Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,63

I do. I continue quickly, “Fine. His name is Professor Hudson Bishop and he’s from California. He’s smart and funny and holy shit, has black hair and these ridiculous blue eyes. And he’s just . . . you just know he can DO things,” I say, waggling my eyebrows.

“At the very least this Professor California can be useful,” Merry Carole says, seeing her client come through the front door finally. Fawn walks over and checks her in.

“Useful how?” I ask, following Merry Carole. Dee listens intently.

“He’ll make Everett jealous as hell,” Merry Carole says just before greeting her next client.

14

Inmate # CF785241:

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

It’s Friday morning. Today’s the day I make my very first last meal.

I went to the butcher and the farm stands yesterday. I brined my chicken for four hours, set the alarm, and then did a buttermilk soak for another four. The chicken will be spectacular. I drove out to this liquor store off I-35 that I know sells the real Cokes—in beautiful glass bottles from Mexico. Purists believe Mexican Coke is far better because they use refined cane sugar, not high-fructose corn syrup. I am one of these purists. I also purchase Coke in a can and the regular American Coke, which is in one of those beautiful light green glass bottles that’s Americana personified. As I stood in that liquor store, I tried to think about what kind of guy this is—if it’s a guy at all. It could be a woman, for all I know. Shine hasn’t ever executed a woman, but Huntsville has. And I just stood there holding bottles of Coke I was about to buy for a person who was going to be put to death. In the liquor store where Everett and I used to buy condoms so no one would know.

“Today’s the big day, then?” Merry Carole says, replacing the coffee decanter this morning.

“Yep,” I say, pulling my buttermilk-soaked chicken out of the fridge. I place the Tupperware in grocery sacks and get them ready for transport. With the summer heat, I’m barely going to get the Blue Bell ice cream to the prison—even with all the ice and ice packs I’ve placed in the cooler.

I need everything to be perfect today. I lay in my bed last night and envisioned the day, the menu, everything. Where Harlan would be. Where Cody would be. The chicken crackling, the biscuits rising, the pie baking. All of it. I’ve envisioned everything but the person who will be eating the perfect meal I make. My heart sinks every time my thoughts bump into that reality.

“All right then,” Merry Carole says, her face creased with worry.

“I know this is . . .” I trail off, pouring my coffee into my travel mug. I sit down at the dining room table.

“This is . . . what?” Merry Carole asks, clearly holding back a torrent of opinions.

“I don’t know what this is yet, I guess,” I say, my stomach in knots.

“And that’s my worry,” Merry Carole says.

“I know.”

“You think this is just about cooking, but . . . ,” Merry Carole says, letting just the tip of the iceberg break through.

“I know.”

“You can’t . . . it . . . this just pisses me off left-handed,” Merry Carole finally growls.

“I know.”

“Do you even know what this person did?” Merry Carole asks, her tone barely acknowledging that I’m cooking for a person.

“I don’t want to know.”

“That’s fine.”

“I know you’re angry with me.”

“I’m worried about you. There’s a difference.”

“You sound angry.”

“Well, sometimes worry sounds like anger.”

“I guess it does.”

“I just . . . I just hate that you’re going to have this in your head, you know?”

“We’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t our choice. You’re walking into this thing all on your own,” Merry Carole says.

“I never thought about it like that.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” I say, standing up from the table. I walk over to the freezer and put the gold-rimmed pint of Blue Bell into the cooler.

“And why is that?”

“Because I said I would do it. And I’m not about to shirk that obligation. Apparently, I have a thing or two to learn about responsibility,” I say, remembering Everett’s words.

“Who said that?”

“Everett,” I say, laying grocery sacks and coolers over elbows, shoulders, and fingers.

“Uh-huh,” Merry Carole says.

“When you’re ready to talk about Reed, I’ll be ready to talk about Everett,” I say, grabbing my