Nowhere but Home A Novel

24




Inmate #8JM-31245:

Barbecue, vegetable plate, baked beans, sweet tea, fried cherry pie, and an apple



I load my canvas bags filled with groceries, other supplies, and the barbecue into my car the next morning after my run with Cal and West. Cal is getting back to his old self, although he’s still a bit fragile. From the normalcy of West’s conversation, I’m guessing that Whitney hasn’t talked to him yet. I hope she does. I trust she will. I saw Everett and Arrow this morning. We made small talk as I wheezed and tried to catch my breath, all the while screaming in my head, “Why didn’t you tell me what your mother did?” Instead I just begged for water and told him I’d see him tomorrow.

“You heading out?” Merry Carole says, coming out of her bedroom cinching her robe. Last night’s party went on until a little after eight thirty, but with the kids there were baths and bedtimes for all. I, on the other hand, set timers and checked on my brisket all night. I am worn out as I pour coffee into my travel mug and look forward to coming home right after this meal. Pure exhaustion is the only thing that’s keeping me from getting melancholy about not driving over to Everett’s beautiful home for a drink after.

“Yeah, I just want to get this day over with,” I say, twisting the lid tight on my travel mug.

“I’ll wait up for you,” Merry Carole says. She reaches up to the cabinet for a coffee mug and I catch a glimpse of a sparkle.

“Well, look at that. Are you wearing your engagement ring?” I ask, walking over to her and grabbing her hand.

“Yes,” she says, downright defiant. She holds out her hand, finally flashing the diamond proudly. It’s a beautiful ring, and more beautiful that she’s finally letting herself wear it—even after Whitney’s little cubic zirconia dustup the other day.

“And are you going to keep it on outside this house?”

“Yes. And I’m going to meet Cal over at the Homestead for breakfast. Then I might just pop on over to the post office for absolutely nothing at all,” Merry Carole says, giddy.

“Damn right you will,” I say, the emotion of yesterday still near at hand.

“Okay, you’d better get going. I’ll tell you how far Piggy Peggy’s mouth dropped open, don’t worry. I’ll also make sure she knows how you had to dump Hudson for being too clingy, not to worry,” she says.

“You’re a genius,” I say, grabbing my keys off the counter. Merry Carole walks over to the door and opens it for me. She stands aside as I walk out into the morning air.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” she says, shielding her eyes from the already glaring sun. I nod and she gives me a quick wave before closing the door behind me. I climb into my car, put my key in the ignition, and . . . the Starburst. Gone. I turn the key and remember that my keys were next to the door when I left this morning on my run. They were on the counter when I returned. As I back out of Merry Carole’s driveway I imagine my sister sneaking out in her pajamas without her face on, grabbing those Starbursts, and throwing them into the abyss.

I wanted them to just disappear and she made it so. Love. I drive through the town square, past that red blinking light and out onto the highway with a smile on my face from ear to ear.

Things sometimes work out.

I park in Lot B, gather up all my canvas bags, and trudge the few feet to the back door of the Death House. I didn’t see any media or anyone with signs or candles, but then again I’m early. Maybe they get here later? Maybe I’ll see them on my way out? I slide my key card and the door clicks over. I turn on the lights and as they flicker on I await Jace. I set my canvas bags on the ground and start unpacking. The kitchen door clicks and I stand up.

“Hey there,” Jace says, standing at the door.

“Hey, yourself,” I say, going back to what I was doing.

“You ready for today?” Jace asks.

“Yep,” I say, setting the brisket on the counter in its tinfoil wrapping. I unpack the ribs and the sausage and set them out, as well.

“Everyone’s all amped up about today,” Jace says, stepping forward.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, setting up Harlan and Cody’s station.

“You don’t know, do you?” he says, his hand resting on his gun.

“No, sir. I prefer not t—”

“We’re puttin’ down the Teacher’s Pet,” Jace says. I look up at him.

“That serial killer?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am. They brought him over here thinking there wouldn’t be as much press and all that. So far, they’re right,” Jace says.

