Nowhere but Home (26 page)

“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.”

21

Merry Carole's mac 'n' cheese

He didn't eat the Starburst.

As I sit in my car after the guards' supper and after we cleaned up the kitchen, I can't stop staring at the colorful assortment of candy now littering my passenger seat. Shawn thought I'd want them. I didn't have the heart to tell him that they were, quite frankly, the last thing in the world I'd ever want.

He ate the tamales, the cabrito was gone, the rice and beans peppered the tray as he made soft tacos from the handmade corn tortillas. He dipped the churros in the cajeta and, based on the stain left on the mug, it looks like he actually just drank the Mexican hot chocolate. He picked the pomegranate seeds out of the ensalada and really ate only the citrus. The orange soda cans were crushed and bent. He was angry. Scared. Who knows?

But he didn't eat the fucking Starburst.

I watch the guards pace as dusk turns to darkness. This meal was harder in every way possible. I'm already over an hour late to meet Hudson and yet I don't move. I just need to sit here in the quiet of this car and run through tonight's events. The guards didn't really eat as much as the last time. That could have been about the goat more than anything else, come to think of it, but I don't think so. The Dent boys ate their supper at the table and chairs Shawn brought in for them sometime last week. Shawn stopped Jace before he took the Dent boys back inside the prison and before I escaped out the back door to the safety of Lot B.

“We just got word that your next meal is this Friday,” Shawn said. Harlan, Cody, and I just looked at each other. We had ten days between the last two meals.

“That's quick,” I said.

“The next two meals you're going to be cooking are for convicts brought in from Huntsville,” Shawn said. Harlan and Cody were deathly quiet.

“Is that a thing? Is that bad?” I asked.

“They're usually higher profile,” Shawn said, choosing his words carefully.

“Oh,” I said.

“Here's your next order,” Shawn said, handing me a slip of paper. I took it, but couldn't unfold the paper.

“Do you have the next one? The meal after this?” I asked.

“Why don't we take one meal at a time, Queenie,” Shawn said.

“Oh, all right,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

“I'm just . . . I know how focused you can be,” Shawn said.

“Sure . . .
sure,
and I appreciate that,” I said, unfolding the slip of paper. Harlan and Cody crowded around.

 

Inmate #8JM-31245:

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

 

I'm almost catatonic as I hold the little slip of paper in my hand now. Harlan, Cody, and I didn't need Shawn to go into what “barbecue” meant. Classic Texas barbecue is a beef brisket, sausage, and ribs. A “vegetable plate” is traditionally a potato salad, raw white onions, and pickles. Not quite what most people would call a healthy vegetable plate, but this is how we do it in Texas.

As I roll down my window, hoping a rare summer breeze will find its way to me, I think about that damn apple. It's the unique, individualized requests that affect me. First it was the Starburst, and now this apple. I'm already winding myself up about being the one who has to choose the last apple this person ever eats. And I can't even bite into it. What if it's mealy? Bruised? Why didn't he just ask for a fried apple pie? I won't have long to obsess about it and I certainly don't need the time to practice or research. I could make barbecue in my sleep. And because this meal is going to take me two days to prepare, I really only have tomorrow off. This is a good thing.

I run Shawn's words through my head over and over again. My next two meals are for high-profile inmates transferred from Huntsville. What does that even mean? Why would they do that? Enough. Just . . . drive, Queenie. Get to the bar and have a well-earned drink. Get to the bar and see Hudson. Everything will be better.

As I drive to Evans, I think about the night ahead. I just want to lose myself and not think about any of this. The Death House. High-profile inmates being shipped in from Huntsville. A lot of things.

I finally pull up to the bar with my mind set. I'll knock back a couple of bourbons and let Hudson take me away fr—

“Hudson?” I ask, realizing I know one of the drunken twosome stumbling from the bar.

“I didn't think you were coming,” Hudson says, straightening up. The woman he's draped around catches the hint and gathers herself.

“Clearly,” I say, looking from him to the woman. She is
that
woman. The woman you pick up in a bar one night who you couldn't pick out of a lineup the next day. Thin, blond hair, questionable makeup, and a giant neon sign over her head that says you can take her home and never have to call her again.

“Can you excuse us?” Hudson says to the woman, motioning for her to go back in the bar. She stumbles inside.

“You don't know her name, do you?” I ask.

“I think I knew it at one time,” Hudson says. That sinking feeling about Hudson rises to the surface. We're all little plastic army men he's moving around some battlefield on his bedroom floor. Objects. Not people. Hudson continues, “You really should have called.”

“No, I'm actually glad I didn't,” I say, turning back around and heading to my car. I don't need this bullshit.

“So that's it?”

“Yep.”

“Is this about the other night? At Delfina's?”

“You mean you don't think stumbling out of a bar with another woman on the same night you're supposed to meet me is enough of a reason for me to take off?” I ask, approaching him.

“Well, a departure yes, but this feels a bit final.”

“Does it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Good. Because it is,” I say, continuing to my car. Hudson follows.

“I'm only here for the summer, what did you think was going to happen?”

“Shipping off to war, are we?”

“What?”

“You're heading back to Austin, Hudson. To teach. You're acting like this is your last night ashore.”

“You being hilarious about this is really inconvenient.”

“Then I'll just be on my way.”

“I think it's about that guy—that coin-toss guy. I'm a professional, remember?”

“How about you save your condescending, dimestore psychoanalytic bullshit for a time when you don't have Barbie Fucksalot waiting for you.” Hudson looks over his shoulder and back at the girl by the bar.

“It doesn't take a fancy degree to know what's going on with people, Queenie,” Hudson says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. Of course I didn't know he smoked.

“Oh, I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“You like to play with your food, don't you?”

“What?”

“When you came at me at Delfina's the other night, I knew something was off about you.”

