Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,117
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.