Nowhere but Home

by Liza Palmer

  “You sound angry.”

  “Well, sometimes worry sounds like anger.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “I just . . . I just hate that you’re going to have this in your head, you know?”

  “We’ve had worse.”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t our choice. You’re walking into this thing all on your own,” Merry Carole says.

  “I never thought about it like that.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “Well, it’s too late now,” I say, standing up from the table. I walk over to the freezer and put the gold-rimmed pint of Blue Bell into the cooler.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I said I would do it. And I’m not about to shirk that obligation. Apparently, I have a thing or two to learn about responsibility,” I say, remembering Everett’s words.

  “Who said that?”

  “Everett,” I say, laying grocery sacks and coolers over elbows, shoulders, and fingers.

  “Uh-huh,” Merry Carole says.

  “When you’re ready to talk about Reed, I’ll be ready to talk about Everett,” I say, grabbing my car keys off the kitchen counter with the one finger that’s not carrying food.

  “Oh, ha-HA,” Merry Carole says. I can’t help but laugh.

  “That’s all you got?” I ask, walking past the dining room table toward the front door. The longer I’m in this house, the longer I don’t have to be cooking for a murderer.

  “It’s early,” Merry Carole says, standing. She walks over to the front door with me, opening it up wide. She continues, “Please be careful, baby sister.”

  “I will,” I say, letting her kiss me on the top of my head like she did when we were little. As Merry Carole doesn’t have her face on yet, this open door is as far as she ventures. She’s concerned, but hasn’t lost her mind. Merry Carole cinches her robe tight and watches me walk out to my car loaded down in groceries. As I slam the hatch closed, she gives me a tight wave. I wave back and shut the car door behind me quickly. I turn on the car, blast the air-conditioning, and focus. Focus on the food. Focus on the food. I reverse out of the driveway and head for the highway.

  Focus on the food. Focus on the food.

  I arrive in Lot B, passing through guard towers and razor wire. I unload all of my groceries, slide my key card into the door, and enter the dark kitchen. I make my way through the darkened space, find the light switch, and watch as the fluorescent lights flicker to life. The quiet of the room settles around me.

  “Focus on the food,” I say to myself. I shake my head, trying to turn loose the thoughts of complicated monsters, death, and lethal injections. I drop the groceries to the immaculate floor and try to get the feeling back in my overburdened fingers. I hear the click of the kitchen door. Jace saunters through.

  “Hey, there,” I say, pulling the Blue Bell ice cream from the cooler and getting it into the freezer first thing.

  “I just wanted to make sure it was you. We have an alarm system. It beeps when anyone enters or exits the Death House,” Jace says.

  “Oh, all right,” I say, unpacking the groceries. Jace hesitates by the door. I continue, “Is there something else?” I ask, realizing my laserlike focus could be taken as rudeness.

  “First executions are hard and I . . . uh . . . I just wanted to make sure you were okay, is all,” Jace says, clearing his throat. He doesn’t know where to put his hands and finally rests them on his holster, his arms now akimbo. His concern catches me absolutely off guard. This is the same man I thought gave nerds wedgies in his spare time and now here he is . . .

  “I don’t know how I am, to be honest,” I say, setting up Cody’s station with all the potato salad fixings. Harlan has more talent, so he’ll be better utilized with the chess pie and biscuits. I’ll handle the chicken and the okra.

  “That sounds about right,” he says, with a curt nod. Jace is a big man, in his twenties—definitely younger than me. He’s probably an ex-football player who didn’t get that scholarship he was counting on. He’s bullnecked, and up until now, I thought he was bullheaded as well.

  “Yep,” I say, still not sure how to communicate with him.

  “Okay, then. I’ll fetch the Dent boys for you,” Jace says.

  “Thank you,” I say. He nods.

  After he leaves, I pull Mom’s skillet from one of the sacks and place it on the stovetop. I set up my fried chicken station: plates for dredging, paper bags for shaking, and lard for frying. I hook a dishrag to my belt loop, getting ready for the impending mess that happens when you dredge the chicken twice. In the quiet of the kitchen my mind wanders. Fried chicken and potato salad. What’s this man trying to re-create? A picnic? An outing? A meal his grandma made? A chess pie is old school. It’s basically a pecan pie without the pecans. Syrupy sweet. I think about the memories he must have about this meal. Innocent. Pure. Happy.

