Nowhere but Home (15 page)

12

Brisket, ranch beans, coleslaw, white bread, peach cobbler, and sweet tea

I have to pass under a guard tower, more razor-wire fences, and another guard booth just to park in Lot B when I return from shopping. I gather all the ingredients and transport them to the back of the kitchen in one trip. My skill—some may say pigheadedness—in trying to get everything in one trip being utilized to the hilt. I fumble with my key card, shifting and sliding canvas bags filled with fixings on an elbow here, cutting off circulation in a bended-back index finger there, and finally the door unlocks. I push open the kitchen door. The silence hits me immediately.

This is my first very own kitchen. I get to run it as I see fit. I let that sink in as I arrange my ingredients in stations. I walk freely around the space, breathing easy and getting more and more excited. I have nine hungry men to cook for tonight and I've never been more ecstatic. These are Texas men, all except Hudson, and this meal will . . . well, it'll be great. A smile cracks across my face and I feel light and happy. What does it say about me that I've never felt more at home than in this particular kitchen? I shake that off. I get to be happy. No more judgments. Whatever this kitchen is, it's mine and mine alone.

I walk out into the hallway, past the unmarked door of horrors, and find the guards at their desks. I see Shawn and walk toward him.

“You ready for the Dent boys?” Shawn asks, standing.

“Yes, that'd be great,” I say.

“You going to tell us what you're cooking?” Big Jim asks, coming out from behind his desk.

“Where would the fun be in that?” I ask, with a smile. Big Jim laughs—it's a great big belly laugh that cuts the room open, easing tension and sweeping away the eggshells on the floor.

“I'll call for the Dents,” Shawn says.

“I'll just wait in the kitchen?” I ask, motioning to the door.

“That'll be just fine,” Shawn says, a tired smile curling across his face.

I walk back to the kitchen and set up where the Dents will be. I imagine Harlan will act as an assistant, while Cody will take on more of a sous-chef role, cutting and preparing. It won't be limes and maraschino cherries just yet, but maybe we'll get there. I search cabinets and pull out pots and pans, getting ready for a full day of cooking. And we're going to need every minute. I hear the kitchen door click and open.

“Here you go, ma'am,” Jace says, presenting me with my kitchen staff, which consists of convicts.

“Thank you,” I say with a tentative smile.

“I'm going to be with you in here today, if that's okay,” Jace says, pulling up a chair by the door.

“Fine by me,” I say, not liking the cut of his jib one bit.

“Mind yourselves, boys,” Jace says as the Dents step forward.

“Okay, we have a lot to do,” I say, pulling out the menu I scrawled late last night. The Dents pull in close, Cody leans across the counter and studies the menu. I continue, “I smoked a brisket last night, took all night, but it's worth it. We'll put it in the oven thirty minutes before to heat it up and then carve it just before we all sit down,” I say.

“Yes, ma'am,” Harlan says.

“And I think to get our bearings in here, I'd prefer it if you call me Chef. Clear?” I ask, my voice strong. The Dents nod. I continue, “I want to do ranch beans, a slaw, and we'll finish with a peach cobbler,” I say. The Dents are quiet.

“My mouth is watering from over here, Chef,” Jace says, leaning his chair back against the wall. He hits the word “chef” with just enough derision to let me know he thinks it's ridiculous. Those in male-stripper-name glass houses,
Jace,
should not throw stones.

“Wait till you taste it,” I say, not looking up. Jace takes his
Statesman
newspaper and flips to the sports section.

“Cody, I want you to step in as what's called a sous-chef. It just means that you will cut and prepare all the food for Harlan and me to cook up. Does that make sense?” I ask.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Chef. Remember. And I'll walk you through how I like things done,” I say.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Harlan, I have a very particular way of doing things and I know you're actually a better cook than you let on,” I say. Harlan's face flushes just a bit. I continue, “So I'm going to ask you to do the hardest thing a chef is ever asked to do. I want you to cook more like me and less like you,” I say.

“Yes, Chef,” Harlan says.

