Nowhere but Home A Novel

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.

“Okay, we can work with that,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cody says, still averting his eyes.

“Now, boys, I’m going to need you to clean this kitchen while Ms. Wake meets with Warden Dale and goes out and gets what she needs for supper,” Shawn says as LaRue and Jace bring out cleaning supplies and mop buckets. How much cleaner can this kitchen get?

“Yes, sir,” the Dent boys say together.

“Come on with me now,” Shawn says to me. I follow him back through the kitchen and out into the main room, past the unmarked door of horrors.

“They’ll be perfect for you. A kitchen assignment, especially in the Death House, is a real plum. They won’t want to mess it up,” Shawn says as we walk outside in the purgatory between high prison walls and barbed-wire fencing. The heat beats down on us as we walk back into the prison.

“I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed,” I admit as we walk down the Hall of Echoes.

“Yeah, that happens,” Shawn says, his voice strong and sure.

“Are they going to be in shackles the entire time?” I ask, trying to get my bearings, to hold on to some normality about this new setup.

“No, they won’t need to be, although that has been done in the past,” Shawn says.

“How do they do anything?”

“Slowly and without killing anybody,” Shawn says, leading me into Juanita’s office. I just nod. Shawn continues, “But Jace’ll be in there with you, so it don’t matter.”

“Warden Dale is ready for you,” Juanita says, thanking Shawn. He says his quick good-byes and leaves us.

I walk through to Warden Dale’s office still in a daze, exuding a false sense of first-day bravado. I notice we’re not alone.

“Queen Elizabeth Wake, I’d like to introduce you to Professor Hudson Bishop.” Warden Dale is practically bursting his buttons with pride at this professor person. I extend my hand to him. He takes it and smiles as we shake hands.

He’s clearly not from here.

“Queenie, and it’s nice to meet you,” I say as Warden Dale motions for me to sit.

“And you,” Hudson says. He’s the sort of man whose appearance you don’t have time to inventory because you’re too busy trying to assess whether you should dive in or run for your life. Someone other than himself cuts his thick, black hair, and it’s not the ancient barber in town who believes the only options are: (1) going into the military, or (2) just getting out of the military. Eyebrows that are naturally and quite dangerously shaped into a roguish arch set off his piercing blue eyes. His entire wolfish bearing was born to tempt. He exudes a confidence bordering on arrogance. I immediately feel out of my depth.

Once again, Professor Hudson Bishop is not from ’round here.

“Hudson here is a professor over at UT,” Warden Dale says, walking over to the drinks cart. It’s ten AM.

“I hear you’re an alum,” Hudson says, taking a glass of bourbon from Warden Dale. He continues, “Thank you, sir.” Warden Dale nods and walks back over to the drinks cart.

“Hook ’em horns,” I say, extending my pinky and index finger as if miming my very own shadow puppet. This man has turned me into an idiot.

“Hudson is writing a paper on death,” Warden Dale says, handing me a glass of bourbon. He walks back over to the drinks cart.

“It’s more about how knowing you’re going to die—whether it’s terminal patients or the men and women of death row—affects the human brain,” Hudson says, lazily swirling his bourbon around in the glass.

“I imagine not well,” I say. Warden Dale pours himself a glass and stands behind his desk.

“You’d be surprised,” Hudson says, with a quick smile.

“To the great state of Texas,” Warden Dale says, raising a glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” Hudson and I repeat in unison.

We drink.

“Where are you from originally?” I ask, holding my now empty glass.

“Is it that obvious?” Hudson laughs, holding his now empty glass. I’m impressed.

“I’m afraid so,” I say.

“Santa Barbara, California,” Hudson says.

“It’s beautiful there,” I say.

“Definitely,” Hudson says.

“Well, we’ve got some business to attend to, Professor Bishop, so I will see you at the end of the day,” Warden Dale says, standing and extending his hand to Hudson.

“Yes, sir,” Hudson says, standing.

“Are you coming to supper?” I ask, looking at both Warden Dale and Hudson.