  It’s what we’re all trying to do, right? Remember a time that was better. Re-create a moment of that memory as we let the crisp Coke bubble down our throats. Riding bikes on a summer day. Sitting on the curb and watching the streetlights come on. Playing in the sprinklers with a group of neighbor kids. We’re all trying to salvage a time when we dreamed beyond our reality and thought monsters were under our beds instead of peppering our family trees. We’re trying to harness those fleeting moments that turned our ordinary lives into something extraordinary. In the sepia haze of those memories, we are beautiful. I hear the key card click and try to gather myself. I’ve gotten downright sentimental in this hard-lined stainless-steel kitchen all by myself. I can’t let it happen again.

  “Chef Wake,” Jace says, presenting the Dent boys.

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice softer than before. Jace nods, undoing their shackles one by one.

  “Chef,” Harlan and Cody say simultaneously.

  “Harlan. Cody,” I say, with a nod. Jace settles himself in a chair by the door. He flips open his newspaper and leaves us on our own.

  “What have we got today, Chef?” Harlan asks, scanning the kitchen.

  I go over the meal with the Dent boys, pointing out their stations, hoping they begin to think of these workspaces as their own territories.

  “I’ll be doing the fried chicken, but I’ve actually changed my mind about the okra. Harlan, I’m going to need you to do that, so I can get on that chess pie,” I say, scribbling and scrawling all over my to-do list.

  “Yes, Chef,” Harlan says.

  “We have until four PM and it’s just past ten AM. We’ll break for lunch and then get back to it,” I say, scanning my list again.

  “Do you know who we’re cooking for?” Cody asks, looking to Harlan. Harlan nods yes.

  “I don’t want to know,” I say, jumping in before Harlan has a chance to answer.

  Jace flips his paper down and is now watching us.

  “Yes, Chef,” Harlan and Cody say in unison.

  “I apologize for my rudeness. I decided early on that I didn’t want to know anything about who we’re cooking for. I need this to be about the food. If I know I’m cooking for some murdering sack of shit, I’m not going to be able to do it. Y’all get that?” I ask, my voice strong and clear.

  “Yes, Chef,” Harlan and Cody answer.

  “Now let’s get to work,” I say, moving on.

  “Yes, Chef,” Harlan and Cody say. Jace brings his paper back up and flips the page.

  The day is sublime in that way I’m just going to have to get used to if I continue working here. I fit. Whatever that means. I decide to walk Harlan through how I make biscuits, thinking we’re probably going to be making them a lot. Cody looks on as he chops up the potatoes for the potato salad. I have to tell him twice not to peel the potatoes. I want them unpeeled. At least he has the good sense not to even ask where the mayonnaise is.

  I start in on the crust for the chess pie. Cutting in the lard, carefully—knowing each one of those pieces will be a bite of heaven once the pie is baked. I chill the pie c
rust while we break for lunch. Harlan and Cody follow Jace back out into the prison, joining the other convicts for lunch. I eat the turkey sandwich I packed. When lunch is over we pick up the pace. The potato salad is perfect and in the refrigerator. Cody is cutting up okra and now Harlan is getting ready to fry it. The chess pie is done and the biscuits will go in the oven just before dinner. All I have to do is fry up a mess of chicken. I hear the key card click and see Shawn and Little Jim come into the kitchen.

  “We can smell that all the way out in the hall,” Little Jim says, his eyes closed as he inhales. Shawn says nothing as he walks over to me.

  “You all right?” Shawn asks, his voice low.

  “I’m focusing on the food,” I say, trying ever harder to believe it.

  “I’ll be back in here in twenty minutes, you understand?” Shawn asks, his head dipped, his eyes fast on mine.

  “I understand,” I say.

  “Good.”

  “When should I have supper ready for y’all?” I ask, scanning the room.

  “Four fifteen should work fine. We eat when he eats,” Shawn says.

