“That man has been nothing but patient and gentle with you all these years, unless he gave you that bloody nose,” she said, stroking Ginny’s back.
“No, just bad timing with a swinging door.”
“You’re just having a bad day all around, aren’t you?”
Ginny swiped at her tears. “A doozy and it’s not over yet.”
“Well, no time for crying,” Dot said. “Let’s see how the stew turned out.”
Dot slurped a taste from a teaspoon, then tossed it in the sink. A few years back, Ginny had told her that chefs never lick their stirring spoons. Dot had been insulted and said, “I may have been raised in the country, but I know a thing or two about the real world. And I also know that when I’m cooking for inmates, they don’t give a shit whether I lick a spoon or not.”
“So, how is it?” Ginny asked anxiously.
“You know it’s fine,” Dot said. “Don’t go fishing for compliments.”
As delicious as the stew tasted, it wasn’t the type of food usually prepared for the quarterly prison board dinners. Depending on the time of year, Ginny would make standing rib roasts or roasted pheasant or lamb shoulder chops. In the warmer months, they’d sometimes move the table under the big tree in the yard and have more simple fare like fried catfish and hush puppies.
Occasionally, board members invited their spouses to attend. They’d shower Ginny with compliments and ask for recipes. Once, a board member’s wife asked if she’d consider becoming her personal cook. It was anyone’s guess how tonight’s dinner would be received.
Dot surveyed the kitchen, a keen eye assessing what else needed to get done. “There any iced tea in the fridge?”
Ginny shook her head no.
“Let’s make some and add lots of lemon and whiskey to it. That’ll make everything seem a little better,” Dot said.
“You get the water boiling. I’ll find the whiskey.”
* * *
While Ginny mixed the tea, Dot chopped up two heads of lettuce and emptied a jar of chowchow over it. The vinegary mix of yellow squash, peppers, and cauliflower would serve as the dressing. She set a bowl of salad at each place setting and hurried back into the kitchen.
“Folks are driving up now,” Dot said. “Two cars.”
Ginny looked down at her wrinkled dress. Despite wearing an apron, she’d managed to get grease stains on the bodice as well as a few drops of blood from her injured nose. Roscoe would be embarrassed if she set foot in the dining room this evening.
“You’ll have to serve the stew and cornbread,” Ginny said.
“Why me?”
“Look at me. And why do you think Roscoe asked you to change from your kitchen clothes?”
“Then you think I look nice?” Dot posed seductively, one hand on her hip and one on her head. She did look nice. The navy-blue dress camouflaged the curves Dot hated and played up those she liked.
“Thought you vowed never to wear that dress since you wore it to your husband’s funeral,” Ginny said.
“Seems a shame not to after all these years,” Dot said. “And besides, I think he’d agree I look damn fine in it.”
“Stop horsing around. We both have a job to do.”
* * *
As Dot filled glasses with the spiked tea, Ginny kept her ear close to the door, listening to the guests. She held a hand against it, though, in case Dot stormed back into the kitchen.
“Something smells mighty good.” A booming male voice stood out above the rest.
“We’re not here for the cuisine,” another male said. “And Roscoe knows it.”
The scraping of chairs against the floor signaled the start to dinner. Ginny backed away from the door just as Dot returned.
“Five men, one woman, Roscoe, and that skinny boy who works in Roscoe’s office,” she said.
Tim. If Ginny had been listening more closely this morning on the drive into town, she would have realized he meant he was attending the prison board dinner tonight.
She opened the door just a crack. Roscoe paid inordinate attention to his salad as Russell Dunner, Superintendent of Corrections, spoke to him in a private conversation. Roscoe’s face remained placid. The look was familiar. He’d retreated to a peaceful place in his mind, probably reliving a fishing trip to Catahoula Lake. Yet, if asked, Roscoe would still be able to repeat every word Dunner said. His brain worked like that.
