The Last Suppers

by Mandy Mikulencak

  “You’re being an ass,” Roscoe said. “Why don’t you shut up?”

  “Make me. Go on, show me you’re a big man.” Joe pushed his chair back, the dull knife still in his hand.

  His Jekyll and Hyde personality wore on Roscoe. When sober, his friend had a wicked sense of humor and was as loyal as a coon dog. He often took shifts for other guards, without pay, so they could tend to family business. Roscoe remembered dinners with Joe and Miriam where they laughed easily, enjoying a game of rummy or dominoes. Some nights, the couple couldn’t keep their hands off each other and Roscoe felt like a voyeur. But when drunk, Joe said and did things that made Roscoe daydream about killing him. Miriam would be better off at her mama’s place and Ginny wouldn’t be afraid anymore.

  “Let’s just finish the meal,” Miriam pleaded.

  “You call this a meal? Pig slop is more like it.” Joe dropped the knife on the table and staggered back to the sofa, landing facedown on the cushions. Within seconds, the muffled snores began.

  Roscoe stared at his plate, hoping Miriam wouldn’t cry. Comforting her felt awkward. There was nothing to say anyway. Her husband would be a different man when he’d sobered up. A repentant man. And that always seemed to be enough for her.

  “Take the booze when you leave.” She stood to clear the dishes.

  “Leave my plate,” he said. “I’m not finished.”

  “You don’t have to eat it, Roscoe.”

  “I’m so hungry I could eat shoe leather,” he said, taking another bite of roast and carrot.

  She sat back down, her eyes a little brighter. “Well, you’re in luck. It’s on the menu tonight.”

  He laughed with her, then described the ornery ten-inch bluegill he caught on his last fishing trip.

  * * *

  With Joe snoring in the other room, Roscoe thought it didn’t hurt to stay for dessert and coffee. Miriam may burn a roast beyond recognition, but she could bake a hell of a pie.

  “It’s peach,” she said, placing a large slice in front of him.

  “One of my favorites.” He grinned broadly, rubbing his hands together like a kid.

  “You say that about every pie I bake.”

  “They’re all my favorites then.”

  He gladly ate while she talked about things only she cared about: the fabric she’d just bought in Boucherville to make play clothes for Ginny, her suspicion that the wife of a new guard was part black, her gut feeling that summer was sure to be the hottest one on record.

  She refilled his coffee cup and he didn’t stop her, even if it meant he’d be up all night. Miriam seemed to drink up any kindness offered, so he asked for another slice of pie and listened patiently as she recited a list of repairs the ramshackle house needed and how Joe had neglected the place far too long.

  Roscoe pushed back from the table and rubbed his full belly in appreciation. He was about to tell Miriam it had been her best pie yet when he noticed she’d begun to weep. Her chest heaved with silent sobs as if she struggled to contain some horrible sorrow.

  “Miriam? What is it?” He hesitated a moment, then dragged a chair to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  She shook her head, signaling for a moment to gain her composure. Yet, each time she opened her mouth to speak, she brought two hands up to cover it.

  “Tell me, Miriam. Has he hurt Ginny?” It was the only horror Roscoe could imagine warranting such a crying fit.

  “No. He’d never . . . He adores that child,” she said, gulping in air. “It’s what happened in the Red Hat cellblock.”

  After several escape attempts last year, thirty men had been moved into a separate cellblock, the strictest in the prison. They called it the Red Hat because those inmates working in the field were forced to wear straw hats painted red. It made it easier to spot and shoot runaways.

  Earlier last week, Roscoe had witnessed Joe mete out his own brand of peacekeeping in the unit after an inmate threw his shit bucket at him. The place had been suffocating that day—temperatures so high that some inmates stripped naked and lay on the floor to try to cool themselves. Joe pulled the offender from his cell and bludgeoned him with a nightstick until his face was a mass of meat, bone, and blood. Then, looking like a deranged person, he’d dragged the dead man up and down the cellblock as a warning to the rest of them. When Roscoe had tried to intervene, two other guards held him back.

  “Miriam, that’s not something you need to worry about,” he said. “Put it out of your mind.”

