The Execution of Noa P. Singleton Read Online Free Page A

one-word
C
ones, not necessarily the prison ones. And, well, I guess it’s not even that I liked them, just, I listen to them mainly because of my mom,” I quickly corrected. “Sorry. Listened.” I stalled. “Hmmm, what else? I like green, pretty much any shade of green. Forest green, lime green, plain old green-green, grass green, hunter green. I did actually complete a half marathon once.” I looked at her attentive eyes. “My name,” I asked. “Really?”
    “Don’t feel compelled to talk about only those sorts of things, though,” Oliver interjected.
    Marlene twisted her neck like the top of a soda bottle opening and stared Ollie down so much so that his chair pushed away—almost on its own—and squeaked like a subway mouse. The chair actually did the job for him, both verbally and physically. He dropped hisreceiver and quickly picked it back up again as to not miss anything. I had almost forgotten he was even there. That’s the kind of person Marlene Dixon was—pre-radiation and post. She just sort of eclipsed everyone else in her presence. Perhaps that’s why she never liked me. I didn’t allow her that narcissistic luxury.
    “Really,” she nodded. “I want to know.” She paused again, forcing concern. “Why
Noa
?”
    She made no pretenses about anything, really: her desire, her pleas, her appearance. Dressed extravagantly in that tailored suit, pitch-black and flowing loosely over her widening hips, she was the complete opposite of every other woman in my life. Ruby studs poked through each of her sagging earlobes right at their heart. A long golden chain hung over her blazer, sinking down between what would have been her breasts if they hadn’t been removed in the publicized double mastectomy that ran concurrently with my trial. (I know that my verdict had nothing to do with that, but I can’t help but wonder—even now—what would have happened if the jury members never knew about her health problems.) At the bottom of the chain was a stout locket, approximately two inches long, that I’m sure housed a portrait of Sarah at birth, and of course, college graduation.
    “Fair enough,” I said. “I can’t really explain what my mother was thinking, but I was fairly certain she wanted a boy, so she gave me the boy’s name of Noah. It’s pretty much that simple.”
    “But you spell it
N-O-A
,” Marlene continued.
    “Are we back to spelling words out now? It’s not an acronym for anything.”
    Still she persisted.
    “Look,” I said, “when I got to high school, I dropped the
h
because I thought it sounded cooler. More original.”
    Ollie perked up. “They gave you a middle name.”
    “No middle name.”
    “But the record.”
    “I gave myself a middle name, Ollie,” I said, raising my voice.“Imagine getting bored with parenthood before you even finished naming your own kid.”
    Ollie didn’t respond. Marlene did not look pleased.
    “It’s fine,” I said, lowering my voice. I cleared my throat before continuing. “It’s just that you can’t do anything original or memorable if you’ve got a boring name. That’s all. Middle name, hyphenated name, polysyllabic ethnic name or not, know what I mean?”
    “Well,” he said, thinking to himself. “What about Bill Clinton? Or Jane Austen? Or Jimmy Carter?”
    “Flukes,” I concluded. “They slipped through the cosmic cracks.”
    Marlene finally spoke up again. Ollie had taken a few too many lines for her taste. “The thing is, the way you spell your name,” she said, “it’s a Hebrew name. A beautiful Hebrew name for women.”
    “Hebrew, eh?” I inquired, as if I didn’t already know. People are always coming in here telling me things as if they’re the first to bestow the obvious on the incarcerated, as if they like to feel like they are telling me something I don’t already know. A stamp of righteous superiority by virtue of prison seat selection.
    “Really?” Oliver asked, like I had just told her that