“There's nothing off about me.” He takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Sure there is. People are interchangeable to you. I mean, look at this. I wasn't here, you got another one. No harm, no foul.” I motion to the other woman, still by the bar.

“That's not—”

“You've got nothing, so you find people to feed off of. To empty. So you can feel something. And then you go home to your absent, lecherous father and your martyred, shallow mother and tell them tales about what a bad boy you were, hoping they'll finally pay attention to you. See? No fancy degree needed, just like you said,” I say, my voice getting calmer and calmer.

“That theory only works if I can add a bit of an addendum.”

“What?”

“The trashier the girls the better.”

I slap Hudson's face without thinking. He actually looks shocked. He claps his hand on his cheek and his eyes flare momentarily. And then he smiles.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” I say, pointing at him. My finger is one inch from his face.

“Oh, did that hit a bit too close to home?”

“You know it did,” I say.

“Hey, you guys okay?” The woman stumbles over to us from her perch by the bar. Hudson wraps his arm around her as she tumbles into him.

“You're not as unique as you like to think,” I say to Hudson.

“Neither are you,” Hudson says, tugging the girl closer. She flicks her cigarette into the gutter.

“He waxes his eyebrows,” I say to the woman, pointing at Hudson.

“What?” She tilts her body back and takes a better look at Hudson. He turns away from her and they stumble back into the bar. Hudson doesn't look back.

I climb inside my car and watch as they walk down the pristine Evans street, and past the adorable B and B I will never see the inside of. The Starburst shift and slide on my front seat as I get on the highway and drive toward North Star.

I made a meal for a young man today who was too young to know any better. At least that's what everyone kept saying during supper. “
Too young to know any better
.” “
He didn't have a chance,”
they repeated. They felt worse about this kid than they did about the first man I cooked for, because they felt he wasn't responsible for his actions. I imagine the family of the store clerk he shot would think differently.

Hudson. I should be angrier. Instead, I can't stop thinking about Everett. I get off the highway and find myself driving through the town square, past Merry Carole's house and on into the hills where Cal and I run every morning. It's black as pitch up here at night. I drive past the Paragon gate and think. I know he inherited some land from his grandparents. I remember us going and taking a look at it. I slow my car to a snail's pace as I try to remember. I turn off the radio and roll down the window. I make a few turns. Wrong ones. Flip a U-turn. Another couple of turns and a few dead ends later and I'm pulling down a long dirt road that I recognize. There it is. At the end of the dirt road. Everett's home.

I shut the lights off like they do in the movies, but it's too late. The porch light comes on and the front door opens. Everett. Arrow is just behind him, barking and wobbling in the doorway. He's calming the old dog and telling him to cool it.

I roll to a stop, finally turning off the car. I don't know why I'm here. My stomach is somewhere in my throat. I collect the Starburst on my passenger seat and crawl out of my car, slamming the door behind me. I can see it in Everett's entire body when he realizes who it is. He walks forward and out onto his porch. He's wearing a white T-shirt and some plaid pajama bottoms and is barefoot. His hair is uncombed and he's wearing glasses. Everything about how unguarded he is right now breaks my heart. Maybe that's why I'm not mad at Hudson. Because the first thing I thought about after driving away from Evans wasn't what I'd lost with Hudson, it was what I'd lost with Everett. Hudson never had a chance. Of course, he knew that.

“I didn't know you wore glasses,” I say, walking the apparent nine miles to his house from where I parked.

“Ah, yes. I'm going blind in my old age. I didn't know you knew where I lived,” Everett says.

“You showed this land to me once. When you first got it,” I say, stepping up onto the porch. Arrow waddles over to me, tail wagging, still half-barking. “Hey, boy . . . look at you. All grown up. That's a good boy.” I hold my hand out to let him smell it and he finagles an entire pet out of the opportunity.

“That's right, but you haven't seen the house yet. You brought candy?” Everett asks, stepping aside and gesturing for me to come inside. Arrow launches himself into the house first.

“No, I haven't seen the house. And this is the last-meal candy that I don't know what to do with. He didn't eat it,” I say, walking inside Everett's house, holding the handful of Starburst aloft. Everett shuts the door behind me.

Everett's house is not as grand as I would have thought based on the amount of land around it. Arrow waddles over to his dog bed, his feet skidding a bit on the dark hardwood floor. He plops down and sighs, letting his head fall on the cushion, still watching our every move.

“I know. He's getting old,” Everett says, walking over to the large gray sectional and shutting off the sports recap playing on the flat-screen TV. The flat screen's positioned over the large fireplace that anchors the far wall. The great room is just that. Great. High ceilings with exposed rafters soaring to and fro. French doors and wood paneling. Warmth and light combined in a way that makes you want to sink into Everett's house with a cup of tea, a good book, and watch the seasons change. This isn't helping the situation.

“He's such a great dog,” I say, not knowing where to stand or why I'm here.

“No, he's not,” Everett says, looking just as awkward.

“I'm sorry I barged in on you,” I say.

“I'm glad you did. Can I get you anything or did you just want to eat last-meal Starburst?” Everett walks through the great room and gestures for me to follow him. I oblige, still clutching the Starburst.

“I don't know why I brought them,” I say, walking into his kitchen. Open shelving and a well-used wooden country table invite, but don't overwhelm you. He opens up the refrigerator and pulls two beers out. He cracks them both open and hands one to me. I take a long drink.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table.

“He was a kid. I knew it, too. His last meal was clearly trying to re-create Christmas. And he asked for Starburst, but then he didn't eat them. I'm finding it's those little personal things that are getting to me. The other guy ate the ranch dressing that I just happened to add at the last minute. I mean, what if I hadn't added it?” Everett sets his beer down on the table and reaches over and pries loose the Starburst from my hand.