Nowhere but Home

by Liza Palmer

“Taos? Are you saying that Taos is worth what it took out of you?” Merry Carole motions at me and the shadow I’ve become.

  “So you admit that they’re still just as shitty.”

  “So you admit that all those cities were just shitty.”

  We are quiet.

  “Cal’s just like you. All he wants to do is leave,” Merry Carole says, not looking at me.

  “I know.”

  We fall silent again.

  “If you’re looking for something to do, you can go visit Mom,” Merry Carole says.

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve been going there.”

  Merry Carole says nothing.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. It’s not like she can apologize or make amends,” I say, sipping my coffee.

  “It’s called forgiveness, Queen Elizabeth. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

  “Well, seeing as how she’s dead and buried, I imagine it makes it a lot easier to forgive her.” The last time I was in North Star I was feeling particularly dramatic and drove over to the cemetery that’s just off the church in the center of town. I got out of my car and immediately crumpled into tears—the kind of tears that feel so vast it’s alarming and mystifying at the same time. Then, just as quickly, I swept all those emotions aside and decided never to return. I do that a lot.

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “You don’t talk like that.”

  “Me? Me don’t talk like that?”

  “Don’t you dare try and make a hero out of that woman. I swear to God,” I say, leaning on the dining room table.

  “I’m not making a hero out of her, for heaven’s sake. I’m just saying that while you’re back in town for the twenty minutes you plan on staying, you might want to drive by the cemetery and place a nice bouquet on her grave.”

  A moment passes.

  “You ever think about her?” I ask.

  The room goes cold. Merry Carole circles the rim of her coffee mug with her manicured fingers. Her face is twitching with all the energy it’s taking to remain neutral.

  “Sometimes,” Merry Carole says, finally looking up to meet my gaze.

  “I check on her, you know,” I say.

  “You what?”

  “You can check on the prison Web site, you know . . . how she’s doing, if she won all those appeals.”

  “She murdered two people in cold blood and got the death penalty—those appeals are offensive.”

  “She murdered her own husband and the woman he was cheating on her with in her very own bed. A woman who was her very best friend right up until she cocked that shotgun,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. My hands are shaking.

  “Yvonne Chapman is a monster and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

  “Yvonne Chapman let us stay in her home for several weeks—right up until our mother got herself killed in it.”

  “How dare you take that woman’s side.”

  “Honey, I’m not taking her side. I’m just saying that it’s a bit more complicated than Yvonne Chapman being a monster.”

  “I know that. Of course I know that.” Merry Carole’s entire body is tight. Her mouth is pulled into a hard line. She just keeps shaking her head, like a child trying to get out of eating their vegetables. “Sometimes I wish it weren’t . . . complicated, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Merry Carole reaches her hand across the table and takes my hand in hers. I give her a comforting smile and she squeezes my hand tight.

  It’s easy to be detached about my mom’s tragic end when I know it came as such a relief to Merry Carole and me. Whenever she was around, it was hell. So all we wished for growing up was for her to be gone and away. When the principal walked into my classroom on that ill-fated day with the news that she’d been killed, by Yvonne Chapman of all people, the first thing I felt was . . . free. Merry Carole was just eighteen, so she became my legal guardian and life got better for us, especially when Cal came along a few months later. I’m not delusional (well, not about this) to be afraid there aren’t major repercussions because of her death.

  It doesn’t take a team of psychologists—or perhaps it would—to understand what I’ve been running from all these years. Why it’s like a religion for me to travel light and keep moving should not be a mystery to anyone—least of all me. But knowing my mom was a bad person doesn’t mean I understand why she didn’t love us—didn’t love me. Whatever that was at the cemetery was probably more about innocence lost or some other bullshit.

  “Weren’t you saying something about a cup of coffee?” Merry Carole stands.

  “I don’t want to fight. Please.”

  “I know that, I really do. It’s just weird having you back.”

  “You’re telling me,” I say. The front door opens and shuts.

  “Mom? Aunt Queenie?” Cal comes barreling into the kitchen, sweaty and red faced. He dumps his football pads by the door.

  “Hey there,” I say, smiling and happy for the distraction.

  “You’re still here,” he says, his entire being exhaling.

  “Of course,” I say, my heart breaking.

  “Your breakfast is ready, sweetie. It’s warming in the oven. I’ve got to get to work.” Merry Carole bends over Cal and gives him a kiss on the top of his head.

  Merry Carole gives me a quick nod and hands me the directions for the coffee place that’s “just around the corner” but apparently still fifteen miles outside town. I thank her hoping we’re not mad at each other anymore. Back to normal? I don’t know what our normal is, so maybe I’m just hoping that my New Car Smell hasn’t worn off yet. Cal pulls his breakfast out of the oven and pours himself a cup of coffee.

  “I’m heading over to that coffee place. The Around the Corner one?” I say to Cal. He looks pointedly at the full mug of coffee in his own hand as well as the mug in front of me.

  “You know you have coffee in that mug right in front of you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just checking.”

  “I just need something to do. I’m getting all contemplative, and that, I assure you, is not a good thing.”

  “I can definitely get behind that.”

  “You want to come?”

  “I’ll go with you to the Homestead.”

  “A negotiation, eh?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for my coming-out party yet.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any, right? I mean . . . realllly think about it.”

  Sighhhhhhhhhh.

  “You know I’m right,” Cal says.

  “You just want more food.”

  “How dare you.”

  “Fine.”