“I didn’t . . .” I lean against the counter. I stayed up all night making brisket for a man who . . . I can’t . . . I need to focus on the food. There’s no time for that.

“Didn’t you wonder what that apple was for?” Jace asks, pointing at the apples I’ve set out on the counter. I was going to choose the best one.

“No,” I say, breathless.

“It was his signature. He left an apple at every crime scene. That’s how he got the name,” Jace says.

“I didn’t know that,” I say. So is this now a crime scene? I grow illogically scared. Is this guy planning something? No, Queenie. This is about some sick f*ck getting one last hurrah before he dies. That’s all. I’ll give him his apple. It’ll be his last.

“Well, I’ll go get the Dent boys for you,” Jace says. He leaves. Now I’m alone in the kitchen, in the same building as that monster. With what he did. And now I have to . . . it’s fine. I can make barbecue in my sleep. I’ve already done most of the work anyway. Harlan, Cody, and I will just focus on the guards’ supper. We’ll cook for us. The kitchen door clicks and Jace walks back through with the Dent boys. Jace takes up his place in his chair and flips open his paper. The Dent boys walk over to me.

“Jace told me,” I say, motioning at the reading guard.

“I can’t believe it,” Harlan says, just shaking his head.

“I remember when they finally caught him, you remember? I mean, everyone was on the lookout for him. Women wouldn’t go anywhere alone, everyone was locking their windows at night, I mean—” Cody is getting himself worked up. And he’s IN prison.

“The good part is, I did most of this last night. I smoked the brisket, the sausage, and the ribs already. The barbecue sauce is made. So we’ll make the potato salad and the fried pies, but I think the key is to focus on cooking for us and the guards’ supper,” I say, scanning my to-do list. The Dent boys nod in agreement.

“That doesn’t seem like a lot at all,” Harlan says, disappointed.

“It’s not, but it’ll keep us busy,” I say.

“Yes, Chef,” Harlan and Cody say.

“Okay, so, Cody, why don’t you get started on those cherries over there for the fried pies,” I say. He nods and obliges. I continue, “And, Harlan, why don’t we get started on this potato salad,” I say.

The morning goes by and I am able to focus on the food. I find myself cruising through the preparation, no heart really going into it. Harlan and Cody are slower today, which is good. We’re also not as careful. Not as driven. Not as emotional. Everyone’s on edge, but no one is somber like they were the last time. We break for lunch, and I decide to eat my turkey sandwich out by where the guards congregate. I don’t want to be alone in that kitchen. Not even for an hour. I sit with Big Jim and Little Jim as they talk about football. LaRue gets in on the action, but I can tell he’s nervous. This is the highest-profile convict they’ve ever had. And in a few hours LaRue is going to be buckling down the left arm of one of the most gruesome serial killers in Texas history. This guy has definitely gotten in all our heads.

Jace is slow bringing the Dents back from lunch and we have only two hours before it’s time. We do what we can, but cutting the meat and making the fried pies has to happen at the last minute, so we are stalling at this point. We clean up the kitchen as much as possible, which will be nice in terms of getting out of here faster. We even play a quick hand of Go Fish (Cody wins). When the clock ticks down to just an hour until Shawn walks through that door, we spring into action.

Harlan fries up the pies, and I begin on the meat. The sausage is ready to go and the ribs are glistening and perfect. My barbecue sauce is my best-kept secret. It was Momma’s and her momma’s before her and on and on up the family tree. A good barbecue sauce should be as complex as the bouquet of a fine wine. It should have notes of sweetness, acidity, and a hint of pepperiness. The kitchen door clicks and Shawn walks in.

“How y’all comin’?” he asks, on edge.

“Good,” I say, looking up from the brisket.

“Good. I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Shawn says with an efficient nod.

Harlan grabs the tray without any fanfare. He sets it down on the counter and puts a plate in the center. I plate the brisket, sausage, and ribs. Cody scoops up a helping of the potato salad while Harlan cuts a white onion and pulls the pickles from the jar. He sets them on the side. Cody pulls a few slices of white bread from the wrapper and tucks them under the plate. Harlan brings the plate of fried cherry pies over and sets two down on a side plate.

