by Liza Palmer
“I thought when you married Laurel that—”
“That what? She had nothing to do with us.”
His words hang there just as the smoke from the spent fireworks hangs over the town center. Something is different. I’m different. I am older. I am smarter. And most of all, I am stronger. The haze begins to lift. This isn’t going to work. No matter how badly we want it to. In this age of princes marrying “commoners,” it’s easy to think that the days when one’s social strata dictated who you married are behind us. As much as I hate that Everett is loyal to his family, it’s why he’s the man I’ve loved since I was five years old. Asking him to turn his back on them would mean eroding the very character that both mystifies me and makes me believe in better things. Maybe if I can believe I’m not my mother, Everett has to learn he’s not his parents.
And maybe I need to let him.
I said I would come back to North Star on my terms. Maybe my terms start right here. With Everett.
“I can’t do this again,” I say.
“What?” Everett says. With the firework spectacular over, the live music has started back up. The citizens of North Star are beginning to wander out into the town square.
“I’m different now. Maybe I was always different, but just—”
“I don’t understand,” Everett says, reaching out to me. I step back. He immediately tenses.
“I didn’t come back here to pick up where we left off.”
“Why did you come back?”
“Because I had nowhere else to go.”
“So you’re off to the next city then,” Everett says, folding his arms across his chest. His chin is high and defiant.
“No, I’d like to stick around and watch you marry another suitable woman who’s not me,” I say, stepping toward him.
“That was a mistake.”
“A mistake I paid for.”
“You’re not seriously insinuating that I wanted that.”
“You’re a grown man, Ever.” His brow furrows and I can tell my offhanded use of his pet name has shaken him.
“A grown man with responsibilities. It was the right thing to do at the time. My father was very clear about that.”
“Always the good little soldier,” I say, my eyes darting around the dark alley.
“It’s probably hard for you to understand what it’s like to have consequences for your behavior, or any responsibilities, for that matter.”
“What?”
“Someone tries to be the boss of you and you what—quit? Get fired? Move on? That’s how it works, right?”
I am quiet. Shaken. The thing about someone knowing you better than you know yourself is that you can’t shut off their knowledge when it hits too close to home. He’s right, of course.
“I never moved on from you,” I say.
“No, you just left,” he says.
“The night before you got married to Laurel. You couldn’t have expected to . . . Could you have watched me walk down the aisle with another man?” I ask, stepping closer.
“No.”
“You broke my heart, Ever,” I say, laying my hand on his chest. He covers my hand with his and holds it tight. He dips his head and can’t look at me.
“I did what was right by my family. You have no idea how . . . I tried to honor the family name. Shit, Queenie—my parents made it perfectly clear that the future of Paragon rested firmly on my shoulders. Dad would never let Florrie near the business, and Gray’s turned into some idiot playboy. And . . . I mean, this all would be a whole lot easier if I didn’t love my parents and love Paragon, but I do.” Everett’s voice catches and he turns away from me. He continues, “But I fell in love with you and I didn’t know how to handle that,” Everett says, pacing around the alley.
“You didn’t know how to handle that? What am I—a disease you caught?”
“What? No!”
“I knew your parents saw me as trash, but I never thought you did.”
“I don’t.” Everett pulls me close and says, “I don’t.”
“Then why do you treat me like I am?” I ask, freeing myself from him.
Everett is quiet. He turns away from my gaze.
“Don’t you think we get to be happy, Ever?”
“We’re happy right now,” he says, kissing me again.
“Are we?”
Our shared pain is palpable and yet I can’t help but hold on to him. Even still.
I continue. “I’m taking a job over in Shine. I’ve decided to stay for a while,” I say.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want you to stop me from walking away by yelling that you love me. I want you to sweep me up on one of your beautiful Paragon horses and let the entire town see how we feel about each other. I want what I’ve always wanted,” I say, taking his face in my hands.
“Which is what?” Everett says.
“For you to be proud of me, proud of us. I want you to not be able to contain yourself and let everyone know that you’re my man,” I say, and it hurts. It hurts to say it out loud. It hurts to admit it.
