Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,21
people we’re fine. We laugh, recount stories (leaving out all of the messy details) of our childhood, and talk about football. It’s a beautiful night.
“Dee says you’re going to be in town for a while,” Shawn says, as the meal winds down.
“Oh, does she?” I ask, giving Dee a wink.
“Oh, I uh . . . I was just thinking if you were planning on staying, I know of someplace that’s hiring. If you’re looking,” Shawn says. The crowd erupts in laughter as Fawn tells a story about Mom’s fryer catching fire one time and the drunken denizens of the Drinkers Hall of Fame offering their help by throwing their beer at the flames. I’m happy for the ringing laughter and Fawn’s hysterical storytelling. I don’t know how to answer Shawn’s question. Shawn continues, “The job is temporary, if that helps.”
“Any job can be temporary,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and move Shawn along.
“But this job is temporary ’cause people can’t seem to stand doing it longer than a few months,” Shawn says, looking over at his boys to make sure they’re not listening. They’re not. My curiosity is piqued.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I work over at the prison, not the main one in Huntsville, mind you, but the one over in Shine—just a short piece down the road,” Shawn says. I nod.
“He’s the captain of the Death House team,” Dee says, her voice a whisper.
“I’m not going to be there much longer, mind,” Shawn says.
“It’s just too hard on him . . . on all of us. We’re going to get into local law enforcement. He’s not far off from joining the county sheriff’s,” Dee says proudly, her arm laced around the back of Shawn’s chair.
“So what would I be doing?” I ask.
“You know how they make last meals, right?”
“I thought Texas stopped doing that?” I ask. I remember reading the articles about Texas putting a stop to the long-standing tradition because of one particularly disgusting convict gluttonously ordering a decadent last meal and then not touching a bite of it.
“The new warden is ambitious,” Dee says.
“He thinks he’s going to be the next W,” Shawn says with rolled eyes.
“He found some anonymous donor and has proclaimed he’s still going to make the last meals for the condemned,” Dee says.
“That’s where you come in,” Shawn says, motioning to the full-to-bursting plates on the table.
“You want me to make the last meals for the condemned? Are you serious?” I ask, my question breaking through the other conversations at the table.
“They’d be lucky to have you,” Shawn says, his paw of a hand bringing up his beer bottle and taking a giant swig. Merry Carole is now listening to our conversation. Everyone else is riveted to Fawn’s tall tales. Shawn continues, “Just think about it.”
“I will. I appreciate you thinking of me. Thank you,” I say.
“You don’t have to decide now, either. You go in for the interview, see if it’s even something you want to do, and then you decide,” Dee says.
“It’s creepy though, right?” I ask.
“It’s definitely not for everyone. Shawn’s only been the captain for a few months and he’s just . . . well, we’re ready for him to move on,” Dee says.
“Last meals,” I say, almost to myself.
“I’ve always looked at it like, if this is the law, then the least I can do is bring my integrity to the job,” Shawn says.
“How many meals are we talking?” I ask.
“I’ve heard Huntsville can go up to two a week some months. But over at Shine we do more like three or four a month,” Shawn says.
“And I never—”
“You never even know their names or what they’ve done, Queenie. I mean, you can ask, but it’s not information you have to know. You get an order. That’s it. They come over to the Death House that morning and spend the day with the chaplain. I’ll come get the meal from you and take it by four PM, and by six PM, well . . .” Shawn trails off.
“I always thought it was done at midnight,” I say.
“No, ma’am,” Shawn says, taking another pull from his beer. This is clearly not something he likes talking about.
“You know that the last-meal tradition started because people were superstitious about being haunted by the people they’d put to death?” Cal says, inserting himself into the conversation.
“Sweetie,” I say, uncomfortable with him getting involved.
“Timothy McVeigh only wanted two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream,” Cal adds.