Sleep Toward Heaven

Amanda Eyre Ward’s debut novel, Sleep Toward Heaven, is a very good book, combining great character development with crisp writing and vivid scenes. In only 291 fast-moving pages, Ward tells three interwoven stories, each one filled with tragedy, pathos, and often, humor. The three central characters are all fully realized: Karen, a woman on Death Row who is in a race to see if AIDS will take her before the lethal injection; Celia, the widow of Karen’s last murder victim; and Franny, a doctor working in the prison trying to save Karen’s life. Other characters also play memorable roles… Henry, Celia’s murdered husband; The Satan Killer and Black Widow, Karen’s fellow inmates on Death Row; Rick, the lawyer who defended Karen. These characters populate unforgettable scenes, such as the one where Celia is in line at the post office, waiting to mail a letter to Karen.

The people in line started chatting, as will sometimes happen in cramped spaces like buses when the driver gets off to go to the bathroom leaving you stranded at some curb, and (I have heard) submarines. There was one woman with a large package that, she announced, was candy for her niece at summer camp. Holding up an enormous overnight envelope, a boy confided he was sending his first novel to a literary agent. Like we were in a group therapy session, a man piped in that he was mailing a book about plants to his mother in Topeka; a tween said she was mailing a letter to the Spice Girls Fan Club (I have ready about these “tweens” in Time Magazine, these twelve-to-fourteen year olds who are running our economy); a girl bashfully admitted she was sending a love letter to her boyfriend, home for the summer in Maine. “I promised I’d write every day,” said the girl, blushing. “But I ran out of stamps.”

I’d been smiling away, listening to everyone’s confessions, nodding encouragement, and when the silence fell, they looked to me. The line still had quite a way to go. I lifted my gaze to the posters of stamps on the wall. I pretended to be deeply interested in the Marilyn Monroe Collector’s Edition Stamp Set.

“How about you?” said the wannabe novelist, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. “What’s up with your letter?”

First of all, it’s illegal to ask questions like that. I’m sorry, but it is. Secondly, I could see his little brain turning: Wow, is this going to be a great short story! I’ll call it “At the Post Office,” or “Fed-Exing My Heart.” I clutched my envelope.

“Uh,” I said. The group therapy post office line looked at me expectantly. The candy lady hefted her package to her hip. Topeka man raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

I decided to play it straight. (This was when my sanity began to come into question. Maureen would have told me I could have demurely mentioned “a pen pal” and let the matter rest. But I did not.) “Well,” I said, holding up the letter, which was neatly packaged in a clean white envelope, the kind I use to send student loan checks and bank deposits. “I wrote a letter to the woman who murdered my husband. She’s on Death Row.”

This passage is so true and so revelatory. The mundane details about standing in line at the post office provide a dramatic contrast to Celia’s letter, making this an incredibly powerful scene (or at least, I think it is). I suspect that Ward is a master short story writer, because she packs an incredible amount of content and character into every scene. And despite the sad subject matter, this book is ultimately hopeful. I hope Ward’s next book is as good as this one.