“I am your man,” he says, letting his forehead fall onto mine. His voice is low and frantic.
“Prove it,” I say, pulling away from him and taking in the people streaming past us on their way home. Everett is quiet. Still. Tortured. I continue, “That’s what I thought.” I turn and finally walk away.
I don’t look back.
I burst through Merry Carole’s front door and straight into my little guest room. I strip off all of my clothes and wrap a towel around my body. I put Merry Carole’s dress and all of my undergarments into the washing machine, measure the detergent, twist the knobs, and close the lid. I don’t let myself think. I don’t let myself stop. I press my lips together and try to erase the taste of Everett still on them. I walk out of the laundry room and into the guest bathroom, turning on the shower. I lock the door behind me and let the towel fall to the ground. My mind races with thoughts of Everett. I try to stay ahead of them as I step inside the shower, letting the water fall over me.
I feel light. The weight of loving Everett had held me so tightly for so long, it’s all I knew. I feel a sense of panic move through my body. I steady myself on the tile wall.
“What am I going to do without him?” I whisper, the sobs finally coming. I let the water wash over me as I think of a life without Everett. No more fantasies. I need to see the reality of what we have become. We’re not happy. Whatever momentary joy we have can never equal the love that’s felt when you commit yourself to someone and decide to live out your days together. The peace of mind that comes from building a future with someone is not even in the same ballpark as the scraps we’ve been living on. Time. The promise of time is something we never got. What kind of future would we have based on a past and present filled with stolen moments?
The truth is, I came back to North Star because I left something here. And it wasn’t Everett. Or Merry Carole. Or Cal. Or even my mother. I didn’t leave it somewhere in high school or even as I sat at that blinking red light at the edge of town just before getting on that first highway that took me anywhere but here. No, I lost this when I was a little girl. And now I want to find it.
I want to be happy again. Be happy for the first time.
Maybe the first step is doing something just for me without judging it or fearing the consequences.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower. I wrap the towel around my body, grab another towel for my hair, and walk into my guest room. I find my cell phone and dial.
“Shine Prison, how can I help you?”
“Warden Dale Green, please?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Queen Elizabeth Wake.” The woman puts me on hold and I settle on my perfectly made bed. The prison has music playing while you’re on hold, which I find odd. As I try to towel-dry my hair, I find myself singing along with Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue”: “Well, I grew up quick/And I grew up mean . . .
”
“Ms. Wake, happy Fourth!” Warden Dale says, cutting through the music.
“Happy Fourth to you, sir,” I say.
“You got an answer for me, Ms. Wake?”
“Yes, sir. I would like the job, if it’s still available,” I say, my wet hair sticking to my damp shoulders.
“It sure is. I appreciate you calling me back. How about if you come on in tomorrow and have Juanita give you the walk through? I’d like you to cook the Death House crew supper that night and then we’re going to need your last meal services this Friday. You can understand why I was pressing you for an answer,” Warden Dale says.
“Yes, sir,” I say. This Friday. My first last meal. I can do this.
“Now, Juanita’s got today off, but I’ll hand you back over to one of the other fine ladies at the front desk and she’ll set you up with all the details. I’ll see you at ten AM sharp tomorrow morning.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Can I bring knives?”
“Pardon me?”
“Knives, sir? I have a set of knives I prefer to use.”
“Oh, we’ll have Juanita inventory them and you’ll have to check them in and out when you come to work. That suit you?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Welcome to Shine Prison, Ms. Wake. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Warden Dale signs off. Last meals and inventorying knives. This is going to be an interesting day. I beep my cell phone off and stand up. I get dressed, throw my wet hair up into a ponytail, and head to a hard-core German butcher I know is open in New Braunfels. Even on the Fourth of July that German flag flies high. I’ll grab some chicken to fry up tonight, as well as a brisket for tomorrow’s supper. I’ll have to smoke it all night, and even with the time I’ve got, it can always go longer. This’ll have to do. I swipe my keys off the table by the door and head out. I’m already listing appetizers and desserts in my head as I pull out of Merry Carole’s driveway and past all the meandering citizens of North Star, the live music still floating through town.
