“That’s enough now.” John stepped forward and motioned for two of his guards to pull Jasper to his feet.
“How old you be? That man Polk could be your daddy,” he said, straining his head to still look at her. “Ain’t this the darnedest thing.”
Ginny stood abruptly. “Stop! Let him talk.”
The guards looked to John for instruction.
“Meeting’s over,” John barked.
“What do you know about my daddy?” She was angry now. Angry that he was more than just the last dead man she had to cook for. Angry because Roscoe knew something about this man and did everything in his power to ensure Ginny didn’t meet him.
“I know how your daddy died.” Jasper’s sneer showed he was well aware of the power he held. “That was what he got for trying to lynch black folk. Silas Barnes was my uncle. He didn’t have anything—”
A loud crack rang out as John’s billy club came down on Jasper’s head once, twice, three times. Blood rushed from the wound, coating Jasper’s face in a slick red mask. His sinister yellow teeth taunted her as he laughed. When the blood reached his lips, he spat at the guards subduing him. “Just ask my aunt. She know the whole story. You just ask.”
“Get him to his cell,” John yelled. “Now!”
In the mayhem, Ginny hadn’t realized that Tim grabbed her upper arm. She pulled, but he wouldn’t release his grip. “Stop it! Let him speak. Please let him speak,” she pleaded.
The second guard grabbed her other arm and they forced her into the execution room and away from the shouting Jasper. His words grew incoherent as the beating continued.
* * *
Tim insisted on escorting her to the women’s barracks, but she told him it wasn’t necessary. Ginny wanted away from everyone who had anything to do with death. She quickened her step, forcing Tim to keep up.
“Miss Ginny? Miss Ginny, are you sure you’re all right?” Tim’s question was directed at her back.
“I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Leave me alone.”
“I want to be sure you’re okay.” He bent over, hands on thighs, to get his wind back. “The warden . . . I mean, Mr. Simms . . . asked me to make sure.”
Ginny stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s this about Roscoe?”
“When he was leaving, he said to keep an eye out. That you’d likely be wanting to talk to the death row prisoners. He was worried about you.”
Even gone, Roscoe seemed inextricably tied to her life. “What exactly did he say?” Ginny asked.
“Only that he’d rather you not talk to Mr. Sires. But that if you did, he wanted extra guards there.”
“Did he know that Jasper was Silas Barnes’s nephew?” she demanded.
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Ginny.”
She was overwhelmed by the steps Roscoe had taken to prevent her talking to Jasper. He must have feared Jasper would figure out who she was and make the connection to her father.
“What else?” she demanded.
“He tried to slip me some money, but I wouldn’t accept it.” Tim blushed. “I respected Warden Simms. He was a good man. I told him I was sorry he had to leave.”
The sun hung low in the sky. Earlier, she thought about helping Dot with supper, but greens and grits were the farthest thing from her mind. Her father’s death had always been a murky thing—a subject skirted and twisted until the asker felt embarrassed for inquiring. Her mama never talked about it. Roscoe never talked about it. Most of the current guards were hired well after 1938, so there was no institutional history of his passing. The warden at the time—Gates or Graves?—was long dead. And now, a despicable man—a murderer of the evilest sort—held the key to whatever shame was attached to Joe Polk’s untimely death.
“Why are you even working in the Waiting Room?” she asked. “That’s not the place for you.”
Tim kicked at the dirt with his boot. “Warden Levy wanted his own assistant and there really wasn’t another opening. But I think he was just hoping I’d quit.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I overheard him telling John I was slow, that I don’t have what it takes to be in corrections,” he said. “Warden Levy said the Waiting Room would scare me senseless and that I’d be begging to quit after two weeks.”
While Ginny agreed Tim shouldn’t be working at the prison, she didn’t find him slow. And she hated to see the deep wounds those remarks had inflicted.
“Well, he doesn’t know you at all then.” She shielded her eyes from the intense orange of the sunset. They were still sensitive from the headache that came on earlier in the day and that still stood vigil.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I guess I’ll get back to work if you don’t want me to walk you back to your room.”