  It’s a he. My mouth goes dry and I can’t look at Shawn. I focus on my chicken. Focus on the food.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, my voice raspy and choked.

  “All right then. I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” Shawn repeats.

  “I’d better get to it,” I say.

  “Yes, Chef,” Shawn says, with a quick wink. I force a smile. My stomach is in knots as the clock ticks down. Twenty minutes fast becomes ten. Then five. Harlan brings over a tray.

  I stare at it.

  I grab a stark, white plate from the shelf and place it in the center as if I were re-creating an inverted Japanese flag. Harlan and Cody just watch. We all stand there. I breathe deep and collect myself.

  “Harlan, get me the potato salad. Cody, I’m going to need you to get that chess pie out of the fridge as well,” I say, taking the most perfect pieces of fried chicken from under the paper towel that is now shiny with lard.

  Four minutes.

  I place three pieces of chicken on the plate. I put a serving of fried okra on a side plate and decide at the last minute to offer up a side of ranch dressing, just in case. You never know. Harlan hands me the bowl of potato salad and I scoop some out onto the plate. Cody places the chess pie on the counter, just next to me. “Harlan, why don’t you pass me the biscuits?” I say, motioning to the oven where they’re warming. He obliges, coming back over with the biscuits. I place three biscuits on the side of the plate. “Cody, why don’t you grab me a bowl from up there?” I ask, pointing to a shelf I can’t reach. He obeys quickly, setting the bowl next to the tray. Harlan hands me the Blue Bell ice cream without me even having to ask. I cut a piece of pie that’s about as mouth-wateringly beautiful as you can imagine. I place it on a side plate as Cody scoops the ice cream out into the bowl.

  Three minutes.

  I walk over to the fridge and pull out the can of Coke, the two bottles—one Mexican Coke and the other American. I set them on the counter next to the tray.

  Two minutes.

  Harlan, Cody, and I stand there and gaze at it all. The glistening fried chicken, the potato salad, and fried okra. The biscuits still steaming from the oven. A ramekin of honey butter and another of ranch dressing set off the meal. The chess pie and the Blue Bell ice cream are just begging to be devoured.

  “Well, goddamn,” Jace says, now standing behind us. I don’t look at him. I don’t know what comes over me in that moment. I hold out my hands to Harlan and Cody, on either side of me. The men jostle a bit, making room for Jace, and we all join hands. We stand over the meal.

  One minute.

  “Bless this food, Lord. Let it transport and remind us all of better times. Let it cleanse and purify. Let it nourish and warm. In it, let us find peace. In Jesus’ name, amen,” I say, my eyes closed and beginning to well up.

  “Amen,” the men say, quickly dropping hands.

  The key card clicks and Shawn walks into the kitchen.

  “Queenie, it’s time.”

  15

  Garrison Brothers bourbon and branch

  I slam the hatch of my car down and walk to the driver’s-side door. I unlock the door and sit behind the wheel, clutching the piece of paper Shawn gave me as I left the kitchen. I start the car and blast the air-conditioning. I sit there letting the coldness hit my face. The car idles and strains through the blasting air-conditioning. My hands are clamped tight around the steering wheel. I watch the guards pace. Pace. I can’t think. I can’t form a thought. I feel as though I’m holding back a flood with the mantra “Don’t let one drop spill or it’ll all go.” I’m taking shallower and shallower breaths, because even the idea of breathing threatens the dam. I am the gasp of air you take before you go underwater. The guard paces. The car yearns and sputters some more. My hands are still clamped down tight around the steering wheel.

  The guards’ supper was somber, but everyone needed it. We passed food and were quiet. But we were quiet together. We said grace and even laughed once about Hudson wanting to put biscuits with his brisket. We didn’t talk about why we were gathered. We just let the food warm us. Comfort us. Join us.

  I cleaned the kitchen with the Dent boys after they’d eaten their supper. We were almost done cleaning when I heard the key card click and Shawn walked back through the kitchen. He was holding the tray with the convict’s plate of food. He set the tray down.

  “You did good, Queenie,” Shawn said as he watched me eye the tray.

