Nowhere but Home (18 page)

Two minutes.

Harlan, Cody, and I stand there and gaze at it all. The glistening fried chicken, the potato salad, and fried okra. The biscuits still steaming from the oven. A ramekin of honey butter and another of ranch dressing set off the meal. The chess pie and the Blue Bell ice cream are just begging to be devoured.

“Well, goddamn,” Jace says, now standing behind us. I don't look at him. I don't know what comes over me in that moment. I hold out my hands to Harlan and Cody, on either side of me. The men jostle a bit, making room for Jace, and we all join hands. We stand over the meal.

One minute.

“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, my eyes closed and beginning to well up.

“Amen,” the men say, quickly dropping hands.

The key card clicks and Shawn walks into the kitchen.

“Queenie, it's time.”

15

Garrison Brothers bourbon and branch

I slam the hatch of my car down and walk to the driver's-side door. I unlock the door and sit behind the wheel, clutching the piece of paper Shawn gave me as I left the kitchen. I start the car and blast the air-conditioning. I sit there letting the coldness hit my face. The car idles and strains through the blasting air-conditioning. My hands are clamped tight around the steering wheel. I watch the guards pace. Pace. I can't think. I can't form a thought. I feel as though I'm holding back a flood with the mantra “Don't let one drop spill or it'll all go.” I'm taking shallower and shallower breaths, because even the idea of breathing threatens the dam. I am the gasp of air you take before you go underwater. The guard paces. The car yearns and sputters some more. My hands are still clamped down tight around the steering wheel.

The guards' supper was somber, but everyone needed it. We passed food and were quiet. But we were quiet together. We said grace and even laughed once about Hudson wanting to put biscuits with his brisket. We didn't talk about why we were gathered. We just let the food warm us. Comfort us. Join us.

I cleaned the kitchen with the Dent boys after they'd eaten their supper. We were almost done cleaning when I heard the key card click and Shawn walked back through the kitchen. He was holding the tray with the convict's plate of food. He set the tray down.

“You did good, Queenie,” Shawn said as he watched me eye the tray.

“He didn't like the dark meat,” I said, pulling the tray over. Shawn didn't look at the tray.

“Why don't you go on home. The Dent boys'll do this last bit,” Shawn said as he motioned for the Dent boys to clear this tray stat. I grabbed the tray and placed each one of my arms around it, protecting it.

“No,” I said, quiet but dangerous.

“All right now,” Shawn said, used to dealing with crazy.

I remember breathing. And refocusing on the tray. On what was left. I remember not wanting to touch anything. I restrained my own hands in an attempt to control myself. In an attempt to control anything. Shawn just looked drained.

“I don't mean to be troublesome. I just want to see. Just give me a minute,” I said, trying to ease up after a hard day. I didn't need Shawn feeling responsible for me after all he'd been through. But I did need him to let me see what was left. I needed to study the ruins.

“All right,” Shawn said, backing away.

“I'm fine. Thank you, Shawn,” I said.

Shawn nodded and looked over at Jace, who was at his post by the door, then he left the kitchen.

“He sure liked that ranch dressing you put on there,” Cody said, motioning to the empty ramekin. Cody didn't touch the tray either.

“I know,” I said. I still wonder if I put enough. Did he want more? Should I just put ranch on every tray from now on? Jesus. From now on.

“He ate everything,” I said, finally touching the plate.

“The guilty ones do,” Harlan said under his breath.

“The guilty ones do,” I repeat now as I am in my car just thirty minutes later. Who had I just fed? It'd be easy to find out. All I would have to do is ask or turn on the news. I don't want to know. I can't know. I can't set this precedent. It'll infect the cooking. I know it. I let my head fall, my forehead touching down on the steering wheel. I breathe. “The guilty ones do,” I repeat again, my voice a rasp.

I open the piece of paper.

 

Next Tuesday

Inmate #HB823356:

Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with rice and beans, orange soda, churros, and a pack of Starburst

 

I read and reread Shawn's scrawled writing. Whether I like it or not, I begin to think about the person (man? woman? murderer? innocent?) behind this order. I know that this is a traditional Mexican Christmas dinner. The tamales and the ensalada de noche buena give that away. I've never cooked goat (cabrito) before: I'll have to tinker with that this week. But what dawns on me as I stare at that crumpled piece of paper is that I have to ask Shawn a question about this person. One question and I'll be off and running. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial the direct line to the guards' station just inside.

