Nowhere but Home

by Liza Palmer

  “Oh, does she?” I ask, giving Dee a wink.

  “Oh, I uh . . . I was just thinking if you were planning on staying, I know of someplace that’s hiring. If you’re looking,” Shawn says. The crowd erupts in laughter as Fawn tells a story about Mom’s fryer catching fire one time and the drunken denizens of the Drinkers Hall of Fame offering their help by throwing their beer at the flames. I’m happy for the ringing laughter and Fawn’s hysterical storytelling. I don’t know how to answer Shawn’s question. Shawn continues, “The job is temporary, if that helps.”

  “Any job can be temporary,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and move Shawn along.

  “But this job is temporary ’cause people can’t seem to stand doing it longer than a few months,” Shawn says, looking over at his boys to make sure they’re not listening. They’re not. My curiosity is piqued.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I work over at the prison, not the main one in Huntsville, mind you, but the one over in Shine—just a short piece down the road,” Shawn says. I nod.

  “He’s the captain of the Death House team,” Dee says, her voice a whisper.

  “I’m not going to be there much longer, mind,” Shawn says.

  “It’s just too hard on him . . . on all of us. We’re going to get into local law enforcement. He’s not far off from joining the county sheriff’s,” Dee says proudly, her arm laced around the back of Shawn’s chair.

  “So what would I be doing?” I ask.

  “You know how they make last meals, right?”

  “I thought Texas stopped doing that?” I ask. I remember reading the articles about Texas putting a stop to the long-standing tradition because of one particularly disgusting convict gluttonously ordering a decadent last meal and then not touching a bite of it.

  “The new warden is ambitious,” Dee says.

  “He thinks he’s going to be the next W,” Shawn says with rolled eyes.

  “He found some anonymous donor and has proclaimed he’s still going to make the last meals for the condemned,” Dee says.

  “That’s where you come in,” Shawn says, motioning to the full-to-bursting plates on the table.

  “You want me to make the last meals for the condemned? Are you serious?” I ask, my question breaking through the other conversations at the table.

  “They’d be lucky to have you,” Shawn says, his paw of a hand bringing up his beer bottle and taking a giant swig. Merry Carole is now listening to our conversation. Everyone else is riveted to Fawn’s tall tales. Shawn continues, “Just think about it.”

  “I will. I appreciate you thinking of me. Thank you,” I say.

  “You don’t have to decide now, either. You go in for the interview, see if it’s even something you want to do, and then you decide,” Dee says.

  “It’s creepy though, right?” I ask.

  “It’s definitely not for everyone. Shawn’s only been the captain for a few months and he’s just . . . well, we’re ready for him to move on,” Dee says.

  “Last meals,” I say, almost to myself.

  “I’ve always looked at it like, if this is the law, then the least I can do is bring my integrity to the job,” Shawn says.

  “How many meals are we talking?” I ask.

  “I’ve heard Huntsville can go up to two a week some months. But over at Shine we do more like three or four a month,” Shawn says.

  “And I never—”

  “You never even know their names or what they’ve done, Queenie. I mean, you can ask, but it’s not information you have to know. You get an order. That’s it. They come over to the Death House that morning and spend the day with the chaplain. I’ll come get the meal from you and take it by four PM, and by six PM, well . . .” Shawn trails off.

  “I always thought it was done at midnight,” I say.

  “No, ma’am,” Shawn says, taking another pull from his beer. This is clearly not something he likes talking about.

  “You know that the last-meal tradition started because people were superstitious about being haunted by the people they’d put to death?” Cal says, inserting himself into the conversation.

  “Sweetie,” I say, uncomfortable with him getting involved.

  “Timothy McVeigh only wanted two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream,” Cal adds.

  “You can tell a lot based on someone’s last meal,” Dee says.

  “I have no idea what mine would be,” I say.

  “Really?” Dee asks.

  “Oh absolutely . . . there’s too much to choose from,” I say.

