Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,54

says.

“You can do it a couple of ways. The white bread and the barbecue sauce plus the brisket make a nice sandwich, like Jace is doing,” I say, pointing to the now silenced doubting Thomas. I continue, “Or you can just have the brisket with or without barbecue sauce and with or without the ranch beans and slaw, kind of blending in, like turkey, cranberries, and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving,” I say.

“Isn’t brisket supposed to be served with biscuits?” Hudson asks, serving himself some ranch beans.

The conversation at the table screeches to a halt. The guards and Warden Dale just shake their heads and continue talking and eating.

“I think from here on out, you just need to start actively censoring your thoughts and opinions. For your own safety,” I say, laughing.

Hudson shoves a piece of brisket into his mouth while the entire table bursts into hysterics.

Whatever this place is, whatever happens within these walls, these people are human like everyone else. Even if we don’t want to feel or understand what happens here, we still sit around a table and appreciate a nice piece of brisket and mocking an out-of-towner who doesn’t understand that even when you’ve got three generations in the dirt here in Texas, you’re still New People.

The Dent boys are returned to their cells after the kitchen is cleaned, and as I putter and fuss around the kitchen I think about the next time I’ll be here. Friday. When I’m cooking my first last meal. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel, what that will be like, what that will look like. I’ll make it—will it—to be about the food. I can’t think about anything else. I say my good-byes to the guards, crane my neck to see if Hudson is still around (he’s not), and slip out the back door of the kitchen.

The door to the kitchen clicks and Shawn strides through.

“Tonight was just wonderful. Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure,” I say, packing up my knives.

“Warden Dale wanted me to give you this. It’s for Friday,” Shawn says, handing me a slip of paper. I know what’s on this paper. I take it and steel myself.

“Thank you,” I say. I open the piece of paper and read.

Inmate # CF785241:

Fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits, fried okra, buttermilk pie (or chess pie), Blue Bell vanilla ice cream, and a Coke

I read and reread the last-meal request. It’s been tweaked a bit since I saw it in Warden Dale’s office. The inmate added Blue Bell ice cream. I read the meal again.

“You okay?” Shawn asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say, folding the sheet of paper and firmly putting it deep into my pocket. I’m going to let the success of tonight remain a bit longer before I really digest what’s on that paper.

I pull in Merry Carole’s driveway to the larger-than-life lawn sign emblazoned with Cal’s name and jersey number. Merry Carole has placed it in front of a pair of lawn lanterns that were already there before the sign arrived. How long has she been preparing for this? I shuffle down the manicured path and into the house. I’m exhausted. I’ve been up now for almost forty-eight straight hours. I haven’t stayed up all night with a brisket in years. It’s really the blessed combination of smoke inhalation, dried-out eyes, and utter exhaustion that I’ve missed the most.

“Hello!” I announce, coming through Merry Carole’s front door. The last-meal request burning a hole in my pocket.

“In here,” Merry Carole says from the kitchen.

The house is lit up and warm. As always. I happily sink into it every time. Merry Carole is sitting at the dining room table surrounded by books, opened binders, receipts, and a calculator.

“So how was your first day with the sign on your lawn?” I ask, pulling up a chair and taking in the scene.

“It was fine,” she says, grabbing a store receipt from a shoe box and stapling it onto a sheet of paper. She slams the three-hole punch down and then threads the paper into the binder. She labels it, “Salon—Administrative.”

“This is adorable,” I say, leaning back and getting ready.

“What is? I am? I’m adorable?” Merry Carole says, sifting and slamming receipts down onto the table.

“Maybe it has to do with how you haven’t had someone who’s gonna call you on your shit for so long? But this? This is completely transparent,” I say, motioning to her busywork.

“Which is it? Am I adorable or transparent?”

“Both.”

Merry Carole stops. Deflates. The tiny papers shuffle and