He’d only taken a few steps before Ginny called out. “Would you mind doing me a favor?”
He nodded. “Anything.”
“I’d like you to ask Jasper Sires where his aunt is living now. Her name would be Barnes, unless she remarried.”
“I probably shou—”
“Roscoe said to take care of me. Doing this one thing is taking care of me.” She held her breath, not knowing if she’d asked too much of him and fearful that he’d tell John.
Tim jangled the change in his pocket. He looked at the death row barracks as if asking their permission. “I guess I can do that.”
Ginny exhaled her relief. She closed the space between them, requesting one last thing.
“Write down the address on a slip of paper and bring it to the kitchen tomorrow morning when your shift is over. Remember, her name is Barnes,” she said. “And, Tim? Don’t tell anyone else about this.”
Terrence Arceneaux
Night Shift Guard, Death Row Cellblock
October 21, 1957
Terrence’s wife regularly scolds him for looking forward to eating leftovers from the last suppers. He secretly wants to tell her he wouldn’t desire another woman’s cooking if she could prepare a piece of meat that didn’t taste like burned shoe leather.
Sometimes, he daydreams Ginny is his wife and that while he’s on shift, she’s back at home preparing his favorite dishes: pot roast with sweet potatoes, pigs’ feet with sauerkraut, rhubarb pie so tart it makes his jaws clench.
Tonight, Ginny spreads a checkered napkin on the metal table in the corner room before placing a tray on it. Terrence is jealous she takes such care for a man who doesn’t deserve it. Not a decent, honest man like himself who would appreciate the love and cooking of a woman like Ginny Polk.
“Good evening,” she says to him. “How’ve you been?”
He forgets to answer because he’s staring at her hands. Those long fingers. He pictures himself as a mound of satiny bread dough, her hands kneading and shaping him.
“Terrence? You okay?” she asks.
His face colors and his groin aches. “Fine, fine,” he says. “Just preoccupied by the execution. What you got there?”
“Red beans and rice, with andouille,” Ginny says. “He wanted it extra spicy.”
Terrence closes his eyes and tries to imagine what the dish will taste like. Here, in such a cramped room, he can already smell the cayenne and its dominance over the onions and tomatoes. He hopes she’ll bring fresh cornbread tomorrow as well. It’d tame the heat just right.
The door to the cellblock opens. Roscoe ushers Antoine over to the table but keeps one hand on his firearm. Can’t risk a prisoner acting up. Things could get out of control.
“Eat,” Roscoe says. “Don’t be shy about it.”
The inmate shovels in spoonful after spoonful, grunting in pleasure. He grins at Ginny with his mouth wide open, his rotten teeth a disgusting display. She smiles back, although Terrence wishes she hadn’t.
He despises the man. His body odor competes with the smells of Ginny’s fine cooking. It’s like a slap in Terrence’s face. He can’t wait until Antoine gets the chair in two hours. The asshole won’t be grinning then.
&nb
sp; At least the Cajun asked for a decent last supper. Terrence is annoyed when those sons of bitches ask for something foolish like butterscotch candy or plain toast and eggs. What kind of goddamned meal is that? It’s a crying shame to waste Ginny’s talents.
He turns his attention away from the inmate and back to Ginny. Terrence’s stomach knots at once. She and Roscoe are looking at each other like two people who’ve just done it. Terrence decides he despises Roscoe more than Antoine. It ain’t proper for the warden to be interested in Ginny anyway. He’s old enough to be her daddy.
Then Terrence’s mood lifts. His daydream about Ginny morphs into something new and exciting. He pictures an inmate uprising in the fields that gets out of control. Maybe Roscoe finds himself in a bad situation and doesn’t make it out alive. Then, Terrence would be ready to comfort Ginny. Maybe he’d ask her out for coffee and pie in Boucherville. He’d tell her she was a fine woman. She’d offer to cook him a nice meal on his day off. Yes, it wouldn’t take long for her to see he was a good and decent man, deserving of her love.