  But Roscoe hadn’t been able to forget it either. The savagery in Joe’s eyes burned so hot Roscoe knew it’d never be extinguished. He’d seen it before—guards who lost all sense of reason and decency.

  “The drink has affected his mind,” she said. “I’ve heard the stories. Moonshine making people go mad. No telling where he’s been getting his booze all these years.”

  “I won’t let him hurt you and Ginny.”

  Joe’s justification had always been that the inmates were animals, undeserving of better treatment. He said there’d be chaos if the guards didn’t keep the upper hand. Roscoe had to believe him incapable of that kind of violence against his own family.

  “Oh, sweet, naïve Roscoe. You come around every once in a blue moon with a present for Ginny, or to have a piece of pie and shoot the shit. You can’t protect us any more than we can protect ourselves.”

  He cringed at the resignation and truth in her words.

  “I promise you,” he said. “I’ll come around more often. And I’ll make sure Joe cuts back on the whiskey. Things will be different.”

  She grabbed their empty plates and coffee cups, and placed them in the sink.

  “I’ll help you with the dishes,” he said, getting up.

  Miriam turned on the radio that sat on the counter near the stove. The sweet melody came across scratchy and distant on the cheap model. He recognized it as Duke Ellington but didn’t know the tune by name.

  “Have a quick dance with me instead.” She took off her apron and extended her hand.

  Roscoe thought it was the least he could do.

  Chapter 12

  Roscoe hadn’t checked into the Howard Johnson, and Ginny didn’t feel like calling every motel in Baton Rouge to track him down. What could she possibly say to make things better? Did it go well? I miss you? I’m sorry?

  Dot was right. Roscoe had made his own choices all along: to hire Ginny, to fall in love with her, to place her wants before his. Yet, blame lay heavy on her shoulders. Ginny had pressed for the job. She allowed the affair to happen. She pushed and pushed and pushed in a system that put a bull’s-eye on the back of anyone making waves.

  With Dot gone for the weekend, the house was empty, but Ginny’s mind was inundated with doubts and regrets vying for her attention. What seemed a magical place just a day ago now felt garish and obscene, especially in contrast with the other housing. Everything John said had been true. She was Roscoe’s special pet, perched on a pedestal towering above the muck. The rest of the prison knew she had special privileges, and Roscoe’s authority was diminished because of it.

  Instead of the radio soothing her, Ginny found the songs too chipper and grating, so she turned it off. Neither reading nor working on the cookbook appealed to her. She almost thought of visiting Miriam for the weekend, but came to her senses quickly.

  Her thoughts turned to the mutilated scrapbook she hadn’t looked at since Dot helped piece it back together. She dragged a chair from the kitchen to the bedroom closet where the scrapbook lay at the very back of the top shelf under some sweaters. The bulb in the closet had burned out, but enough light shone from the overhead fixture in the bedroom. What Ginny hadn’t counted on was not being able to reach it. Standing on the chair, even on her tiptoes, she could barely touch the edge of the book with her fingertips. Dot had been the one to shove it up there during the hasty move from the barracks. She’d said she wouldn’t let Ginny keep it unless it was somewhere Roscoe wouldn’t happen upon it accidenta
lly. No one was going to go to the trouble of looking in that dusty old closet and Ginny shouldn’t have either.

  The chair rocked slightly as she stepped down. The floorboard under the front chair legs had bowed just a bit, piquing her curiosity. Pulling the chair away, she knelt before the board and pressed until she confirmed it wasn’t nailed down. Her fingers alone couldn’t get a purchase on either side to pry it up. Ginny hurried into the kitchen to retrieve two butter knives, which did the trick. The board lifted out like a piece of sheet cake.

  The dirt crawl space beneath the house wasn’t visible, so she figured her daddy had rigged a compartment of some kind. But why? The thought of reaching an arm into the hole gave her the shivers. A flashlight wasn’t available because she’d used it walking to the kitchen one especially dark morning and left it there accidentally.

  Ginny sat back on her haunches, contemplating her options, when Dot’s voice rang out.

