The Last Suppers

by Mandy Mikulencak

  Throughout the years, she refused to entertain the thought that love was even possible. She recalled the way she yearned to be held, how she sought him out time and time again. She had been the pursuer. Ginny had told herself many stories: that it was just about sex; that it was connecting to another human being in an inhumane place. She didn’t believe their affair was a way to remain connected to her father, or as a way to hurt her mama, as Miriam often suggested. Her detachment from her emotions became so acute, it was as if she was watching herself in a picture show, one where she’d never know the ending. Yet here she was, wishing with all her heart that Roscoe saw something in her apart from being Joe’s daughter. That together, she and Roscoe could be that happy ending she’d never envisioned before.

  “Do you remember that first day?” she asked. “In the kitchen?”

  “’Course I do,” he said.

  “Were you afraid I wouldn’t feel the same as you?”

  An answer didn’t come. Instead, Roscoe stood and led her into the house and up the stairs.

  The largest bedroom had an antique bedroom set donated by the widow of a prison board member some years ago. The woman had said she wanted the warden and his wife to have something lovely in a place that was mostly ugly. She might be disappointed to know Roscoe remained a bachelor all these years and preferred the creaky, iron bed in his quarters at the admin building.

  Ginny, however, loved the bed with its soft mattress and fluffy pillows. But the mirrored makeup table was the real gem. It had three panels; the two smaller mirrors flanked the large one in the middle and could fold inward. She sat on the small, upholstered stool and pictured herself like some New Orleans socialite who brushed her hair 100 strokes every night and slathered her whole body in expensive creams.

  Roscoe stood behind her and began removing bobby pins from the braid Dot had wound so tightly at the base of her neck.

  “There’s blood and pork grease on your dress, and a bruise is coming up on the bridge of your nose,” he said. “But not one hair is out of place.”

  Ginny smiled. “Dot got carried away.”

  “I noticed it earlier. I should’ve said you looked nice.”

  “You were busy having a heart attack when you realized I’d forgotten dinner,” she reminded him. Still, hearing his words now made her breath quicken.

  He helped her up and she wrapped her arms around him, nestling her head under his chin, where it fit so perfectly.

  “About your earlier question . . . whether I worried about your reaction that day in the kitchen,” he began. “I wasn’t thinking at all. I just had to hold you.”

  Ginny kissed his chin, hoping he’d meet her mouth with his, but he just kept talking.

  “You know, just because I promised your daddy I’d look after you, doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Ginny.”

  Those words—heard for the first time—were a shock. She almost thought she misheard him.

  “Thank you, Roscoe.” She nuzzled closer. While Ginny thought about saying she loved him, too, the words stayed lodged in her throat. She wanted to say them back. Didn’t she? Her heart beat wildly. She panicked to think she might be missing the one opportunity to change the nature of their union.

  Roscoe saved her from the awkward moment by kissing her roughly and lifting her onto the bed. Their lovemaking seemed different now that he’d said the words out loud. Not better, but maybe sacred, as if they both took their relationship more seriously.

  Later, Ginny wondered if her hesitancy was because she feared giving everything of herself to him. No matter. Her heart sang that Roscoe finally said he loved her after all these years. She fell asleep thinking she was in the very place she needed to be.

  Lawrence Grimes

  Father of Death Row Inmate Thomas Grimes

  Thibodeaux, LA

  November 17, 1956

  Lawrence is ashamed he’s not bathed in a week and that his nails need clipping. Since Esther’s passing and the eldest boy going to prison, he doesn’t feel up to doing much but sitting in his rocker. Still, he’s combed a neat part in his unwashed hair and put on his Sunday shirt. He hasn’t worn it since Esther’s funeral. The thought of that dark day causes his hands to shake.

  “Please call me Ginny,” the young woman says as he pours her a cup of coffee.

  Esther always made the coffee, so Lawrence is worried the pot he’s brewed is bitter. Miss Polk sips it politely anyhow.

