Nowhere but Home (6 page)

6

The Number One

Mom ran her restaurant out of an eight-by-eight-foot shack connected to the Drinkers Hall of Fame, the one bar in town. The restaurant was an old storage shed on a small corner plot of land and the only thing the Wake family ever owned. Almost as an afterthought, Mom nailed a board by the take-out window with the word
WAKE
branded into it. She kept the same hours as the bar and her entire staff consisted of Fawn, Merry Carole, and me. No matter what anyone in North Star thought of my mom, everyone agreed on one thing: she was the best cook in the Texas Hill Country. She was known for her barbecue and fried pies. But she was most famous for one particular dish. The dish people would drive hundreds of miles for was simply called the Number One. I imagine Momma was going to make a list of specials. The trouble was, she never got past the Number One. So there it sat at the top of the menu, alone, all by itself.

 

The Number One:

Chicken fried steak with cream gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans cooked in bacon fat, one buttermilk biscuit, and a slice of pecan pie

 

With Brad's words ringing in my head about my vague culinary vision, I decide to make the Number One for tonight's supper. After leaving the salon, I drive to various farm stands, grocery stores, and butchers. I handpick the top-round steak with care, choose fresh eggs one by one, and feel an immense sense of home as I pull Mom's cast-iron skillet from the depths of Merry Carole's cabinets. My happiest memories involve me walking into whatever house we were staying in at the time to the sounds and smells of chicken fried steak sizzling away in that skillet. This dish is at the very epicenter of who I am. If my culinary roots start anywhere, it's with the Number One.

As I tenderize the beef, my mind is clear and I'm happy. I haven't cooked like this—my recipes for me and the people I love—in far too long. If ever. Time flies as I roll out the crust for the pecan pie. I'm happy and contented as I cut out the biscuit rounds one by one. I haven't a care in the world. Being in Merry Carole's kitchen has washed away everything I left in New York, along with everything that's happened in the whirlwind of being back in North Star. Laurel's little tantrum at the salon is a distant memory. However dramatic and ridiculous she is, she also gets to go home to the man I've loved since I was in kindergarten. I focus back on the cooking. It's almost time for supper. The front door opens and closes.

Merry Carole walks into the kitchen with a bouquet of Texas yellow bells. I can see the emotion on her face as she approaches me. With everything warming in the oven, the last thing to do before the guests arrive is fry this steak.

“I know,” I say, taking her hand.

“I can't believe you're cooking the Number One. I haven't . . . I haven't walked into a house with that smell in years. It smells exactly the same.” Merry Carole dabs at her mascara.

“Let's face it, toward the end there I was in that kitchen more than she was,” I say, lifting the steak out of the skillet.

“The kitchen is a lot cleaner than I thought it was going to be,” Merry Carole says, scanning the already set dining room table and spotless kitchen.

“I guess that's the one positive by-product of working in all those fancy kitchens. If you don't have a clean workspace, there's hell to pay,” I say, quickly swiping at the counter.

“It's like you were shipped off to the culinary army,” Merry Carole says, setting the flowers on the counter and pulling a vase down from one of the upper cabinets. She arranges them quickly and sets them in the middle of the table.

“That's certainly what it felt like,” I say, pulling my arm away from the splattering lard. The front door opens and slams.

“Whatever that is I smell, bless you,” Cal yells as he walks through the front room.

“Chicken fried steak, my dear. Now go take a quick shower and put on something presentable. We're having company,” Merry Carole says, reaching up to fuss with his bangs. She continues, “I wish you would let me cut these. Just a touch . . . You have such pretty eyes, sweetness and light.” Merry Carole calling her varsity-football-playing son sweetness and light damn near melts my heart.

“Is that—” Cal stops. I'm sure he's heard the stories. Merry Carole sighs and drags her gaze away from Cal's overgrown bangs.

“It is, in fact, the Number One. You're in for a treat,” I say, turning away from the stovetop briefly.

“I didn't think it really existed,” Cal says, gazing into the kitchen.

“Oh, it exists, but if you don't shower up, it'll become a myth,” Merry Carole says, pushing him toward the bathroom. He obliges, his gait quickening as he realizes what's in store.

“Tired, my ass. That boy is amazing,” Merry Carole says, her voice breaking.