  “Strawberries. Just strawberries as far as the eye can see,” Dee says.

  “John Wayne Gacy wanted a pound of strawberries,” Cal says. Dee looks mortified.

  “How do you know so much about this?” I ask.

  “We were just studying the death penalty in history. We got to talking about last meals,” Cal says. Merry Carole stands and picks up the empty pitcher of lemonade. She motions for me to follow her. I excuse myself and follow Merry Carole into the kitchen.

  “Are you talking about the death penalty during supper?” Merry Carole says in hushed tones and behind the open refrigerator door.

  “Shawn asked if I wanted to make the last meals over at the prison,” I say.

  “He’s not happy there, though, says it’s no kind of place to work.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you thinking about doing it?”

  “I mean, if I want to really get a good nest egg going for the next city, it would be nice to stop cutting into my savings,” I say.

  “You can work at the salon,” Merry Carole says.

  “I can do that, too. This would be only a few times a month. I wouldn’t see anyone and all I would do is cook one meal.”

  “Yeah, one last meal for a murderer.”

  “What if . . . what if food can do for these people what it does for me, you know? Transport them to another time and place.”

  “These people are the worst of humanity. You can never forget that.”

  “I won’t forget it. And look, I’ve worked in so many places I’ve probably already cooked for a murderer or two. Who knows?”

  “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  “I am.”

  “And now . . . now you come back into town and start working at the prison? What will everyone think?”

  “Are you really asking that?”

  “Well?”

  “They’ll think I’m a piece of white trash who should be mocked and ignored . . . oh wait, they already do.”

  Merry Carole is quiet. The pitcher is full of lemonade. We have to go back to the table.

  “Just please don’t talk about it anymore tonight,” Merry Carole says, walking back toward the dining room.

  “I won’t.”

  “And, sweetie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think we’re ready for your pecan pie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  7

  Leftovers

  I didn’t mention Shawn’s offer to Merry Carole again. I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I lay awake night after night in the tiny twin bed. It finally came to me that there was something drawing me to the job. Was it because I’d finally found a job where being intensely passionate about food was exactly what they were looking for? Or was it because “temporary” was right there in the job description? Was I identifying a bit too much with the people I’d be cooking for? Or was it simply because I’d sent out countless résumés and applied for several jobs from Dublin to Portland and heard either nothing or gotten polite rejections in response. Whatever it was, I couldn’t shake it. I fell into a depressed stupor and started spending day after day on Merry Carole’s couch, the words “come back on my own terms” pinballing around my dark and crowded head.

  Worse yet, I began thinking about things: my life, my future, my past. These were not happy thoughts. Inertia had produced exactly what I’d always feared: contemplation.

 
I needed to act fast.

  Once everyone was safely out of the house, I called the number Shawn had given me.

  “Warden Dale Green’s office, this is Juanita,” the woman’s voice was sugar and all business.

  “Hello, ma’am, I was given the warden’s number by Shawn Richter. About cooking last meals?” My voice is hesitant. Speaking about the job seems macabre.

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I’d like to know if the job is still available?”

  “It is.”

  Juanita is really making me work for this. Fine. Two can play this game.

  “I’d like to apply for that job. What can I do to facilitate this?”

  Juanita rattles through her spiel of fax numbers for résumés, background checks, fingerprinting, interviews, and what can only be described as “rigmarole.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that. Where would you suggest I start,” I ask, scanning the scrawled notes I took of her directions.

  “Fax me over your résumé, and I’ll give it a look. I’ll call you if I see something I like. If I don’t, I won’t.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Whereabouts you from, honey?”

  “North Star, ma’am, born and bred.”

  “That’ll help.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be waiting for your résumé then,” Juanita signs off. I skitter around the house, boot up Merry Carole’s computer, and access my e-mail. I print out another résumé, type up another cover letter, put on something presentable, and walk into town.

