The Last Suppers

by Mandy Mikulencak

  “Nah, Mama said there was no reason to come back to a place that had killed her husband.”

  Joe hadn’t died at the prison, but rather just outside of Baton Rouge, in the dark of night and off duty. Yet, Miriam blamed the prison and probably would until the day she died.

  “Your mama says you know your way around the kitchen,” he said.

  “I bet she had a lot more than that to say.” Ginny cut her eyes away from him. “She gave me a piece of her mind when I told her I wanted to work here.”

  “I’m a bit curious myself. I figured you’d have bad memories of this place. Maybe never want to come back.” Roscoe was surprised how much he enjoyed being in her company and wanted her to keep talking. He regretted he’d stopped checking on her just because he and Miriam had split ways. He’d let Joe down. Still, the girl seemed to turn out all right—confident and smart. It’s not like he would have had much influence on a strong-willed teen.

  “It has nothing to do with having good or bad memories,” she said. “I need a job and I can cook.”

  “You have other options.”

  “Most jobs require experience, and you can’t get experience without having a job,” she said. “It’d give me a start. Don’t guess you have people beating down your door to take the job.”

  “You’d make only $180 a month,” he said.

  “That’s $180 more than I make now.”

  That mouth again.

  “I don’t see how working in a prison kitchen’s going to translate to the real world,” he said. It sounded like he was trying to talk her out of wanting to work here, but nothing was further from the truth.

  “It’d show I could run a large kitchen, manage supplies, and handle supervising,” she said. “If I’m tough enough to survive this place, I can make it anywhere.”

  Ginny was gutsy, but he wondered how she’d manage in such a cruel environment. She’d always have less than she needed to do her job, she’d be ridiculed for her size and sex, and she’d be exposed to the side of man’s nature prisons were supposed to keep locked away.

  “It’d be hard on you, girl.” He looked out at the dull white buildings that blended into the dirt around them. “It’ll change you.”

  “Has it changed you?” There she was again, staring at him with those too-big brown eyes, challenging him to answer. Poking at him, like Joe used to do.

  “’Course it’s changed me,” he said. “You got to worry about the people it doesn’t.”

  “Did it change Daddy?”

  He stood and pointed to the truck. “I’m getting hungry. Let’s get those sandwiches.”

  She was smart enough to stop pressing him, and he appreciated the silence while he gathered his thoughts. If he decided to hire Ginny, he’d be entering dangerous territory. Her questions about her daddy wouldn’t stop. And there were too many Roscoe didn’t dare answer. Like the real reason Joe died that night outside Baton Rouge.

  Chapter 4

  Just before daybreak, Dot stirred in her room, clearly not caring how loud her movements were. Ginny grabbed a blouse and was just buttoning it when Dot entered her room without knocking.

  “Heard you hollerin’ in your sleep last night,” she said.

  “Pay me no mind. It’s nothing,” Ginny said.

  “It ain’t nothing if you can’t get away from it.”

  Both Roscoe and Dot worried that two decades after the murder of Ginny’s father, she still had nightmares a couple of times a week. They figured the worst ones were about watching a man being executed. That wasn’t it at all. The worst ones were those where she ran toward the young son of her father’s murderer and begged his forgiveness. He’d just stare at Ginny with accusation in his eyes. She’d say, “It’s not my fault. Please don’t hate me. Your daddy killed my daddy.” And he’d say, “And now you’ve killed mine.”

  Ginny shook off the memory of the dream and pulled a skirt over her slip. Her hair stuck out in every direction. She tried to smooth it with her palms, but its strong will frustrated her to no end.

  “Here, let me,” Dot said. She worked the hair into one braid and wound it into a low knot at the base of Ginny’s neck. “Hand me those bobby pins.”

  Dot grabbed several, storing them between her lips while her hands were occupied. The hair was soon secured so tightly it’d not come loose in a hurricane. Ginny shook her head a few times to prove its staying power. Sometimes she wished Dot would take her time. Just the act of being touched made Ginny feel safe and loved.

