glass
windows
.
I
slept
a
little
as
the
day
began
to
lighten
--
two
hours
,
I
guess
,
maybe
three
;
and
I
slept
the
way
I
always
sleep
these
days
here
in
Georgia
Pines
and
hardly
ever
did
then
,
in
thin
little
licks
.
What
I
went
to
sleep
thinking
about
was
the
churches
youth
.
The
names
changed
,
depending
on
the
whims
of
my
mother
and
her
sisters
,
but
they
were
all
really
the
same
,
all
The
First
Backwoods
Church
of
Praise
Jesus
,
The
Lord
Is
Mighty
.
In
the
shadow
of
those
blunt
,
square
steeples
,
the
concept
of
atonement
came
up
as
regularly
as
the
toll
of
the
bell
which
called
the
faithful
to
worship
