Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,67

eye the tray.

“He didn’t like the dark meat,” I said, pulling the tray over. Shawn didn’t look at the tray.

“Why don’t you go on home. The Dent boys’ll do this last bit,” Shawn said as he motioned for the Dent boys to clear this tray stat. I grabbed the tray and placed each one of my arms around it, protecting it.

“No,” I said, quiet but dangerous.

“All right now,” Shawn said, used to dealing with crazy.

I remember breathing. And refocusing on the tray. On what was left. I remember not wanting to touch anything. I restrained my own hands in an attempt to control myself. In an attempt to control anything. Shawn just looked drained.

“I don’t mean to be troublesome. I just want to see. Just give me a minute,” I said, trying to ease up after a hard day. I didn’t need Shawn feeling responsible for me after all he’d been through. But I did need him to let me see what was left. I needed to study the ruins.

“All right,” Shawn said, backing away.

“I’m fine. Thank you, Shawn,” I said.

Shawn nodded and looked over at Jace, who was at his post by the door, then he left the kitchen.

“He sure liked that ranch dressing you put on there,” Cody said, motioning to the empty ramekin. Cody didn’t touch the tray either.

“I know,” I said. I still wonder if I put enough. Did he want more? Should I just put ranch on every tray from now on? Jesus. From now on.

“He ate everything,” I said, finally touching the plate.

“The guilty ones do,” Harlan said under his breath.

“The guilty ones do,” I repeat now as I am in my car just thirty minutes later. Who had I just fed? It’d be easy to find out. All I would have to do is ask or turn on the news. I don’t want to know. I can’t know. I can’t set this precedent. It’ll infect the cooking. I know it. I let my head fall, my forehead touching down on the steering wheel. I breathe. “The guilty ones do,” I repeat again, my voice a rasp.

I open the piece of paper.

Next Tuesday

Inmate #HB823356:

Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with rice and beans, orange soda, churros, and a pack of Starburst

I read and reread Shawn’s scrawled writing. Whether I like it or not, I begin to think about the person (man? woman? murderer? innocent?) behind this order. I know that this is a traditional Mexican Christmas dinner. The tamales and the ensalada de noche buena give that away. I’ve never cooked goat (cabrito) before: I’ll have to tinker with that this week. But what dawns on me as I stare at that crumpled piece of paper is that I have to ask Shawn a question about this person. One question and I’ll be off and running. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial the direct line to the guards’ station just inside.

“Death House.” It’s LaRue.

“Hey there, LaRue, this is Queenie Wake.”

“Oh, hiya, what can I do for you, Queenie?”

“Is Shawn still around?” My hands smooth and crumple the tiny sheet of paper.

“Yes, ma’am, he’s right here.” LaRue puts me on hold. The air-conditioning blares as I wait. The dusky evening begins to darken further.

“Queenie? Everything okay?” Shawn asks.

“Oh absolutely. I just . . . I had a question about next Tuesday’s order?” I smooth the paper out once more.

“Sure, go ahead,” Shawn says.

“I need you to ask this . . .” I trail off.

Shawn jumps in, “Gentleman.”

“I need you to ask this gentleman where his grandmother is from.”

“You want me to ask him where his grandmother is from?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I get to know why?”

“He ordered tamales. They’re one of the most regionally specific foods out there. The thickness of the masa, the filling, roja, verde . . . I just hope it’s not Oaxaca, I have no idea where I’ll get a banana leaf th—”

“All right. All right. I get it,” Shawn says.

“I don’t want to make the wrong kind,” I say.

“I’ll let you know,” Shawn says. We say our good-byes and I beep my cell phone off and just sit there. The darkness has officially fallen as I watch the guards pace back and forth on the prison’s walls. The blinding floodlights focus and search, focus and search.

I’m jolted out of my purgatory of reverie by someone knocking on my window. I whip my head up, numb and confused. I gather myself just enough and roll down the window;