Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,49

I notice we’re not alone.

“Queen Elizabeth Wake, I’d like to introduce you to Professor Hudson Bishop.” Warden Dale is practically bursting his buttons with pride at this professor person. I extend my hand to him. He takes it and smiles as we shake hands.

He’s clearly not from here.

“Queenie, and it’s nice to meet you,” I say as Warden Dale motions for me to sit.

“And you,” Hudson says. He’s the sort of man whose appearance you don’t have time to inventory because you’re too busy trying to assess whether you should dive in or run for your life. Someone other than himself cuts his thick, black hair, and it’s not the ancient barber in town who believes the only options are: (1) going into the military, or (2) just getting out of the military. Eyebrows that are naturally and quite dangerously shaped into a roguish arch set off his piercing blue eyes. His entire wolfish bearing was born to tempt. He exudes a confidence bordering on arrogance. I immediately feel out of my depth.

Once again, Professor Hudson Bishop is not from ’round here.

“Hudson here is a professor over at UT,” Warden Dale says, walking over to the drinks cart. It’s ten AM.

“I hear you’re an alum,” Hudson says, taking a glass of bourbon from Warden Dale. He continues, “Thank you, sir.” Warden Dale nods and walks back over to the drinks cart.

“Hook ’em horns,” I say, extending my pinky and index finger as if miming my very own shadow puppet. This man has turned me into an idiot.

“Hudson is writing a paper on death,” Warden Dale says, handing me a glass of bourbon. He walks back over to the drinks cart.

“It’s more about how knowing you’re going to die—whether it’s terminal patients or the men and women of death row—affects the human brain,” Hudson says, lazily swirling his bourbon around in the glass.

“I imagine not well,” I say. Warden Dale pours himself a glass and stands behind his desk.

“You’d be surprised,” Hudson says, with a quick smile.

“To the great state of Texas,” Warden Dale says, raising a glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” Hudson and I repeat in unison.

We drink.

“Where are you from originally?” I ask, holding my now empty glass.

“Is it that obvious?” Hudson laughs, holding his now empty glass. I’m impressed.

“I’m afraid so,” I say.

“Santa Barbara, California,” Hudson says.

“It’s beautiful there,” I say.

“Definitely,” Hudson says.

“Well, we’ve got some business to attend to, Professor Bishop, so I will see you at the end of the day,” Warden Dale says, standing and extending his hand to Hudson.

“Yes, sir,” Hudson says, standing.

“Are you coming to supper?” I ask, looking at both Warden Dale and Hudson.

“Supper?” Hudson asks, clearly thinking the word “supper” is adorable. He and Warden Dale are both standing and I feel awkward that I’m the only one sitting. Should I stand? Do I stand? Wouldn’t that be even weirder? And shall I stand, hand held aloft, while I proclaim that you will dine with me?

“Oh sure. That’s a great idea. It’ll be a good opportunity for Hudson here to talk to the guards. We’ll both join you,” Warden Dale says.

“I’m thinking five thirty?” I ask. Warden Dale nods.

“I’ll be there. Pleasure meeting you, Queenie,” Hudson says, excusing himself from Warden Dale’s office. Warden Dale takes my empty glass and walks over to the drinks cart with it. He does not refill it. He walks behind his desk and sits.

“Professor Bishop is one of my pet projects, Ms. Wake. It’s just another example of how, as a leader, I am also a futurist,” Warden Dale says.

“Yes, sir.” I breathe deeply, trying to keep from laughing. I vow to use the word “futurist” at least ten times a day from now on.

“Here is your budget and a schedule of the upcoming executions,” Warden Dale says, handing me two sheets of paper stapled to each other. I am jerked out of my concealed hysterics and reach for the pieces of paper. Please don’t let it be a list of names. Please don’t let it be a list of names. I scan the first sheet. The budget is not extravagant, but definitely something I can work with. Warden Dale has outlined how I will be paid. I will be paid hourly and will be expected to work the full day preparing the last meal. That sounds workable.

I gather myself and flip the sheet of paper over to look at the list. I exhale. It’s not names, but dates. The first couple of entries