Nowhere but Home A Novel

20




Inmate #HB823356:

Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with Mexican rice and beans, churros with Mexican hot chocolate and cajeta, Fanta orange soda, and a pack of Starburst



While I was shopping for Tuesday’s meal, I found myself in the candy section staring at all the different kinds of Starburst. When did there get to be ten thousand different flavors of Starburst? Back in my day there was just the one kind and everyone ate all the red and pink ones before passing off the yellows to friends as a “kind gesture.” But now? Summer Fun Fruit? FaveREDs? Tropical? Sweet Fiesta? What’s a Flavor Morph? I grabbed one of each, just in case.

Then it was Tuesday morning. Today I’ll make my second last meal for a man who’s trying to re-create Christmas. Could I get some dramatic, last-minute phone call telling me the inmate has been pardoned? I’ve loaded all the groceries into the car after not sleeping very well and am pouring coffee into my travel mug.

“You’re leaving early,” Merry Carole says, cinching her robe closed.

“This one’s going to be tough,” I say, tightening the lid on my travel mug.

“Remember—”

“I know,” I say, cutting her off.

“When it’s too much, we’ll have another conversation,” Merry Carole says, coming into the kitchen and pouring herself some coffee.

“I think we’re probably going to be having that conversation sooner rather than later,” I say, feeling utterly exhausted after this week’s ramp-up.

“Well, you let me know,” Merry Carole says.

“Cal’s on his run. He just left,” I say.

“Good.”

We are quiet.

“Meaning, if you want to talk about things . . .”

“Oh. Oh, no thank you,” Merry Carole says, politely.

I wait. Merry Carole stares out the sliding glass doors and into her backyard. The sun is coming through and her blue eyes twinkle in the morning light. I begin to walk toward the front door, but turn around.

“When I first got here you were . . . bigger,” I say.

“You mean fatter?” Merry Carole smooths her robe over her curves.

“Of course not. I mean bigger.” My arms shoot in the air like an explosion.

“Honey, using the same word but only adding your own personal game of charades to the mix doesn’t make it any clearer.”

“It feels like you’re disappearing. A little,” I say, hating how harsh the words sound.

“Does it?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not yet, no. No, thank you.”

“Okay.” I nod.

Merry Carole gives me an obliging smile.

I continue, “Should I be worried? Because now I’m worried.”

“No, it’s good. I honestly don’t think I’m ready to even say it out loud. Funny, isn’t it? I need it to just be mine a bit longer,” Merry Carole says.

“That makes a lot of sense,” I say.

“I know it does.”

“So we’ll talk later?”

“I’m sure you’ll be crawling in bed with me later tonight,” Merry Carole says, walking with me as I head toward the front door. She opens it for me and I step outside.

“Yeah, probably,” I say, unashamed.

“Go on now. Good luck,” she says, with a wave. I unlock my car and climb inside. The quiet of the car surrounds me. Focus on the food. I buckle my seat belt, back out of the driveway, drive through the town square and past that flashing red light and onto the highway. Radio turned high. Mind busy. Running through the day. Envisioning the perfectly made plate. And nothing else.

I pull into Lot B, gather my canvas bags filled with supplies and groceries, and trudge to the back door. I manage to swipe my key card without having to drop all my groceries and step inside the darkened kitchen. I turn on the lights, and as they flicker on I await Jace. The kitchen door clicks open and he walks in.

“You’re here early,” Jace says, his hand resting on his gun.

“I didn’t get any sleep last night,” I say, setting my knives down.

“Nobody does,” Jace says.

I look up from the counter and really make eye contact with him for the first time since I’ve worked here. His clear brown eyes are heavy and bloodshot. He has eyelashes any woman would kill for and I can’t believe I haven’t noticed them before today. What I notice most of all, however, is how worn out Jace looks.

He continues with an obliging nod. “I’ll grab the Dent boys for you,” Jace says. He excuses himself and is about to leave me in the kitchen by myself.

“Does it ever get any easier?” I ask.

“No.” No hesitation. He turns around.

“Why do you do it?” I ask, almost unable to hold his gaze.

“I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it. Maybe that was on purpose. It’s a good-paying job and I’ve got a wife and kids,” Jace says, looking uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry if I’ve—”

“It’s no problem,” Jace says.

“Thank you for being in here, Mr.— I don’t think I even know your last name,” I say.

“Murdoch. Jace Murdoch. And yours?”

“Wake,” I say. His face changes. Just a bit. Enough.

“You related to BJ Wake?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jace just nods. I brace myself.

“She used to own that shack over in North Star. She made this chicken fried steak, what was it called . . . the Number One. That’s right. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it. Well, no wonder you cook the way you do, girl. Damn. Your momma was the best there was. Ain’t that something. Always wondered what happened to her. Now I know! She had you and you’re doing the cooking for that family. Ain’t that something.” Jace smiles wide and is as animated as I’ve ever seen him. I just keep smiling and nodding. It’s brightened his mood thinking about my mom’s cooking. His heaviness is momentarily gone. He sighs and walks out of the kitchen in search of the Dent boys.