The rest of the men ate their salads and made small talk. Ginny recognized a few faces but couldn’t recall their names from previous dinners. Tim didn’t say much, but appeared pleased as punch Roscoe invited him, like a child finally asked to sit at the grown-ups’ table at Thanksgiving.
The woman had to be Dunner’s new wife. Roscoe had mentioned some time ago that he remarried after his first wife died. She sat stiffly in her crisp linen suit with a pinched look on her face. She sniffed at the chowchow on her fork and set it back down without taking a bite.
Roscoe muttered a few more “yes, sirs” before the loud man spoke again.
“You hired Roscoe to be warden, now let him do his job.” Salad dribbled down the man’s chin as he spoke.
“We got no business keeping a warden who doesn’t have the stomach for corrections,” the superintendent said. “This ain’t no hotel.”
A bitter laugh escaped Ginny’s lips. The prison was the furthest thing from a hotel. Just because Roscoe worked to improve living conditions and cracked down on the brutality of the guards, didn’t make him a weak man or an ineffective warden.
Dunner continued his tirade. “And now he wants to separate first-timers. They’re all goddamned convicts and they can live together.”
It wasn’t Roscoe alone who recommended the system. The thirty-four-member Citizens’ Reform Committee proposed classifying inmates according to the types of crimes they committed—segregating the most violent. The prison nurse backed the recommendations. After all, she saw the men who suffered the repeated rapes and beatings. The eventual guidelines had three categories: the incorrigibles, the occasionally but not continuously turbulent and obstructive, and the majority.
“The incorrigibles? What a load of bullshit,” Dunner said.
“He’s just doing what the governor expects of him,” the loud man continued. “He has to at least appear to implement reform. Now, where’s dinner? My stomach is hollering for whatever’s in that kitchen.”
Dot and Ginny backed away from the door and filled bowls with steaming stew, making sure to put generous amounts of pork in each serving. Dot opened the swinging door with her backside, expertly juggling three bowls. She returned to the kitchen twice more until all the guests had their dinner.
“The cornbread,” Ginny whispered. “You forgot the cornbread.”
Dot hurriedly placed the pie-shaped wedges onto a serving platter and returned to the dining room. Ginny peered through the door just in time to see the superintendent’s wife push back from the table and stand.
“I didn’t agree to visit this godforsaken place just to eat nigger food!”
“Patricia, sit down,” the superintendent said firmly.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” She jumped to her feet, causing her chair to crash to the floor.
Two of the men suppressed smiles while Tim’s cheeks flamed.
The woman’s face grew as red as Tim’s as she continued her rant. “All your wives kept on about how the little white gal at the prison kitchen was some world-class chef and the first time I come to one of these dinners, this slop is what’s served? And cooked by a darkie?”
“It’s mighty tasty, if you ask me.” The loud man eyed Dot apologetically.
“Well, ma’am, this here stew was actually cooked by the little white gal you mentioned,” Dot said in an icy tone. “It’s only served by a darkie.”
Roscoe stood up quickly. “Dorothy, not now.”
“You’re going to let her talk to me like that?” The superintendent’s wife now directed her ire at Roscoe. “You’re as weak as Russ
ell said you were. You can’t even control your colored staff.” She accented her words with a rude finger poke each time.
“Dorothy, go see about dessert.” Roscoe nodded to the swinging door to the kitchen. Ashamed that she’d been spying, Ginny pulled away from the door before he spotted her.
The superintendent’s wife stormed out of the house and headed straight to the car, where she sat, seething. Dot and Ginny stood at the kitchen window watching the tirade unfold, while Roscoe and the superintendent exchanged words on the porch.
“World-class chef, huh?” Dot snorted. “And why’s Roscoe calling me Dorothy all of a sudden? It’s like he’s putting on airs.”
“Shhh. I want to hear what’s being said.”
“This night has been better than a picture show,” Dot said. “Roscoe sure seems to be taking it well.”
