Nowhere but Home (13 page)

“Ms. Wake, happy Fourth!” Warden Dale says, cutting through the music.

“Happy Fourth to you, sir,” I say.

“You got an answer for me, Ms. Wake?”

“Yes, sir. I would like the job, if it's still available,” I say, my wet hair sticking to my damp shoulders.

“It sure is. I appreciate you calling me back. How about if you come on in tomorrow and have Juanita give you the walk through? I'd like you to cook the Death House crew supper that night and then we're going to need your last meal services this Friday. You can understand why I was pressing you for an answer,” Warden Dale says.

“Yes, sir,” I say. This Friday. My first last meal. I can do this.

“Now, Juanita's got today off, but I'll hand you back over to one of the other fine ladies at the front desk and she'll set you up with all the details. I'll see you at ten
AM
sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Can I bring knives?”

“Pardon me?”

“Knives, sir? I have a set of knives I prefer to use.”

“Oh, we'll have Juanita inventory them and you'll have to check them in and out when you come to work. That suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Welcome to Shine Prison, Ms. Wake. And I'll see you tomorrow morning,” Warden Dale signs off. Last meals and inventorying knives. This is going to be an interesting day. I beep my cell phone off and stand up. I get dressed, throw my wet hair up into a ponytail, and head to a hard-core German butcher I know is open in New Braunfels. Even on the Fourth of July that German flag flies high. I'll grab some chicken to fry up tonight, as well as a brisket for tomorrow's supper. I'll have to smoke it all night, and even with the time I've got, it can always go longer. This'll have to do. I swipe my keys off the table by the door and head out. I'm already listing appetizers and desserts in my head as I pull out of Merry Carole's driveway and past all the meandering citizens of North Star, the live music still floating through town.

11

Gentleman Jack Bourbon

“Why would you make a decision like that without even talking with me first?” Merry Carole asks as I appear in the kitchen fully clothed and exhausted after a night of checking on my twelve-pound brisket. After a whole night of smoking, I packaged it up and the brisket and I are finally ready to head over to Shine this morning.

“I did talk with you about it,” I say, pouring coffee into a mug. I open up the refrigerator to get some creamer.

“You didn't say you were going to take it,” Merry Carole says.

“I know, but I did,” I say, pouring the creamer into the mug.

“I can see that.”

“Don't you like that I'm staying?” I ask, checking the time: 9:00
AM
. I have to get going.

“I do,” Merry Carole says, cinching her robe tightly around her body.

“Then let's focus on that,” I say, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before grabbing my canvas bag that's filled with the foil-wrapped brisket and my list of ingredients for the day's menu. I head for the front door.

“This isn't over,” Merry Carole says, calling out to me.

“I know,” I say, closing the door behind me.

I walk quickly to my car, before the early morning humidity wreaks havoc on my hair. I open the hatch, lovingly set the brisket inside, and close it up. The brisket smells delicious. I have a shopping list for today that I'll have to take care of once I check in. I hop into my car and drive through the town's center. I pass the alley where I was with Everett just yesterday. There's nothing I can do about that. I can't wait for him anymore. I've waited twenty years and nothing's changed. I did the right thing. I know I did. Now all I have to do is convince myself that this ache will go away in time. That I'll feel like myself again. That this newfound lightness won't begin to feel terrifying. I'm not alone—I have Merry Carole and Cal, just like always. The key is to take the little nugget I learned at the very end in New York. Just as finding adventure in a new city can't be about not being in North Star, finding love with a new man can't be about not being with Everett. Remember, I want to be happy. On my terms. I speed onto the highway and turn the radio up full blast.

I was told to park in Lot D. I scan the expanse around the prison and wonder how I thought I could just keep parking in the visitors' lot. I find Lot D, park, grab my knife case, my shopping list, and the brisket. I walk the interminable distance to the prison with a side of beef worthy of the opening credits of
The Flintstones
. The golden hills, silvery barbed wire, and the big sky are broken up only by the depressing puce color of the prison's outer walls.

I walk into the front office and find myself, once again, following Juanita and her sensible, squeaky shoes back down the Hall of Echoes. We settle into the anteroom where I sign contracts, waivers, and far too much paperwork. I'm sure I signed something where I wouldn't sue if I was injured in the line of duty. I don't think about any of it. I just read and sign. Juanita inventories my knives, I get my name badge and a key card. Then Juanita walks me through the various protocols and safety measures.

