“Then you don’t have a place here,” John said.
Cut and run, her churning stomach warned. But where to go and what to do were still questions she couldn’t answer.
“I’d like Dot to be in charge of the day-to-day then,” Ginny said, absently. “She knows the kitchen backward and forward. She’d be a good supervisor, too.”
“Well, that’s up to Levy,” John said. “Of course, you can make that recommendation.”
Ginny stood, her fingertips tracing the edge of the desk. It’d never be John’s desk or Mr. Herbert Levy’s desk. It was Roscoe’s. Touching it now grounded her and made her feel some connection to him as the changes to her life continued to mount.
“Thank you for telling me the news first. I appreciate not being blindsided by a stranger,” she said. “I need to get back to my house now. I’m so tired I could drop.”
John stopped her before she made it to the outer door of the admin offices.
“Ginny? I’m sorry I forgot to mention this, but you’ll have to move back to the women’s barracks. The board said you couldn’t live in your folks’ old house. It’ll be needed for the assistant warden they’re hiring.”
With her back to him, Ginny closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She would survive. What was one more hurt on top of all the other hurts? Her mind hadn’t shattered completely yet, and that gave her some confidence that it wouldn’t.
“I forgot to mention that Mrs. Levy said you’re welcome to live at the warden’s residence,” he added. “She said they will be adding on a couple of rooms for house staff.”
Ginny nodded to let him know she’d heard. She walked down the hall, consciously counting her steps, until her feet ordered her to run.
Chapter 16
Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Levy had announced their arrival a month ago with much fanfare. The first order of business was a dinner party hosted for the prison board and some of the guards at the prison. Ginny had declined the couple’s offer to live in the residence and instead moved her things back to the small pink room in the women’s barracks. She could have just as soon slept at the warden’s house considering that she spent most of her waking hours there anyway.
Prior to the party, she’d worked her fingers to the bone for three days under Mrs. Levy’s keen supervision. Eugenia Levy was the consummate hostess when she lived in New Orleans, and she wasn’t about to let the desolate nature of a prison stop her from throwing a grand bash. Canapés, pâté, and hot and cold hors d’oeuvres were passed by what she called the “trusty, docile prisoners who could clean up well.”
Those who couldn’t clean up well were tasked with painting the exterior of the house, adding new shutters, and planting shrubbery and turf. “This brown dreariness just won’t do,” she’d said.
Like a general in battle, Eugenia oversaw the work of dozens of people, shouting orders and requisitioning supplies when necessary. No one questioned using the inmates this way. For decades, the prison had hired them out to farms as day labor even though the state expressly forbade it.
“You look a thousand miles away.” Eugenia handed Ginny a grocery list to review.
While the warden’s wife said the housekeeper could do the shopping, Ginny insisted that she take on that chore. Her reasoning was that she had a better eye for picking out the best cuts of meat or the freshest produce. In truth, it gave Ginny a means of escape, even if for an afternoon.
“Oh, I’m just thinking I might take an extra hour or two next time I’m in town,” Ginny said. “My mama’s birthday is coming up and I thought I’d look for a present.”
“The shopping in Boucherville is just dreadful.” Eugenia grabbed the list from Ginny to scribble down a few additions. “Baton Rouge isn’t much better. You ought to plan a trip to New Orleans sometime. I mean, when there’s nothing going on at the residence.”
There was always something going on at the residence. Mrs. Levy treated the prison like a freak show to attract acquaintances curious about the workings of a penitentiary. Whereas another woman might have been horrified at the prospect of living so far from civilized society, Eugenia transformed the place into a weekend retreat. Like New Yorkers scurrying off to the Hamptons, a flock of New Orleans friends arrived each of the last three weekends for tours, unabashed drinking and feasting, and games of croquette and horse shoes on the newly transformed lawn.
“I’d like to increase your salary,” Eugenia said. “You look like you could use a few more dresses. We talked about you purchasing some foundation and other necessaries.”