  “What in heaven’s name are you looking for?” She towered above Ginny, hands on her hips.

  “Jesus!” Ginny yelled, losing her balance.

  “He’s not hiding beneath your floorboards, so you’re wasting your time.” She laughed at her own joke. Ginny couldn’t be mad. Dot might just be curious enough to reach down in there for her.

  “It looks to be a secret compartment,” Ginny said. “Why are you back?”

  “Tried to purchase gasoline in town and realized I forgot my pocketbook,” Dot said. “Let me have a look.”

  Dot dropped to her knees and put her face close to the hole as if she might be able to ascertain its purpose by smell and hearing.

  “Guess you don’t have a flashlight?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Ginny said.

  Dot leaned on her side so that she was laid out flat. In that position, she could maneuver the length of her pudgy arm into the space.

  “Be careful,” Ginny said.

  “Nothing in here to be afraid of ’cept maybe some spiders or a mouse. Don’t be such a child.”

  Dot closed her eyes.

  “I got something. Feels like glass.” She withdrew her hand, now wrapped about a bottle of amber liquid. “Hooch,” she said triumphantly. “Must be left over from your daddy’s drinking days.”

  All of his days had been drinking days. Although, in the weeks leading up to his murder, his episodes of drunkenness were less frequent. Ginny knew this to be true because she’d carved a tick mark in the wall near her bed for the nights he called her mama bad names. She’d marked an X for the nights he hit Miriam. The change in him came on gradually, though. Ginny couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she started to think he’d become a different person.

  After the miraculous change in his personality and drinking habits, there were many nights that he, her mama, and Roscoe would play cards or dominoes until way after Ginny’s bedtime. She fell asleep to the comforting sound of laughter instead of her daddy’s usual cursing and stomping around. Her stomach tightened at the memory. Those days seemed fragile and fleeting, and she often braced for the old daddy to make an appearance, especially when Roscoe left for the evening. After her father died, Ginny remembered being angry with him for leaving them when he’d just started to become the type of father she wanted.

  “I felt something else in there.” Dot thrust her arm back under the boards and fished around until she pulled out a large bundle of fabric. It’d been white originally, but dirt and time had made it dingy. She sneezed three times in quick succession.

  “Bless you. Now what the hell is that?” Ginny knelt down and took the cocoon from Dot while she stood and brushed the cobwebs from her sleeve.

  Unrolling it carefully to keep the dust down, Ginny soon saw it was two pieces. One resembled a long robe. The other piece was smaller and cone-shaped.

  Dot moved backward so suddenly, she fell against the bed. Her face was like a child’s after a bad dream, twisted with fear that couldn’t be eased.

  “What’s wrong?” Ginny asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Much worse.” Tears formed at the corners of Dot’s eyes and she swiped at them angrily.

  * * *

  Dot agreed to stay for coffee. Ginny didn’t want her on the highway at night, given the state she was in, and Ginny didn’t want to be alone either. She’d uncovered a shameful part of her daddy’s past, one that was tightly intertwined with Dot’s own family’s history. Ginny fought the urge to vomit.

  “Those goddamned hooded rednecks.” The cup rattled as Dot set it down on the saucer.

  “I can’t believe it,” Ginny murmured.

  “Oh, I can believe it,” Dot said. “As children, we could never walk alone, even in daylight. My brothers and I spent many a sleepless night, afraid that the white ghosts were coming for us. My father said those spineless bastards could kill, rape, burn. Ain’t nobody going to care if a black man or woman died.”

  Ginny felt she owed Dot an apology for her daddy’s actions. Although Ginny had no idea how violent or extreme they’d been. Knowing what the Klan was capable of, especially in Louisiana, she feared the worst. All the images of her father she’d stored in her mind were now superimposed with the robe and hood now lying menacingly on the kitchen table.

  “I’m sorry you had to see these,” Ginny said.

  “It’s not like you ever forget about those bastards.” Dot’s laugh was bitter, yet tinged with palpable fear. “My folks didn’t talk about it much except for the warnings to be careful. But we all knew of people who’d been hurt or died. But even in church, when we mourned them, we didn’t mention the Klan outright.”

