Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,46

and walking back into the Hall of Echoes. A guard stands just outside Juanita’s door. “This is LaRue Banner. He’s on the Death House crew.” LaRue gives me a curt nod. He is a big man, like all the other guards I’ve seen. He’s younger than I expected, his cocoa skin unwrinkled and perfect. He has dimples that—I’m sure he doesn’t want me to mention—are adorable.

“This way, ma’am,” LaRue says, leading Juanita and me out of the Hall of Echoes.

“LaRue is taking us out to the Death House. It’s an annex right off the prison. You won’t be cooking in the main prison kitchen where the convicts eat, you’ll have your own private space,” Juanita says. We’re outside now. The heat is bursting through the early morning. It’s already hotter than three kinds of hell out here. We’re in this in-between space connecting the prison walls and the outside that is all fencing and razor wire. I look up to see the pacing guards in their uniforms, their shotguns held high. I imagine this corridor is used just by staff and convicts to get to and from the newly built Death House. LaRue doesn’t look up at the guards, his pace is steady and measured. I find myself trying to stay as close to him as I can without causing an uncomfortable moment. We arrive at a small brick building just outside the prison walls. LaRue swipes his key card and the door clicks open.

“You won’t be coming in this way, ma’am. There’s a parking lot just behind, Lot B. That’s for you. Your key card works in the door that leads right to the kitchen,” LaRue says, motioning around the back of the Death House.

“I was told Lot D,” I say, becoming breathless.

“B as in boy, not D as in . . . well,” LaRue says, trailing off. “Right through here.”

We all finish in our heads the sentence beginning with the D. D as in Death.

I walk into the sterile entry space and through one of two metal doors. I get the feeling that this is one of those terrible fairy-tale rooms, where you choose the wrong door, and . . . I take a deep breath. LaRue swipes his card and we walk through to a long, clearly bulletproof window with guards and desks just behind it. Four men in their brown uniforms are sitting on desks, talking on phones and speaking with each other. They come to a complete stop when we walk in. I see Shawn. He smiles, but then there’s a change in his face. He walks over and buzzes us through.

“Gentlemen, this is your new Death House cook, Queenie Wake,” Juanita says as the men stand. They all look basically the same. Sure, they’re different races and ages, but the same thing emanates from them: do not mess with me.

“It’s a pleasure,” I say, my Texas drawl thick. All of the men look at me, then at the canvas bag. I continue, “And this is your supper,” I say, lifting the bag a bit higher.

“Good to see you, Queenie,” Shawn says, extending his hand. Juanita excuses herself and leaves me there in the Death House. Shawn turns around and addresses his men. “This is a good friend of my family, so I expect y’all will treat her right.” This is not a question. The men nod and intone a “yessir.” He introduces the men one by one. LaRue is the youngest, by far. Jace looks like he could be in prison himself. Shawn moves me past him quickly. Big Jim and Little Jim look like guys you see at the end of a bar, a beer in hand, watching the Cowboys. They’re all edgy and I can tell that they view the Death House as their territory. What I hope is that I’ll win them over with this meal. With the success of the Number One the other night, I feel hopeful. Confident that Brad’s harsh words about my passion are old news and behind me, I hope to be accepted into the fold of the Death House with one well-made supper comprised entirely of my own recipes.

As Shawn leads me back to the kitchen, I feel a sense of excitement. That can’t be the right word, can it? I want to get cooking. I feel like this place is big enough to hold me. I know that sounds silly—it’s what this place does: holds people. Why do I feel my most free in