He might have told her the news about losing his job. She would have comforted him and said they’d figure it out together. It was then that Roscoe might have knelt and asked for her hand. She would have been dazed by his proposal, maybe even a little frightened. But she would have said yes.
The slam of the screen door was like a bucket of ice water dumped on Ginny’s head. She ran out into the dirt yard as Roscoe was pulling away in his truck.
“Then, this is it?” she called out. “We’re done?”
Roscoe stopped backing up. The emotions in his face blurred from anger to defeat to sadness. “That’s up to you, Ginny Polk.”
The dust from his wheels mushroomed up around her, stinging her already burning eyes.
* * *
Ginny woke to someone stroking her hair. The gauzy feeling in her head hinted it could be a dream, maybe about her daddy offering comfort after a nightmare. Her eyes eased open slowly. Miriam was kneeling on the floor beside the settee where Ginny had fallen asleep.
“You’re paying me back for those, hear?” Her mama pointed to the pieces of records lying on the living room floor.
“Mama? What are you doing here?” Ginny roused herself enough to sit up. Her head ached and she still felt disoriented. Even more so because of Miriam’s tenderness.
“Roscoe stopped by today,” she said. “I swear I wasn’t going to say a thing about the robe. Then the fool started in about asking you to marry him. I figured it’d be pretty awkward considering what you were going to confront him about.”
When Ginny didn’t answer, Miriam looked alarmed.
“Oh, shit. He did mention he intended to propose, right?” she asked. “He said he was coming straight over here.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. He mentioned it. As he was leaving,” she added.
Ginny couldn’t be angry with her. She was right to tell Roscoe that Ginny had found the Klan robe. If Roscoe had blurted out a marriage proposal first thing, Ginny didn’t know how she would have reacted. The conversation had been confused enough as it was.
“Did you wait for him to leave before breaking these, or were they part of your fight?” Miriam bent to pick up the black pieces of plastic, setting aside those with the label of the record visible. “I’m not kidding when I said you’re paying me back.”
Her mama smiled. A real smile, not one with a hard edge meant to chastise Ginny for the destructive act.
“Why are you being nice to me?” Ginny couldn’t help but ask. It’d been such a strange and disturbing evening. There was only so much she could take. Games weren’t one of them.
“Oh, baby girl.” Miriam sighed and walked into the kitchen. From there, she called out, “I’m making coffee. I already checked your cupboards to see if you had anything stronger.”
It was dark outside, but definitely not anywhere near dawn. Ginny had the drunken feeling one gets when roused in the middle of the night.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Almost midnight,” Miriam said. “You were out cold when I got here. I walked right in without you stirring.”
Ginny never locked the door. Her windows stayed open all night on the off chance a slight breeze might make sleeping a little more bearable. The only people who could possibly enter her home were guards or escaped convicts. The likelihood of either of those invading her sanctuary for any reason—evil or otherwise—was small.
Sanctuary was the first word to pop into her head to describe the place, but it wouldn’t feel that way anymore. Not without Roscoe.
Ginny heard her mother rattling around in the kitchen. “The cups are in the—”
“I know where the dishes should be,” Miriam said. “This was my house once, remember?”
Drinking coffee on a warm, muggy evening was unappetizing to Ginny, but she accepted the cup held out to her. It gave her something to do with her hands and something to occupy her mind other than this unsettling version of her mother.
Miriam sat in the low, upholstered chair and set her cup on the end table beside it. “The place never looked better. Roscoe do all this?”
“Dot helped.”
“Ah,” Miriam said.
Ginny had no idea what the “ah” meant, but she wasn’t going to engage. Her mother didn’t approve of their friendship. One, because Dot was black, and two, because Dot had become almost a mother to Ginny.
“I looked around earlier, while you were sleeping,” Miriam said. “That’s a lovely bedroom set you have. What I’d give for a mirrored dressing table like that.”
Suspicious of the compliment, Ginny managed a smile nonetheless. Her first instinct, though, was to lash out at Miriam for snooping. Going on the offensive was the best way to defend against her mama’s usual cruelty. Even now, Ginny’s senses were on high alert. She braced, wondering Miriam’s motive for driving all the way from Boucherville so late at night.
“So, you two split up?” Miriam asked. Her face gave away nothing. She could have just as soon asked if the Dodgers won the World Series.
“I don’t know.” Ginny had thought the break with Roscoe would be clean, even if devastating. It was supposed to be accusations followed by confessions followed by an agreement to part ways. Instead, her feelings had been muddied by Roscoe’s gentleness at first, then his refusal to offer more explanation.
“Not so easy to judge someone who loves you, huh.” Miriam peered over the coffee cup in her hand.
“You think I’m judging Roscoe? He was in the Klan. He deserves to be judged. I don’t care how long ago it happened.”
Ginny stoked the anger that failed to fully ignite earlier. She didn’t want her mama to sway her toward compassion or forgiveness, even if those things kept popping into her own head.
“He said he never hurt anyone, Mama. That he prevented some people from being hurt.” Ginny set her cup on the rug and slumped back into the cushions on the settee.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Miriam said.