11
Gentleman Jack Bourbon
“Why would you make a decision like that without even talking with me first?” Merry Carole asks as I appear in the kitchen fully clothed and exhausted after a night of checking on my twelve-pound brisket. After a whole night of smoking, I packaged it up and the brisket and I are finally ready to head over to Shine this morning.
“I did talk with you about it,” I say, pouring coffee into a mug. I open up the refrigerator to get some creamer.
“You didn’t say you were going to take it,” Merry Carole says.
“I know, but I did,” I say, pouring the creamer into the mug.
“I can see that.”
“Don’t you like that I’m staying?” I ask, checking the time: 9:00 AM. I have to get going.
“I do,” Merry Carole says, cinching her robe tightly around her body.
“Then let’s focus on that,” I say, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before grabbing my canvas bag that’s filled with the foil-wrapped brisket and my list of ingredients for the day’s menu. I head for the front door.
“This isn’t over,” Merry Carole says, calling out to me.
“I know,” I say, closing the door behind me.
I walk quickly to my car, before the early morning humidity wreaks havoc on my hair. I open the hatch, lovingly set the brisket inside, and close it up. The brisket smells delicious. I have a shopping list for today that I’ll have to take care of once I check in. I hop into my car and drive through the town’s center. I pass the alley where I was with Everett just yesterday. There’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t wait for him anymore. I’ve waited twenty years and nothing’s changed. I did the right thing. I know I did. Now all I have to do is convince myself that this ache will go away in time. That I’ll feel like myself again. That this newfound lightness won’t begin to feel terrifying. I’m not alone—I have Merry Carole and Cal, just like always. The key is to take the little nugget I learned at the very end in New York. Just as finding adventure in a new city can’t be about not being in North Star, finding love with a new man can’t be about not being with Everett. Remember, I want to be happy. On my terms. I speed onto the highway and turn the radio up full blast.
I was told to park in Lot D. I scan the expanse around the prison and wonder how I thought I could just keep parking in the visitors’ lot. I find Lot D, park, grab my knife case, my shopping list, and the brisket. I walk the interminable distance to the prison with a side of beef worthy of the opening credits of The Flintstones. The golden hills, silvery barbed wire, and the big sky are broken up only by the depressing puce color of the prison’s outer walls.
I walk into the front office and find myself, once again, following Juanita and her sensible, squeaky shoes back down the Hall of Echoes. We settle into the anteroom where I sign contracts, waivers, and far too much paperwork. I’m sure I signed something where I wouldn’t sue if I was injured in the line of duty. I don’t think about any of it. I just read and sign. Juanita inventories my knives, I get my name badge and a key card. Then Juanita walks me through the various protocols and safety measures.
“Now, follow me,” Juanita says, standing up and walking back into the Hall of Echoes. A guard stands just outside Juanita’s door. “This is LaRue Banner. He’s on the Death House crew.” LaRue gives me a curt nod. He is a big man, like all the other guards I’ve seen. He’s younger than I expected, his cocoa skin unwrinkled and perfect. He has dimples that—I’m sure he doesn’t want me to mention—are adorable.
“This way, ma’am,” LaRue says, leading Juanita and me out of the Hall of Echoes.
“LaRue is taking us out to the Death House. It’s an annex right off the prison. You won’t be cooking in the main prison kitchen where the convicts eat, you’ll have your own private space,” Juanita says. We’re outside now. The heat is bursting through the early morning. It’s already hotter than three kinds of hell out here. We’re in this in-between space connecting the prison walls and the outside that is all fencing and razor wire. I look up to see the pacing guards in their uniforms, their shotguns held high. I imagine this corridor is used just by staff and convicts to get to and from the newly built Death House. LaRue doesn’t look up at the guards, his pace is steady and measured. I find myself trying to stay as close to him as I can without causing an uncomfortable moment. We arrive at a small brick building just outside the prison walls. LaRue swipes his key card and the door clicks open.