  “Thomas sends his best,” she says.

  Lawrence grunts in reply because he doesn’t know how to respond. He visited his son only once since he got sent up to Greenmount. He tries not to think of Tom much. He blames the boy for Esther’s death. Her heart broke to learn her son had killed a man. The sorrow put her in the ground, Lawrence was sure of it. Tom would be in the ground in just a week. Lawrence would let him rot in the prison graveyard. No way he’d let that boy be buried in the church cemetery next to his mama.

  “Thomas said your wife used to make a coconut cake each Easter when he was a boy,” Miss Polk says. “He said you might have the recipe handy.”

  “Why do you want a recipe, miss?” He refuses to call the girl by her first name. Esther would have said it wasn’t polite to be so informal.

  The coffee tastes burnt even with milk and three heaps of sugar. He drinks it because it helps him stay focused. Otherwise his thoughts would drift back out to the front porch, where he longs to be: in his rocker next to Esther’s empty one. It’s where he feels closest to her.

  “Thomas asked for the cake as his last supper,” Miss Polk says. “I like to make something meaningful for the inmates if at all possible. It seems to ease their fear in the final hours.”

  Lawrence’s eyes grow shiny as he remembers his young son’s sticky face covered in Esther’s seven-minute frosting. Tom would sometimes eat three or four pieces before Esther would finally shoo him out of the house. His wife would beam proudly as she wrapped up the leftover cake.

  “I don’t know if she had a recipe, but I can look.” Lawrence is grateful for the chance to turn his back to Miss Polk. His sudden memory of Esther in her faded, checkered apron, a bowl of batter in the crook of her arm, is almost too much to bear.

  From the cupboard, he pulls down a familiar tin box filled with scraps of paper. He sifts through the unorganized recipes: pickled okra, molasses cookies, divinity. His mouth waters at the foods he’ll never eat again because his Esther is gone.

  “Here it is.” He rubs his shirtsleeve across his cheeks before turning around.

  Miss Polk cradles the paper carefully, as if he’s given her a sparrow with a busted wing.

  “May I make a copy?” She opens her purse and pulls out a pencil and folded piece of paper.

  “Take it,” he says. “Not like I’m going to need it. In fact, take the whole box.” He pushes the tin across the table.

  She lays a youthful, unblemished hand over his ancient one. “Thank you for the gesture, sir. But I think it’s important for you to hang on to those memories.”

  Lawrence no longer cares if his guest sees him cry. He prays Esther will not be ashamed of him.

  Chapter 6

  Ginny got up early the morning after the prison board dinner and showered. Without a change of clothes, she had to put on the grease-spattered and bloodstained dress of the day before. It felt like putting on a piece of the past. Today was a new day; the day after Roscoe said he loved her. Surely, most things would feel different now.

  Roscoe had risen earlier than she. In the dark, he’d planted a gentle kiss on her forehead and left the residence. More than once Dot had urged her to become a proper wife, to make this house her own, to give up her job. She’d be adrift if she didn’t have to report to the prison kitchen by 5:30 a.m.

  Ginny drove her car back to the women’s barracks. Lights were already on in Dot’s room, so she didn’t bother to tiptoe into her room to dress. She was pulling her damp hair into a side braid when Dot entered, dressed and ready to walk to the kit
chen.

  “Not knocking these days?” Ginny asked.

  “We’re well past that and you know it.” Dot grabbed a brush from the bureau and pointed to the bed.

  The braid Ginny had fastened just a minute prior was now loose. Dot pulled the brush through her hair with a vigor that suggested it could be tamed. She then pulled it into a single tight braid and gave it a good-natured tug.

  “If you’d worn your hair to the side like that, it would’ve ended up in the soup pot,” she said.

  “Thought I’d try something different today.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dot studied her as if she were some new creature.

  “What? Is it wrong to want to look nice?”