“Supper?” Hudson asks, clearly thinking the word “supper” is adorable. He and Warden Dale are both standing and I feel awkward that I’m the only one sitting. Should I stand? Do I stand? Wouldn’t that be even weirder? And shall I stand, hand held aloft, while I proclaim that you will dine with me?

“Oh sure. That’s a great idea. It’ll be a good opportunity for Hudson here to talk to the guards. We’ll both join you,” Warden Dale says.

“I’m thinking five thirty?” I ask. Warden Dale nods.

“I’ll be there. Pleasure meeting you, Queenie,” Hudson says, excusing himself from Warden Dale’s office. Warden Dale takes my empty glass and walks over to the drinks cart with it. He does not refill it. He walks behind his desk and sits.

“Professor Bishop is one of my pet projects, Ms. Wake. It’s just another example of how, as a leader, I am also a futurist,” Warden Dale says.

“Yes, sir.” I breathe deeply, trying to keep from laughing. I vow to use the word “futurist” at least ten times a day from now on.

“Here is your budget and a schedule of the upcoming executions,” Warden Dale says, handing me two sheets of paper stapled to each other. I am jerked out of my concealed hysterics and reach for the pieces of paper. Please don’t let it be a list of names. Please don’t let it be a list of names. I scan the first sheet. The budget is not extravagant, but definitely something I can work with. Warden Dale has outlined how I will be paid. I will be paid hourly and will be expected to work the full day preparing the last meal. That sounds workable.

I gather myself and flip the sheet of paper over to look at the list. I exhale. It’s not names, but dates. The first couple of entries at the beginning have an order, as well. Fried chicken, potato salad, tamales, tacos al pastor, fried pies, and homemade biscuits abound. As I scan what I’m being asked to prepare, I find myself getting excited. In just a few weeks, I’ve gone from being midguidedly passionate about some pasty tourist putting ketchup on tasteless eggs to trying to remember where Momma put all those old family recipes. After only wanting Texas in my rearview, I’m now chomping at the bit to dig into five generations of North Star dirt for inspiration. Whatever I think of North Star and the past I thought I left here, this food has always been what comforted me. It made me feel as if I belonged somewhere. It’s where home was, especially when we had no home.

But then this darkness clouds over it all. Who I’m cooking for, when they’re going to eat it. Where I am. I need to stay in the kitchen—mentally and physically. I will get my order and cook it to the best of my ability. I’ll know that someone who really needs a little bit of comfort is receiving it. It’s not for me to judge what they’ve done to land here. I can’t get caught up in their crimes, the victims, and the victims’ families—like Shawn said, this is the law, this is my job, so I will do it with integrity. I know this feels like a cop-out, like a child pressing her hands to her ears and screaming at the top of her lungs so she doesn’t have to listen. And maybe there’s some of that simply because I can’t face the magnitude of what happens within these Death House walls.

It’s not as if I haven’t experienced violence in the past. I’ve been part of one of those victim’s families that were visited by police reciting their robotic apologies at “my loss.” It somehow seems fitting that I’m here. A part of this violent world again. As long as Mom was around, there were police in our lives: the sheriff driving her home when she’d had too much to drink, barroom brawls, jealous wives vandalizing our possessions (what little we had). The red and blue flashing lights outside our windows became less and less of an event and more and more of a common occurrence.

I was just sixteen when Momma was murdered. She was beautiful. Flaming red hair, big boobs, and porcelain skin like you couldn’t believe. She had clear blue eyes that seemed mysterious and compelling. People couldn’t help but stare at her as she swayed her curves to and fro down North Star’s streets. Merry Carole’s figure was clearly inherited. But Momma was someone I stopped trying to figure out long before she died. Those blue eyes that were so intoxicating to me as a child weren’t mysterious at all. They were cruel and heartless. People were either stepping stones or obstacles, and that included her kids. Love wasn’t something she was even capable of. It was an act she put on so a man would think she was the marrying kind, only to tell us to wait at the Dairy Queen while “she had company.” Most times, the manager at the Dairy Queen would have to call Fawn or Yvonne Chapman when Momma didn’t come for us. They’d come get us and we’d spend the night at their house, sharing a guest bed or curled up on the couch. Momma wouldn’t come for us for days.