“What do you mean?”
“Roscoe wasn’t like your father,” she said. “He was gentler, more levelheaded. I don’t know why he and Joe were friends. Sometimes I think it was to protect Joe from himself.”
Earlier that day, Miriam had confirmed the vicious streak that led her husband to kill others without reason or remorse. Ginny no longer held out hope that he hadn’t been a killer.
“Daddy hurt people.”
“He did.”
“Then why—”
“Then why stay with him?” Miriam asked. “Hell, I don’t even know the answer. Partly to spite my mama. Partly because I couldn’t picture myself without a man and he seemed as good as any in the beginning. Of course, I didn’t picture it lasting the eight years that it did.”
“But how could you stand to look at him? To share his bed?” Ginny ventured further than she intended, but this unprecedented honesty between them spurred her to risk more.
“Jesus, Ginny. There’s no answer for that,” she said. “I just did. And with every year, it got easier to ignore what I didn’t want to see.”
The answer didn’t satisfy Ginny. She wanted her mother to share something profound that could help explain how Ginny could both love and hate Roscoe; how she could still want him in her life and in her bed, and at the same time, want him to pay for his past.
Ginny consciously decided not to mention to Miriam what Crawford had said—that Roscoe had killed a man while on duty. She didn’t have enough information to sort it through herself, much less share it with someone she still didn’t trust fully.
“You’re a grown woman,” Miriam finally said. “You got to decide your next steps. I never had to make a decision. Your daddy’s murderer made it for me.”
Suddenly desiring her mama’s advice left Ginny flustered. If Miriam told her to never speak to Roscoe again, she’d want to do the opposite. Same as if she told her to run after him and marry him on the spot.
“You don’t have to make a decision tonight,” Miriam said. “W
hy don’t you go to bed?”
Ginny yawned at the thought. She was dead tired and very near the edge of hysteria at the same time. Her bed would at least provide a few hours of respite before having to think again.
“Would you consider staying the night?” Ginny was unsure why she asked. Perhaps because she’d never felt so alone in her life.
Her mama picked up their empty coffee cups and put them in the kitchen sink. She then went to the front door and locked it.
“I’m happy to stay the night. You have any cold cream?” she asked.
Chapter 15
Dot grabbed the long metal ladle from Ginny and nudged her aside.
“You’re going to burn that stew,” she said.
Ginny’s mind wandered. She’d just relayed to Dot all that had taken place over the weekend and was alternately baffled and saddened. Her mama had stayed for breakfast Sunday morning and then left with a promise to visit later in the week. Not once had she uttered a barb or dig. She’d even suggested they go on a driving vacation together, to “put all that Roscoe business” behind them. Miriam had used the word them like Roscoe had betrayed her as well. That was the closest she’d come to offering advice.
An odd smile crossed Dot’s lips. “I don’t know what’s more unbelievable: Roscoe being in the Klan or your mama offering to stay the night with you. I think I’ve heard everything.”
“It’s not funny,” Ginny said.
“No, child. It’s sure not,” she said. “But you said yourself that you done with crying.”
Ginny couldn’t say that was exactly true. Every few hours she felt overcome with the desire to weep like a mourning widow or cackle like a madwoman. She was worried her mental state was in jeopardy, but wondered how a crazy person would even recognize that in herself. She hadn’t before.
“Why aren’t you angry at Roscoe?” Ginny pressed. “After all, it’s your people we’re talking about here.”
Dot stopped stirring. “It’s not my people we’re talking about here. You don’t know what happened all those years ago. The man told you he ain’t hurt nobody and that he stopped others from being killed.”
“I don’t know that’s—”
“You do know it’s true,” Dot admonished her. “You know that man better than anybody at this prison. Even I can see he doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Look what he’s done for this place.”
“Then I should forgive him?”
“I’m not saying that.”
Ginny grimaced. “Then what are you saying? You’ve never been shy about doling out advice.”
Dot shifted the massive soup pot to the back burner. “Am I the only one who sees we got work to do? I’m going to start on those mashed potatoes.”
When Dot turned to head to the larder, Ginny touched her arm gently to stop her. “What is it? What’s upsetting you?”
Because several guards were waiting for dinner to be served, Ginny motioned Dot to follow her from the building. They sat, side by side, on the cement steps.
“Do you really want my advice?” Dot asked, swiping at her wet eyes.
“Of course.” Ginny braced for what would surely be hard truths. Dot had offered her advice freely over the years without regard for hurt feelings. She felt that honesty was a responsibility and that you did your loved ones a disservice by mollycoddling them.
“While I’d miss you something fierce, I think you ought to quit this place,” she said. “Take all this bad business as a sign. Roscoe is starting fresh. So can you. Either by yourself or with him, if you can forgive what he’s done. Don’t matter. But you ought to go.”
Ginny felt a wave of grief almost as strong as those that pummeled her over the weekend. She couldn’t imagine leaving her job or Dot. She found it hard to contemplate her future at all. She sure wasn’t ready to entertain something as drastic as abandoning the two constants she had left.