“Okay, so let's get started,” I say, standing tall.

I set Harlan up first in charge of the ranch beans. Cody looks on, listening as I run through the ingredients. Jace makes a comment about why don't I just use the canned kind, craning his neck to find the immediately recognizable black can with the western-style writing, “Ranch-style Beans” that can be found in every kitchen in Texas. I hold my tongue only because it's my first day and I don't want Jace to take out my insolence on the Dents. I give him a charitable laugh and move on. He goes back to his newspaper. Harlan starts in on the ranch beans as Cody and I start on the slaw. He's cutting and preparing all the ingredients and we're officially off and running.

I settle in happily with my secret barbecue sauce where no one can see. I covertly add the ingredients and set it to the side. I check on Harlan and Cody periodically as the hours pass and they continue to cruise along. We're actually quite a good little trio. Cody is slow, and in the time it's taken him to prepare the ingredients for the slaw, Harlan is already through with the ranch beans and on to the cobbler. The day flies by. I am happier than I've been in . . . Jesus, maybe ever. I've never felt this at home in a kitchen this quickly. It throws me every time I look over at Jace and see his holstered gun or the clear outline of his bulletproof vest.

I'm in a prison, but it feels like home.

As the time for supper nears, I put the brisket into the oven for just a bit to heat it back up. Harlan finishes the last touches on the cobbler, while Cody stirs the ranch beans. I set the table with whatever institutional dishes and cutlery the small makeshift dining room has to offer. In the months to come, this is where everyone will congregate and share a meal the day of an execution. I want to make it as comfortable and homey as I can, hoping that this gathering place and this food can act as some kind of mental balm for what is in store. So we can eat and not be so alone in all this. I hope.

The table is set and I'm carving the brisket.

“That's a nice smoke ring, Chef,” Harlan says.

“That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say, with a smile. Harlan smiles and then we quickly hide our camaraderie from Jace and his holstered gun.

As the guards, Warden Dale, and Hudson gather around the table, I make up plates for the Dent boys.

“Eat,” I say, setting a plate in front of each of them, knowing if I sound authoritative enough, they won't want to disobey my orders.

“Yes, Chef,” they say, bending over the counters and settling into their meal. I'll make it a point to remember to ask Shawn if I can have a table and chairs for them in the future. I continue, “There's sweet tea in the fridge, help yourself,” I say, walking out into the dining area with the brisket. All of the men are standing around the table. I set the brisket in the middle.

“Sit, please,” I say, pulling my chair in and finally sitting down after a full day. The men sit once I'm settled. A full day has flown by. I've yet to notice how tired I am.

“This looks delicious, Ms. Wake!” Warden Dale says, sitting at the head of the table. Shawn is seated at the other end of the table, opposite the warden.

“Thank you, Warden Dale, and thank you for giving me this opportunity,” I say.

“You keep cooking like this and you won't ever have to worry,” Warden Dale says, taking the plate of brisket being passed to him from Little Jim. He takes it and serves himself. Everyone passes full plates and serves himself. I can see each one let the smells of the meal waft over them with closed eyes and memories of home.

“This brisket must have taken you hours,” Hudson says, sitting next to me.

“A brisket like this takes all night, son,” Shawn says, not even looking at Hudson. All of the guards laugh.

“Then you'd better walk me through how to serve this before I embarrass myself further,” Hudson says.

“Definitely,” I say, passing the brisket to Shawn, at the head of the table.

“You didn't have to agree so quickly,” Hudson says.

“You can do it a couple of ways. The white bread and the barbecue sauce plus the brisket make a nice sandwich, like Jace is doing,” I say, pointing to the now silenced doubting Thomas. I continue, “Or you can just have the brisket with or without barbecue sauce and with or without the ranch beans and slaw, kind of blending in, like turkey, cranberries, and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving,” I say.

“Isn't brisket supposed to be served with biscuits?” Hudson asks, serving himself some ranch beans.

The conversation at the table screeches to a halt. The guards and Warden Dale just shake their heads and continue talking and eating.

