Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,70
what I want, to be honest,” I say. My mind is a minefield. Desperately searching its darkened depths, but terrified of what it might find, it then retreats into the light once more. I think about Merry Carole and Cal and that makes me happy. I think about my day in the kitchen and that makes me happy. I think about Everett and become mournful. I look at Hudson sitting across from me and I feel . . . curious.
“I’m actually an expert on these things, if that matters,” Hudson says.
“An expert on what it feels like to cook for a murderer?” I ask. The cocktail waitress approaches our table, her body visibly reacting as she hears the tail end of my sentence. I smile. She puts our beers and a couple of glasses of water down. I thank her and she leaves. Great.
“You cooked for a triple murderer today, if that counts,” Hudson says, taking a long pull off his beer.
“What?” I can feel the blood drain from my face and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“You didn’t know?” Hudson asks.
“No,” I say, my voice quiet. Asking Shawn about the next guy’s grandmother and now this? I can feel the light cracking under the closed doors in my mind. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. If I’m going to do this job, then I need to talk about it. This isn’t working. This can’t be about me shutting myself off even more. I’ve been doing that for too long and this is getting even worse than before.
I continue, “I told myself I didn’t want to know. That if I focused on the food, then whatever they did wouldn’t infect me, if that makes any sense,” I say, my eyes on his. Piercing blue, even in this light.
“It makes total sense, but it’s just not possible,” Hudson says.
“I’m realizing that now,” I say, taking a pull on my beer.
“It takes the term ‘elephant in the room’ to a whole new level,” Hudson says. I can see him thinking and processing. It fascinates me to be around someone when I have no idea what he’s going to say or do next. How his mind works is an absolute mystery to me. He seems different from anyone else I’ve ever known.
“I know it was naive,” I say, starting to peel the label off my beer.
Hudson sits back in his chair, cradling his beer. He is thinking. He looks up at the tin roof of the patio as Patsy Cline wafts through the bar’s speakers. I watch him, searching his face as he starts and stops a thousand sentences.
“It’s interesting though, isn’t it? Before I decided to come to Shine this summer, I did a ton of research on the death penalty and all that. And aside from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice having a fantastic Web site, they also cater to the somewhat morbid,” Hudson says.
“How so?” I ask, leaning forward.
“They have a place where you can see who’s next in line, you know? And they also have this list of who has already been executed and what their last words were. And inevitably the last words are gorgeous . . . downright poetic. I mean, if you told me some great thinker or writer said them, I’d believe you. But then you click over and see what this guy did to get there? Fuuuuck,” Hudson says, trailing off and taking a swig of his beer. I am quiet. I know exactly what he’s talking about, because I’ve been checking a very similar Web site to follow Yvonne Chapman.
Hudson continues, “And for a while I thought, just don’t click over, you know? Just read these beautiful words and think of it like some great injustice was done and this is some misunderstood hero, but it’s not. It’s some dipshit who held up a gas station and killed the poor schlub who had the misfortune of being behind the counter.”
“That’s exactly it,” I say.
“I know,” Hudson says, still contemplating.
“I read about—shit, even Ann Boleyn, right? What she was thinking and what must she have felt in those last few feet? I just . . . to know you’re walking to your death. And yes, I’m infusing my own humanity where there might be none, but even at our basest we are all still animals who don’t want to die. I don’t care how right with God you are or how long that chaplain talks to you,” I