Not long after the Levys moved in, Mrs. Levy made it clear that a woman must take her grooming and appearance seriously. It pained her that Ginny didn’t own the slips, girdles, stockings, and other foundation any respectable woman should—even someone of her station. Eugenia spent almost as much time on her own appearance as she did hosting parties. She was impeccably dressed and coiffed by eight each morning, and ate child portions at meals to maintain her rail-thin figure.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ginny said. “I’ll see what I can find in Boucherville first.”
Dot had found it amusing that Ginny now worked for a woman more irritating than her mama. When Ginny spent time in the prison kitchen as overseer, she talked almost nonstop about Mrs. Levy’s peculiarities and demands. Dot would just giggle and whisper “cut and run.”
Both Dot and John had been flabbergasted that Ginny agreed to the new working arrangement in the first place. But when Mrs. Levy doubled Ginny’s salary, she saw it as an opportunity to save up as much as she could in hopes of building a new life elsewhere. Running off willy-nilly seemed foolhardy. Ginny didn’t know where to go. She wanted time to plan.
Roscoe had helped in that regard. He’d not called her once or let her know his whereabouts. By giving her space, she figured he was making it easier on her to choose a future without him.
“Why, look who’s paying us a visit,” Eugenia said, pointing out the window. “The warden is here in the middle of the day.”
Eugenia never used her husband’s first name in front of Ginny or the housekeeper. She referred to him as the warden or Mr. Levy.
“How’s the homestead?” Warden Levy called out when he reached the porch. Whenever he came to the residence during the day, he’d announce himself loudly as if giving Mrs. Levy fair warning. It was like he suspected she might be walking around naked with a gin and tonic, or harboring a lover, and he was giving her the opportunity to hide her vices.
“What brings you home, Mr. Levy?” Eugenia pecked her husband on the cheek when he entered the kitchen. “Shall I make you some lunch?”
“No time, darlin’,” he said. “I’m here to see Miss Polk.”
“Me?” Ginny looked as surprised as the warden’s wife.
“Could you give us a few minutes to ourselves?” he asked Eugenia.
She hesitated a moment as if he’d insulted her, then gained her composure and left the room with a fixed smile on her face.
The warden sat down at the kitchen table across from Ginny. Herbert Levy had been the kindly man who’d complimented her pork neck stew the evening of the fateful prison board meeting. When he started the job, he’d recognized her immediately and thanked her profusely for staying on to help his wife. He even joked about the superintendent’s wife getting all uppity at the failed board dinner, without realizing the night had been one nail in Roscoe’s coffin.
Levy had proven to be an easygoing, considerate type, but his commanding presence left no doubt who was in charge.
“Is there something wrong, sir?” Ginny cut her eyes to the swinging door to the dining room. Mrs. Levy was obviously rearranging items on the buffet, hovering close enough to eavesdrop.
“Well, there’s a troubling issue I want to talk over with you,” he said. “It has to do with those meals you used to cook for the death row boys.”
She was shocked to hear him mention the dinners. He hadn’t been on the job two days before he’d told her there’d be no more sp
ecial meals prior to executions. While he never mentioned the incident with Samuel LeBoux specifically, she guessed he’d learned about it from the guard Roscoe had paid to keep his mouth shut. Surely, it played a part in Roscoe’s dismissal.
“A prisoner was transferred here just a short time ago. Name of Jasper Sires,” he continued. “A violent man. He murdered a whole family down in New Orleans. Despicable.”
“I don’t understand,” Ginny said, noting the tension in the warden’s features.
“He’s causing a lot of trouble in the Waiting Room.” Levy’s jaw clenched visibly. “Some other inmates told him about you cooking those last suppers. When he learned we didn’t allow it anymore, he started riling up the men.”
The warden said the twelve men in the death row barracks went on a hunger strike, throwing their rations at guards. For hours on end, they howled and hurled their meager furnishings against the cell walls. Prisoners tasked with emptying the slop buckets refused to enter the barracks for fear of being doused with excrement.
