just close their eyes and wait for the poison

"I'm sorry, Momma, I'm gonna die angry. I can't help it. Some of these guys go peacefully, singing hymns, quoting scripture, begging for forgiveness. Dude last week said, 'Father, unto you I commend my spirit.' Some don't say a word, just close their eyes and wait for the poison. A few go out kicking. Todd Willingham died three years ago, always claimed to be innocent. They said he started a house fire that burned up his three little girls. Yet he was in the house and got burned too. He was a fighter. He cussed 'em in his final statement." "Don't do that, Donte." "I don't know what I'll do, Momma. Maybe nothing. Maybe I'll just lie there with my eyes closed and start counting, and when I get to a hundred, I'll just float away. But, Momma, you're not gonna be there." "We've had this conversation, Donte." "Well, now we're having it again. I don't want you to witness this." "I don't want to either, believe me. But I'll be there." "I'm gonna talk to Robbie." "I've already talked to him, Donte. He knows how I feel." Donte slowly withdrew his left hand from the glass, and Roberta did the same. She placed the phone on the counter and removed a sheet of paper from her pocket. No purses were allowed past the front desk. She unfolded the paper, picked up the phone, and said, "Donte, this is a list of the folks who've called or stopped by to ask about you. I promised them I would pass along their thoughts." He nodded and tried to smile. Roberta went through the names--neighbors, old friends from down the street, classmates, beloved church members, and a few distant relatives. Donte listened without a word, but seemed to drift away. Roberta went on and on, and with each name she added a brief commentary about the person or an anecdote. Andrea was next. The touching ritual was followed. She described the burning of the Baptist church, the tension in Slone, the fears that things would get worse. Donte seemed to like that--the thought of his people fighting back.