  Ginny liked that Dot was sleeping at the barracks more often. She mostly stayed at her son’s home on the weekend so she could be near her grandchildren. Lately, though, Dot remained at the prison all week to avoid her daughter-in-law, a woman whose temperament made the prison feel almost inviting.

  “Let me make the bed and then we can go,” Ginny said.

  Dot didn’t mind waiting. Ginny was sure her friend understood that little things mattered a lot. That’s why she helped Ginny paint her room a ghastly shade of pink she’d warned was too bright, and why she helped her hang floral curtains only Dot and Roscoe and Ginny would ever see, and why she brought books from the library every time she returned from her weekend visits to her son’s. Ginny’s room was home. And Dot helped make it feel that way.

  “We making cornmeal mush for breakfast?” her friend asked.

  Ginny nodded. “Yes, plus let’s add some pork fat.”

  They walked along the gravel path to the kitchen, a brisk ten-minute walk because the women’s barracks was isolated from the rest of the prison buildings to ensure their safety. But she and Dot didn’t mind. It gave them time to prepare mentally for the day ahead.

  * * *

  As the two women worked, Ginny described her afternoon with Samuel’s grandmother. Dot listened raptly to the list of ingredients that had been jotted down in great detail.

  “I make a similar stew,” she said. “But there’s okra and tomatoes in mine.”

  “Where do you get the pork necks?” Ginny quit stirring the cornmeal.

  “Any butcher shop should have ’em. The one on Lester Avenue usually does. Didn’t your mama ever cook pork necks?”

  Ginny laughed. “Mama doesn’t like to cook, but she was a fine baker. Boy, did Daddy love her pies. After he died, she stopped baking altogether. I guess she thought it was pointless with just me in the house.”

  “How’d you get to be such a good cook then?”

  “I started baking desserts, pretending they were for Daddy. But Mama grew tired of that and said I should be cooking supper instead. So I started to read cookbooks like they were storybooks. I remember borrowing cookbooks from the ladies in the neighborhood,” Ginny said. “I’d hurry and copy some of the recipes in a notebook before they came around asking for them.”

  Those women weren’t Miriam’s friends and would have never come around otherwise. Ginny had thought they felt sorry for her because of her daddy’s murder. As an adult, Ginny wondered if they had felt sorrier that Miriam was her mama. Just as prison kids were ostracized at school, Miriam bore the stigma of being a prison guard’s wife. It didn’t matter that she and Miriam had left Greenmount behind. Once part of the prison, always part of the prison.

  “You have that notebook still?” Dot asked.

  “Maybe. It’d be at Mama’s house, I guess. Why?”

  “Because those recipes could give you ideas for your own cookbook.”

  Ginny suspected Dot would not let it go, no matter how much she protested.

  “I promise to think about it, but let’s concentrate on that cornmeal mush.”

  Together, they cooked several large pots. The one Ginny worked on stiffened up too quickly, so she added some beef broth, not wanting to waste what little milk was left in the icebox. Dot finished frying up bits of fatty pork leavings and then added them to each of the pots. Ginny sampled some from each batch and added quite a bit more salt.

  “Wish we had some maple syrup or honey,” she murmured.
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  “This ain’t a restaurant,” Dot said.

  “I know, but a little sweet would complement the pork fat.”

  Dot shook her head and smiled.

  “What?” Ginny asked. “I think of cooking like solving a puzzle. Certain ingredients just fit together better than others. Sometimes it’s one last piece that makes all the difference.”

  “Well, I been cooking a hell of a lot longer than you and you still manage to surprise me with what you throw together, or how you can stretch a little bit of something into a meal.”

  Dot’s good opinion mattered to Ginny and she blushed, although she knew the compliment was mainly to bolster the argument for that damn cookbook.

  “I really need to get those pork necks,” Ginny said, looking at the clock.

  “Go. I can finish up breakfast,” Dot said. “And we have plenty of cabbage soup leftover from yesterday to serve for lunch.”

  Ginny kissed Dot on the cheek and hung her apron on the hook near the door. When she turned, she ran headlong into Roscoe, who stood in the kitchen doorway.