“Those bastards aren’t responding to beatings,” he said. “We tried putting Sires in solitary, but he’d made an impression on those men. They don’t care if you beat them, hose them down, starve them. Nothing works.”
“I still don’t see how this involves me,” Ginny said.
“I’m wasting all my energy trying to restore order.” He shook his head. “The superintendent and board will be touring the prison soon, to see how things are going under my command. The situation could prove embarrassing for me and Mrs. Levy.”
Ginny’s stomach tightened as she started to see a clearer picture. He was reinstituting last suppers.
“Sires’s execution is less than two weeks away,” he said. “I’m going to allow you to cook whatever he wants. Things just need to calm down long enough to get through one inspection by the board. Then those fucking miscreants aren’t getting a goddamned thing out of me no matter how they misbehave. They’ll pay dearly for thinking they can cross me.”
She startled at Levy’s cursing. There was no mistaking the depth of his anger and frustration. He’d obviously pictured a different start to his tenure. And he wanted to keep his post enough to do whatever it took to convince the board they made the right choice.
“I’m happy to oblige,” Ginny said. Deep down, though, she wondered if she hadn’t been relieved that the meals were outlawed. The mere mention of them had nettled her. She laid a hand on her knee to stop its bouncing.
“Sires wouldn’t let a guard relay his request,” Levy said. “He said he had to see you personally. I’ll have John fetch you later today.”
Ginny nodded.
Levy appeared hesitant to leave. His eyes roamed the kitchen countertops. “Any chance you have some leftover mulberry pie?” he asked. “I swear the best part of this appointment has been partaking of your desserts.”
“It’s in the pantry, sir,” she said, standing. “I’ll fetch some wax paper and wrap you up a couple of pieces.”
* * *
Ginny’s nerves upset her bowels and brought on a headache that shot across her brow and down her neck. She hadn’t spoken with a death row inmate since Samuel. She wasn’t afraid of Jasper Sires, the man, but she was afraid of what personal demons she’d unleash by going through with the warden’s request.
She also hadn’t spoken with John since he’d been relieved of his duties as interim warden. The assignment lasted only a week at best, but he’d made it known he didn’t want the job from the get-go.
When he knocked on the residence’s screen door, he looked as putrid as she felt.
“You ready?” John offered no other greeting.
“I suppose,” she said. “How’ve you been?”
“Does it matter?”
Ginny walked to his pickup and got in, curious about his shortness with her. He made no move to start the engine, but fidgeted with the key ring.
“You shouldn’t be talking to this guy.”
The cab of the truck was too small for an angry conversation. She thought about refusing to ride with him and just walking. “It wasn’t my idea,” she replied hotly. “The warden told me I had to.”
“You could have objected,” he said. “He wouldn’t have fired you. Everyone knows how much his missus likes having a personal chef at her beck and call.”
She winced at his tone. It was clear he thought she was Eugenia’s pet.
“Before Roscoe left, he asked only one favor of me,” John said. “He told me under no circumstances were you to talk to Jasper Sires. He was so torn up, he made me swear.”
Roscoe must have worried she didn’t have the mental fortitude, not after her breakdown. Still, John’s description of Roscoe’s state of mind told her he had larger concerns. Was it that Jasper was such a violent offender? Did Roscoe fear for her physical safety?
“That’s nonsense,” she said. “I’m in no danger. You’ll be there. I suspect you’ll have other guards, too?”
“I had to tell him, Ginny. I’m sorry.”
“Him who?”
“I called Roscoe when I learned the warden’s intentions. He’s fit to be tied.” John perspired like a man with a deep fever. “He’s not allowed back on the grounds, so he begged me to stop you.”
She rolled down the window to the stuffy cab. “You have a phone number for Roscoe? Why didn’t you tell me? Where’s he staying?”
Ginny had asked John on more than one occasion if Roscoe had been in touch or if he knew his whereabouts, but John had said no.
