Nowhere but Home Page 7

  I grew uncomfortable with being Everett Coburn’s dirty little secret.

  We tried to keep away from each other when we were both at the University of Texas. As teenagers we had fantasies about stealing away to Austin and finally being together out in the open. But when Laurel also attended the university, it became clear that we were doomed sooner rather than later. We tried to stay away from each other, but we were each other’s addiction. We always needed one more drink. Always hungry. Always craving more.

  But the writing was on the wall. It was time for Everett to grow up, settle down, and become the heir to the Coburn mythology. As Everett and I went into our final year at the University of Texas, we were desperate and raw. We knew our time together was running out and that our life in the shadows was coming to an end. Whenever I left him, I felt half of a whole. He undid me. I knew my life was about to be slashed into eras: With Everett and Without. And a life without Everett was the one thing I felt I couldn’t survive.

  So I ran. I ran to Dallas so I didn’t think about those brown-and-yellow-pinwheeled green eyes and the way our bodies melded into each other as if we were made for each other. And I ran to Aspen so I wouldn’t remember the way he tugged his cowboy hat off whenever he walked into a room. And I ran to Branson to forget how his light brown hair curled and swirled around my fingers in the dark of the night. And I ran to Taos so I didn’t think about how his face lit up when he saw me. And I ran to Albuquerque to forget how tightly he held me as I finally sobbed about my mom dying. And I ran to Las Vegas to erase how we lay in each other’s arms that first time in that cheap motel just outside town, speechless and swept away. And I ran to San Diego so I didn’t have to think about Everett and Laurel standing arm and arm, their parents beaming and proud. And I ran to San Francisco so I didn’t have to make up another lie to Merry Carole and Dee for why I never dated anyone. And I ran to Los Angeles to forget how I didn’t shed a single tear when he told me he was going to marry Laurel because their parents felt it was the right thing to do. And I ran to New York to try to understand why the man I loved didn’t love me enough to be with me in the light of day.

  “That’ll be one dollar, Queenie,” the woman says. I hand her a dollar bill and know now that I have to get out of North Star before I make any new memories to run from. One of those résumés has to work. One of those résumés will be my ticket out of North Star.

  Before I think better of it, I burst through Merry Carole’s front door and into the tiny guest room. My clothes are mostly in the dresser thanks to Merry Carole telling me that I wasn’t “a hobo” and should put away my clothes like a normal person. I pull the smaller piece of luggage from the closet and pull open the zippered pocket on the inside. I pull out the mangled manila folder just inside. I dump the contents on the floor and sit down quickly next to the messy pile. I sift through my passport, my birth certificate, an old photo of Merry Carole and me, a baby picture of Cal, various slips of paper with old recipes and dish ideas I’ve had over the years. I pull my hand away from the pile as if the mere presence of it has set it aflame: the card Everett gave me when I was eleven and the dried and flattened flower that accompanied it. Pink construction paper with my name in blue crayon written across the top of the card. He’s drawn a girl with a crown at the bottom; a crudely drawn horse grazes on lines of green grass that edge the bottom of the card. There is an arrow pointing to the girl with the crown and the word “YOU” next to it. I run my fingers over the rough construction paper.

  “You,” I say, a reverent whisper. At eleven, I was a queen to Everett.

  I open the card and in no rhyme or reason are the words “your great!,” “I love you!,” “the lone star state,” and “E + Q.” He’s drawn the same girl with the crown from the front of the card, but this time she stands hand and hand with a golden-haired boy holding a horse. Underneath the couple are the words “you and me forever.” The little Crayola couple is smiling and happy. I sit back against the bed, carefully holding the pink construction paper card.

  “You and me forever,” I say, closing the card and letting my hand linger. I hold the card as a believer would cradle a Bible. Everett was what I believed in. And he made me believe in an us. He made me believe I would get out of the hellhole I was in and that I could be happy. He made me believe that I was lovable. I choke back the tears I’ve been running from for decades.

  “It was cruel to show me that kind of love at all,” I say, my eyes to the heavens as if saying my own kind of grace. I pull my knees in close and sob, my tears momentarily staining the pink card red. I can’t catch my breath as that feeling of mystical vastness I felt at the cemetery overtakes me. I honestly don’t know if I could stop crying at this point. I’ve been holding this in for years.

  After an unknowable amount of time, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m shaken out of my nervous breakdown as I check the phone number—it’s the area code for Shine. It’s the prison. Jesus, Juanita is a study in efficiency. I sniffle and breathe; the phone buzzes again.

  “Get it together,” I bite out, wiping the tears away. One last breath and I answer the phone. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Wake, this is Juanita from Shine Prison,” she says.

  “Sure, what can I do for you?” I say, my throat choking and burning less and less. My breathing is steadying, shaky exhalation by shaky exhalation.

  “The warden would like you to come on in and interview for the position. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “Oh wow,” I say.

  “Well?”

  “Oh right. Sorry. Yes, I’m free,” I say, standing. I’m still clutching the pink construction paper card.

  “Great. How does two thirty sound?” Juanita says, going through directions and instructions on how to get to the prison. I walk into the kitchen, find an old receipt, and scrawl the information on the back.

