* * *
Roscoe led her into each room and then waited patiently as she took notice of every little detail: the small dining table covered with a delicate, crocheted doily; a painting of a fox-hunting party that had previously hung above the buffet at the warden’s residence; the kitchen pantry stocked with every spice and ingredient she could imagine needing. Her hands touched every surface as if to confirm she wasn’t dreaming.
“Come look at the bedroom,” he said, pulling her away from the kitchen.
She quickly realized why he was so anxious for her to see it. He’d moved the cherry bedroom set from the warden’s residence here, including the vanity with the tri-fold mirror she adored. The bedroom was fit for a princess and left her with her jaw hanging.
She jumped onto the fluffy duvet. “I can’t believe this is all for me. When, Roscoe? When did you find the time?”
“You were in such a bad state, I couldn’t sleep at night. Couple of times I was certain I was having a heart attack. Coming to this place gave me peace.”
“I’m so sorry for what I put you through,” she said. “What happened . . . it was just so awful. I couldn’t bear to face what I’d pushed Samuel to do.”
“No matter how mixed up the reasons, your cooking has meant something to those men and their loved ones,” he said. “It’s something you had to do for yourself as well. Sam . . . that wasn’t your doing, but I suspect it has changed things for you. And for that, I’m sorry.”
In his quietness, Roscoe had developed a sense for what went on deep below her surface. It was probably why he’d been able to put her stubbornness and other faults into perspective.
Roscoe stood and pulled her to her feet. “Got something else to show you.”
He led Ginny back to the sitting room and pointed to a small desk situated underneath the front window. It was small, but well-proportioned to the room. On it rested a Royal portable typewriter with a turquoise case.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“Dot said you wanted to write a cookbook . . . you know, share your cooking secrets with other folks,” he said. “She said old as she is, she still learns something new from you almost every week.”
Ginny sat on the desk’s mismatched chair and rested her fingers on the keys. She’d learned to type in high school, so the apparatus wasn’t foreign to her. All her recipes, though, were either carried around in her head or scribbled on bits of paper in handwriting that looked more like chicken scratch. Still, she was suddenly comforted by the idea that Dot had been pushing for so long. The project would occupy her mind and she needed that right now.
“The man at the store said you could get it in four other colors. . . if you don’t like this one.” Roscoe laid his hand on the typewriter. “Oh, and he said it was especially quiet. That way you won’t step on Dot’s last nerves.”
Dot. Ginny hadn’t thought about how it might hurt Dot if she moved.
“She’ll be alone in the women’s barracks, Roscoe. I can’t do that to her.”
“She could stay here, in your old bedroom,” he said. “She stays at her son’s place over the weekend, so we’d have the house to ourselves then. You know, she helped me get the place ready.”
“She did?”
“Yup. She was kind of bossy, but we settled into our roles. I provided the manual labor,” he said.
Although this had been her parents’ house, Roscoe had transformed it into a place where Ginny could make different memories. His pitiful, makeshift bedroom in the admin building wasn’t theirs, and he’d never grown accustomed to sleeping at the warden’s residence. They could both use this place to escape the ugliness of the prison.
“I want to see my old room.” It’d crossed her mind earlier, but she pushed away the thought. Roscoe may have expertly painted over any bad memories in the rest of the house, but it’d take a magician to stop her mind from reliving those awful nights listening to her mama cry after her father was killed. Those same nights she knew she couldn’t call out after having a bad dream. Comforting Ginny had been her daddy’s job, even if it took some doing to rouse him after he’d had too much to drink.
Some of the guardhouses had two and three bedrooms. Miriam, though, had insisted on the one-bedroom style because she said she’d never have a child while Joe still worked at the prison. Ginny had been a surprise, or a mistake, depending on what kind of mood her mama was in when she told the story. The other housing was full at the time of Ginny’s birth, and her father made it clear he wasn’t quitting. Thus, the prison converted the screened-in porch into a bedroom right before she was born.