“Now, follow me,” Juanita says, standing up and walking back into the Hall of Echoes. A guard stands just outside Juanita's door. “This is LaRue Banner. He's on the Death House crew.” LaRue gives me a curt nod. He is a big man, like all the other guards I've seen. He's younger than I expected, his cocoa skin unwrinkled and perfect. He has dimples that—I'm sure he doesn't want me to mention—are adorable.

“This way, ma'am,” LaRue says, leading Juanita and me out of the Hall of Echoes.

“LaRue is taking us out to the Death House. It's an annex right off the prison. You won't be cooking in the main prison kitchen where the convicts eat, you'll have your own private space,” Juanita says. We're outside now. The heat is bursting through the early morning. It's already hotter than three kinds of hell out here. We're in this in-between space connecting the prison walls and the outside that is all fencing and razor wire. I look up to see the pacing guards in their uniforms, their shotguns held high. I imagine this corridor is used just by staff and convicts to get to and from the newly built Death House. LaRue doesn't look up at the guards, his pace is steady and measured. I find myself trying to stay as close to him as I can without causing an uncomfortable moment. We arrive at a small brick building just outside the prison walls. LaRue swipes his key card and the door clicks open.

“You won't be coming in this way, ma'am. There's a parking lot just behind, Lot B. That's for you. Your key card works in the door that leads right to the kitchen,” LaRue says, motioning around the back of the Death House.

“I was told Lot D,” I say, becoming breathless.

“
B
as in boy, not
D
as in . . . well,” LaRue says, trailing off. “Right through here.”

We all finish in our heads the sentence beginning with the
D
. D as in Death.

I walk into the sterile entry space and through one of two metal doors. I get the feeling that this is one of those terrible fairy-tale rooms, where you choose the wrong door, and . . . I take a deep breath. LaRue swipes his card and we walk through to a long, clearly bulletproof window with guards and desks just behind it. Four men in their brown uniforms are sitting on desks, talking on phones and speaking with each other. They come to a complete stop when we walk in. I see Shawn. He smiles, but then there's a change in his face. He walks over and buzzes us through.

“Gentlemen, this is your new Death House cook, Queenie Wake,” Juanita says as the men stand. They all look basically the same. Sure, they're different races and ages, but the same thing emanates from them: do not mess with me.

“It's a pleasure,” I say, my Texas drawl thick. All of the men look at me, then at the canvas bag. I continue, “And this is your supper,” I say, lifting the bag a bit higher.

“Good to see you, Queenie,” Shawn says, extending his hand. Juanita excuses herself and leaves me there in the Death House. Shawn turns around and addresses his men. “This is a good friend of my family, so I expect y'all will treat her right.” This is not a question. The men nod and intone a “yessir.” He introduces the men one by one. LaRue is the youngest, by far. Jace looks like he could be in prison himself. Shawn moves me past him quickly. Big Jim and Little Jim look like guys you see at the end of a bar, a beer in hand, watching the Cowboys. They're all edgy and I can tell that they view the Death House as their territory. What I hope is that I'll win them over with this meal. With the success of the Number One the other night, I feel hopeful. Confident that Brad's harsh words about my passion are old news and behind me, I hope to be accepted into the fold of the Death House with one well-made supper comprised entirely of my own recipes.

As Shawn leads me back to the kitchen, I feel a sense of excitement. That can't be the right word, can it? I want to get cooking. I feel like this place is big enough to hold me. I know that sounds silly—it's what this place does: holds people. Why do I feel my most free in a place that cages people? Is it because the stakes are so high? That for once my intensity is right on target? That it's life or death and that one plate has to be perfect and I get to be as focused as I want and it's just another day at the office? Or is it because everyone here either has a gun or is a convict and my little sob story is just run of the mill? Maybe it's all of the above.

“The kitchen is down that hallway, we'll go there next. But I wanted to show you where the inmates go when it's their time,” Shawn says, motioning to an unmarked metal door. He continues, “There is an outer room where the Death House crew congregates; there is a cell; there is a hallway with a clock, a phone, and a choice of religious reading material. There are five members of the Death House team because each one of us is in charge of a specific region of the inmate. As the captain, I handle the head and chest, should he try to rise off the gurney or resist. The Jims each handle a leg, and the younguns, Jace and LaRue, each handle an arm. Do you understand?” I nod. I get what Shawn is telling me. Each man handles a region. My mind spins and avoids trying to understand anything deeper than that. I try not to think about Yvonne Chapman and her clickable name on that prison's Web site that'll tell me one day that her appeals have been exhausted and she, too, will be sitting in some tiny cell somewhere with five men, each assigned to a region. My breathing quickens and I make a vow right there and then not to check that prison Web site again. Shawn continues, “And then there is the execution room. I need you to promise me something, Queenie,” Shawn says, taking me aside. I am lost in thought. Yvonne Chapman. Complicated monsters. Lost. Spiraling around under the semantics of “each man handles a region of the inmate.” Shawn repeats himself, “Queenie?”