“He didn’t ask for ice cream?” Jace asks, wandering over as the plate is in its final stages.

“No, sir,” I say.

“He probably forgot to ask for it,” Jace says.

“His loss,” I say, pouring the sweet tea into a large plastic cup. We stand around the tray.

Two minutes.

We just stand there as the brisket steams and the scent of the barbecue wafts over us. Harlan sets a couple of napkins down on the tray, as well. Cody clears his throat.

One minute.

I pick up the tray and turn toward the door. The door clicks over and Shawn walks into the kitchen.

“Take it,” I say, holding it out for him. Shawn nods, takes the tray, and as Jace holds the door open for him, leaves with it.

“Now let’s get you some supper,” I say, setting down two plates for the Dent boys. I serve up some barbecue, some potato salad, and set a fried pie on each. They pour themselves some sweet tea. Jace walks over just as we finish. The Dent boys’ two plates sit in front of us on the counter.

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 Dent boys retire to their table and chairs while I ready the guards’ supper. I set up the guards’ table and clean the rest of the kitchen while I wait for their return. When Shawn returns, we sit down and can’t wait to dig in. Brisket is passed, smoke rings are complimented, and stories are told. Shawn is tense and distant. I chalk it up to the weight of today’s events all falling on his (soon to be retiring) shoulders. The guards eat every morsel I’ve made, but grow tense and edgy as the time nears to do their next job. They don’t talk about their charge at all, but from the shared glances, this guy is doing a serious number on them.

They thank me for dinner. And leave. To do their job.

The Dent boys and I quickly clean the kitchen. We want to get out of here as fast as we can tonight. The stench of this man sticks to us all and I can’t wait to take a shower and climb into bed . . . with Merry Carole. This guy is freaking me out. The kitchen door clicks and Shawn walks in with the empty tray.

The apple is still there. Uneaten.

Harlan grabs it off the tray and throws it away.

“Cody, why don’t you close up that trash bag,” Harlan says. Cody pulls the garbage bag out of the can where the apple is. He knots it and stands there.

“I’ll take it out back,” Jace says, taking the bag from Cody.

None of us mentions the apple again.

Jace takes the Dent boys back to their cells after our good-byes. As Jace is walking out of the kitchen, Warden Dale joins Shawn and me in the kitchen. They exchange a look and Warden Dale passes me a slip of paper. Too bad I’m not a futurist, I’d love to know what all this fuss is about.



Inmate #354-M15:

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



“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask Warden Dale, the blood rushing from my head.

“No, ma’am,” Warden Dale says.

“This is the Number One. My mom’s famous meal from her old restaurant back in North Star. It’s even written the same, just like on the menu,” I say, holding the piece of paper as if it’s infected. Warden Dale is quiet. Shawn is watching me. Studying me.

I scan the paper once more.



with fresh strawberry ice cream



My stomach drops as I steady myself on the metal counter. Shawn steps forward. Just in case. Warden Dale holds his ground. The kitchen swirls around me and I can hear my own breathing in my ears.

“This is Yvonne Chapman’s order. I’d know it anywhere,” I say, my voice desperate and breathless. I hold the paper up and thrust it at Warden Dale. “Why am I holding Yvonne Chapman’s order like I’m back working at that damn shack?” My voice gets louder as an explosion inside me ignites everything. All of the delicate rebuilding, all of the intricate emotions I’d started untangling in the past few months go up in flames. Complicated monster or not, this is beyond the pale. My insides will soon turn to embers as I can only continue to stare at the paper.

They wait. As it finally dawns on me.

“No . . . no . . . no way. No f*cking way,” I say, shoving the piece of paper at Warden Dale.

“Queenie,” Warden Dale says.

