The Late Matthew Brown. Paul Ketzle

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 to the office, we found the streets and parking lots overflowing. Police tape wrapped up the courtyard. A half-dozen squad cars had run up onto the sidewalk in front of the new capitol building. News trucks arrived close behind us. WKCL. WRND. WWWN. Reporters began to gather, clutching their sheets of important-seeming papers and brushing back the grooming hands of Make-up. They fought for position at the dais, by the mermaid-sculptured water fountain, by the State seal, any recognizable landmark to prove, via live feed, that they were in fact “on the scene.” Camera lights flooded the terrace, and everyone but the reporters was bleached into oblivion. Officers milled about in the doorway, periodically glancing back at the mob, either to spy a television celebrity, a reporter, even a weatherman, or simply to encourage questions. They carried the authority of the moment, the law. We don’t have all the facts yet, but our people are investigating.

      Someone, we heard them say, had barricaded himself at the top of the capitol, inside the observation gallery. He had a list of demands that needed to be filled. First: he wanted doughnuts, Krispy Kreme, in equal parts glazed and jelly-filled. Second, pizza, anyone who delivered, for the officers forced to wait out his siege. He also wanted world peace and equality for all.

      Clearly, authorities announced, they were dealing with a subversive element.

      Hours passed uneventfully, until the ranks of the press finally began to deplete through attrition. Then, in the haze of late afternoon, Special Forces punctured the glass and launched a canister of tear gas. The sputtering terrorist, actually just a local junior college kid with a history of mental illness, was remanded to the custody of Mental Health. He was placed under a doctor’s care, though he fought for his right to not be forcibly medicated.

      Landmarks and Monuments announced the floor would be closed for a week to remodel.

      seven

      From my upstairs study window I saw them coming, The van rolled to a careful stop at the end of the block and parked, and then they embarked, first fanning out, then encroaching slowly, house by house, in teams of two, three. These are the only solicitors still allowed in Magnolia Grove. They are evangelicals who come a-knocking, bringing with them their good books, their denomination-specific suits or robes, their grim certainty and the airs of right and righteousness.

      The week before it had been young men in orange skirts and T-shirts, heads shaved close but not quite. Before that, the teenage boys in white shirts and ties who called themselves Elders but really just seemed so desperate to talk with anyone about anything that we barely got to religion. Today, it was a troop of elderly gentlemen in warm brown suits, inching their way up the walks. You could tell from their grim huddle and gaze that they meant business.

      I let Hero deal with them when they knocked on our door and instead retreated upstairs. In the hallway outside Hero’s room hung perhaps the earliest known picture of the house. No date, but based upon the clothing and styles, it appeared to have been taken some time around the start of the 20th century. My grandfather had pointed it out to me on several occasions as he gave tours of the house. Truth be told, the building in the photo, or at least the incomplete portion that was visible, bore little resemblance to its current form. There was a porch, for one, which stretched along the face of the building and a row of evenly spaced cookie-cutter windows. The whole frontal façade was different, too. In fact, if my grandfather hadn’t been so certain, I might never have believed that this was the same house. But then, I’d since seen a map of the original footprint of the house. You could easily make out the other neighborhood houses that were at least that old. Everything around us was identifiable. Ours was something else entirely. My grandfather had explained that this was due to “The Fire,” which had taken out most of the upper floors and caused considerable damage throughout the structure. Paused in front, several black people in raggedy dress, most likely former slaves from the plantation or their children, stood cold and sullen, their eyes passing