  Ginny’s eyes welled to think the victims kept their grief as secret as Klansmen kept their identities.

  “Please just throw those things away,” Dot said. “Burn ’em. Don’t keep them in this house another second.”

  “I can’t. Not just yet.”

  “Why in the hell would you want to keep them?”

  Ginny took a sip of coffee and noticed her hands shook as badly as Dot’s. “I want to see Mama’s reaction when I visit tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Dot ended up staying the night. She’d been too unnerved by the discovery, her old fears heightened by the darkness outside. Ginny slept very little. One persistent nightmare woke her over and over. She had been standing underneath a large tree, in the dark of night, clothed only in a thin nightgown. Hooded men with glowing torches surrounded her. One looped a rope around her neck. Her daddy’s hazel eyes shone through the eyeholes. In the dream, Ginny started screaming, “I’m white, Daddy. Don’t do it. I’m white.”

  Daylight did nothing to ease her shame or nausea. Thinking her father could be a murderer made her want to hide under the covers like a little girl. Not knowing the truth, though, would only sicken her mind and heart with assumptions. If Miriam could confirm the worst, Ginny vowed to lock the horrors away and never think of him again. She’d burn the robe and hood and with them, any connection she had to her father.

  The road to Boucherville was empty at dawn, especially on a Saturday. With the windows down, the wind whipped at her hair and lifted the edges of the robe, which rested on the seat beside her. Originally, Ginny thought to stow it in the trunk. Instead, she let her daddy’s sins ride in the front to stoke her resolve.

  Her mama’s house was dark and still. The door was unlocked, as it always was. Miriam feared nothing, unlike Dot’s family, who were hypervigilant, especially when Klan raids were prevalent.

  Ginny walked through the silent rooms and down the hall. Her hand hovered over the doorknob to her mother’s bedroom. Once Ginny turned that knob, her life would change forever. She reminded herself that the discovery of the robe had already altered her life, so she entered.

  Miriam lay with her back to the door, the yellow chenille bedspread pulled up over her ears. Ginny’s father used to joke that this lifelong habit was sure to lead to suffocation, especially in the heat of a Louisiana summer. Her mama had insisted that her ears felt a chill, e
ven on warm nights, and it comforted her to have the fabric shielding them.

  Gone was the fire Ginny had felt in her belly on the drive over. Earlier, she’d envisioned a loud confrontation, even flinging the robes in Miriam’s face and demanding answers. Now, she stood before her mother wanting comfort more than confirmation.

  Miriam groaned softly and turned toward her daughter, arms stretching like a cat’s. Her sleepy eyes focused and refocused until she recognized it was only Ginny. Her presence hadn’t startled Miriam at all. It was as normal as it had been when Ginny was a child, tugging at her mama’s covers and begging for pancakes for breakfast.

  “My God, Ginny. What time is it?”

  Miriam’s yawn spurred her own. “Six-thirty maybe.”

  Her mama sat up in bed. Her slip had twisted and bunched, revealing a part of her breast. She pointed to her bathrobe at the end of the bed, so Ginny tossed it to her. Her face, unburdened by makeup and worry, looked more youthful than Ginny remembered it ever being.

  “Something happen between you and Roscoe?” Miriam pulled the robe around her and walked out of the room.

  Ginny followed her into the kitchen, the Klan robe tucked beneath an arm. “Why would you assume something like that?”

  “It’s too early to fight,” Miriam said. “I’m making coffee.”

  The words threw Ginny off-kilter. Her mama was always raring for a fight, especially where Ginny was concerned. Baffled, she sat down.

  “What’s that in your arms?” Miriam lit a cigarette and blew a ribbon of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Why are you smoking?”

  “I’ve smoked off and on for years,” Miriam said. “If you’d come around more often, you’d know that.”

  Her fight was returning. Perhaps she’d been too groggy earlier to go on the offensive.

  “Well, I’m here now. And I need to talk about this.” Ginny laid the bundle on the table.

  “And that is?”

  Angrily, Ginny grabbed the robe and held it against the length of her body. Miriam glanced only briefly before pouring their coffee.