I’m sure there’s scar tissue and buttons being pushed all through the rubble of what my life has become. But for me it was always clear: my family was Merry Carole and now Cal, too. And when I couldn’t turn to Merry Carole, I had Everett. I also had Dee. Mom was someone we carried to bed, filled in for at the burger shack, and apologized for every day of our lives.

But that day.

The day the principal walked into my classroom, whispered in the teacher’s ear, and motioned for me to follow him without so much as a smile is burned into my brain. I remember following him down the hallway and trying to inventory what I’d done wrong. I was sixteen. I thought, maybe they figured out I’d been forging Momma’s signature on all my permission slips. Maybe Everett’s parents had found out about us and we were going to be disciplined for that. But what would we be “charged with”? I had the tiniest of fears that something had happened to Merry Carole and the baby. She was pretty far along with Cal at that point and things had gotten almost unbearable for her at school. It was Laurel and Piggy Peggy’s mission to make Merry Carole’s life as excruciating as possible. Of course, Whitney was pregnant and shipped off to her grandparents in Houston at that point anyway, so . . . hindsight and all that. It never occurred to me that it was about Mom. Her domain was in the outside world and she rarely infected my school life. That was about to change.

I remember walking into the front office and seeing Merry Carole there. She was sobbing and inconsolable. I ran to her, crouching in front of her, pleading with her to tell me what was wrong. Please. What’s going on? I remember saying.

“Mom’s dead,” Merry Carole said, through sobs. It made total sense and no sense at all. I remember taking a deep breath and thinking, there it is. The news I’ve been waiting to hear for years.

“How?” I asked, not a tear falling from my eyes. I remember being eerily calm.

“Yvonne f*cking Chapman shot her!” Merry Carole screamed. Merry Carole rarely swore, and I kind of loved that she screamed the F word right in the front office. It was freeing and wonderful. And no one could reprimand her for it. It was just going to be another trashy thing we Wakes did instead of behaving like “proper folks.”

“Yvonne Chapman? But where . . . where are we going to live now?” I asked, unable to process Mom’s death, so I reached for the next big issue: shelter. Merry Carole was only becoming more hysterical. I pushed my fears aside and focused on calming her down. She was too worked up. She was going to lose control, if she hadn’t already. Her crying had escalated into hysterics and she was struggling to breathe.

“Yeah! Her best friend whose husband Mom was f*cking,” Merry Carole said, her voice cracking and breaking as it shrieked through the school.

“Okay, now . . . if we can just take this into a more private place,” the principal interrupted.

“Eat shit,” I said, my head whipping around at the man who seemed to be annoyed by how two girls were handling their only parent’s death. I remember hating that I hadn’t said something more cutting and brilliant in the heat of the moment. But I was sixteen, and despite wanting to be a grown-up, I wasn’t. And I’d just learned that my mom had died.

“All right now,” the principal said then, gripping me around the arm and pulling me away from Merry Carole. And that was when something just exploded inside me. Even all these years later I remember never feeling as terrified as I felt when that man pulled me away from my sister. I felt like a wild animal, clawing and wailing as he tugged us apart. So I punched him. I rounded on him with my only free hand and connected with the side of his bloated face. It was later documented that I “accidentally swatted him as he tried to calm me.” But I was completely out of control. In those seconds I thought it was possible to simply combust. I remember being pulled off the principal by people, teachers probably. They held me back, picked me up, restrained me, and I remember thinking—all someone has to do is tell me it’ll be okay. Comfort me and I’ll stop, I screamed inside my head. I heard Merry Carole sobbing, and I fought back because they wouldn’t let me be with her.

I howled, kicked, and finally freed myself only to lunge past the mob of teachers and administrators and wrap myself around Merry Carole, finally calming her and in so doing calming myself. Merry Carole and I held on to each other among the pacing, milling faculty as we let the reality sink in: we had no home, no possessions, no parents, and a baby on the way.

That was the worst day of my life.

So as I sit here today in the warden’s office, I know a thing or two about identifying with the victim’s family.