  Dot snorted and shook her head. “We spend our days in a suffocating kitchen, sweating until we’re soaked through and through, taking on the smell of sour cabbage and greens. Not exactly a beauty pageant. Who are you trying to impress?”

  Ginny ignored her and turned to the mirror, searching her face for some sign. If she felt this different, maybe she’d look it, too.

  * * *

  Her mood was lighter as the day progressed, and she didn’t get upset at things that usually sent her over the edge, like spilling a bowl of flour or scalding her fingers on a pot handle. Every time she’d catch Dot staring, she’d stick out her tongue and make cross-eyes.

  The thought of taking lunch to Roscoe made her feel strangely shy. Had those words been stored up for a long time, or was his declaration spur of the moment, surprising even him? More importantly, would he be wondering why she hadn’t said the words back to him?

  “Do I even want to know what’s gotten into you?” Dot finally asked.

  It was a powerful thing to be loved. Ginny’s daddy had been free with the words, but her mama withheld them or doled them out on rare occasions. Regardless, she hadn’t felt loved since before her daddy’s murder. Two decades later, she could scarcely believe she’d survived so long without the feeling.

  “Roscoe said he loved me,” Ginny admitted.

  “What’s new about that? Hadn’t he been saying it all this time?” Dot stopped what she was working on, her mouth gaping.

  “Nope, neither of us had.”

  Dot let out a low whistle. “Hard to believe. Most men will say they love you so you’ll drop your drawers faster.”

  “Guess it was important enough to wait.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “I really don’t know,” Ginny said. “Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason to things.”

  “Or sometimes things happen at exactly the right time,” Dot said. “I’m wondering how things will change around here. For all of us.”

  “Well, I can’t think about that now. I’m heading over to the warden’s residence to cook that batch of pork neck stew.” Ginny removed her apron and smoothed her dress. “That’ll give the flavors some time to meld before Sam’s execution tomorrow.”

  Ginny didn’t know if she imagined it, but she thought Dot’s brow furrowed for an instant.

  “Go on, then,” she said, shooing Ginny from the kitchen.

  * * *

  The first step was stopping by the barracks to retrieve the photo of Samuel’s son Eileen had given Ginny. Now, in the warden’s kitchen, it claimed a spot on the counter far enough from the ingredients and the stove so it wouldn’t get harmed, but close enough to serve as inspiration.

  Do a good job for my boy, Aida had said. Those words lay heavy on Ginny’s heart. Typically, trying out recipes was a delicious chance to lose herself, but today, each and every step was important and deserved close attention. Her senses were on high alert: crisp onion and celery crunched audibly under the blade of the knife. The stew pot radiated heat as the lard melted. Her eyes drifted time and time again to the photo of Samuel’s son and his toothless, beguiling smile.

  Once the stew appeared under control, she began prepping Roscoe’s supper. She’d left a note in his office saying he was expected to dine at the residence with her this evening. Consciously or not, Ginny had decided to make his favorite—pan-fried pork chops in brown gravy with dirty rice—as if they were celebrating a special occasion.

  Cooking meals for both these men at the same time created a queer feeling in her stomach. One man had a future with her, if he wanted it, while the other had no future at all.

  * * *

  The photo of Samuel’s son wasn’t the only thing she’d picked up from her room before arriving at Roscoe’s. A floral cotton sundress and a pair of seldom-worn sandals made their way into an overnight bag. On a whim, she’d also grabbed a tube of lipstick and the bottle of nail polish from the back of her bureau drawer.

  After dinner was made and warming in a low oven, a scalding hot bath loosened Ginny’s cramped muscles. She let the towel linger over her body, which no longer responded to the afternoon’s earlier urgency. Her hair fell into its normal state of unkemptness, free from braids or ponytails or bobby pins. She dotted lipstick on her lower lip and then rubbed it in until only a faint pink stain remained.

