clock ticks down. Twenty minutes fast becomes ten. Then five. Harlan brings over a tray.
I stare at it.
I grab a stark, white plate from the shelf and place it in the center as if I were re-creating an inverted Japanese flag. Harlan and Cody just watch. We all stand there. I breathe deep and collect myself.
“Harlan, get me the potato salad. Cody, I’m going to need you to get that chess pie out of the fridge as well,” I say, taking the most perfect pieces of fried chicken from under the paper towel that is now shiny with lard.
Four minutes.
I place three pieces of chicken on the plate. I put a serving of fried okra on a side plate and decide at the last minute to offer up a side of ranch dressing, just in case. You never know. Harlan hands me the bowl of potato salad and I scoop some out onto the plate. Cody places the chess pie on the counter, just next to me. “Harlan, why don’t you pass me the biscuits?” I say, motioning to the oven where they’re warming. He obliges, coming back over with the biscuits. I place three biscuits on the side of the plate. “Cody, why don’t you grab me a bowl from up there?” I ask, pointing to a shelf I can’t reach. He obeys quickly, setting the bowl next to the tray. Harlan hands me the Blue Bell ice cream without me even having to ask. I cut a piece of pie that’s about as mouth-wateringly beautiful as you can imagine. I place it on a side plate as Cody scoops the ice cream out into the bowl.
Three minutes.
I walk over to the fridge and pull out the can of Coke, the two bottles—one Mexican Coke and the other American. I set them on the counter next to the tray.
Two minutes.
Harlan, Cody, and I stand there and gaze at it all. The glistening fried chicken, the potato salad, and fried okra. The biscuits still steaming from the oven. A ramekin of honey butter and another of ranch dressing set off the meal. The chess pie and the Blue Bell ice cream are just begging to be devoured.
“Well, goddamn,” Jace says, now standing behind us. I don’t look at him. I don’t know what comes over me in that moment. I hold out my hands to Harlan and Cody, on either side of me. The men jostle a bit, making room for Jace, and we all join hands. We stand over the meal.
One minute.
“Bless this food, Lord. Let it transport and remind us all of better times. Let it cleanse and purify. Let it nourish and warm. In it, let us find peace. In Jesus’ name, amen,” I say, my eyes closed and beginning to well up.
“Amen,” the men say, quickly dropping hands.
The key card clicks and Shawn walks into the kitchen.
“Queenie, it’s time.”
15
Garrison Brothers bourbon and branch
I slam the hatch of my car down and walk to the driver’s-side door. I unlock the door and sit behind the wheel, clutching the piece of paper Shawn gave me as I left the kitchen. I start the car and blast the air-conditioning. I sit there letting the coldness hit my face. The car idles and strains through the blasting air-conditioning. My hands are clamped tight around the steering wheel. I watch the guards pace. Pace. I can’t think. I can’t form a thought. I feel as though I’m holding back a flood with the mantra “Don’t let one drop spill or it’ll all go.” I’m taking shallower and shallower breaths, because even the idea of breathing threatens the dam. I am the gasp of air you take before you go underwater. The guard paces. The car yearns and sputters some more. My hands are still clamped down tight around the steering wheel.
The guards’ supper was somber, but everyone needed it. We passed food and were quiet. But we were quiet together. We said grace and even laughed once about Hudson wanting to put biscuits with his brisket. We didn’t talk about why we were gathered. We just let the food warm us. Comfort us. Join us.
I cleaned the kitchen with the Dent boys after they’d eaten their supper. We were almost done cleaning when I heard the key card click and Shawn walked back through the kitchen. He was holding the tray with the convict’s plate of food. He set the tray down.
“You did good, Queenie,” Shawn said as he watched me