“Yes,” I say, my eyes darting back and forth from the unmarked metal door to Shawn.

“I need you to never come over here to this side. I made that promise to Dee when she found out you took the job. So, we clear?” Shawn asks, his eyes boring into mine.

“Yes, sir,” I say, falling into line just like the rest of the crew. I refocus on Shawn and the task at hand and try to leave Yvonne Chapman in that far, faraway prison where she belongs.

“Good. Now come on,” he says, walking toward the kitchen and away from that unmarked metal door. Shawn swipes his key card and we walk into a makeshift dining area and the kitchen just beyond. It looks like any other cafeteria and kitchen. The kitchen is immaculate, I can smell the cleaning products from where I'm standing. Crisp lines of cabinets over slick white floors. There are high, barred windows that light shines through, but are frosted to make anything blurry just beyond. I walk through the kitchen testing and inventorying what it has to offer. A workable cooktop, a nice-size walk-in, and plenty of preparation areas. I set the brisket, still in its foil, down on one of the counters. I'll reheat it (something I do, but other Texans swear against) and slice it about five minutes before everyone sits down. No passion, my ass.

“What's through here?” I ask, pointing to a door.

“Our parking lot.” Shawn walks over, swipes his key card, and opens the door for me. Lot B. As in boy. Not D. Not D. Shawn closes the door and continues, “All right, then. I hear you're cooking supper for us today,” Shawn says, leaning up against one of the metal counters.

“Yes, sir,” I say, poking around in the kitchen some more. Tons of space in the pantry, work stations for the infamous Dent boys.

“Well, that just made my day,” Shawn says, a smile breaking across his face.

“Mine, too,” I say.

“Jace is going to bring in the Dent boys for you. One of the guards will always be in the kitchen with you. So you don't need to worry about that. They're harmless anyway. They're getting out in less than a year, so they've got no call to act out,” Shawn says, scanning the kitchen.

“Good . . . good,” I say, my mind mercifully busy. No time to think about yesterday. No time to mourn Everett. No time to fantasize about finding him and repeating yesterday over and over again. No. I have a meal to plan and the Dent boys to meet.

I hear the kitchen door click and Jace and LaRue walk through with two men just between them.

Guards. Guns. Convicts. Shackles.

Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.

“These are them,” Jace says, ambling over to Shawn and motioning to the two men. LaRue stands at attention behind the men. The older man is balding and slight. His rangy frame swimming in the all-white uniforms the convicts wear. The other man is basically a younger version of his father. He's taller and his head of hair is definitely on its way to going bald. They look like a couple of guys you'd see anywhere and not think twice about. If not for the shackles and chains, they'd look like a couple of hospital orderlies coming in to check on your bedpan. But I know better.

“All right, boys. This is your new work assignment. This here is Ms. Wake. She's from up in Hill Country—North Star. She's going to be cooking our last meals. Ms. Wake, this here is Harlan and Cody Dent,” Shawn says, presenting me to the two men. The men don't make eye contact and nod their greetings. I nod back, not knowing exactly how to communicate with them. I don't want to get them in any kind of trouble or, for that matter, get me into any kind of trouble.

“Harlan here worked at diners all his life and works in the prison kitchen when he's not assigned here,” Shawn says.

“Cody here bartended, so if you need some limes cut up, he's your guy,” Jace adds. Shawn shoots him a look and Jace immediately recoils.

“May I?” I ask Shawn, motioning to see if I can approach the Dent boys. He nods. I walk up to the father, Harlan, “Would you mind answering some questions?” I ask, looking from Harlan to Cody.

They look to Shawn, he gives them the okay, and they nod.

“Mr. Dent—
Harlan—
what kind of diners did you work in?” I ask, not getting too close.

“I was a short-order cook mostly, ma'am,” Harlan says, finally making eye contact. His eyes are a hollowed-out, dark blue. His skin is wan and he just looks tired.

“That's good. What's your specialty?” I ask.

“I can cook anything and cook it fast,” he says, his chin rising just a bit.

“I bet you can,” I say. Short-order cooks are masterful. To watch one of them in their element is to watch a genius at work.

“And you? Cody?” I ask, my voice strong and level.

“I didn't do much of nothing, but I did hold down a job at a couple of bars,” Cody says.

“Before he robbed 'em,” Jace says. Shawn shoots him another look. Jace recoils again. Cody tenses and deflates.