Ginny never minded sleeping on the converted porch. Sure, they’d neglected to add insulation, so the walls and floor let in the winter cold. Three layers of quilts usually did the trick, although she’d sometimes lie awake at night thinking the weight of them might accidentally smother her considering she was an underweight child.
“Why in God’s name did you paint this room pink?” she asked.
Roscoe followed her into the small space that now reminded her of a stomach coated in Pepto-Bismol.
“Well, this is the color you painted your room in the women’s barracks,” he said. “And there was leftover paint. I thought you’d like it.”
Dot had been with her at the hardware store when she chose the color: flamingo. Her friend warned she’d regret it, but still agreed to help paint the room. After the first few brushstrokes, Dot began to laugh. Ginny had been too stubborn to admit her mistake, so she told Dot she liked it; that it was cheery and reminded her of a Florida beach house. And really, what did Dot expect from a woman who bought a car based on its color alone? Mostly, Ginny figured it didn’t hurt to leave the hideous shade since her eyes would be closed most of the time she spent in the room.
“Why are you laughing?” Roscoe asked.
“Oh, no reason. Has Dot seen this yet?”
“Nah, I painted it last. Why are you still laughing?”
“It’s perfect. Dot’s going to love it.”
Nothing else in the room was familiar. And by painting the room such a hideous color, Roscoe had unintentionally made it easier for her to return to this house. She could accept his wonderful gift without reservation.
1938
Truth, Lies, and Birthday Cake
Miriam demanded Roscoe come for dinner and birthday cake. She’d said Ginny begged her—that she wanted things to be like old times—and Miriam wasn’t about to disappoint a child whose daddy died just a month earlier.
Roscoe didn’t give a shit about his twenty-ninth birthday, but he’d do anything to make Ginny happy. Still, it took three glasses of whiskey to steel his nerves. He’d not been the one to tell Miriam about Joe’s death. Two other guards volunteered, so Roscoe stayed away from the grieving widow—that is, until she showed up in the fields yesterday and ripped him a new one.
“Pull yourself together, you drunken coward,” she’d screamed at him. “I don’t care what you think of me, but that little girl adores you for some goddamned reason. And if she wants a goddamned birthday party, then Jesus Christ, she’s going to get one.”
The other guards and the inmates working the fields had heard her tirade and stopped to watch it unfold like the latest picture show. Roscoe pleaded with Miriam to lower her voice. She’d always considered herself a woman of God. When she started using the Lord’s name in vain, he knew turning down the request would only invite a world of hurt for himself and Ginny.
Pulling up to the house, Roscoe remembered he hadn’t washed out his mouth with Listerine. Miriam would smell the whiskey and give him hell for his drinking. He hoped she’d be on her best behavior for Ginny’s sake.
The little girl ran to the truck to greet him. “Uncle Roscoe! Uncle Roscoe! Happy birthday,” she called out.
He scooped her up and she burrowed her face in his neck. Ginny was eight but was small for her age and light as a feather. She was dusty from playing outside.
The bruises on
his face caught her attention. They had faded some over the last few weeks, but the beating was severe enough that the marks would be with him a while longer. She touched his cheek and forehead softly and then poked a swollen spot near his eye. “You got hurt.”
“Oh, just got in a scrape at work. Nothing to worry about,” he said. “If I weren’t so damn skinny, maybe the other guy would look like this and not me.”
She smiled at his joke, but worry still clouded her eyes.
“I hear birthday cake’s on the menu this evening,” Roscoe said, and put her down on the ground. Grass wouldn’t grow on the hard, packed earth around the guard housing and he thought it especially sad that kids had to play in dirt. Only the warden’s residence had a lush green lawn, making it seem like a mirage in a desert.
Ginny grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the house, quick to put aside talk of his injuries. “Mama made pork chops, too. Your favorite.”
“Good. Both of us could stand to put on some weight,” he said. “Hope there’s mashed potatoes, too.”
Miriam stood just behind the screen door to the porch. Her arms were crossed and her face was just as stern as it’d been in the fields yesterday.