Chapter 17
Eugenia Levy was none too pleased that Ginny asked for a day off with such little notice, but there was no way she could wait even twenty-four more hours to find Mrs. Silas Barnes. Tim had left a slip of paper in the prison kitchen as Ginny had instructed. He’d done good. The note contained Jasper’s aunt’s name—Olivia—and an address in New Orleans.
She didn’t dare tell Dot the true reason for her absence. Ginny’s excuse was that her mama wanted to see her urgently. Given that Dot didn’t care one lick for Miriam, she’d have no occasion to speak to her.
Although Ginny worried that her Chevy might not make it the two hours to New Orleans and back, she couldn’t risk borrowing her mama’s Cadillac. John had probably already called Roscoe to tell him about Jasper’s outburst. Roscoe had gone to Miriam’s on more than one occasion seeking answers. Better not to have Miriam trip up in a lie.
Ginny’s nerves were frayed. She’d driven in New Orleans just a handful of times when she and her mama had gone to the city to shop. Miriam would insist that Ginny drive to get over her fear. She hated her mother in those moments. It was that hatred that steeled her nerves and kept her focused until she could get away from the congested streets and smell of canal brine and exhaust. Now, she’d give anything to have Miriam in the front seat, if not to help with directions, to at least offer moral support.
The house she looked for was at the corner of Josephine Street and Danneel. Jasper had been specific in his directions, noting the color of the light green house and the tobacco shop that was two doors down. He’d wanted to be certain she found his aunt.
Ginny was so aware of her shaking limbs she feared Mrs. Barnes would notice, too. She stood in front of a screen door, unable to bring herself to knock. A sane person would have thought things through and seen just how inappropriate and ill-timed this visit was. Instead, she drove two hours to remind a woman of the most painful day of her life. She’d also be reminding her that her nephew was about to die in the same manner her husband had.
The front room was dark, making it impossible to see anything through the screen. She was conscious of the minutes that passed with her just standing on a stranger’s porch. Ginny’s eyes stayed fixed on a small area of screen that had been patched with a perfect square of newer mesh. She was aware of the fly that buzzed nearby and of the shouts of children playing in the street. She was aware of how odd it felt for her hands to be gloved and her legs to be covered in stockings.
“May I help you?” A man’s low voice drifted from the darkened room.
Ginny jumped, dropping her purse on the porch. She knelt to pick it up just as the man opened the door. The frame of the screen clicked lightly against her head before she could stand again.
“I’m so sorry, miss. Are you all right?” he asked.
She rubbed the top of her head out of reflex, but the bump hadn’t hurt a bit. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
The man stepped out onto the porch, still apologizing profusely.
“It’s quite all—” Ginny looked at the man’s face and lost the ability to finish her sentence. He had kind, round cheeks and a birthmark on his forehead that was much lighter than the rest of his ebony skin. But it was his lazy eye that had rendered her mute.
She stood only two feet away from Silas Barnes’s son, trying to figure out what he was thinking, just as she had more than twenty years ago outside the execution chamber.
“Is this the home of Mrs. Olivia Barnes?” she stuttered.
“Yes. Yes, it is. That’s my mother,” he said. “She’s out at the moment, just down at the grocer’s. You’re welcome to wait for her. Unless I can help you. My name’s Willy.”
No, Ginny thought, he definitely could not help. Whatever knowledge he had of her daddy’s murder, it’d be secondhand, just like Jasper’s. Olivia was the one she needed to question.
“Thank you, Willy. But I think I must speak with your mother directly.” Her mouth and throat were dry, which made her words raspy and low as a whisper.
“Well, would you like to sit inside? I could get you a beverage.”
Her heartbeat was a dull thud, as prominent in her ears as in her chest. He hadn’t recognized her. If he had, surely he’d say something.
“Miss, you don’t look well. Perhaps a glass of water?”
The noise of the fly was suddenly more aggravating than any sound she’d ever heard. She swatted at the air absently and looked down at the smooth boards of the porch. Several had been replaced and not as weathered as the rest.
“I could come back?” Her words came out as a question. She hoped he might advise what her next move should be.
