“So sorry, Daryl,” she said, aiming the pistol at him strapped to the bed. “Ain’t nothing personal about it.”
He was screaming down deep behind the tape, thrashing in the bed from side to side. Snot coming out of his nose. Cassie Lyn aimed the pistol, turning back for a moment to see how high her tokens had gone. Spinning and spinning, coins pinging and pinging that piggy bank.
It was enough. It would get her far. She turned back to Daryl with a big ol’ pageant smile. Make ’em love you!
“It was never about you, sweet baby,” she said. “It’s all about the money, honey. Good night, Big Daddy.”
The man closed his eyes and began to weep.
Part III
I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry
The Good Thief
by Ravi Howard
Escambia County
For his final meal, all Thomas Elijah Raymond asked for was the cake, the one he remembered from Rachel’s Luncheonette in Phenix City. Prison rules would not allow food brought in from the outside. Safety concerns. So if Rachel Walker said yes, she would have to come to Holman on the day of the execution and make it there. How to feel about such a thing. Reluctant but somehow compelled. When the day arrived, the warden’s assistant greeted Rachel and escorted her to the kitchen. She could now match a face to the familiar voice she’d heard so many times over the phone in the few weeks before.
“Mrs. Walker, the warden will be here in just a minute. Can I get you anything in the meantime?” Francine asked.
“No thank you. I believe I’m fine.” Rachel wanted to sound more certain, and to dismiss any worry on her behalf. She wanted to manage that on her own.
As Francine disappeared out the swinging metal doors, Rachel watched her through round windows. The secretary walked past the corrections officer stationed outside and made her way down the corridor. The sound of her heels on the concrete was muted by the thick steel doors that had by then stopped swinging. Rachel was alone now, in the newly constructed wing of Holman Prison. It was the biggest kitchen she had ever seen.
The smell of her restaurant kitchen had always given her comfort. It was not the smell of any particular dish, but instead, the slow, thin layers built up over the years. There was always cinnamon near, even if it wasn’t needed for a recipe. Bowls of it curled like scrolls used to write down histories. She wished she had brought some with her. This place smelled of bleach and ammonia. It whispered nothing.
Stainless steel shelves lined the freshly painted walls. Ceiling lamps spread a dull glaze across the metal fixtures. Fluorescent bulbs gave a uniform pale, except for a single lamp that flickered, blinking rays the color newspaper turns. A dozen parallel steel islands rose from the white tile floor, wrapped in thick blue plastic pulled taut over narrow shelves and secured around the edges of the counters. Two adjacent counters had been uncovered and arranged for her use.
Francine said that the new wing had been finished just a few weeks ago. The men would arrive soon, and from this kitchen they would be fed. In the meantime, the warden had arranged for her to work here. According to Francine, the warden thought the space would be ideal. Out of the way. Clean.
Rachel had dressed for a warm autumn evening. She was not prepared for the cold confines of the prison kitchen. It seemed the temperature was set for a space full of toiling and heat, so the cold air, unchecked, was too much. The place wasn’t walk-in cold, but damn near, with air washing over her feet in waves, snaking around her ankles, and running along the floor. She placed her purse on the counter and removed a black apron, Rachel’s Luncheonette: 35 Years in the Baking in silver lettering. The silver blouse beneath her black suit matched the silver in her hair. This was how she dressed for the events she catered. Yet she had taken pause when readying for this occasion. There was no proper dress for preparing a last meal.
She’d made the three-hour drive alone. Told her family she was driving to Atmore for the weekend. Her daughter and son-in-law were busy running the kitchen, had been for years. A few days a week, she would walk the dining room and the lunch counter, speaking to the first-timers who had her cookbooks, had seen her on television here and there, and she greeted her regulars as well, trying to dole out the same welcome to any and all. She could come and go, be there without being there — her face on the menus, and the sides of buses, and the coffee bags and cookie tins they sold in the gift shop. So when she told her family she had a small job in Escambia County, a repast for an old acquaintance, she’d saved herself the strain of a lie she may have to remember later. The truth itself was troublesome enough.
The prison kitchen was empty except for the ingredients. Francine had requested them a week before. Shortening, sugar, molasses, salt, baking soda, and flour had been lined up in a perfect row, labels turned outward. Someone had seen fit. Perhaps an eye for detail, but certainly a nod toward normalcy in a place where there was little.
On a nearby table sat an antique mixer. In the kitchen of a prison, the comforts of home seemed strangely out of place. She flipped the power switch on the mixer, and the familiar hum rang out.
She remembered having a similar one years before. Its heavy body and thick insulation produced a hum unlike the rattling of the new ones that cost more than they should.
Chrome, as beautiful as it could be, was hard to keep clean. Working folk had no time to worry about fingerprints and smudges. The matte metal about the kitchen reflected indistinguishable masses of light and dark, but in the chrome she could see herself.
She examined her reflection in the mixer’s oblong body, getting closer to it until the moisture of her sigh obscured her image. With one of the neatly folded dish towels, she wiped the chrome clean.
“It was my mother’s.”
She had barely grown comfortable in the silence when his voice rang out.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, Mrs. Walker. I’m Lionel Peters. The warden here. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to meet you previously.”
He walked over to greet her but waited for Rachel to extend her hand first. An old-fashioned stance that she hoped would fade; indeed, Lionel Peters looked a few years her junior. Set in his ways, she was sure. But he carried himself a little older than he was, and his clothes didn’t help. His suit surely had the right cut and hang before the years settled into it. He was conscious of his posture, but the slouch in his jacket remained.
“Did Francine offer you anything when you came in? Excuse me if she didn’t. We can forget our manners working in here. Can I get you anything, coffee or something?”
“She offered, but I didn’t need anything.”
“Well, everything you asked for is right there on the counter. Your perishables are in the refrigerator over there. The ovens are behind you. Officer Earle will be right outside. Holler if you need anything. He can escort you to the facilities if you need to use them. I apologize we didn’t build a ladies’ room on this end. You sure I can’t get you anything, coffee or something?”
She shook her head.
“What else?” the warden said while flipping through a deck of papers on the clipboard he tapped against the counter. “I feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh yes, the list. I want to make sure we got everything. Shortening, eggs, sugar, cocoa, flour...”
“There is one thing. I realized much too late that I left something off the list: my vanilla syrup. We make our own to sell in the gift shop, so I’m just so used to having it around and not buying it. Coming down here’s out of the ordinary, to say the least, so clarity has been a little challenging.”