“Death House.” It's LaRue.

“Hey there, LaRue, this is Queenie Wake.”

“Oh, hiya, what can I do for you, Queenie?”

“Is Shawn still around?” My hands smooth and crumple the tiny sheet of paper.

“Yes, ma'am, he's right here.” LaRue puts me on hold. The air-conditioning blares as I wait. The dusky evening begins to darken further.

“Queenie? Everything okay?” Shawn asks.

“Oh absolutely. I just . . . I had a question about next Tuesday's order?” I smooth the paper out once more.

“Sure, go ahead,” Shawn says.

“I need you to ask this . . .” I trail off.

Shawn jumps in, “Gentleman.”

“I need you to ask this gentleman where his grandmother is from.”

“You want me to ask him where his grandmother is from?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I get to know why?”

“He ordered tamales. They're one of the most regionally specific foods out there. The thickness of the masa, the filling, roja, verde
. . .
I just hope it's not Oaxaca, I have no idea where I'll get a banana leaf th—”

“All right. All right. I get it,” Shawn says.

“I don't want to make the wrong kind,” I say.

“I'll let you know,” Shawn says. We say our good-byes and I beep my cell phone off and just sit there. The darkness has officially fallen as I watch the guards pace back and forth on the prison's walls. The blinding floodlights focus and search, focus and search.

I'm jolted out of my purgatory of reverie by someone knocking on my window. I whip my head up, numb and confused. I gather myself just enough and roll down the window; the humidity streams in.

“Hudson, right?” I ask, my mind everywhere and nowhere. I tuck the piece of paper in my pocket, realizing too late that to do so makes me squirm and wriggle in my seat. I shove it down deep and focus.

“You need a drink,” Hudson says, his hand now resting on my car door.

“I need to—”

“Follow me,” he says, tapping my car twice and walking to his car a few parking spaces down.

“I appreciate th—,” I start, but he's already getting into his car, the engine revving to life. “I
could
use a drink,” I say to myself, watching as he pulls out of his parking space. I quickly pull out my cell phone and text Merry Carole so she won't worry.

“
Today went fine. Need a drink. Stopping for one with Professor California.
” I send the text and back out of my parking space. My phone buzzes as I'm just about to put the car in drive.

“
You okay?
”

I text back, “
I'm good. We'll talk in the morning. Night-night.
”

Hudson drives past guard towers and razor wire and out of Lot B. Just as I'm about to follow my phone buzzes again.

“
What will North Star do with two town whores? It'll be an embarrassment of riches. Be careful. Call if you need a ride.
”

I text back, “
Will do. Xoxo.
”

I follow Hudson down the street that takes us away from the prison. Takes us away from today. I stare at his red taillights as my mind continues its vigilance with the dams, walls, and panic rooms it's built in the last few hours. Growing uncomfortable with the silence, I turn on the radio and follow Hudson as we wind through the hills just outside Shine to somewhere only he knows. With so much thought about futures and pasts lately, it's nice to be with someone who is firmly in the here and now.

After twenty or so minutes, we arrive in a town just east of North Star called Evans. Evans is where Hollywood goes to film a “quaint Texas town,” with its main street done up just so and its inhabitants fully aware of how appealing the town is. I only know Evans because North Star beats their football team handily every year. Hell, everyone beats the Evans football team each year quite handily.

Hudson pulls up in front of a picturesque bed and breakfast that's off the main street. We get out of our cars and walk toward each other in the empty street.

Of course, this is where Hudson is staying for the summer.

“The bar's just over here,” Hudson says, motioning toward the next block over.

“Oh good,” I say as we begin walking.

“You seem relieved.”

“I thought this might quickly be turning into a whole ‘come on in for a nightcap' thing.” He smiles back in a way that makes my face flush. We pass warmly lit homes with families sitting on porches sipping lemonade. Doing everything people not from here think small-town life is about. Evans's townspeople wave and call out to Hudson by name. Everyone knows everyone here—especially the out-of-towners. A lot of the talk is about how hot it is and how Hudson probably wishes he was back in California. He laughs and says the food is better here. Before I know it, we're in front of the local watering hole. It's called the the Meat Market. Get it? Even Evans's bars are endearing.