“You want me to make this meal, my mother’s famous meal, for the woman who killed her? You want me to stand in this kitchen while the woman who made my sister and me orphans is just a few feet away from me, just behind that metal door I’m never supposed to go into? What makes you think I wouldn’t go over there and do it myself? I mean, if anyone had the f*cking right to kill Brandi-Jaques Wake, don’t you think it should have been my sister or me? And if we didn’t? If we were able to control ourselves, don’t you think Yvonne Chapman should have been able to? Was it really that bad? She could have just thrown us out, Warden Dale. Why didn’t she just throw us out? She didn’t have to kill her!” I scream, slamming the piece of paper down on the metal counter.

“Ms. Wake, you would do well to get in control of your emotions,” Warden Dale says. Shawn looks at Warden Dale, his entire body tense.

“You can go to hell. How’s that for control?” I say, turning around to pick up my knives. I sling them over my shoulder.

“Ms. Wake, destiny has given you an opportunity here,” Warden Dale says.

“Destiny has given me an opportunity? What does that even mean?”

“It means, like so many other victims’ families, you can have closure,” Warden Dale says.

“Closure is something only people who’ve never had someone in their family murdered talk about. How is she still even around?” I ask, trying to make sense of something.

“Her case has been in the appeals courts for years, but her time’s finally up,” Warden Dale says. I would have known this had I not vowed to no longer check that Web site. Is this better? The not knowing?

“Queenie, the meal isn’t until the end of next week. You can think about it,” Shawn says. My face softens as I listen to Shawn.

I nod and situate my knife case on my shoulder once again. I turn to walk out the back door of the kitchen, leaving the slip of paper on the counter.

“Ms. Wake?” Warden Dale holds up the slip of paper.

“I’ve been making that meal my entire life, Warden Dale. I’ll let you know Monday what I decide,” I say and walk through the door without looking back. The door slams behind me. My legs are heavy and I can feel every step I take as I walk to my car. My body doesn’t feel connected to my mind, which is somewhere back in that kitchen clutching that slip of paper. I dump my canvas bags and my knives in the hatch and slam it closed. My breathing is slow and I’m pretty sure I’m in some kind of shock at this point. My brain focuses on one thing at a time. Unlock the door. Check. Sit inside the vehicle. Check. I turn the key and the car revs to life. Put the car in reverse. Check. I drive past the guards’ tower and see the vigil in front of the prison. A crowd of people holding signs and candles rallies and demands to be seen. I don’t look at them as my breathing becomes labored. I get up on the highway and drive in silence all the way to North Star. Through the town square until I’m pulling down Merry Carole’s driveway. I walk inside, holding my keys in my hand. My driver’s-side door hangs open. I see it from out of the corner of my eye and stumble back over to close it. I walk inside the house again and find Merry Carole and Cal sitting at the dining room table going over his playbook.

“They want me to make Yvonne Chapman’s last meal,” I say, standing just inside the open doorway.

“Cal, honey, can you excuse us for a second?” Merry Carole asks, closing up his playbook.

“No, Momma,” he says.

“What?”

“No.” Cal’s bravado changes to terror as Merry Carole glares at him.

“Calvin Jaques Wake—”

“Momma, this is my family, too.” Cal leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He’s staying. Merry Carole looks from him to me. Her fixed stare could cut glass. I walk into the dining room and take a seat. Merry Carole raises her eyebrows.

“Warden Dale came in . . . well, let me back up. Shawn had said that the next two meals I’d be making were going to be more high profile. We were just finishing up today’s and Shawn walks in with Warden Dale. He usually just gives me the date and the order at the end of my shift. So I knew something was up. But I just thought it was another high-profile case or something went wrong. He hands me this little slip of paper, and it’s the Number One,” I say, looking at Merry Carole.

“She ordered the Number One?” Merry Carole asks, bringing her hand up and covering her mouth.

“Can you believe that?”

“How did you know it was Yvonne? I mean, that meal was pretty famous back in its day,” Merry Carole says.

“She ordered strawberry ice cream. Fresh strawberry ice cream,” I say.

“Dear Lord,” Merry Carole says.

“What? Is that bad?” Cal asks.