  “How long have you been standing there?” Her face flushed.

  “What does that matter?”

  The air between her and Roscoe hung heavy with unfinished business from the night before, but they both knew it wasn’t the time or place to get into it. Things would get much worse, though, if he’d overheard her comments about leaving to buy pork necks.

  “Good morning, Dot.” Roscoe tipped his head in greeting, but then turned back to Ginny. “Tim’s in the truck. He’ll take you to Miriam’s to get your car.”

  Dot’s soft chuckling caused Roscoe and Ginny to turn with puzzled looks.

  “What’s funny?” Ginny asked.

  “You two, that’s what.”

  “Go on,” Roscoe said, not understanding as Ginny did that Dot’s honesty was rarely filtered with niceties.

  “You’re both acting uppity, like two badgers waiting to see who strikes first,” she said. “You’ve been together too long for such foolishness. I guess it’s expected given that you’re both pigheaded.”

  “Dot, you forget your place,” Roscoe said without a trace of ire in his voice. He liked Dot as much as Ginny did, and was happy for her influence in Ginny’s life. But he couldn’t let insubordination pass without at least saying something.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s twice in one week I’ve been reminded who my boss is. Don’t think I don’t know it.” She moved closer to them, making Ginny think Dot might start shaking a finger at them. “My son and his wife don’t like me meddling in their affairs. I guess it shouldn’t be any different with you two.”

  “Well, Ginny isn’t your daughter,” Roscoe said.

  Dot grunted and turned back to her work. “Uh-huh.”

  Ginny smiled as she followed Roscoe outside.

  * * *

  Tim’s ingratiating politeness had worn on her the whole way to her mama’s. Really, he just wanted forgiveness for telling Roscoe she’d gone to talk to Sam. Then he yammered on and on about Roscoe inviting him to have dinner at the residence when some of the prison board members visited next.

  Mercifully, the drive was short. After leaving her mama’s house, Ginny purchased the pork necks and headed straight back to the warden’s residence. It wasn’t the kind of day anyone in her right mind would want to spend in a kitchen, but the heat didn’t bother her as it normally would.

  She’d purchased six pounds of the meat, figuring it’d be enough for two batches: one for practice and one for Samuel. Leftovers always went to the guards on duty. They appreciated anything she cooked or baked.

  Ginny laid out the pages of notes on the counter and put on an apron. Her heart beat soundly as a nervous feeling invaded her belly. Not a bad feeling, but like excitement and anticipation and worry all mixed together. The same feelings used to overwhelm her when she took exams in high school. Ginny knew the work and was a good student, but the anticipation of starting the exam almost made her throw up each time. Then, she’d get into a rhythm of answering the questions and her confidence would grow.

  Trying new recipes gave her similar feelings. Angst and worry at the start, then pure joy in the middle, and finally an exhausted euphoria when the dish turned out as planned.

  After the necks were simmering and the lima beans soaking in a separate pot of hot water, she took off the apron and retreated to the front porch. It became a game to identify the familiar sounds of the prison. As a cook, she used her sense of taste and smell so much, she worried the other senses would diminish if they weren’t exercised once in a while.

  The men working the fields were singing hymns. They were far enough away that the words were unintelligible, but a deep melody carried; as if all the men sang bass and were in need of a baritone or two. The singing could almost mask the sound of the beatings.

  When temperatures topped 100, the birds rarely sang. But today, a flurry of squawks rose and fell somewhere near the administration building, where the three largest trees on the prison property grew. Most likely, a predatory bird veered too close to the guarded nests.

  Ginny opened her eyes and gazed across the gravel paths connecting the prison buildings. The heat distorted her vision, making the road appear shiny like melting lard. She didn’t worry too much about losing her sense of sight because it was about as acute as her sense of taste. Still, she’d practice by trying to notice one new thing about a person every time she spoke to him or her. Folks often grew uncomfortable at the stares. Her observations might include one gray hair nestled in bushy black eyebrows, or a slight variation in color between two pupils, or that one cheek had more freckles than the other.