“Wash your hands, Ginny. You’re a hot mess,” she said, and faded into the darkness of the room behind her.
* * *
Miriam almost bristled that Ginny could be in good spirits. She felt that the girl ought to be displaying the grief Miriam and Roscoe felt at Joe’s passing. But it’s a tricky thing to make a child look reality squarely in the face.
Roscoe kept his comments light, although Ginny’s resemblance to his best friend made it hard to keep from asking for a beer. Hell, Miriam might have thrown out all the liquor by now. Joe’s drinking had always been a sore spot in their marriage. And although Joe was the heavier drinker, Roscoe imagined Miriam thought him to be the bad influence.
“Remember the one birthday when Daddy smashed your face in the cake,” Ginny asked. “That was messy. We ate the pieces with our hands. Remember?”
“Your father ruined a perfectly good lemon cake,” Miriam said. “No sense in remembering that fondly.”
Ginny’s face fell, so Roscoe gave a conspiratorial wink. She tried to wink back, but ended up closing both eyes at once. He covered his mouth with his napkin and pretended to cough so Miriam wouldn’t notice his smile.
What Ginny couldn’t know was her father’s brand of humor sometimes bordered on cruel. You had to look closely in his eyes to see if he meant harm. Even so, most times you couldn’t tell. A punch to the arm that was a little too forceful. An insult veiled in a joke. He might compliment Miriam’s new dress only to say she’d packed on too many pounds since they’d married. He might praise Ginny’s good grades in school, but chastise her for not making friends.
The other guards clamored to be around Joe because his personality was big and brazen. His unwavering confidence had attracted Roscoe as well. But Joe kept things unsettled, which worried Roscoe. A prison wasn’t a place for a guard with a hair-trigger temper or a taste for cruelty, especially under the guise of a good laugh.
“Mama says we’re moving to Grandma’s or maybe into a new house all our own, and we won’t be coming back to the prison again,” Ginny said, clearing the plates from the table. Her spindly arms managed to hold on to the plates with ease. “I’ll get the cake and candles.”
Miriam pursed her lips. “What happened to your face?” she asked Roscoe.
“Was nothing.”
“Nothing, huh. Looks like a damn lot of something.”
“I said it was nothing,” Roscoe said. “Part of the job. Leave it be.”
“I’m glad Ginny and I are leaving this hellhole,” she said. “This place killed Joe.”
“You know the prison didn’t kill him,” he said. “It was his own goddamn fault.”
“I won’t have you speak this way in my house.” Her words, masked in a whisper, raged like a scream.
“Let’s not do this now.” Roscoe brought his hand to his forehead, tracing the tender spot that still brought on headaches.
Ginny reentered the room, the cake blazing with too many candles to count. Her playful rendition of the “Happy Birthday” song stood in contrast to the sorrow pounding in his chest. It’d be so much easier to cut ties and not risk any more hurt, but this dinner was part of making good on his promise to Joe that he’d look after his wife and daughter.
The night Joe died was the last time Roscoe had heard the plea, as if the danger of their mission that evening implied one of them might not make it out alive. Or maybe Joe’s recklessness always kept his mortality top of mind.
“Make a wish,” Ginny said, setting the cake on the table in front of him.
He closed his eyes and blew with all his might.
“Don’t tell us or it won’t come true,” she added.
Roscoe would never reveal the wish to Ginny because it was a hope she’d never have to feel as he did: that Joe deserved what he got.
* * *
When Ginny had gone to bed, Miriam pointed to the front door. Roscoe followed her to the chairs on the porch and sat down.
“I guess your birthday wish was you’ll never have to see me again.” She lit a cigarette. Roscoe hadn’t seen her smoke before.
“Cut the crap,” he said, pulling his pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket. “I’ll look after you two even after you move to town.”