Dot picked at bits of food and grease that stippled her apron, then clasped her hands together as if to calm their agitation. “You can’t go ignoring all the signs,” she said. “First, the mess with that LeBoux boy. Then your spell. Finding that damn robe. Now, Roscoe leaving. There’ll be a new warden soon. Why not cut and run?”
Cut and run. That’s exactly what Ginny felt like doing. But she also felt tethered in place. Maybe not by the prison, but definitely by the unfinished business with Roscoe.
“It’s not your job to worry about me. That’s too much to ask of anyone.”
“Who else is going to worry about you then?” Dot asked.
Guards made their way across the compound. It was the shift change and a dozen or so men would want their supper soon. Several moved in single file past them on the steps.
Ginny cupped her hands around one of Dot’s and smiled. “Maybe that job should fall to Mama seeing as we’re best friends now.”
Dot’s throaty laugh warmed Ginny instantly. No need to make a hasty decision. They had work to do.
* * *
After supper was over, two inmates washed the tin trays that meals were served on, so Ginny made her way to the larder to take note of what staples needed ordering. She loved the quiet, dark space hidden beneath the hubbub of the kitchen. Its black dirt floor gave off a comforting smell she never grew tired of. Rows and rows of canned beets, green beans, and tomatoes were arranged neatly on wooden shelves. The order of it appealed to her, as did the coolness of the space, which was welcome after she’d been hovering over a hot stove.
She made herself a note that grits were running low and tucked it into her apron before climbing the stairs up to the kitchen. John, the guard filling in as interim warden, was waiting for her.
“Good evening, Ginny,” he said.
“I didn’t see you at supper,” she said, locking the metal door behind her. “I expect you’re mighty busy with your new warden responsibilities.”
John winced. “I’m not the one who fired Roscoe.”
“I apologize for my tone,” she said. “All the changes are just so brand-new. It’s hard for me to imagine this place without him.”
“We agree on that score,” he said. “I had hoped he would have stayed a little longer. The prison board gave him a couple of weeks, but he insisted on leaving today. Said it was best to clear out before they hired his replacement.”
“He’s gone already?”
John looked puzzled. “I figured you knew. Something happen between the two of you?”
“That’s not really any of your business.” She tried hard to tamp down the hurt of being told this news by someone other than Roscoe himself. Ginny hoped John would leave her be so she could process Roscoe’s abrupt departure without an audience to her emotions.
“I expect it’s not,” John said. “But I do have prison business to discuss with you. Maybe you should join me in Roscoe’s—I mean the warden’s office when you’re finished here.”
He turned and left. She quickly unlocked the metal door to the larder and scurried down the stairs. It was the only place she could cry in private before facing John again.
* * *
When Ginny arrived in Roscoe’s old office, John had already poured a splash of whiskey in a coffee cup for her. The cup in his hand probably didn’t hold coffee either.
The smell of it reminded her of both her daddy and Roscoe; how their breath had imparted the pungent smell of peat, but also the sweet scent of cut hay and vanilla. She gulped it down hoping its fire would fortify her.
“The news must not be good if you’ve resorted to booze first thing.”
“You’ve worked a long day,” he said. “You deserve it.”
“I work long days almost every day,” Ginny said. “I suspect something is very different about this one.”
John laughed and motioned for her to sit. “Dunner was here today.”
The state’s Superintendent of Corrections hadn’t wasted any time. Roscoe’s hearing had taken place just three days prior and Dunner was already stirring things up, she guessed.
“And I should care why?”
“Ginny, I’m not Roscoe. I don’t have the patience for your smart mouth.” John poured himself a generous drink. “Dunner recommended that you be fired, too.”
“What do you mean by recommended?”
“It means that two other prison board members convinced him otherwise,” John said. “One of those board members, Herbert Levy, will likely be the next warden.”
The name sounded familiar. Ginny couldn’t remember if Levy had been at the disastrous prison dinner she’d forgotten about until an hour before it was to start. If he was the large, kindly man who came to Roscoe’s defense that evening, she thought he might just be an amiable replacement.
“When do you think he’ll start?”
“Within the next couple of weeks,” John said. “But that’s not why I asked you here, Ginny. Your job is going to change and I wanted to be the one to break the news.”
“Well, if you have to ‘break the news,’ it’s not going to be pleasant. Just give it to me straight.” She tensed her stomach as if she could grunt down the apprehension twisting there.
“You’ll be working at the warden’s residence,” he said. “Levy and his wife would like you to be their personal cook. You’ll still oversee things in the prison kitchen, but won’t work there.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, but she did. They’d put her in her place for being a troublemaker. The one who dared fall in love with a warden; the one who dared to show a shred of decency toward death row inmates.
“At least you have a job,” he said. “Look at the bright side.”
Given that she’d had only a minute to digest the news, she didn’t see a bright side. She’d gone from being in charge of a large, institutional kitchen where she was her own boss to being someone’s house help.
“What if I won’t do it?” Ginny considered her options. Maybe if she just talked to Levy, he’d understand her objections.
The Last Suppers Page 18