  The front porch was her favorite place, especially in the early evening when the sun was low in the sky. She grabbed a big glass of lemonade and the red nail polish and sat on the stoop. With so little practice, she did a fine job of painting her toenails. The lemonade was overly tart, made the way Roscoe liked it. After the polish had dried, she walked barefoot across the lawn to the edge of the field to pick some black-eyed Susans for the table. Roscoe drove up before she could make it into the house to find a vase.

  “You look nice.” He leaned against his truck and waited for her to reach him before they walked onto the porch together.

  “You smell nice, too,” he added, and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I made pork chops.” The grin on Ginny’s face made it apparent the evening was about more than dinner.

  He eyed her strangely. “Let me wash my hands and I’ll join you in the dining room. Then you can tell me what’s up.”

  The pork neck stew was still simmering, so she gave it a final stir before filling their plates with pork chops, rice, and fresh green beans. Roscoe entered the kitchen with a vase in hand.

  “You forgot to put your flowers in water. Since you went to so much trouble to set a fine table, I figured we shouldn’t let them wither on the counter.”

  She and Roscoe returned to the dining room and he placed the flowers between them. He’d noticed the nice tablecloth and good china, and complimented the smells permeating the house. They spoke little as they devoured their supper. He ate two large pork chops and most of the rice. She had no trouble polishing off her portions either.

  “I’m not certain why I deserve such a fine meal, but I appreciate it.” His face was more at ease than it’d been in months.

  Ginny squeezed his hand, uncertain how to voice her reasons, which were unclear even to her.

  He leaned to the side and peered under the table. “Nice toes.”

  “Well, shit. I forgot my good sandals upstairs.”

  “Tonight warranted good sandals, huh?”

  She playfully punched him in the arm. “Let’s have our coffee on the porch.”

  * * *

  Roscoe didn’t tease further, which surprised her. Instead, he talked about the ups and downs of his day, and asked about hers. For someone usually quiet, he seemed to want to fill the space with words.

  “About last night . . .” Ginny began.

  “The dinner turned out fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I meant what happened after dinner.”

  He leaned forward in his wicker chair, hands clasped in front of him. “Something bothering you?”

  “No, not at all. Well, I . . . I mean, I wanted to tell you . . .”

  She swiped at the sudden tears, so he reached over and grabbed her hand.

  “Jesus, girl, what happened to upset you so much?” Roscoe lifted her chin, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No! I did somethi
ng wrong. Or rather I didn’t do something I should’ve done. Or rather, should’ve said.”

  “You’re making no sense. Let’s walk a bit.”

  He led her to the grassy area in the front of the residence. They leaned into one another so he could envelope her with one long arm. When Roscoe kissed the top of her head, she hugged him tighter and spoke into his chest.

  “Last night . . . you said you loved me. But I didn’t say it back.”

  “You didn’t?”

  She pulled away from him. “You mean you didn’t even notice? I sure as hell noticed it was the first time you’d said it in all these years.”

  “Good Lord, Ginny. Why are the words so important?”

  She didn’t know why. But after last night, they seemed more important than anything.

  “Don’t you want me to say it back?”

  “It’d be fine if you did,” he said.

  “It’d be fine? What kind of cockamamie answer is that?”

  He stared at her blankly as if he couldn’t understand a word she uttered. Fuming, she affixed her fists to her sides to keep from boxing his ears. How could he be the same man who had her walking on clouds all day?

  “What do you want me to say? I figured you loved me because you’ve stayed with me all these years.”

  Roscoe’s reasoning made some sense. He’d not been privy to how much she struggled with the reasons for staying in their strange relationship. It was natural to think that a woman who had sex with you regularly had at least some feelings for you. Especially since she’d been the one to seek Roscoe out.

  “I don’t know.” She shifted her feet in the cool grass, but didn’t feel like holding him.

  “You can always tell me what you want, Ginny.”

  The sheer pain of the conversation probably played out on Roscoe’s face, but mercifully, the darkness hid it. Feeling sorry for him in this moment wasn’t a priority.