  The humidity soaks me through within ten steps. But the more horrifying realization is, I’ve just ambled out in public. Disheveled and with no time to put up walls, I am ripe for the picking. I keep my head down and make my way to the post office—where the one public fax machine in town resides.

  As I walk through the town square, I notice the decorations for tomorrow’s Fourth of July festivities going up. Red, white, and blue swaths of fabric hang from every balcony and windowsill. People have already lined up folding chairs along the parade route. If they couldn’t find folding chairs, they’ve staked out their territory with masking tape, crime-scene tape, and lengths of rope. North Star’s Fourth of July parade involves the entire town. If you’re not in the parade, you’re expected to be watching it from the sidelines. I hurry to the post office trying not to crumple my résumé and cover letter.

  I arrive at the post office and wait in line. It’s just ten AM, so the old men of North Star are gathered in the post office. They all have breakfast at the Homestead, travel over to the post office where they spend the afternoon talking to the workers about politics and the state of things. Later, they’ll end the day at “the Mexican restaurant” and begin the entire tour again first thing tomorrow. I notice Felix Coburn, with his white shock of hair, in their ranks: he stands a head taller than the other men. His rangy frame is proof he’s a man who works the land. His black cowboy hat rests in his mitt of a hand as his velvety voice intones through the historic building.

  Felix is usually not one to while away the hours, choosing rather to run his family’s 2,800-acre Paragon quarter horse farm. The Coburns have been breeding the finest Texas quarter horses since the early days, before there was even a registry. Augustus, their foundation sire, was a rodeo cutting champion; his line has produced winners in the rodeos ever since. In the 1950s, Paragon started a line of thoroughbreds with their foundation sire, Titus. Titus’s line now boasts one Preakness winner, while other descendants have placed in all the Triple Crown events. A Paragon-bred horse is the stuff of Texas legend. And Felix is leaving it all—2,800 acres, two hundred horses, and the Paragon name—to his eldest son, Everett.

  As I wait in line I try not to make eye contact with the man who made it quite clear to Everett that no son of his would take up with “one of those grubby Wakes.” We were eleven years old and Everett had the wild idea that he could talk his father into changing his mind about my family. He wanted to be my boyfriend, he told me one day during recess as he presented me with a handmade card and a flower. I was beside myself. I’d loved Everett Coburn since the first day of kindergarten. I knew he felt the same, even then. We were just made for each other in that cheesy way people always claim to be in their marriage vows. He was my touchstone. Where I felt safe. I could survive every nightmarish night at home, just so I could return to school and see him and know that I wouldn’t have to say a thing. He would just know how to comfort me. He shielded me from bullies, but knew enough to let me fight my own battles. We also knew, even then, that whatever we felt during those early years was something we had to keep secret. The Wakes and the Coburns were the alpha and omega of North Star. We knew this even before we could write our own names.

  So when Everett announced to his father that he wanted to take Queenie Wake to the Saturday-night dance, all hell broke loose. He was never to see me again. The Wake women were evil, Felix warned. I would ruin him, Felix told his eleven-year-old son. Everett never let Felix see him cry, but when he got to me his green eyes were rimmed in red and his face was wet from tears.

  He shook as he told me he couldn’t see me anymore, and I remember looking at him and thinking, this is my love. This is my love and I’m going to fight for it—just as I fight for everything.

  “They don’t have to know,” I said, taking his hands in mine.

  “What?” Everett said, squeezing my hands tight.

  “No one has to know, but us,” I said, my mind clear.

  “No one has to know, but us,” Everett repeated.

  “We’ll know,” I said, my breath catching as he stepped closer.

  “We’ll know,” Everett repeated, just before he kissed me for the first time.

  Everett and I were standing behind the band shell in the town square, hidden in the shadows. At eleven, we learned we could be who we really were only in the murky edges of North Star, but out in the light we had to be strangers.

  “I’d heard you were back in town,” Felix Coburn said.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, stepping forward in line.

  “Not for long, I expect.”