That remained to be seen, but he did seem the calmest of the whole lot of them, a trait that had attracted Ginny to him a long time ago. Her stomach, though, was the opposite of calm, churning at the thought of repercussions from Mrs. Dunner’s reaction.
“I wouldn’t want to be trapped in a car with that woman for the next two hours. No sirree.” Dot stifled a giggle. “She’s just like my daughter-in-law. Has a corncob stuck up her—”
The creak of the swinging door to the dining room startled them both and they turned at once.
“Any chance I could get seconds on the stew?” The loud man, a toothy smile on his face, stood with a bowl in his hands.
“Yes, sir, of course,” Dot said. “Give me that bowl.”
While Dot was at the stove, the man extended his hand to Ginny. “I’m Herbert Levy, one of the new board members. I’ve heard about your cooking skills and you didn’t disappoint.”
She wiped her hand on her apron before shaking his. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m sorry I look such a fright. I didn’t have time to freshen up before you arrived. The day got away from me.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” he said, accepting his refilled bowl from Dot. “You get into a scrap today?”
“Excuse me?”
Herbert pointed to his nose.
“Just the dang swinging door into the dining room.” She touched her nose gingerly.
“Well, I’ll be extra careful heading back in there.”
Before he returned to the dining room, he glanced back at them and winked.
“And, ladies? The rest of us wouldn’t dream of missing dessert just because Mrs. Dunner lost her appetite.”
Chapter 5
The rest of the dinner was uneventful. Dunner’s wife couldn’t be placated, so the couple had left almost immediately after her fit. The rest of the men finished off most of the stew and then all of the strawberry shortcake before bidding them good night. Ginny and Dot cleared the table and washed dishes while Roscoe sat on the porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He hadn’t said a word, but was unlikely to do so while Dot was still around.
The women stepped outside when they were finished.
“Let me drive you back to your quarters,” Roscoe said, standing.
“That’s okay,” Ginny said. “I have my car from earlier.”
“I was talking to Dot,” he said. “You’re staying here tonight.”
“Back to calling me Dot, are you?” She winked at Ginny.
“Go on ahead. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” Ginny nodded toward the door. “And thanks for the help tonight.” Dot’s cool head had salvaged an otherwise disastrous evening. Ginny had never felt so grateful for her friendship.
After Roscoe’s truck was out of sight, Ginny went back inside. Exhausted and dehydrated, she was also famished. She ladled the rest of the stew into a bowl. Only cornbread crumbs remained, so she crushed saltines in the broth to thicken it instead. Ginny carried her bowl onto the porch and sat in the chair where Roscoe had been earlier. She downed the last of his whiskey before digging into the stew. The heat of the alcohol burned her throat, but warmed her belly in a pleasing way.
Ginny took a big spoonful of stew and closed her eyes, savoring the way the flavors had melded over the evening. It occurred to her to cook Samuel’s batch a day early and let it sit in the fridge until the day of execution. Maybe that would make it as rich as his grandma’s version.
Before Roscoe even reached the house, he killed his headlights, sparing her eyes, which had already adjusted to the dark. He sat down on the chair next to hers while Ginny refilled his whiskey glass.
She slurped the last of the stew from the bowl and set it on the porch.
“My mama made a pork stew that was similar,” he said. “Yours was much better.”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Dunner didn’t like it.”
“Did you see her turn up her nose at the chow-chow?” he asked. “How can she say she’s from Louisiana?”
Ginny smiled in the dark.
“Good idea about the iced tea,” he said. “That something extra was good planning.”
“Dot’s idea. She’s smart like that. And thanks for fetching her. I needed her help after all.”
They sat for a long time without speaking. The night air was considerably cooler than it had been in recent weeks and the perspiration on her cotton dress began to dry. She slipped off her shoes, enjoying how her bare feet felt pressed against the still-warm porch boards.
“I wish I could make it up to you somehow,” she said.
“What’s done is done.”
“What about the superintendent? He didn’t seem happy.”
“That had nothing to do with what you served.” His matter-of-fact tone betrayed none of the emotion Ginny hoped he’d show.
