Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,64

car keys off the kitchen counter with the one finger that’s not carrying food.

“Oh, ha-HA,” Merry Carole says. I can’t help but laugh.

“That’s all you got?” I ask, walking past the dining room table toward the front door. The longer I’m in this house, the longer I don’t have to be cooking for a murderer.

“It’s early,” Merry Carole says, standing. She walks over to the front door with me, opening it up wide. She continues, “Please be careful, baby sister.”

“I will,” I say, letting her kiss me on the top of my head like she did when we were little. As Merry Carole doesn’t have her face on yet, this open door is as far as she ventures. She’s concerned, but hasn’t lost her mind. Merry Carole cinches her robe tight and watches me walk out to my car loaded down in groceries. As I slam the hatch closed, she gives me a tight wave. I wave back and shut the car door behind me quickly. I turn on the car, blast the air-conditioning, and focus. Focus on the food. Focus on the food. I reverse out of the driveway and head for the highway.

Focus on the food. Focus on the food.

I arrive in Lot B, passing through guard towers and razor wire. I unload all of my groceries, slide my key card into the door, and enter the dark kitchen. I make my way through the darkened space, find the light switch, and watch as the fluorescent lights flicker to life. The quiet of the room settles around me.

“Focus on the food,” I say to myself. I shake my head, trying to turn loose the thoughts of complicated monsters, death, and lethal injections. I drop the groceries to the immaculate floor and try to get the feeling back in my overburdened fingers. I hear the click of the kitchen door. Jace saunters through.

“Hey, there,” I say, pulling the Blue Bell ice cream from the cooler and getting it into the freezer first thing.

“I just wanted to make sure it was you. We have an alarm system. It beeps when anyone enters or exits the Death House,” Jace says.

“Oh, all right,” I say, unpacking the groceries. Jace hesitates by the door. I continue, “Is there something else?” I ask, realizing my laserlike focus could be taken as rudeness.

“First executions are hard and I . . . uh . . . I just wanted to make sure you were okay, is all,” Jace says, clearing his throat. He doesn’t know where to put his hands and finally rests them on his holster, his arms now akimbo. His concern catches me absolutely off guard. This is the same man I thought gave nerds wedgies in his spare time and now here he is . . .

“I don’t know how I am, to be honest,” I say, setting up Cody’s station with all the potato salad fixings. Harlan has more talent, so he’ll be better utilized with the chess pie and biscuits. I’ll handle the chicken and the okra.

“That sounds about right,” he says, with a curt nod. Jace is a big man, in his twenties—definitely younger than me. He’s probably an ex-football player who didn’t get that scholarship he was counting on. He’s bullnecked, and up until now, I thought he was bullheaded as well.

“Yep,” I say, still not sure how to communicate with him.

“Okay, then. I’ll fetch the Dent boys for you,” Jace says.

“Thank you,” I say. He nods.

After he leaves, I pull Mom’s skillet from one of the sacks and place it on the stovetop. I set up my fried chicken station: plates for dredging, paper bags for shaking, and lard for frying. I hook a dishrag to my belt loop, getting ready for the impending mess that happens when you dredge the chicken twice. In the quiet of the kitchen my mind wanders. Fried chicken and potato salad. What’s this man trying to re-create? A picnic? An outing? A meal his grandma made? A chess pie is old school. It’s basically a pecan pie without the pecans. Syrupy sweet. I think about the memories he must have about this meal. Innocent. Pure. Happy.

It’s what we’re all trying to do, right? Remember a time that was better. Re-create a moment of that memory as we let the crisp Coke bubble down our throats. Riding bikes on a summer day. Sitting on the curb and watching the streetlights come on. Playing in the sprinklers with a group of neighbor kids. We’re