brushing past my concern with a dismissive cock of his head.
“I just got in.”
“Gotta eat sometime.”
“In an hour, maybe, sure,” I said.
“Sure, sure.”
As Hal left, I paused to consider my brief interview with Stanton and his largely silent partner. The truth was, I didn’t have anything to tell them at all, and despite my clumsy attempts to incriminate myself, I consoled myself with the thought that they were most likely merely fishing for information. I had nothing to offer them, though, and so my contributions to any kind of investigation of the Bureau, especially of current personnel, were likely minimal. What I knew about Bernie Morr, especially over the past year, was even less, and if they hoped to use me to get to him, they were going to be sorely disappointed to discover my overwhelming ignorance.
My in-box was beginning to fill with requests for media credentials for the upcoming execution. With the date now set, one month away, the media was starting to jump into the fray. Ten years without the state killing anyone had made my task especially difficult. We lacked any kind of clear procedure.
Of all my tasks, the most bizarre was the matter of the last meal. I held Adler’s request card, boxes marked, crossed off, blurred and smudged eraser marks, finally double-starred to indicate exactly which choice he wanted. The special request lines were filled with looping, bubbly characters that might have been drawn by Hero were she of a different sensibility, the sort who would have appreciated my bedroom design efforts, instead of the brutal killer that Adler was. He wanted a steak, medium rare, lobster (or shrimp, if that wasn’t available), BBQ chicken, dark meat, fruit salad—no bananas—grape juice (wine and other alcoholic beverages were not allowed), pecan pie, a single glazed doughnut.
I phoned Hal and told him I was ready to go eat.
We often took lunch at Early’s, a small kitchen crowded between rusty warehouses, two blocks from the train tracks. This proximity had always bothered me. It felt too easy, obvious: a living cliche. The line bums. Shanty houses. Pounding rhythms rising from shuffling boxcars. Poverty spreading over everything, onto us, like an odor, scents compelling and repulsive, stench of garbage and the billowing hickory smoke.
Early’s stood between the Murat Gun & Pawn and the Country Feed store—an oasis for lunchtime travelers. Early himself was a lanky, lean black man of indeterminate years. His face seemed young, but both hair and voice carried hints of graying age. Today the dining room bustled like a marketplace or the floor of the Stock Exchange. Short bursts of laughter cut through the overlapping conversations, Early’s sister Edna’s great bellow carrying most from her position at the register. A brilliant red scarf engulfed her yards of thick hair. The place was just now opening after being closed for two weeks during an investigation concerning food poisoning. Rumor placed the blame on the ox-tail soup.
I ordered the grilled possum on toast, with a side of greens. Hal eyed my plate with distaste.
“My mother used to make that stuff. Nasty, man. Really.”
The crispy cut of meat was draped with spiced apples and rested on a mountain of sweet potatoes. The thin bread, charcoal black and sopping with grease and juice, poked up from the bottom.
“I can guarantee you that my mother never even imagined you could make this stuff,” I said. “I’m branching out. I want the whole Southern experience.”
“Give it up, Matthew, my man. You’re never going to be black, no matter how hard you try.”
“Patience. I’ve only just started.”
We found an open spot at the end of the long picnic bench, the only form of seating in the whole place. Hal had invited one of his assistants, Becky, who slid in silently across from us with a smile.
“This white guilt thing is going just a bit too far,” Hal said. “On behalf of the brothers and sisters everywhere—and I believe I’m speaking for Becky, too—I’m asking you to just butt out. Leave Soul Food to those who’ve got soul. Look at me. You don’t see me out trying to co-opt your damn French restaurants.”
“I hate snails,” I said
“Do you see possum on this plate? I order the chicken.”
Becky sat staring blankly into space while we talked, dragging her fork along her plate of dirty rice, dipping into her bowl of peach cobbler and eating whatever she had scooped without looking. This was her third month at Corrections, and I had yet to hear the woman speak. Hal kept asking her to lunch with us because he wanted to make her feel included. I had begun to consider, despite Hal’s assurances to the contrary, that she was a mute. Hal said she didn’t like to chitchat, that she was waiting for something really good to say. She was, as he put it, choosing her moment.
“Can’t a man eat his meal in peace?” I asked.
“You done with the execution yet?”
“I’m choosing my moment,” I said. “Right now, I’m dealing with his last meal.”
“Anything especially bizarre he wants us to bring him?”
“I just don’t see how they choose.”
“Or do they get a list?” Hal asked.
“How does someone select his last meal?”
“How did you pick this one?”
“That’s what I mean. Exactly. This is totally different. For my last meal on earth, I wouldn’t be eating possum.”
“Famous last words, man. You’ll probably step out of here and get hit by a bus.”
“You’re quite an optimist, Hal.”
“Look at it this way, man. At least you’ve narrowed down your choices.”
“But I’m not choosing it to be my last. The condemned—what do they base their choices on?”
“There are two kinds of people in the world.” Hal set down his fork and cracked his knuckles. “There are those in the gluttony camp, who figure that they want the last taste of anything they could ever possibly have.”
“That’s definitely Adler.”
“But then there’s the ones who seem to be more palate-conscious. They want foods that go well together. They’d never mix shrimp Creole and Yoo-hoo.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Cold tomato juice on your Fruit Loops.”
“Oysters and milk,” I volunteered.
“Hot dogs and chocolate sauce.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.”
Becky looked up as if she was about to say something, but she just smiled and turned back to her food. Hal scraped the bottom of his plate with his fork.
“If those investigators come back, you let me know. We’ve got to watch our backs, my friend.”
When we returned