The bar is better than I would have thought given its name and location. It's dimly lit—albeit self-conscious. The wood paneling isn't smoke stained and as old as the railroad, it's actually tasteful and adds warmth to the room. Hudson and I walk past a pool table and weave through the bar crowd. The crowd is dense and loud. Young. These are college kids home for the summer. A lot of girls in short skirts and cowboy boots sing along to Carrie Underwood as they hang on each other and warn their suitors they're not above taking a Louisville slugger to both headlights.

I need bourbon.

The crowd moves and sways as Hudson and I inch our way through. It's a Friday night and this is the only good bar for miles. As the crowd jostles, Hudson takes my hand and leads me on toward the bar. So easy. Just like that and no one is looking, no one is gossiping, and no one is wondering why a man like that would hold the hand of a woman like me. I squeeze his hand tight as we approach the bar.

“What are you having?” Hudson yells over the din.

“Bourbon and branch,” I yell back.

“What?” he asks, leaning in close.

“Bourbon and branch. Garrison Brothers, if they have it,” I say, my breath fluttering his black flips of hair.

“I don't know what that is, but I'm getting two,” he says, leaning forward on the bar. The chiseled-jaw, cowboy-hatted bartender (who looks like he does some stripping on the side) leans forward and offers Hudson a kind—if not somewhat stereotypical—“Howdy.”

“I'll see if I can find a table,” I yell, scanning the crowded bar.

“The quieter the better,” Hudson yells over the noise. I nod and edge my way out toward the patio. The outside area is much quieter and a lot more authentic than I expected. A welcome discovery. The patio furniture is easy and relaxed. Swamp coolers and fans make the temperature only a bit wet and muggy. Even with all these amenities, there are very few people out here. It's perfect. I find a wooden bench in a distant corner, situate the canvas striped pillows, and settle in. The wooden table is scarred by numerous drink rings, knotty flaws, and even a few carved-in initials. Some older women cradle their Lone Stars a few tables over. They crouch over their table in a drunken sway, their hair matted, their spirits dashed. They are the “last call” women. They remind me of Mom. I realize I'm staring. Maybe I'm just brain dead after today. I didn't sleep at all last night and I can't imagine tonight will be any better.

Next Tuesday. Oddly, it's not the traditional Mexican Christmas that gets to me, although this inmate trying to re-create a happier time is tragic. It's the Starburst. It seems so childlike to want candy. The two older women hoot and holler as a drunken frat boy stumbles by them. I'm actually thankful for the jolt. It's too early to be depressed about the next meal. I've got work to do. I have to experiment with the cabrito, and once I know where his grandmother is from, I can start doing my research on what kind of tamale we're talking about. Once again, Queenie . . . focus on the food. Focus on the food.

“Here you are,” Hudson says, walking over to the table two drinks in each hand, four total.

“You're a genius,” I say, reaching for two glasses.

“Cheers,” Hudson says, clinking glasses with me as he settles himself across from me, his wooden chair skittering under his weight.

“What are we toasting?” I ask, downing my drink in one gulp.

“Life,” Hudson says, downing his.

“Ironic,” I say, reaching for my other bourbon.

“Is it?” Hudson says, pulling his other bourbon close.

“I can't figure out if you're being purposefully obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, downing my second bourbon.

“Probably a combination,” Hudson says, downing his second.

“Hmm,” I say, eyeing him closely. I scan the patio for a cocktail waitress. I need a beer. We need beer.

“So branch is just water. A bourbon and branch is just bourbon and water,” Hudson says, looking over his shoulder for the cocktail waitress as well.

“It's water that comes right from the land where the distillery is. It's not just any water,” I say, finally getting the cocktail waitress's attention.

“But it
is
water, just the same,” Hudson says, just as the cocktail waitress approaches.

“What are y'all drinking?” the cocktail waitress says, dropping a couple of Lone Star beer coasters onto our table.

“Apparently, we're drinking bourbon and fancy water,” Hudson says.

“Bourbon and branch, hon,” the cocktail waitress says, looking to me. We share a “yes, he's not from here” moment.

“Two Shiner Bocks, please. And water when you get the chance. Just
regular
water,” I say, my accent thick enough to make up for Hudson's languid California drawl. The cocktail waitress gives me a quick nod and is off into the bar.