Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,28

to go through. She nods to the warden and closes the heavy wooden door behind me. I swallow. Hard. The warden continues, “Have a seat, Ms. Wake.” The warden is a titan of a man. He stands way over six feet, but with the worn-in Stetson that he’s hung on the antlers of the mounted stag behind him, I expect he’s pushing NBA standards. The Stetson also probably hides a reddish-auburn hairline that’s clearly receding. His skin is pale and his brown eyes are clear and bright. He extends his hand to me and he envelops mine.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, not knowing whether to shake his hand, sit down, or do the hokey pokey.

“Please call me Warden Dale,” he says, motioning for me to sit. He comes out from behind his desk and walks over to a drinks cart on the far wall of his office.

Warden Dale’s office is decorated as if it were a hunting lodge. Along with the stag, he’s got a stuffed wild boar, a six-point buck, and various and sundry varmints posed in threatening positions, which they most certainly were not in when shot by Warden Dale. Warden Dale’s heavy wood walls anchor his dark leather furniture and expensive oriental rugs. He takes the stopper out of a crystal decanter and pours two glasses of bourbon. He walks over to me, hands me a glass, and clinks his glass to mine in a quick toast. He leans against his desk, just in front of me. He crosses his legs and I notice that his cowboy boots finish the ensemble perfectly.

“To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising his glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink. Bourbon. I was right. My entire throat is warmed and I can feel the heat of the liquor trickle down into my empty stomach.

“Ms. Wake, I am a visionary,” Warden Dale says, taking the glass from me and walking back over to the drinks cart. He pours two more glasses. I steady myself in the leather club chair.

“Yes, sir,” I say, taking the second glass of bourbon. He leans against his desk once more, his cowboy boots crossed, self-assured in front of me.

“To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising the glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink again. Warmth. Trickling. I focus my eyes.

“I believe in justice,” Warden Dale says, taking my empty glass once again. He walks back over to the drinks cart and pours two more glasses.

“Yes, sir,” I say, steadying myself once again. He walks back over to me and hands me a glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising his glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink. I set my empty glass down and continue, “Warden Dale, I’m going to stop you here. I was born in Texas and I’m probably going to die in Texas, so if you’re trying to drink me under the table as some kind of rite of passage, it’s never gonna happen. I worked next to a bar when I was in elementary school, and while your bourbon is better than anything they served there, I guarantee this will not end well for you. Shall we get down to business then?” I ask.

Warden Dale is quiet. I meet his gaze and wait. And wait.

I continue, “I’ve been bullied by worse than you, sir, and this little pissing contest is just a waste of my time.” I stand and start for the door.

“Let’s get down to business, then,” Warden Dale says, a wide smile across his face. He motions for me to sit down. I oblige and he walks back around his desk and sets his half-full glass of bourbon on a Lone Star coaster next to his calendar. He continues, “I would like to offer you the position of cook here in the Death House.”

“The Death House?”

“You’d be making last meals, but also cooking for the Death House crew,” the warden says.

“How often would I be . . . uh . . . cooking?” I ask. One meal equals one life. What am I getting myself into?

“We’ve been running about three to five executions a month. We’ve been getting some down from Huntsville as well as some of our own convicts,” Warden Dale says, his voice serious and heavy.

“Three to five,” I say, deliberately not saying the other word.

“Executions, yes.”

“Executions.” I said it. The word gets caught in my throat. The