Nowhere but Home (33 page)

27

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

I pull Mom's skillet from my canvas bag as the lights flicker on in the Death House kitchen. It's Friday morning. I didn't need any test batches or research for this meal. And yet preparing to come in here today took everything I had. I had nightmares all week of squeaky shoes and muddy cemeteries punctuated by shotgun fire. I finally crawled into bed last night with Merry Carole sometime around three
AM
. She said she was waiting for me. My morning run with Cal and West felt good, and as I reached the ridge of that mountain I was thankful I saw Everett and Arrow ambling into the horizon. I stopped and chatted, but found myself unable to speak freely. I want to tell him everything and I just don't know how. Instead, I talked about what happened at the churchyard with Whitney and the boys. He said he was sorry for missing that. He hasn't been at church lately. He didn't say why. In the end, I used the boys as an excuse to get out of there. In truth, I felt way too exposed. And once again, I was waiting for him to step in and save me from myself.

The kitchen door clicks and Jace walks in.

“It looks like you're lying in wait,” Jace says, motioning to the skillet in my hand.

“Oh yeah,” I say, trying to loosen up. Jace walks over to me and just stands there.

“So you're leaving today and Shawn is leaving today. Was it something I said?” Jace's stumbling attempt at a joke is endearing.

“Of course not,” I say, smiling.

“Well, if I don't get the chance to say it later, it's been a pleasure,” Jace says, extending his hand to me. I set the skillet down on the counter and take his hand, mine quickly enveloped in his.

“I appreciate that. And thank you for being in here with me. It made all the difference,” I say, motioning to his chair by the door. I've left something for him. He looks over there and does an immediate double take. He walks over to his chair and looks at the basket I left him, then to me. “Open it!” I say. He obliges. The smell hits him first. An entire batch of churros, a thermos of Mexican hot chocolate, and a pint container of cajeta. And it's all his. He arranges the items back in the basket just as they were and just as meticulously closes the basket back up. He walks back over and hesitates, but then comes in for a hug. His holster and gun bump my hip as he pulls me in close, thanking me for being so thoughtful. He breaks away awkwardly and says he'll fetch the Dent boys for me. He takes his basket with him when he leaves.

I set out ingredients and begin to sketch the day ahead. I imagine Yvonne sitting in that little cell with the chaplain talking about mortality, regrets, and God's mercy. The other night I had the strangest feeling that she'd find out it was me. Somehow there'd be this moment where I'd be unmasked. But maybe that was just another one of my nightmares. The kitchen door clicks and Jace walks in with the Dent boys. I smile and know I'm going to miss them. But that thought actually begins to shift and morph into the germ of an idea.

“You're leaving?” Cody asks, walking over to me.

“Yes,” I say.

“It's been our pleasure,” Harlan says, extending his hand to me. I take it and we shake hands. His hands are calloused and rough, but his handshake is firm and confident. I extend my hand to Cody and he takes it. He won't look at me as we shake hands. I tilt my head down and make eye contact with him and he finally smiles.

“Warden Dale says the Dent boys are going to be in charge of last meals until they get out. He said he was a futurist, I don't know. Something about the future. I can't remember,” Jace says from his chair by the door.

“Oh yeah?” I ask.

“Yes, ma'am,” Harlan says.

“Y'all will do great,” I say.

“Yes, Chef,” they say.

“Well, why don't we get started,” I say. I made the decision not to tell anyone here about my relationship with Yvonne. I don't need a bunch of hangdog expressions as I work through my last day. I imagine the guards are already on edge simply because Yvonne is a woman. This will be a first for Shine. I lay out the schedule and guide Cody through the mashed potatoes and green beans. I put Harlan on the cream gravy while I start in on the fresh strawberry ice cream and pecan pie. The Dent boys leave for lunch, but I don't stop to eat. I can't. I move around the kitchen, cleaning and busying myself for as long as I can. I know she's just outside these walls. As the day moves on, I'm getting more and more antsy. But I don't dare leave. The pecan pie is in the oven and the ice cream is chilling in the freezer. As the walls settle in around me, I finally sit.