“I think from here on out, you just need to start actively censoring your thoughts and opinions. For your own safety,” I say, laughing.

Hudson shoves a piece of brisket into his mouth while the entire table bursts into hysterics.

Whatever this place is, whatever happens within these walls, these people are human like everyone else. Even if we don't want to feel or understand what happens here, we still sit around a table and appreciate a nice piece of brisket and mocking an out-of-towner who doesn't understand that even when you've got three generations in the dirt here in Texas, you're still New People.

The Dent boys are returned to their cells after the kitchen is cleaned, and as I putter and fuss around the kitchen I think about the next time I'll be here. Friday. When I'm cooking my first last meal. I can't imagine how I'll feel, what that will be like, what that will look like. I'll make it—will it—to be about the food. I can't think about anything else. I say my good-byes to the guards, crane my neck to see if Hudson is still around (he's not), and slip out the back door of the kitchen.

The door to the kitchen clicks and Shawn strides through.

“Tonight was just wonderful. Thank you,” he says.

“You're welcome. It was my pleasure,” I say, packing up my knives.

“Warden Dale wanted me to give you this. It's for Friday,” Shawn says, handing me a slip of paper. I know what's on this paper. I take it and steel myself.

“Thank you,” I say. I open the piece of paper and read.

 

Inmate # CF785241:

Fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits, fried okra, buttermilk pie (or chess pie), Blue Bell vanilla ice cream, and a Coke

 

I read and reread the last-meal request. It's been tweaked a bit since I saw it in Warden Dale's office. The inmate added Blue Bell ice cream. I read the meal again.

“You okay?” Shawn asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say, folding the sheet of paper and firmly putting it deep into my pocket. I'm going to let the success of tonight remain a bit longer before I really digest what's on that paper.

I pull in Merry Carole's driveway to the larger-than-life lawn sign emblazoned with Cal's name and jersey number. Merry Carole has placed it in front of a pair of lawn lanterns that were already there before the sign arrived. How long has she been preparing for this? I shuffle down the manicured path and into the house. I'm exhausted. I've been up now for almost forty-eight straight hours. I haven't stayed up all night with a brisket in years. It's really the blessed combination of smoke inhalation, dried-out eyes, and utter exhaustion that I've missed the most.

“Hello!” I announce, coming through Merry Carole's front door. The last-meal request burning a hole in my pocket.

“In here,” Merry Carole says from the kitchen.

The house is lit up and warm. As always. I happily sink into it every time. Merry Carole is sitting at the dining room table surrounded by books, opened binders, receipts, and a calculator.

“So how was your first day with the sign on your lawn?” I ask, pulling up a chair and taking in the scene.

“It was fine,” she says, grabbing a store receipt from a shoe box and stapling it onto a sheet of paper. She slams the three-hole punch down and then threads the paper into the binder. She labels it, “Salon—Administrative.”

“This is adorable,” I say, leaning back and getting ready.

“What is? I am? I'm adorable?” Merry Carole says, sifting and slamming receipts down onto the table.

“Maybe it has to do with how you haven't had someone who's gonna call you on your shit for so long? But this? This is completely transparent,” I say, motioning to her busywork.

“Which is it? Am I adorable or transparent?”

“Both.”

Merry Carole stops. Deflates. The tiny papers shuffle and flutter across the table. She stands and marches into the kitchen. She pulls two beers out of the fridge, cracks them open easily, and comes back to the table. She hands me one, clinks bottles quickly, and sits back down, slumping in her chair. I have no idea what's going on and every minute she holds back, I get more and more worried. I cut in as she situates her legs under her in the dining room chair. “Where's Cal? Is everything . . . is he . . .”

“Cal's fine. He's out with West and some other boys from the team,” Merry Carole says, offhandedly.

“You mean he's out with his brother,” I say.

“Queenie, please.”

“You mean, he's out with that unrelated boy who looks exactly like him and whose parents are ninety?”

“Now that's just mean,” Merry Carole says, unable to stifle her laughter.