  “Two thirty is perfect. I’ll be there,” I say, finally.

  “We’ll see you then,” Juanita says, signing off. I beep my cell phone off and look around the front room in a fog. I focus on the receipt with all the information in one hand and the pink construction paper card in the other.

  “I guess only one of us knew what forever meant,” I say, walking into my room and placing the card back into the recesses of my luggage.

  8

  Gentleman Jack Bourbon

  As I drive over the river and through the woods to the Shine Prison just twenty minutes away, I call Dee and tell her what I’m doing. Her response is subdued. This particular job definitely has a ghoulish edge to it that might dampen the normal celebrations a new job would bring. This job might change me. I’d know the terrible things people are capable of. That isn’t something I want to sign on for, but my life hasn’t been free of that already. I’ve seen the dark side firsthand and I know the complicated relationship we humans have with right and wrong. I’m painfully aware of how human beings can turn other human beings into something that’s below an animal.

  I pull into the visitors’ parking lot just outside the barbed-wire fences that surround the prison. Guard towers anchor each corner of the compound, and as I walk to the entrance I swear even the wind is hesitant to float over these parts. The air is still. The humidity follows me through the door like a monkey on my back.

  “Queenie Wake to see Warden Dale Green?” I ask the woman behind the glass.

  “I knew the Queen Elizabeth herself wasn’t coming on down to Shine!” the receptionist says, laughing with the other woman in the front office.

  “You probably get that all the time,” the other woman says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Well, Queen Elizabeth, I’ll be right with you. I’ve been dying to say that forever!” The women cackle together. They look like every other receptionist. Matching floral separates, sentimental doodads littering their desks, and yet they’re here. The first faces visitors see when checking in at a prison. The receptionist looks up after talking a bit with another woman in the front
office. She continues, “Juanita’s going to come get you in a second. Go ahead and have a seat, Queen Elizabeth,” the woman says with a wink, motioning to the bank of chairs just behind me. I thank her and take a seat.

  Sterile. Beige. Nothing to observe or draw conclusions from. Every now and again a guard comes in and talks with the ladies in the front office. They are easygoing; it feels like any other office. Except. Except there are hundreds of men just beyond those walls who are behind bars. What am I doing here? I should just work part time at Merry Carole’s salon. I don’t need to be doing this. What do I think I’m going to find here? Is this—

  “Queen Elizabeth Wake?” A round woman in a fuchsia blouse and flowery skirt comes through the front-office door. Her cocoa skin shimmers with sweat, as the heat of the day has sneaked into the waiting room with the opening and closing front door. Her sensible shoes squeak and settle as she walks over to me. I stand, wiping my palm on my pants as she approaches.

  “Please. Queenie,” I say, shaking her extended hand.

  “We spoke on the phone. I’m Juanita,” the woman says, motioning for me to follow her through the front office. I oblige. She continues, “Now, Warden Dale is right through here. He’s ready for you to go on in, if that’s okay by you.” Juanita’s shoes squeak down the long, sterile hallway.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, trying to take in everything. It’s a wraithlike symphony of sounds. The echoes bouncing off the institutional walls are not unlike those of a schoolyard or a playground, but the speed has been slowed down so the voices are lower. My gut is telling me to run. The instinct of impending danger is on overdrive. The authoritative yells are vomit inducing and the voices they quiet are menacing and frenzied. I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto the front lines of a looming rebellion.

  “Don’t mind it. They keep to themselves and you get used to it,” Juanita says, without so much as a look back my way. I nod and focus my eyes on Juanita’s waddling floral skirt just in front of me. She continues, “Right through here.” She opens a heavy metal door. The door shuts behind us and the rebellion is silenced. She walks through the anteroom, with its deep woods and rich fabrics. I follow close behind her. She knocks on the wooden door.

  “Come on in,” I hear from just beyond the wooden door. Juanita opens the door and motions for me to go through. She nods to the warden and closes the heavy wooden door behind me. I swallow. Hard. The warden continues, “Have a seat, Ms. Wake.” The warden is a titan of a man. He stands way over six feet, but with the worn-in Stetson that he’s hung on the antlers of the mounted stag behind him, I expect he’s pushing NBA standards. The Stetson also probably hides a reddish-auburn hairline that’s clearly receding. His skin is pale and his brown eyes are clear and bright. He extends his hand to me and he envelops mine.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, not knowing whether to shake his hand, sit down, or do the hokey pokey.

  “Please call me Warden Dale,” he says, motioning for me to sit. He comes out from behind his desk and walks over to a drinks cart on the far wall of his office.

  Warden Dale’s office is decorated as if it were a hunting lodge. Along with the stag, he’s got a stuffed wild boar, a six-point buck, and various and sundry varmints posed in threatening positions, which they most certainly were not in when shot by Warden Dale. Warden Dale’s heavy wood walls anchor his dark leather furniture and expensive oriental rugs. He takes the stopper out of a crystal decanter and pours two glasses of bourbon. He walks over to me, hands me a glass, and clinks his glass to mine in a quick toast. He leans against his desk, just in front of me. He crosses his legs and I notice that his cowboy boots finish the ensemble perfectly.