“You won’t be coming in this way, ma’am. There’s a parking lot just behind, Lot B. That’s for you. Your key card works in the door that leads right to the kitchen,” LaRue says, motioning around the back of the Death House.
“I was told Lot D,” I say, becoming breathless.
“B as in boy, not D as in . . . well,” LaRue says, trailing off. “Right through here.”
We all finish in our heads the sentence beginning with the D. D as in Death.
I walk into the sterile entry space and through one of two metal doors. I get the feeling that this is one of those terrible fairy-tale rooms, where you choose the wrong door, and . . . I take a deep breath. LaRue swipes his card and we walk through to a long, clearly bulletproof window with guards and desks just behind it. Four men in their brown uniforms are sitting on desks, talking on phones and speaking with each other. They come to a complete stop when we walk in. I see Shawn. He smiles, but then there’s a change in his face. He walks over and buzzes us through.
“Gentlemen, this is your new Death House cook, Queenie Wake,” Juanita says as the men stand. They all look basically the same. Sure, they’re different races and ages, but the same thing emanates from them: do not mess with me.
“It’s a pleasure,” I say, my Texas drawl thick. All of the men look at me, then at the canvas bag. I continue, “And this is your supper,” I say, lifting the bag a bit higher.
“Good to see you, Queenie,” Shawn says, extending hi
s hand. Juanita excuses herself and leaves me there in the Death House. Shawn turns around and addresses his men. “This is a good friend of my family, so I expect y’all will treat her right.” This is not a question. The men nod and intone a “yessir.” He introduces the men one by one. LaRue is the youngest, by far. Jace looks like he could be in prison himself. Shawn moves me past him quickly. Big Jim and Little Jim look like guys you see at the end of a bar, a beer in hand, watching the Cowboys. They’re all edgy and I can tell that they view the Death House as their territory. What I hope is that I’ll win them over with this meal. With the success of the Number One the other night, I feel hopeful. Confident that Brad’s harsh words about my passion are old news and behind me, I hope to be accepted into the fold of the Death House with one well-made supper comprised entirely of my own recipes.
As Shawn leads me back to the kitchen, I feel a sense of excitement. That can’t be the right word, can it? I want to get cooking. I feel like this place is big enough to hold me. I know that sounds silly—it’s what this place does: holds people. Why do I feel my most free in a place that cages people? Is it because the stakes are so high? That for once my intensity is right on target? That it’s life or death and that one plate has to be perfect and I get to be as focused as I want and it’s just another day at the office? Or is it because everyone here either has a gun or is a convict and my little sob story is just run of the mill? Maybe it’s all of the above.
“The kitchen is down that hallway, we’ll go there next. But I wanted to show you where the inmates go when it’s their time,” Shawn says, motioning to an unmarked metal door. He continues, “There is an outer room where the Death House crew congregates; there is a cell; there is a hallway with a clock, a phone, and a choice of religious reading material. There are five members of the Death House team because each one of us is in charge of a specific region of the inmate. As the captain, I handle the head and chest, should he try to rise off the gurney or resist. The Jims each handle a leg, and the younguns, Jace and LaRue, each handle an arm. Do you understand?” I nod. I get what Shawn is telling me. Each man handles a region. My mind spins and avoids trying to understand anything deeper than that. I try not to think about Yvonne Chapman and her clickable name on that prison’s Web site that’ll tell me one day that her appeals have been exhausted and she, too, will be sitting in some tiny cell somewhere with five men, each assigned to a region. My breathing quickens and I make a vow right there and then not to check that prison Web site again. Shawn continues, “And then there is the execution room. I need you to promise me something, Queenie,” Shawn says, taking me aside. I am lost in thought. Yvonne Chapman. Complicated monsters. Lost. Spiraling around under the semantics of “each man handles a region of the inmate.” Shawn repeats himself, “Queenie?”