“She was deliberately messing with you,” I say, taking the last chicken fried steak from the lard.

“West Ackerman is the pride of North Star,” Merry Carole mimics.

“Does Cal know?”

“No!” Merry Carole shushes me, checking to see if he is out of earshot. The guests are due in minutes.

“He's in the shower,” I say, washing the last of the dishes. I squeeze out the dishrag, take my apron off, and hang it back up. The kitchen looks just as I found it.

“He has no idea who West really is to him, so please, you can't breathe a word of it.”

“Honey, I have no intention of telling him, but I do think you're kidding yourself if you think he hasn't heard the rumors. He'd heard about the Number One. Do you honestly think he hasn't heard about Wes McKay fathering not one, but two children illegitimately before his marriage to the Ice Queen lobotomized him?” I ask, giving the pitcher of homemade lemonade a quick stir.

“It was hard enough when Wes disowned us; I'm certainly not giving Whitney and her people the opportunity to do it again,” Merry Carole says.

“You have a point,” I say.

“I know I do. West is a good kid. Cal likes him. Maybe someday . . . ,” Merry Carole says. She offers a small smile as the doorbell rings.

“Maybe,” I say.

Fawn and Pete are loud and happy to be here. Fawn introduces me to Pete as Merry Carole waits by the open door greeting Dee and her brood as they mosey down the long driveway.

I offer Fawn and Pete some beer or lemonade. They mill around the kitchen as I pour them their glasses. Everyone is a bit taken aback. I don't know if it's because this is Momma's dish or that I'm making it. Fawn looks like she's seen a ghost as she breathes in the scents coming from the kitchen. Yes, it's the Number One, I say, trying to lighten the mood. Yes, Momma taught me how to make it. Yes, she finally admitted I made it better than she did toward the end there.

Then the entire house is alive and loud with bursting energy. I imagine it's Dee's brood. I excuse myself from Fawn and Pete and head to the front room. Shawn is a big man, barrel chested and powerful. I recognize him vaguely from high school. I doubt our paths would have crossed. Matter of fact, I don't think he and Dee really knew each other in high school, either. Football players tend to keep to themselves. Today, he wears a denim shirt tucked into khaki pants and a heavy gold chain with a cross. He's smiling and wrangling children as he steps inside Merry Carole's house.

“Queenie, this is Shawn,” Dee says, keeping an eye on an errant child. We shake hands and my hand is lost in his.

“And who might you guys be?” I ask, looking at the little stair-step boys barely containing themselves.

“You asked for it,” Shawn says, smiling.

“I certainly did,” I say, laughing.

“Queenie, this is our oldest, Shawn Junior, and Chance is in the middle there, and the little one is Austin.” The little boys are all under the age of six and wearing exactly the same outfit: khaki shorts and a short-sleeved denim shirt with sandals. Apparently, all of the Richter men dress exactly the same.

“Come on in, supper is ready,” I say, just as Cal comes back from his shower. He joins us at the table.

“Sit, sit!” Merry Carole says as Fawn and Dee offer their help, clearly unaccustomed to being waited on.

Our guests sit and Merry Carole and I bring out the dishes one by one. The chicken fried steak, the cream gravy, the mashed potatoes, and the green beans cooked in bacon fat. I bring over a tea towel–lined basket filled with biscuits. Merry Carole asks if anyone needs a beer or some lemonade. Cal says he'll have a beer. Merry Carole brings him lemonade. Dee's boys think Cal is hysterical.

Merry Carole and I sit. I hold my hands out to Cal and Shawn for grace. Everyone looks to Merry Carole. We close our eyes and bow our heads.

“Thank you, Lord, for the feast you have provided us with and for your continued love and guidance. Thank you for blessing me with a strong, healthy boy who any mom would be proud of. Thank you for blessing us, oh Lord, with friends and loved ones who are with us at our table and with you in your blessed kingdom. In Jesus' name, amen.”

“Amen,” we all say in unison. Merry Carole and I are both fighting back a confused muddle of emotion as we pass plates, serve ourselves, and tell people we're fine. We laugh, recount stories (leaving out all of the messy details) of our childhood, and talk about football. It's a beautiful night.

“Dee says you're going to be in town for a while,” Shawn says, as the meal winds down.

“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.