  “No, sir.”

  I meet his gaze straight on. I’m not afraid of you, I repeat in my head over and over and over as those light blue eyes take my measure. My heart races. My breathing quickens. I’m not afraid of you, I will.

  “Next?” the woman behind the window calls.

  “Mr. Coburn,” I say, signing off and walking forward toward the window.

  “Ms. Wake,” Felix says, putting his hat on. I don’t watch as he walks out of the post office. I don’t have to. I can feel when he’s gone.

  I hand my résumé and the cover letter to the woman behind the counter in a daze. My hands are trembling as she turns around and puts the sheets of paper into the fax and begins typing out the phone number. I hold my hands, trying to steady them. I close my eyes and try to calm my breathing. I can’t do this again. I can’t let this man—this town—have this effect on me every damn time. I’m thirty-one years old. I’m not eleven anymore. When do I stand up for myself or is that just not an option if I’m here in North Star? Do I have to leave North Star to feel as though I’m . . . human. Is that right? Do I belong anywhere? Is there anyplace I can go where I’m not just “a grubby Wake”?

  As an eleven-year-old, I bought into the mythology. I looked at my mom and agreed with what people were saying about her. The piece I never understood was what her behavior had to do with Merry Carole and me. I never did any of the things she did. I was a good kid who loved the same boy my entire life. I worked at the family business until I got into the University of Texas.

  Do the people of North Star honestly think Merry Carole and I are just like her? I’m sure Merry Carole getting pregnant at seventeen was an affront to one of the finest families of North Star. Of course, no one ever asked why Wes McKay, this bastion of North Star families, had a nasty habit of impregnating the young women of North Star. The sad t
hing is, from the looks of it, and in North Star that’s not worth much, Whitney looks as though she really loves Wes. So Merry Carole and I are the women North Star thinks we are. The women you’re with in the shadows, but not the women you take to the Saturday dance. We’re the women you’re infatuated with, but not the women you love. The women who raise your unwanted children alone. The women who ruin you. The more Merry Carole and I fight the chains of our mother’s legacy, the more they bind us.

  But North Star has always been about appearances. Without the Wakes, who knows who they’d feed on? They might have to take a look at their own pillars of society. I swallow hard as I wait. It seems North Star and I are a lot alike after all. Contemplation is something we’re both running from.

  After years of being spit on, I thought I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks. The thing I keep running from, the piece that makes me choke up even now—is that Everett cared. My Everett cared more about what the people of North Star thought, about what his parents thought, than he cared for me. He loved me . . . but not enough. We stole kisses under the bleachers during the big Friday football games. We lost our virginity to each other at a motel just outside of town when we were juniors in high school and swapped promise rings at the end of that school year. I began to call him Ever and thought it so romantic that our secret affair had borne its very own pet name. I never really get to have pet names, seeing as how my real name is just about as ridiculous as they come.

  For years we relished every minute of our treacherous love. It made it dangerous. It made us feel like Romeo and Juliet fighting for our love in the most hopeless of worlds.

  In our senior year Everett’s parents set him up with Laurel. She was from a proper family. He couldn’t find an excuse not to follow orders. Everett’s parents had always suspected he’d never gotten over me, and this was their way of testing his allegiance to the Coburn legacy. Laurel and Everett started very publicly dating and I became the mistress. And the sad part? The really sad part was that I felt lucky to have that.

  I remember sitting in Fawn’s double-wide during one of Mom’s longer times away and thinking how much better than all these people I was. I was going to live on Paragon Ranch when Everett finally came for me. I was going to be welcomed into the family and trot through the town square on a Paragon quarter horse in the Fourth of July parade. I was going to be happy. But as our senior year wore on, it became harder and harder for me to watch as Laurel swanned around town on Everett’s arm. Despite his tortured whispers about really loving me, they were crowned prom king and queen as I sat at home with Merry Carole, no Mom, and a fussy newborn.