I let my eyes follow the clean silvery lines of the kitchen all the way around the room. I feel the tears begin to fall down my cheeks, tickling their way along the side of my nose. I taste their saltiness on my lips as I swipe at them with my sleeve. I think about that job in Portland. I realize it's not what I want anymore. I'm not the same chef I was just a few months ago. Hell, I'm not even the same person I was a few months ago. I've cried more in the last few days than I ever did in the ten years I was running.

I don't want to work in
a
kitchen, I want to work in
my
kitchen.

I want chairs that don't match and a porch with a swing. I want mason jars filled with wildflowers in the center of rustic wooden tables. I want flickering candles and a fire in a fireplace. I want mismatched dishes and old-timey silver. I want people to be able to smell what's cooking a mile away so that even though they don't know the address, they'll still find us. I want a honky-tonk band and couples dancing under colorful lanterns.

I want a place that feels like home. A place where I belong.

I stare at Momma's skillet, on the stovetop waiting for me to fry up those chicken fried steaks. She may not have loved me. She may not have even liked me. But goddamn if that woman didn't teach me how to cook. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and dial Neal Howard over at the Raven.

“This is Neal,” he answers.

“Mr. Howard, this is Queenie Wake,” I say, my voice too loud for this quiet kitchen.

“Oh yes. Hi, Queenie,” he says.

“Thank you so much for your offer, Mr. Howard, but I'm going to have to turn you down.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, sir. Once again, thank you so much for thinking of m—”

“May I ask why?”

“I've decided to open up my own place here in North Star,” I say. There it is. Out loud.

“Well, that's as good a reason as any, I suppose. We're sorry to have lost you, but the best of luck to you,” Neal says.

“Thank you,” I say. We say our farewells, and I beep my cell phone off and take a deep breath. I tuck my cell phone back in my pocket. I stand up and start milling around in the kitchen. Silence. Everything is in its place. Nothing needs my attention for at least . . . fifteen minutes.

I look at the door to the kitchen. And before I think better of it, I feel the cold metal of the handle under my fingertips and I'm walking out into the main area of the Death House.

“You all right, Chef?” Jace asks, standing up by his desk, his bagged lunch sitting in front of him. Roast beef on white. Mayo. Chips and a soda wrapped in tinfoil. His wife's doing. I smile at him and continue walking forward. He just watches me. Shawn finishes the phone call he was on, hangs up the phone, and approaches me like a wild animal.

“Queenie,” Shawn says. A warning.

“Shawn,” I say, scanning the room. I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't know why I left the kitchen.

Of course, those are lies. I know exactly why I'm out here and I know exactly what I'm looking for. Shawn sees me find it. A bank of closed-circuit televisions on the far wall by that fateful metal door that I'm never supposed to enter. Black-and-white television monitors. All showing a different angle of the Death Row cell. I walk toward it.

“Queenie, I need you to think about this,” Shawn says, following me. The rest of the guards are watching me, but don't move. Shawn is handling it; they're confident of this.

“I just need to see her,” I say, still not looking at him.

“Queenie,” Shawn says, putting himself between me and the closed-circuit televisions. I stop. I look up at him, finally making eye contact. So soft. So concerned.

“Please?” I ask. Desperate.

Shawn is still. Watching me. I can see him run through a few scenarios in his head, his eyes scanning the outer area and falling on each of the guards. He brings his hands up to rest on his holster; the leather creaks under his strength. Shawn moves his body ever so slightly. Enough to let me pass. A small nod and he follows me over to the grainy, black-and-white TVs.

My eyes shift and flick from one TV to the next. Long, empty hallways. A shot of the empty gurney and the cold, sterile execution chamber. I turn away from that screen as quickly as I can. My eyes finally settle on the cell itself and the two people just inside. I step forward. I lean in, my face now inches from the grainy moving images.

Yvonne Chapman. In all white. Spindly thin as she always was. Her hair is gray now and up in a tight bun on the top of her head. My breathing quickens as my mouth falls open. Her face is wan and those once bright brown eyes are now hollowed out and . . . sad.

“Queenie?” Shawn asks, his voice soft.