Roscoe sidestepped the real meaning of her comment. Things had been strained between them, even before Joe’s death. One evening, about two months ago, he’d stopped by the house to tell Miriam that Joe was working the night shift at the Waiting Room. Miriam had opened the screen and pulled him into the darkened living room. She pressed herself against him, pinning him against the wall. She’d groped at his belt with one hand and rubbed the front of his pants with the other. He’d not had a woman in more than three years and he hardened at her touch. Miriam responded eagerly, seeing it as proof of his desire. He’d grabbed her arms roughly and asked her to stop. When she wouldn’t, he shoved her away, but harder than he’d intended. She lost her balance and fell to the floor. He’d not stayed to ask if she was all right.
“That girl will be the death of me,” Miriam groused. “Know what she said to me the other day? I told her Joe was in Heaven and she said we couldn’t know for certain what happens when we die. Blasphemy.”
“Ginny’s a good kid,” Roscoe said. “She’s just trying to work it all out in her head. Got to be hard for a young ’un.”
“It’s harder on me.”
Roscoe felt contempt for Miriam’s self-pity. She hadn’t loved Joe and Joe hadn’t loved her, at least in the end. Roscoe thought Joe stayed in the marriage solely for Ginny. Her mama was stingy with love and generous with criticism, but Joe adored his daughter. With enough drink and some ladies on the side, he’d settled into a marriage he could stomach.
“Warden Gates gave me permission to bring Ginny to the execution.” She took a long drag of her cigarette and used the nub to light another.
Roscoe was as shocked at the comment as the casual, offhanded way she’d delivered it.
“What in God’s name are you thinking?”
“Keep your voice down,” she said, coolly. “She’s mature for her age. She needs to see someone suffer for her daddy’s murder. For closure.”
“For closure? For goddamned closure?” Roscoe shook his head, fighting the urge to choke Miriam. He couldn’t bear the thought of Ginny suffering at this madwoman’s hands. “You can’t do that to her.”
“I’m not doing anything ‘to’ her. And it’s none of your business.”
“It is my business,” Roscoe said. “I’m Joe’s best friend and he’d never let Ginny be hurt in this way.”
“Some best friend.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Roscoe asked.
“Joe counted on you to protect him. That’s what best friends do.”
Her hateful smirk only made
him angrier. “You don’t know the whole story,” he said.
“I know enough.”
That’s what worried Roscoe. Miriam had bits and pieces relayed by three other guards who were protecting their own hides as well. He suspected they’d been less than truthful. And they’d beat the shit out of him to make sure he didn’t tell the truth either.
Roscoe stood and made his way down the steps. “I’m going to talk to the warden in the morning.”
“Go ahead. But he won’t go against my wishes.”
Roscoe was already in his truck when Miriam called from the porch. “You’re at the top of the warden’s shit list. Maybe you should worry about that.”
Chapter 10
Tropical storm Arlene tore into Louisiana, dumping thirteen inches of rain near the coast and half as much inland in just two days. It was enough to turn the prison’s dusty roads into muck and to compel Ginny to drive to the prison kitchen each morning for more than a week. Dot wasn’t averse to walking in rain, but the wind accompanying the storm drove her half-crazy. She gladly accepted the rides.
They appreciated the extra time at the kitchen table each morning with their cups of coffee and sweet rolls. Even after the rains stopped, they continued taking the car to safeguard the new ritual.
Yesterday, Dot had moved the typewriter onto the kitchen table, suggesting they work on the cookbook in the mornings. Their first brainstorming session wasn’t going well. Mostly, she just chastised Ginny for poor penmanship and inattention to detail.
“I can’t make out your handwriting.” Dot sifted through several recipes Ginny had laid out on the table. “Some of these aren’t even recipes.”
“Those are just guidelines,” Ginny argued. “I carry around the steps in my head.”
“Women new to the kitchen won’t be reading your mind. You got to write out every step or you’ll be responsible for a lot of disasters and wasted groceries.”
“You’re being overly dramatic.”
Dot crossed her arms and looked at Ginny over the top of her glasses. “You’re going to have to make each and every recipe. I’ll write down the steps as you go along and you can type it up after. We could start this weekend.”
The Last Suppers Page 12