Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,129
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