“Roscoe asked me not to give you his number, or tell you where he was staying. He said you needed time to think things through and seeing him would complicate matters.”
Her cheeks colored to think how much of their personal business Roscoe had shared.
“Did he tell you—”
“I didn’t ask what happened between the two of you,” he said. “It’s not my business. He’s a friend, so I did as he asked. No questions.”
“We best get on with this,” Ginny said. She knew she could prepare this one last meal and then she’d get serious about leaving, even if it meant staying at her mama’s for a few weeks.
“You can still refuse,” John said. “For Roscoe’s sake.”
She didn’t owe Roscoe. He hadn’t even given her a way to reach him in case she wanted to talk things out. They hadn’t settled a thing the night she confronted him. He’d shut her down when she wanted to know about the inmate he’d killed. Just because she wanted details didn’t mean she judged him for it. Ginny was hurt that he’d kept something so life-changing from her. The circumstances had to have justified his actions. But given that she judged him for associating with the Klan, he might have thought her judgment boundless.
“Take me to the Waiting Room,” she demanded. “Let’s get this over with.”
John turned the truck key and put the vehicle in reverse. He tore out of the warden’s driveway, digging deep ruts in the gravel Mrs. Levy just had brought in from Baton Rouge.
* * *
Jasper’s feet and hands were in heavy black chains when he shuffled into the corner room. Ginny had pulled her chair a few paces back from the table where he sat. Her mind went straight to how easily Samuel had lifted the table with his shoulder and hurled it at her. She took shallow breaths to bring her to the present.
The present, though, felt almost as horrifying as the night Samuel mutilated himself. Looking at Jasper, she could only see the faces of the family he’d murdered. The couple and the four oldest children had been shot. An infant was bludgeoned to death. She was surprised to find herself searching for words to a prayer. She’d hoped the children were unaware of what was happening that night. She shuddered to be in the presence of so much evil contained in one human being.
“You the cook lady?” His teeth were straight, but yellowed by chewing tobacco.
“You expecting any other visitors?” she sniped.
He laughed so long and hard that one of John’s junior guard
s hit Jasper on the shoulder to shut him up.
“I hear I can have anything I want to eat,” he said.
“Within reason.”
“What that mean? The death row boys always got what they wanted.” Jasper was angry now, as if he’d been fooled into thinking his tirade had worked.
“I mean that I’m not going to barbecue you an entire side of beef or order caviar up from New Orleans.” Ginny noted that this prisoner meeting was very different than any she’d had in the past. She felt disgust, not compassion. Something in her had changed in the past few weeks. It was getting easier to imagine her decade at the prison as an aberration. Everything after would surely resemble a normal life.
Jasper slouched in his chair so that his shackled feet stuck out on her side of the table. She consciously scooted her chair back a few more inches.
Tim, the young guard who used to be Roscoe’s assistant, stood vigilant in one corner of the room, but he looked as uneasy as Ginny felt. He was the last person who should be working in the Waiting Room, and she wondered if he’d asked for the assignment.
“Listen here,” Jasper said. “I want fried chicken, okra with tomatoes, and cornbread. Fry up that entire bird. I’ll eat every scrap and then suck the bones.”
Ginny’s stomach convulsed. She rarely cooked fried chicken. Ever since Silas Barnes’s wife brought a basket of it to his execution twenty-one years ago, the aroma brought on a nausea that could last for a day. She got through her entire childhood not having to eat it because Miriam found it difficult to get the breading just right. As an adult, Ginny rarely cooked it herself unless it was specifically requested for one of the prison board dinners.
“Miss Polk?” A second guard touched her shoulder. She didn’t know his name. “If you have the information you need, why don’t we just go now?”
“Polk? Your name is Polk?” Jasper no longer slouched but leaned forward, interested in the guard’s revelation. “What are the chances? I know of a guard Polk that used to work here. He dead now and good riddance. Son of a bitch.”
She blinked, unseeing. He couldn’t mean her daddy.
The Last Suppers Page 19