  “To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising his glass.

  “To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink. Bourbon. I was right. My entire throat is warmed and I can feel the heat of the liquor trickle down into my empty stomach.

  “Ms. Wake, I am a visionary,” Warden Dale says, taking the glass from me and walking back over to the drinks cart. He pours two more glasses. I steady myself in the leather club chair.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, taking the second glass of bourbon. He leans against his desk once more, his cowboy boots crossed, self-assured in front of me.

  “To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising the glass.

  “To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink again. Warmth. Trickling. I focus my eyes.

  “I believe in justice,” Warden Dale says, taking my empty glass once again. He walks back over to the drinks cart and pours two more glasses.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, steadying myself once again. He walks back over to me and hands me a glass.

  “To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising his glass.

  “To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink. I set my empty glass down and continue, “Warden Dale, I’m going to stop you here. I was born in Texas and I’m probably going to die in Texas, so if you’re trying to drink me under the table as some kind of rite of passage, it’s never gonna happen. I worked next to a bar when I was in elementary school, and while your bourbon is better than anything they served there, I guarantee this will not end well for you. Shall we get down to business then?” I ask.

  Warden Dale is quiet. I meet his gaze and wait. And wait.

  I continue, “I’ve been bullied by worse than you, sir, and this little pissing contest is just a waste of my time.” I stand and start for the door.

  “Let’s get down to business, then,” Warden Dale says, a wide smile across his face. He motions for me to sit down. I oblige and he walks back around his desk and sets his half-full glass of bourbon on a Lone Star coaster next to his calendar. He continues, “I would like to offer you the position of cook here in the Death House.”

  “The Death House?”

  “You’d be making last meals, but also cooking for the Death House crew,” the warden says.

  “How often would I be . . . uh . . . cooking?” I ask. One meal equals one life. What am I getting myself into?

  “We’ve been running about three to five executions a month. We’ve been getting some down from Huntsville as well as some of our own convicts,” Warden Dale says, his voice serious and heavy.

  “Three to five,” I say, deliberately not saying the other word.

  “Executions, yes.”

  “Executions.” I said it. The word gets caught in my throat. The warmth of the bourbon is all but gone and all that remains is the icy chill of who I’m cooking for.

  “You would have a staff of two convicts—the Dent boys. I’ve handpicked them for you. They’re a father and a son who went on one drug-filled crime spree, but have since found Jesus. They’re harmless and perfect for your needs.”

  “Would I be cooking for the Death House crew every day or just when there was a . . . an—”

  “Just when there was an execution,” Warden Dale says, finishing my sentence.

  I nod.

  “You never have to know the name or what they’ve done. You just have to cook a meal and make enough of it for the four members of the Death House crew, and Captain Richter. Chaplain Boothe tends to keep to himself. And you can decide if the Dent boys get your meal, if you want.”

  “Yes, sir.” Merry Carole was right. I wasn’t taking this seriously. These are real people. Real people who are going to die. Real people who have done the worst things humans are capable of. I’m . . . I’m . . . “I’m going to need another drink, Warden Dale,” I finally say.

  Warden Dale stands and pours me another glass of bourbon. He does not pour himself one. I slam the bourbon down, letting the warmth move through my body. I breathe.

  “Can I give you an answer at the end of the weekend? We’ve got Fourth of July festivities and I need time to think,” I say, my mind a haze.

  “Yes. Absolutely. I know it’s a lot to take in. But you have to see this as an opportunity to be that last shred of humanity before these men and women me
et their maker. You are offering them a bit of . . . home.” We stand and he extends his hand to me.

  “Home.” I take his hand and we shake.

  “Please think about it, Ms. Wake. I know you are the right person for the job.”

  “I will think about it, Warden Dale. You’ll have your answer by Monday.”

  “Ms. Wake?” I turn around, my hand desperately clutching for the doorknob. I have to get out of here.

  “Yes, sir?” I ask. Juanita is standing and waiting to walk me back through the Long Hallway of Echoes.

  “I think you’ll fit in here. Please think about it,” Warden Dale says. I nod and walk with Juanita through the hallway and front office. I walk across the parking lot and sit in my car. I turn the key and blast the air-conditioning as my car idles. I turn off the radio and rest my hands on the hot steering wheel.

  “I’ll fit in here? At a prison. That’s perfect. That’s fucking perfect,” I say, putting the car in reverse and hightailing it as far away from Shine Prison as possible.

  Once I get back to North Star, I park my car and head toward Merry Carole’s salon. I skirt the folded chairs and red, white, and blue streamers that Merry Carole has put out in front of her salon to mark off her territory for the parade. Country music, hair dryers, and gossip greet me again as I walk through the front door. Merry Carole is standing at the front counter talking to Fawn; she looks up as I approach.

  “Laurel Coburn has an appointment in ten minutes, so talk fast and then get back to the house,” Merry Carole says, flipping through her appointment book. Fawn scans the appointment book for further “issues.”