Ain’t that something, indeed.

I put the groceries into their proper places and set up the Dent boys’ stations once more. I pull pots and pans from the cabinets while I refer to my notes about the day’s schedule. The door clicks and Jace and the Dent boys walk in.

“I’ll be right here,” Jace says, settling into his chair by the door. He flips open his paper and begins to read.

“Chef,” they say in unison.

“Harlan. Cody. This is going to be a tough one today,” I say, setting my notes on the counter in front of us.

“Yes, Chef,” they say.

“Harlan, we’re going to do the tamales. We’re going to have our own little tamalada,” I say.

“Tamalada, ma’am?” Harlan asks.

“Oh right. Sorry. It’s a tamale-making party. Women gather, gossip, and make tamales,” I say. Harlan and Cody just look at me. I continue, “I realize we’re doing our own very special version today.” The men can’t help but crack a smile.

“I doubt you’d want to hear the gossip we have to tell,” Jace says from behind his paper.

“I expect not,” I say, my voice playful. I continue, “We have to mix the masa, spread it on the banana leaves, and fill and roll them. Cody, I’m going to have you put together the ensalada de noche buena, but that won’t happen until much later. Until then, you’re going to be in charge of the cabrito dish,” I say, scanning the list.

“Cabrito?” Cody asks.

“Goat,” I say.

“Goat?” Cody asks.

“It’s actually quite good. But it can be a little tough. They don’t have much fat on them,” I say.

The Dent boys are speechless.

I continue, “My point being, it takes a bit to cook. So you’ll be doing the Mexican rice while the pinto beans simmer.” I walk Cody through the Mexican rice dish as Harlan checks on the pinto beans.

“Chef, I don’t see anything about salsa here,” Harlan says, scanning the list.

“Oh shit,” I say.

“No problem. I can do a red and a green with the stuff you bought. We’ll be fine,” Harlan says, picking through the vegetables that I have.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say. Harlan allows himself a small smile.

And we’re off.

When Jace says it’s time to break for lunch, I can’t believe hours have gone by so quickly. The Dent boys file out and I sit on one of the stools and eat my turkey sandwich. I pace around the pots and pans, stirring, tasting, and checking the time. When the Dent boys arrive back an hour later, we hit the ground running.

I pull out the big pot with a steaming rack in it and put it on the stove. I set up the rest of the tamale assembly line on down the counter.

I stack the banana leaves next to the stove. I put the bowl of masa in front of Harlan and set down a piece of plastic wrap and a spoon. He eyes them suspiciously. Cody is next to the pork-and-sweet-mole filling.

“Now, watch me,” I say.

“Yes, Chef,” the Dent boys say in unison.

I pull a banana leaf from the stack and hold it next to an open flame. It immediately softens and becomes pliable. I walk over to the bowl of masa, take a heaping spoonful, and put it in the center of the banana leaf. I grab the plastic wrap and set it over the masa. I smooth the masa out using the plastic wrap to make it as smooth as possible. “Leave enough on the edges so we can fold these leaves over, remember,” I say. Harlan and Cody nod. Jace wanders over, enthralled with the process. I pull the plastic wrap off and show them the smooth layer of masa just beneath. I take some of the pork from the skillet on the stovetop and then some of the sweet mole and put it on top of the pork. “Always remember to not overfill. Less is more in this situation.” They all nod. Including Jace. I settle the now filled banana leaf on the counter. “Now. The folding. Y’all ready?” They nod. “Fold it toward you, just to halfway, see? The other half away from you. Now the bottom, now the top,” I say, lifting up the little green bundle of goodness for viewing.

“Toward you is first,” Cody says.

“Exactly,” I say.

“Like an envelope,” Jace says.

“Right, exactly. Then you put them in this big pot here where we’re going to steam them,” I say, placing my finished bundle in the pot.

“You don’t tie ’em up with something?” Cody asks.

“These banana leaves are big enough so that we don’t have to, but if you find it getting away from you just use strips of another leaf as twine, you know? On both ends,” I say, using my little bundle as an example.

“But that’s only if we mess it up,” Cody says.

“Right,” I say, with a smile.

“So we don’t want to be doing that,” he says.

“Right,” I say.

“Let’s do this,” Harlan says, walking to the front of the assembly line. Harlan takes a banana leaf and holds it next to the open flame and the leaf softens. He moves to the masa, puts a heaping spoonful on the leaf, and grabs a piece of plastic wrap.

“The only thing this stuff ever sticks to is itself,” Harlan says, fighting with the plastic wrap.

“You made it look so easy,” Cody says. I can’t help but smile.

“It’s like getting a linoleum bubble out, you know? Smooth it out,” Jace says, doing the motions with his hands as well. Harlan watches him and turns around and tries again.

“There it is,” Cody says, as Harlan lifts away the plastic wrap victoriously. Harlan gives him a wide smile.

“Now the filling,” I say, pointing to the two skillets. Harlan spoons in the right amount and pauses before he has to fold.

