Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,22

based on someone’s last meal,” Dee says.

“I have no idea what mine would be,” I say.

“Really?” Dee asks.

“Oh absolutely . . . there’s too much to choose from,” I say.

“Strawberries. Just strawberries as far as the eye can see,” Dee says.

“John Wayne Gacy wanted a pound of strawberries,” Cal says. Dee looks mortified.

“How do you know so much about this?” I ask.

“We were just studying the death penalty in history. We got to talking about last meals,” Cal says. Merry Carole stands and picks up the empty pitcher of lemonade. She motions for me to follow her. I excuse myself and follow Merry Carole into the kitchen.

“Are you talking about the death penalty during supper?” Merry Carole says in hushed tones and behind the open refrigerator door.

“Shawn asked if I wanted to make the last meals over at the prison,” I say.

“He’s not happy there, though, says it’s no kind of place to work.”

“I know.”

“Are you thinking about doing it?”

“I mean, if I want to really get a good nest egg going for the next city, it would be nice to stop cutting into my savings,” I say.

“You can work at the salon,” Merry Carole says.

“I can do that, too. This would be only a few times a month. I wouldn’t see anyone and all I would do is cook one meal.”

“Yeah, one last meal for a murderer.”

“What if . . . what if food can do for these people what it does for me, you know? Transport them to another time and place.”

“These people are the worst of humanity. You can never forget that.”

“I won’t forget it. And look, I’ve worked in so many places I’ve probably already cooked for a murderer or two. Who knows?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am.”

“And now . . . now you come back into town and start working at the prison? What will everyone think?”

“Are you really asking that?”

“Well?”

“They’ll think I’m a piece of white trash who should be mocked and ignored . . . oh wait, they already do.”

Merry Carole is quiet. The pitcher is full of lemonade. We have to go back to the table.

“Just please don’t talk about it anymore tonight,” Merry Carole says, walking back toward the dining room.

“I won’t.”

“And, sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we’re ready for your pecan pie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

7

Leftovers

I didn’t mention Shawn’s offer to Merry Carole again. I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I lay awake night after night in the tiny twin bed. It finally came to me that there was something drawing me to the job. Was it because I’d finally found a job where being intensely passionate about food was exactly what they were looking for? Or was it because “temporary” was right there in the job description? Was I identifying a bit too much with the people I’d be cooking for? Or was it simply because I’d sent out countless résumés and applied for several jobs from Dublin to Portland and heard either nothing or gotten polite rejections in response. Whatever it was, I couldn’t shake it. I fell into a depressed stupor and started spending day after day on Merry Carole’s couch, the words “come back on my own terms” pinballing around my dark and crowded head.

Worse yet, I began thinking about things: my life, my future, my past. These were not happy thoughts. Inertia had produced exactly what I’d always feared: contemplation.

I needed to act fast.

Once everyone was safely out of the house, I called the number Shawn had given me.

“Warden Dale Green’s office, this is Juanita,” the woman’s voice was sugar and all business.

“Hello, ma’am, I was given the warden’s number by Shawn Richter. About cooking last meals?” My voice is hesitant. Speaking about the job seems macabre.

“Oh, of course.”

“I’d like to know if the job is still available?”

“It is.”

Juanita is really making me work for this. Fine. Two can play this game.

“I’d like to apply for that job. What can I do to facilitate this?”

Juanita rattles through her spiel of fax numbers for résumés, background checks, fingerprinting, interviews, and what can only be described as “rigmarole.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that. Where would you suggest I start,” I ask, scanning the scrawled notes I took of her directions.

“Fax me over your résumé, and I’ll give it a look. I’ll call you if I see something I like. If I don’t, I won’t.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Whereabouts you from, honey?”

“North Star, ma’am, born and bred.”

“That’ll help.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll be waiting for your résumé then,” Juanita signs off. I skitter around the house, boot up Merry