“Why, that won’t be necessary.” Willy pointed to the sidewalk. “Here’s Mama now.”
Ginny turned to greet the woman ascending the stairs. When Mrs. Barnes met her eyes, she dropped the bag of groceries that had been nestled in the crook of her arm.
“You look like your daddy,” she said.
* * *
Willy watched intently as Ginny downed a second glass of water. She thought of asking for a third, but her distended belly was upset. She felt so small in the large but sparsely furnished drawing room. Mrs. Barnes, looking completely uninterested in Ginny’s discomfort, finally motioned for her to take a seat.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but—” Ginny began.
“But you’re doing it anyway,” Mrs. Barnes said.
Her hair had gone almost all gray and her back was stooped even though she couldn’t be more than sixty. Ginny’s memory of her was very different. In 1938, Olivia Barnes had been tall and held herself almost regally. Her hair had been raven black, pressed straight with a hot iron and rolled into soft waves. Like Ginny and her mama, Olivia had been dressed in her Sunday best at Silas’s execution.
“Mama? How do you know this woman?” Willy sat by his mother’s side on the sofa. He seemed to pick up on her agitation. The worry played out in his brow.
“If I’m not mistaken, her name is Polk,” she said. “Unless you’re married. I don’t see a ring on your finger.”
“Yes, I’m Ginny Polk. I work at the prison.”
Mrs. Barnes’s lips turned into something like a sneer. “Like father, like daughter.”
“I work in the kitchen,” Ginny said, even though that wasn’t exactly true anymore. There was no sense trying to describe what she was now that she worked at the warden’s residence.
“Your nephew—”
“We don’t want to talk about Jasper.” Willy was on his feet again. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “We want nothing to do with him.”
“It’s all right, son,” Mrs. Barnes said, patting his arm. “She’s not here about Jasper. She’s here about your daddy.”
“Daddy?” he asked. “What about Daddy?”
Ginny gulped. The woman’s hostility was understandable, but it unnerved her nonetheless. Ginny was an intruder and mining their gr
ief for selfish reasons.
“Why now, after all these years?” Mrs. Barnes continued.
“I know it’s wrong of me to be here.” Ginny removed her gloves and now twisted them into a compact mass.
“Mama, tell me what’s going on,” Willy begged.
Mrs. Barnes looked from her grown son to Ginny and back again. “Your daddy was executed for murdering her daddy. Only thing is, Silas wasn’t the one who done it.”
As a child, Ginny had almost fainted from the horrific smells of the execution room. She had covered her ears, trying to block out Silas Barnes’s screams as he begged for his life. He maintained his innocence to his last breath. His eyes had been wild with desperation. Spittle dripped from his lips and tears had streamed down his face.
Her mama had said all guilty men claimed they were innocent in those last moments before the switch was thrown. But that wasn’t true. Ginny had witnessed eighteen death row inmates die. Only Silas had screamed out. She’d never heard anything like that again. Except in her nightmares.
“Your nephew said that Silas didn’t do it. That you know the whole story.” Ginny panicked to think she was this close to the truth and Olivia Barnes could deny her.
“Nobody wanted to hear the truth then. Nobody wants to hear it now.”
“I do,” Ginny insisted.
Willy paced, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re that girl. The little one with the curly hair. You smiled at me that day.”
She had? Ginny only remembered the sad, crooked smile he’d given her.
“Your mama had the devil in her to make you watch.” Mrs. Barnes’s mouth drew into a tight line of judgment. “And your daddy? He was an evil man. He got what he deserved. I’m not sorry to say so.”
Those were Jasper’s words as well. Ginny’s throat tightened, making swallowing difficult. She drew in deep breaths through her nose to tamp down the feeling she was suffocating.
“Your daddy and those other men, they came to our home in the middle of the night, dressed in their white robes and shooting their guns in the air.” Mrs. Barnes’s eyes grew glassy and vacant. “They had no business on our property. They were going to take Silas or burn our place down. I couldn’t let that happen.”
The Last Suppers Page 20
