Stomach queasy, fists tight on the steering wheel, she remembered how Chuck had laughed at her for feeding a man who would be dead, laughed at the waste of food, but that wasn’t what bothered her. She would have made glorious food for Hank had she known she was going to lose him. She would have baked a sour cream apple pie laced with walnuts and a hint of almond; she would have mixed a cranberry chutney to spread over hickory-smoked ham; she would have set a table of crystal and china and silver, and brought sparkling mineral waters and wine and strong Dutch coffee when he finished — an unforgettable farewell of flavor and grace.
But God, she couldn’t remember. What had she fed Hank before he died? The protesters marched now in front of the chain-link gate — a line of nuns and children and grown-ups with umbrellas — who refused to budge until she honked. Cold rain pattered her as she stepped from the Buick, one hand clenching the collar of her raincoat, and she turned to watch the protesters light candles that the wind blew out, then try to light them again. A short distance away, TV crews huddled near their vans, occasionally turning their camera lights on the protesters who would then shout and wave their homemade posters: MURDER BY THE STATE IS STILL MURDER! and THOU SHALT NOT KILL! but the writing bled in the drizzle.
She had never approached the prison alone. Even on her first day of work, she joined a group of new employees who had gathered in the parking lot for orientation, and every day since then Shelly had walked through the employee gate with others, talking to the person next to her about weather, TV shows, kids. In a group, it was easy to ignore the towers, the harsh lights, the emptiness of the yard, the paranoia of a place where nobody breathed without someone else’s say-so.
At the entry door, behind a bulletproof glass shield, sat a night-shift corrections officer Shelly didn’t know, whose cold voice crackled from a speaker to demand her employee ID. She passed surveillance cameras, walked down noiseless hallways, through doors that opened with an echoing, teeth-shivering buzz, until she reached the kitchen, which glowed blue in a twilight of hazard lamps and pilot lights. No blowers rattled.
She unzipped her wet coat, shook it, then hung it over the back of her desk chair. Light through the window caught her attention. Not just the prison lights, but the TV lights that shined on the protesters, and the headlights of cars driving on Route 5, and the colorful neon of the doughnut shop. Shelly shivered and felt hungry for a plain doughnut, drowned in coffee. She flipped on the kitchen’s fluorescents, then found a new message tacked to the bulletin board, scrawled in Danny’s handwriting. “Welcome to The Last Chance Kitchen,” it read. “If the food don’t kill you, the state will.” Shelly crumpled the note and dropped it in the trash.
The Jell-O would need time to set, so she broke out a box of it, boiled water, then mixed the water in a bowl with the orange powder. She splashed in ice cubes and shoved it in the freezer. Those protesters. What did they know about the people inside these walls and whether those people should live or die? Had they ever worked beside someone like Danny? Had they ever feared someone like him? Two more swings of that bat, or an ambulance stuck in traffic, and he might have been the guy strapped to a table tonight.
In the walk-in refrigerator, she found ground beef, defrosted, and brought that back to the work counter beside Stove #2. The stupid bastard. That was the crime on this night, wasn’t it? that Doyle could pick out his last menu when so many others — decent people, kids, old people, young girls, fathers — couldn’t plan for a last taste of something salty or sweet, tart or creamy or bitter or all of those in one dazzling mouthful. She imagined Hank in the tavern that night, cracking peanuts and letting the shells drop to the foot of the barstool. Beer on his tongue, and a bump, too. Scotch. Fire for the throat after a long day on the street corralling those punks. Ah, but you had it easy, Hank. Just had to keep yourself from killing them. You never sat beside them in the break room. Never cooked for them. Could you have done that? Could you talk nice to a girl who made a cat toy out of your son? Could you live with Chuck, knowing that when he smashed that other boy’s car, the boy was in it, arms across his face to shield against the shattering glass?
Would you cook for your son?
Those girls. Those poor, frightened girls.
Shelly sliced the onions. She turned the knob on the grill to 275. Then, with kitchen scissors, she snipped a sheet of aluminum foil into bits. Like confetti for a party.
We do what we’ve got to do, Hank. We do what we’ve got to do.
Shelly swept the shredded foil from the counter into her hand, then littered the meat with it, rolled and slapped it into a patty filled with so many shining reminders that Bobby Doyle would get some in every bite, or spend his last hours picking it out.
Maybe she’d lose her job. Maybe he’d squeal that someone had messed with his cheeseburger. This worried her a moment, but then she remembered what Danny had said about the knife wound and the sock and Doyle not wanting anyone to think that they could get to him, that he was weak. The burger sizzled on the grill, and when she flipped it the foil had burned black and greasy.
When all was ready, she placed the hot foods in the portable warmer, and set the Jell-O in a little cooler. She phoned for a corrections officer, and a stocky young fellow arrived a few minutes later. “Some night, ain’t it?” he said as he leaned over the hot pot, pushing it out the door.
“It’s awful quiet for a place where so much is going on,” she said. “Makes me want to sing just to hear a human voice.”
“You do that,” he said. “Could use a song myself.”
As he headed down the hallway, she tried to find a tune, but nothing came to mind. She listened instead to the shudder as the hot pot wheels rolled.
When she arrived home — late, having stopped for gasoline and cigarettes — the house was dark, not even a porch light, so she figured Chuck was already asleep. At the front door, as she searched her key ring, she flinched at the sound of breathing and the creak of the porch swing.
“Hey, Mom,” Chuck said.
Through the dark, she could just make out Chuck on the swing and someone else beside him.
“You could’ve said something earlier,” she said.
“Could’ve,” Chuck said. “Would’ve scared you no matter what.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“Tina.”
“Hey, Mrs. Wolansky.”
Shelly waved and went inside. With measured steps, she walked to every room — even Chuck’s — and turned on every light in the house before closing her bedroom door. She opened a window, though it let the cold in, and placed an ashtray on the sill. She smoked one cigarette, then another, waiting for a phone call or a knock at the door, but nothing broke the silence. She undressed, put on a flannel nightgown, then slipped between the sheets and shivered.
A few hours later, still long before dawn, Chuck dropped his duffel bag into the Buick’s trunk and sat in the back seat. He carried his “maim” mask, which had been in his hands since he left his room that morning.
“So, is he dead?” Chuck asked, pulling the mask over his face. Looking in the rearview mirror, Shelly read “MIAM.”
“I suppose. I thought we’d pick up a newspaper to find out.”
They stopped at the doughnut shop on Route 5. While the woman behind the counter worked hard to look at her register and nowhere else, Chuck, in his mask, ordered three chocolate frosteds and a pint of chocolate milk. Shelly ordered a plain doughnut and a cup of coffee, regular. With the change on her bill, she bought a newspaper from the box out front, its headline heavy and black: DOYLE DIES.