“Can we . . . can we hear what they're saying?” I ask, my voice breathy and not of this world. Shawn waits a beat. Weighing his options. This is the last day at the prison for both of us. He turns the volume up just so we can barely make out what they're saying.

“—the past.” The chaplain finishes a sentence. He's an older gentleman I've seen only once before. Somber and devout, his mission weighs him down. He leans over and speaks soft and close with Yvonne.

“I just can't,” Yvonne says, her voice shaky and frantic.

“This is about relieving yourself of all that weighs on you. Making peace before you go home.” Shawn takes my hand, and I squeeze it back. We both step closer.

“How do I make peace? How do I stand in front of my maker after what I done?”

“We are all God's children, Yvonne.”

“Not all of us, Chaplain.”

“Yes. All of us.”

“Even those of us who turned some of God's children into orphans?” My fingers jerk around Shawn's hand, and I can hear myself gasp. I freeze.

“Yvonne, you've confessed your sins. You've done your time.”

“And those kids? What about them? You know, Brandi-Jaques and that bastard husband of mine may have deserved what I done. Both of them. Birds of a feather, those two. Didn't care nothing for nobody.” Yvonne's voice cracks and chokes. The chaplain passes her a tissue. She continues, “But those girls? What did they deserve?”

“Yvonne, please—”

“I've started a million letters, but how do you say sorry for taking someone's momma? Even if that momma is BJ Wake,” Yvonne says, her voice sliding over Momma's name like it's poisonous.

“Do you want to try to write another letter? We can do that right now. Make amends? Ask for forgiveness?”

“Chaplain, no one's going to forgive me.”

I look from that grainy screen right up into Shawn's eyes. He just nods. He pulls out his key card, and I watch on the grainy black-and-white screen as Shawn walks down that long hallway and gets the chaplain's attention; then I see them both walk back down the hallway. The metal door I'm never supposed to enter opens up and there are Shawn and the chaplain.

“Chaplain Boothe, this is Queenie Wake,” Shawn says.

“Wake,” the chaplain says, extending his hand to me. He hesitates as we shake.

“I'm BJ Wake's daughter. One of them.”

“I'm not understanding. Why isn't Ms. Wake with the other execution witnesses, Mr. Richter?” the chaplain asks, his voice calm and official.

“Queenie is the chef here in the Death House. She's making Yvonne Chapman's last meal,” Shawn says.

“Oh.
Oh my
.” The chaplain situates and re-situates the cuffs on his starched white shirt.

“I'd like to talk to her,” I say.

“Ms. Wake, I—”

“She's asking for forgiveness, and I can give it to her. You want her to make peace? I can give that to her. Don't you want that for her?” I ask, my voice edgy and out of control. The other guards are now watching us. None of them moves.

“Ms. Wake, these are someone's last hours here on earth that you're tampering with. I am unsure you grasp the enormity of what you're suggesting,” the chaplain says.

I am quiet. My eyes shift back over to the TVs, and I watch as Yvonne lets her head fall into her hands. She's got just under six hours left on this earth. I look back at the chaplain. My breathing is now calm. My shoulders low.

“Please,” I say.

The chaplain looks from me to Shawn. Shawn gives the chaplain a nod. And with that the chaplain looks back at me and speaks.

“Follow me, Ms. Wake,” the chaplain says, turning and facing that metal door. Shawn puts his key card in and the door clicks open.

Squeaky shoes. The clock moves forward and the click echoes around the long hallway. My breathing is shallow, and I'm beginning to panic. I can see the side of the cell, the stripes of the bars playing tricks on my eyes. I snap my eyes away from the bars, down the long hallway, and they fall on the execution room at the end of the hall. My mouth is dry as I steady myself, planting my feet one after the other.

The chaplain and Shawn stop in front of the cell and both look to me. Shawn opens up the cell and holds the door for me. I breathe in. Deep.

I walk the few steps, past the chaplain and Shawn, and turn to face the inside of Yvonne's cell. She is sitting on the cot just past the door with her head in her hands. At the sound of my shoes squeaking against the sterile white floor, she looks up and it's as if she's seen a ghost. She stands. Then sits back down. Steadies herself. And stands again. She doesn't take her eyes off me. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Tears stream down her face as she searches for something to say.