  “He didn’t like the dark meat,” I said, pulling the tray over. Shawn didn’t look at the tray.

  “Why don’t you go on home. The Dent boys’ll do this last bit,” Shawn said as he motioned for the Dent boys to clear this tray stat. I grabbed the tray and placed each one of my arms around it, protecting it.

  “No,” I said, quiet but dangerous.

  “All right now,” Shawn said, used to dealing with crazy.

  I remember breathing. And refocusing on the tray. On what was left. I remember not wanting to touch anything. I restrained my own hands in an attempt to control myself. In an attempt to control anything. Shawn just looked drained.

  “I don’t mean to be troublesome. I just want to see. Just give me a minute,” I said, trying to ease up after a hard day. I didn’t need Shawn feeling responsible for me after all he’d been through. But I did need him to let me see what was left. I needed to study the ruins.

  “All right,” Shawn said, backing away.

  “I’m fine. Thank you, Shawn,” I said.

  Shawn nodded and looked over at Jace, who was at his post by the door, then he left the kitchen.

  “He sure liked that ranch dressing you put on there,” Cody said, motioning to the empty ramekin. Cody didn’t touch the tray either.

  “I know,” I said. I still wonder if I put enough. Did he want more? Should I just put ranch on every tray from now on? Jesus. From now on.

  “He ate everything,” I said, finally touching the plate.

  “The guilty ones do,” Harlan said under his breath.

  “The guilty ones do,” I repeat now as I am in my car just thirty minutes later. Who had I just fed? It’d be easy to find out. All I would have to do is ask or turn on the news. I don’t want to know. I can’t know. I can’t set this precedent. It’ll infect the cooking. I know it. I let my head fall, my forehead touching down on the steering wheel. I breathe. “The guilty ones do,” I repeat again, my voice a rasp.

  I open the piece of paper.

  Next Tuesday

  Inmate #HB823356:

  Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with rice and beans, orange soda, churros, and a pack of Starburst

  I read and reread Shawn’s scrawled writing. Whether I like it or not, I begin to think about the person (man? woman? murderer? innocent?) behind this order. I know that this is a traditional Mexican Christmas dinner. The tamales and the ensalada de noche buena give that aw
ay. I’ve never cooked goat (cabrito) before: I’ll have to tinker with that this week. But what dawns on me as I stare at that crumpled piece of paper is that I have to ask Shawn a question about this person. One question and I’ll be off and running. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial the direct line to the guards’ station just inside.

  “Death House.” It’s LaRue.

  “Hey there, LaRue, this is Queenie Wake.”

  “Oh, hiya, what can I do for you, Queenie?”

  “Is Shawn still around?” My hands smooth and crumple the tiny sheet of paper.

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s right here.” LaRue puts me on hold. The air-conditioning blares as I wait. The dusky evening begins to darken further.

  “Queenie? Everything okay?” Shawn asks.

  “Oh absolutely. I just . . . I had a question about next Tuesday’s order?” I smooth the paper out once more.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Shawn says.

  “I need you to ask this . . .” I trail off.

  Shawn jumps in, “Gentleman.”

  “I need you to ask this gentleman where his grandmother is from.”

  “You want me to ask him where his grandmother is from?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do I get to know why?”

  “He ordered tamales. They’re one of the most regionally specific foods out there. The thickness of the masa, the filling, roja, verde . . . I just hope it’s not Oaxaca, I have no idea where I’ll get a banana leaf th—”

  “All right. All right. I get it,” Shawn says.

  “I don’t want to make the wrong kind,” I say.

  “I’ll let you know,” Shawn says. We say our good-byes and I beep my cell phone off and just sit there. The darkness has officially fallen as I watch the guards pace back and forth on the prison’s walls. The blinding floodlights focus and search, focus and search.

  I’m jolted out of my purgatory of reverie by someone knocking on my window. I whip my head up, numb and confused. I gather myself just enough and roll down the window; the humidity streams in.

  “Hudson, right?” I ask, my mind everywhere and nowhere. I tuck the piece of paper in my pocket, realizing too late that to do so makes me squirm and wriggle in my seat. I shove it down deep and focus.