“Yvonne used to come to the shack all the time and order the Number One. And Momma didn’t allow any substitutions. She made it her way, and if you didn’t like it she’d run you off. Yvonne would always be going on about how we should have strawberry ice cream. It’d be so much better with strawberry ice cream. She had tons of it in the house when we stayed with her right at the end there.”

“And she always said fresh. Fresh strawberry ice cream. Like she knew better. Like she’d tasted the old raggedy kind in the supermarket, but she was so fancy that she liked her strawberry ice cream made fresh,” I say. Merry Carole nods in agreement.

“Yvonne thought she was real high class, way better than us Wakes. Of course, the rest of North Star didn’t quite agree,” Merry Carole says.

“So when Momma took up with Yvonne’s husband, well . . . Yvonne lost it,” I say in a haze, remembering it all now.

“How do you mean lost it?” Cal asks.

Merry Carole and I don’t answer right away. We’re off in our own little worlds, staring off into space. Both of us. Cal looks from Merry Carole to me and then back to Merry Carole.

“She took ’em both out,” I finally say.

“Both of ’em,” Merry Carole repeats.

“Her husband and your momma?” Cal asks. Merry Carole and I just nod.

“And the rest of the town? They couldn’t care less. I heard some woman at the store talking about it and she laughed, saying, ‘It’s not like there was any humans involved,’ ” Merry Carole says.

“You never told me that,” I say.

“Yeah,” Merry Carole says, nodding.

“And the thing of it was, if she hadn’t shot her husband, too? She would have been out a long time ago,” I say.

“Oh absolutely,” Merry Carole says.

“How come?” Cal asks.

“Shooting Momma was what any good Texas woman woulda done. They were in his bed; Yvonne was doing the Christian thing by putting us up for a time. She came home early from work and there they were. So she walked into their garage, pulled out the shotgun, loaded the shells, and . . .” I trail off.

“Holy shit,” Cal says. Merry Carole doesn’t even chastise him for his language.

“So not only was her husband catting around, but he was doing it with Brandi-Jaques Wake. Which—,” I say.

“She couldn’t allow,” Merry Carole says, sipping her tea. Her eyes are distant. Elsewhere.

“Why didn’t she just divorce him?” Cal asks.

“Because he’d ruined everything she had worked for and he had to pay,” I say.

“But they’re dead and now she’s the only one paying,” Cal says.

“Not true. We’re still paying. You’re still paying,” I say.

“So what are you going to do?” Merry Carole finally asks.

“There’s no way I’m making that meal for that woman,” I say.

“Why not?” Cal asks.

“It feels like this might bring some weird closure, you know?” Merry Carole says.

“People love throwing that word around,” I say.

“Who are you telling? Of course I understand the weight of the decision you have to make. My point is that this—” Merry Carole stops. She gathers her thoughts and continues, “We’ve let this one event that we had nothing to do with define our lives. Now it feels to me like you came back to North Star for a reason whether you knew that going in or not. This may not be a coincidence at all.” Merry Carole leans forward. She reaches across the dining room table and takes my hand in hers. She continues speaking. “I think it’s time for both of us—for all of us—to stop paying for something Momma did.”

“And how does me making this meal do that?”

“I don’t know, but the fact that you don’t want to makes me think it’s exactly what you have to do,” Merry Carole says.

“I’m not even sure that makes sense,” I say.

“I think it’d be cathartic. Maybe for all of us,” Merry Carole says, clearing the table.

“You don’t think this is the least bit twisted?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s completely twisted. But it might just be the jolt we need,” Merry Carole says.

“How can you be so calm about all this?” I ask.

“Well, first off, I don’t have to make the meal, but I think you need to do this more than I need to be mad about Yvonne and what she did and how Momma probably deserved it. I think it’s time we put this in the past where it belongs,” Merry Carole says.

Later, as Merry Carole bustles around the kitchen and Cal gets ready for bed, tonight’s conversation settles around me like dust. I feel inordinately scared. Living in the past has its benefits. Closing the door on this means I have to look to the future.