“Toward you is first,” Cody says, his hands doing the motion as well. Harlan nods.

“Toward you, away from you, bottom, then the top,” Harlan narrates his folding. He flips the little green bundle over and there it is.

“You did it!” I say, patting him on the back.

“Well, all right there. Look at that!” Cody says, beaming at the finished tamale.

“Well, looka there,” Jace says.

“Ha, well look at that,” Harlan says, flipping the little bundle over again and again.

“Now, put it in the pot for steaming. Cody? You ready?” I ask.

“As I’ll ever be,” Cody says, grabbing a banana leaf. Jace meanders back over to his chair and newspaper.

Cody stumbles through his first tamale, but gets it sooner than he thought he would. We move and work, keeping pace like an old waltz. Weaving in and out we soon find that it works better to stay at one station and just pass the tamale down the line. I, of course, end up at the masa-smoothing station. In no time we’ve got our pot ready to start steaming.

“How’s the cabrito coming?” I ask Cody as we put the lid on the tamale pot.

“Good . . . I think. I mean, I don’t know, Chef,” Cody says, walking over to his cabrito.

“Have you tasted it?” I ask.

“No, Chef,” Cody says.

Everyone’s quiet.

“You know she’s going to make you taste it,” Jace says, from behind his paper. We all break out laughing. Cody takes a fork and spears a tiny piece of cabrito. He puts it in his mouth, wincing dramatically with his eyes closed, and chews.

“It’s good! It just—,” Cody starts.

“Tastes like chicken?” Harlan finishes.

We all can’t help but laugh. I hear the kitchen door click open as our laughter subsides. Shawn walks into the kitchen.

“Smells good in here,” he says, scanning the room.

“Thank you,” I say, happy he’s here. Can I be here without him?

“Y’all have a little over an hour, so I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Shawn says.

“Good . . . good,” I say, my eyes flicking over to the clock on the wall. I can’t believe we have only an hour. I watch Harlan and Cody come to the same realization.

“Okay, I’ll be back then,” Shawn says.

“And I’ll have your supper ready by four fifteen,” I say.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says. Shawn walks out of the kitchen and when the door closes we scatter immediately.

“Cody, start on that ensalada. Harlan, how’s that salsa coming?” Cody goes over to his station and starts peeling the citrus and chopping the apples and the beets. I stir the Mexican rice and the pinto beans de olla that we made earlier today. The cabrito is ready to go and the handmade corn tortillas I found at a local market taste perfect. Harlan watches the tamales as he makes his salsa.

I start in on the churro dish.

“Chef, we’ve got ten minutes,” Cody says, walking over as he finishes his salad. My churros are bubbling in the deep fryer, the Mexican hot chocolate sits steaming in a mug next to the ramekin of cajeta that Cody is eyeing. Harlan grabs the tray and a couple of plates. He sets them on the counter and walks over to us. There is a reverence to his actions. I feel the emotion begin to bubble up as the clock ticks down. I pull the churros from the deep fryer and place them in the awaiting sugar mixture. Cody rolls the churros through the sugar as I drop one after the other in. He sets the finished products on a towel-lined plate, covering up the growing pile. The churros are done. I walk over to the tray with the Mexican hot chocolate and the ramekin of cajeta. Cody follows me with the plate of steaming churros.

The tray. Once again, we just stand around it. Harlan places a plate in the middle of it. I find myself slowing down or maybe it just feels that way. Cody brings over the skillet with the cabrito, placing a serving on the side of the plate. He dishes out some Mexican rice and the pinto beans. Harlan heats up some corn tortillas and places them on a separate plate, covered with a paper towel. He sets his salsa down next to the tray.

“Chef?” Harlan offers his salsa up for my tasting. I take a fork and take a small bite of the salsa.

“Oh, that’s damn good, Harlan. Damn good,” I say. Harlan gives me a quick nod, but he can’t help but let a smile sneak to Cody. Jace wanders over and I give him a quick taste. He nods his approval. Harlan puts a small bowl of the salsa next to the tortillas on the tray.

“Cody, can you grab the orange soda in the fridge?” I ask. He obliges quickly.

I wrap the churros in parchment paper and place them next to the Mexican hot chocolate and cajeta on the side of the tray. They’re still steaming and glistening with a dusting of sugar. I walk over to the last canvas bag and find the Starburst. All six kinds. My hand curls around them. Candy. Re-creating Christmas.

“He’s young, isn’t he?” I ask, without looking at anyone.

“Yes, Chef,” Harlan says.

“I knew it,” I say, nodding. Nodding, I put the Starburst on the tray and stand back.

“The tamales!” Cody says, running over to the stove.

Two minutes.

Cody pulls four steaming green bundles from the big pot and hot-potatoes them over to the plate. He has to place them on top of the cabrito and Mexican rice, as there’s no more room anywhere on the tray.

One minute.

I look from Harlan to Cody then to Jace. We all join hands once more.

“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.

“Amen,” the men say.

The key card clicks and Shawn walks into the kitchen.

“Queenie, it’s time.”