  Roscoe sometimes worried that by working at the prison, Ginny had made her world smaller than it should be. But her senses gave her multiple worlds to explore. And as she’d told him many times, the prison wouldn’t be her home forever. Although some days she wondered if that was true.

  * * *

  Once the lima beans had cooked with the pork, Ginny dared to taste the broth. She licked the greasy film from her lips and smiled. It was damn close to Aida’s. It just needed more salt and black pepper. It was best to be stingy with the seasoning because she’d learned the hard way you couldn’t truly undo over-salting, even by adding a potato.

  She turned off the heat under the large stew pot and placed the pork necks on a cutting board to remove the meat from the bones and return it to the pot. That’s when the front door slammed and Roscoe called her name.

  A swinging door connected the kitchen to a formal dining room and they reached it at the same time. His brute force won out and the door met Ginny’s face. The smack almost sent her to the floor. Regaining her balance, she reached for a dish towel to catch the blood rushing from her nose.

  She sat down, holding her head back. “Goddamn it, Roscoe. Be careful, would you?”

  “Why isn’t the dining room table set? And why are you still in your work clothes?”

  She thrust the bloody towel at him. “Don’t worry about me. It’s only blood. And my nose is probably not broken. Now what the hell are you jabbering about?”

  “The prison board dinner. Tonight.”

  The dish rag dropped from her hand. She’d forgotten she had been tasked with cooking dinner for eight—and the guests would be arriving in less than an hour.

  “Shit, are you sure it’s not broken? Let me get some ice to help with the swelling,” Roscoe said.

  “Not now. Grab a tablecloth from the buffet and set the table. I’ll make cornbread.”

  Roscoe did as he was told, but grudgingly. He grumbled and cursed under his breath. Ginny’s hands shook every time a plate clanked against the tabletop. She was sure the dinner wasn’t until next month. Had Roscoe mentioned the board was coming earlier?

  When he came back into the kitchen, he was perspiring profusely. “If you forgot about the goddamn dinner, what’s cooking on the stove?”

  Ginny poured the cornbread batter into two round bak
ing pans and didn’t dare look up. “I was practicing the pork neck stew I told you about—you know, for Samuel.”

  She’d really done it this time. Her shoulders tensed and she waited for him to blow. Instead he walked over to the icebox and peered inside.

  “What can you throw together for dessert?” He wiped his brow nervously. Gone was the urgency in his voice, as if he’d already determined the evening would be a disaster no matter what they did.

  “Stop letting out the cold,” she said. “We have fresh strawberries. I’ll make some shortbread while you all eat. I’m sure we have whipping cream.”

  He closed the door to the icebox and pointed to the stew. “Is that any good?”

  “Yes, I think it is. It’ll have to do.”

  “I guess it will.”

  Roscoe stood stock-still while she put the cornbread in the oven. His stare bored into her skin.

  “I can’t find the words to tell you how sorry I am,” she said. “I know how important this is to you.”

  He backed away when Ginny reached for his hand. “Obviously not as important as Samuel,” he said.

  * * *

  As much as she wanted to curl up on the kitchen floor and cry, there was still too much to do. She didn’t dare look at the clock as she finished pulling the pork from the bones and measuring out the ingredients for the shortbread. When Roscoe left in his truck, Ginny went to the dining room to check the table.

  He’d done a pretty good job with the place settings despite all the noise he’d made. She added a napkin to each and retrieved the fan from the parlor. Set in the open window, facing out, perhaps it could draw some of the heat from the room.

  She stepped out onto the porch for some fresh air. That’s when Roscoe’s truck careened up the dirt drive, clouds of dust in its wake. Dot sat in the front seat.

  * * *

  “He said you needed my help.” She rinsed the strawberries and set the colander in the sink.

  “He probably wanted you here so he wouldn’t be tempted to kill me.”

  The attempt at a joke failed and Ginny’s lip trembled. Dot hugged her, although the heat made the gesture sticky and uncomfortable.