Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,119
Is this better? The not knowing?
“Queenie, the meal isn’t until the end of next week. You can think about it,” Shawn says. My face softens as I listen to Shawn.
I nod and situate my knife case on my shoulder once again. I turn to walk out the back door of the kitchen, leaving the slip of paper on the counter.
“Ms. Wake?” Warden Dale holds up the slip of paper.
“I’ve been making that meal my entire life, Warden Dale. I’ll let you know Monday what I decide,” I say and walk through the door without looking back. The door slams behind me. My legs are heavy and I can feel every step I take as I walk to my car. My body doesn’t feel connected to my mind, which is somewhere back in that kitchen clutching that slip of paper. I dump my canvas bags and my knives in the hatch and slam it closed. My breathing is slow and I’m pretty sure I’m in some kind of shock at this point. My brain focuses on one thing at a time. Unlock the door. Check. Sit inside the vehicle. Check. I turn the key and the car revs to life. Put the car in reverse. Check. I drive past the guards’ tower and see the vigil in front of the prison. A crowd of people holding signs and candles rallies and demands to be seen. I don’t look at them as my breathing becomes labored. I get up on the highway and drive in silence all the way to North Star. Through the town square until I’m pulling down Merry Carole’s driveway. I walk inside, holding my keys in my hand. My driver’s-side door hangs open. I see it from out of the corner of my eye and stumble back over to close it. I walk inside the house again and find Merry Carole and Cal sitting at the dining room table going over his playbook.
“They want me to make Yvonne Chapman’s last meal,” I say, standing just inside the open doorway.
“Cal, honey, can you excuse us for a second?” Merry Carole asks, closing up his playbook.
“No, Momma,” he says.
“What?”
“No.” Cal’s bravado changes to terror as Merry Carole glares at him.
“Calvin Jaques Wake—”
“Momma, this is my family, too.” Cal leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He’s staying. Merry Carole looks from him to me. Her fixed stare could cut glass. I walk into the dining room and take a seat. Merry Carole raises her eyebrows.
“Warden Dale came in . . . well, let me back up. Shawn had said that the next two meals I’d be making were going to be more high profile. We were just finishing up today’s and Shawn walks in with Warden Dale. He usually just gives me the date and the order at the end of my shift. So I knew something was up. But I just thought it was another high-profile case or something went wrong. He hands me this little slip of paper, and it’s the Number One,” I say, looking at Merry Carole.
“She ordered the Number One?” Merry Carole asks, bringing her hand up and covering her mouth.
“Can you believe that?”
“How did you know it was Yvonne? I mean, that meal was pretty famous back in its day,” Merry Carole says.
“Yvonne used to come to the shack all the time and order the Number One. And Momma didn’t allow any substitutions. She made it her way, and if you didn’t like it she’d run you off. Yvonne would always be going on about how we should have strawberry ice cream. It’d be so much better with strawberry ice cream. She had tons of it in the house when we stayed with her right at the end there.”
“And she always said fresh. Fresh strawberry ice cream. Like she knew better. Like she’d tasted the old raggedy kind in the supermarket, but she was so fancy that she liked her strawberry ice cream made fresh,” I say. Merry Carole nods in agreement.
“Yvonne thought she was real high class, way better than us Wakes. Of course, the rest of North Star didn’t quite agree,” Merry Carole says.
“So when Momma took up with Yvonne’s husband, well . . . Yvonne lost it,” I say in a haze, remembering it all now.