“I heard a little of what was said. You’re a good warden, Roscoe.” The superintendent had said he doubted Roscoe had the stomach for corrections, but she couldn’t tell from the conversation whether Roscoe’s job was truly in danger.
“I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a good warden.” A heavy sigh punctuated his words. “Especially here.”
Ginny got up and sat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She didn’t worry anyone would see them because it was so dark out. “You’re a good man and that affects all your decisions. You’ve done so much to turn things around.”
“It’s too damn little and too damn late.”
Their foreheads touched. “Then why stay?”
“Most days I don’t even know,” he said.
He’d lost so many battles this past year. The system for separating convicts, the elimination of the inmate guards, and most recently incentive pay for inmates. Roscoe felt releasing an inmate without a dime to his name only encouraged more criminal activity. He proposed paying prisoners four cents an hour, half of which they’d save for their release and the other half they’d use to buy incidentals like cigarettes or magazines while they were still locked up.
“Sometimes it’s easier to stay in a bad situation because you’re too tired to envision an alternative.” She ran her hand through his hair before resting her head on his shoulder.
“You talking about me or you now?”
“Probably both,” she admitted.
Roscoe didn’t appear eager to talk anymore. And since he wasn’t admonishing her for forgetting the prison board dinner, she should’ve just suggested they go to bed. But the obvious absence of anger made her itchy, like a scab just begging to be picked at. No matter how often Ginny tested his patience, he seemed willing to forgive and forget. Why? He wasn’t so generous with his men, but then again, he wasn’t sleeping with them.
“Roscoe?”
“Hmmm?” He’d started to doze.
“I know I say I’m sorry a lot, but I do mean it. I’m mortified I forgot the dinner tonight.”
“I already said to forget about it.”
“I know . . . but you let so much slide. And I appreciate it, considering my knack for getting under your skin. But I wonder why it comes so easy to you?”
“Who said it was easy?” He lifted her off his lap. She
stood in front of him, not knowing what to do.
“Sit down,” he said. “Please.”
She couldn’t see his eyes or mouth in the dark. They usually helped her gauge how their conversations might unfold. Feeling utterly alone and disconnected, she regretted tearing at this one particular scab.
“You try my patience more than the prisoners do most days, and I’m left shaking my head after many of our conversations,” he said. “But I promised your daddy I’d look after you if anything ever happened to him. And I can’t do that if I let my pigheadedness get in the way.”
Her heart sank to think their relationship was more about a twenty-year-old promise to a friend than it was about loving her, faults and all.
“Daddy, huh.”
“You know I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.
Ginny didn’t know what Roscoe meant. Their relationship befuddled her. They were an unlikely couple, and neither of them had seen it coming. About four years ago, she’d asked Roscoe if she could make an inmate’s last meal in the kitchen at the warden’s residence. It was homier and gave her a calm the main prison kitchen could not. She’d pleaded until he finally agreed.
The next day she’d made two batches of clabber cake and both had fallen when taken from the oven. Ginny had been standing at the counter, her arms weary from beating a third batch of batter that used up the last of the sour, clotted milk. Tears streamed down her face and rolled off her chin as she thought of the inmate who only wanted one last taste of the cake his mama had made every Sunday when he was a child.
Her tears fell faster when she thought of all the men she’d cooked for in the previous four years—men who already had their dance with the state’s electric chair—and all those still awaiting their turn. And there she was, a blubbering fool, foiled by the simplest of recipes and thinking it was the end of the world.
Even though Roscoe had entered the house without a sound that day, she didn’t startle when he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. It was as if Ginny had been waiting for just such a thing to happen even though she couldn’t remember ever desiring it. Among the many emotions she’d felt when sleeping with him the first time, the strongest was relief. Like a century’s old puzzle had been solved; one that ensured her survival. The reasons for staying in the relationship eluded them. They just continued, the way they’d always done—as warden and cook.
The Last Suppers Page 7