  I mope and pout down the hallway and take a shower with big shampoo bottles and everything. I put on what I think is my best outfit and then decide very quickly that everything I’ve brought is either checked pants for the kitchen, jeans, or black. Meaning, I have nothing to wear in the throes of this hot and humid Texas summer. I throw on a T-shirt and some jeans, which I immediately regret as the entire lower half of my body turns into a sweat-based soup just outside Merry Carole’s front door. We walk the two blocks to the Homestead and by the time Cal opens up the door to the old diner my hair is smashed against my face and my entire body is shimmering with sweat. The sunglasses I put on to hide my horror at being back in North Star have fogged over due to the humidity.

  The air-conditioning hits me in a welcoming burst. The Homestead is just as I remember it. A long counter stretches down one side, the grill and soda fountain just behind it. A large menu with the same twenty or so items on it is painted high up on the wall behind the counter so everyone can see—one whole side dedicated to just pie. Small wooden tables line the other wall leading to the back where the diner opens up to booths and waitress stations. The smell of grease and beef is kept to a minimum because of the owner Sheldon Brink’s motto that his standards are as high as a good Texas woman’
s hair. Cal and I grab a booth near the back as I try not to notice the stares.

  “Queenie Wake?! Rumor has it you were in town. It’s not often we get a car with New York plates driving through town on a Sunday night. Most townsfolk are in church or home with their families.”

  “Hey . . . hey,” I say, quickly checking the girl’s name tag—Peggy. Peggy? Oh shit—Piggy Peggy. She was a couple of years ahead of me in high school and hung out with the popular kids.

  “I know! I’m not Piggy Peggy anymore!” Peggy gives me a quick twirl, letting me see her much thinner figure. If I remember correctly, and I know I do, it was her own bitchy friends who gave her that moniker.

  “I didn’t think you were ever Piggy Peggy,” I say.

  “Oh sure . . . sure. I know. I’m just . . . Wow. Look at you.” Peggy folds her arms across her chest, tucking her pad of paper and the pencil under her arm as she gives me the once-over.

  “Yep,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Cal. Peggy shifts her gaze over to him.

  “And look at this boy, huh? North Star’s pride and joy! An incoming freshman and already he’s going after varsity quarterback!” Peggy reaches out as if to pat Cal on the back, but then pulls back, deciding to just rest her hand on her hip. Going after? I thought he was already named varsity quarterback?

  We all just stare and smile at one another—and by “we all” I mean everyone in the Homestead. While everyone has done their best to pretend they have continued eating and talking, I feel the gazes boring into me. I should never have come here. And by “here” I mean North Star. Coming to the Homestead was just the momentary craziness of not being able to say no to my nephew.

  “Coffee?” Peggy asks, snapping out of her haze.

  “That’d be great. Thank you,” I say.

  “Just water for me,” Cal adds. Peggy clucks a quick you’re welcome and is off.

  “I shall set aside my momentary hatred of you for bringing me here for a second as I clarify—I thought you had that varsity quarterback position?” I ask, my voice just over a whisper.

  “Oh, I do. Piggy Peggy’s just pissed that her friend’s little brother didn’t get it.”

  “Is he older?”

  “No, he’s a freshman just like me. He doesn’t even want it. He’s a great wide receiver.” Cal’s confidence is unnerving, yet familiar. Sounds like me talking about cooking.

  “Okay, here y’all go—one coffee and one water. What else can I get you this morning?” Peggy says, setting down our beverages, her pencil at the ready.

  “I’ll have the number two with my eggs over medium, wheat toast, and the house potatoes,” I say, craning past Peggy to get a look at the menu on the wall.

  “Cal, honey, what are you having?”

  “I’ll have the country breakfast with everything,” he says, not having to look at the menu at all. I just shake my head and laugh.

  “Gotta keep fueled up, I guess!” Peggy says, her laughter now more nervous. She smiles and retreats back behind the counter.

  “She hasn’t changed a bit. You know her own friends gave her that name—Piggy Peggy. I can’t believe she’s here and still just as obsequious as ever. Don’t let her fool you, my boy—she’ll no sooner give you an ingratiating smile than start a rumor that you started your period on the bus coming back from a field trip to the Texas Ranger museum in Waco,” I say, pouring cream into my coffee.

  “Hypothetically speaking?” Cal asks.

  “I wish,” I say, reliving every horrific moment.

  “Cal Wake,” a man strides over to our booth and extends his hand.

  “Mr. Coburn.” Cal scoots out of the booth and stands to shake the man’s hand. My stomach drops as I look up at him. Everett Coburn. In North Star there are three families who are set apart from the rest, however unfairly. Well, four if you count the Wakes and you’re talking about the low bar. But if you’re talking about the gold standard of North Star, then it’s the Ackermans, the McKays, and the Coburns. They’re the closest things to royalty North Star’s got. Just ask them . . . they’ll be sure to tell you.

  “You looked good out there this morning, son,” Everett says, his hand firmly placed on Cal’s throwing arm.

  “Thank you, sir,” Cal says. The man looks from Cal to me and I see the realization settle on his face. I set my jaw and stare right back at him.

  “Everett,” I say with a curt nod.

  “You know my aunt—,” Cal begins.

  “Of course, son. Queenie, nice to see you again, ” Everett says, his entire face lined with contained disbelief.

  “I see you’re just as quick with a lie as you always were,” I say with a smile.

  “A delight, as usual. Well, good luck out there, Cal. Queenie, welcome home,” Everett says.

  “Temporarily,” I say.

  “As always,” Everett says, a polite nod to me while he disentangles himself from our booth as quickly as he appeared. Cal slides back in the booth.

  “You know Mr. Coburn?” Cal asks as Peggy brings over our breakfasts.

  “Yeah. I knew him,” I say as he digs in.

  Everett Coburn is the man I’ve been in love with my entire life.

  5

  Butterscotch hard candy

  I need to cook something. I need to lose myself in something else besides the fractured light of my own memory. I’ll cook a big supper as a thank-you for being so welcoming. I’ll cook. And not think about crying at cemeteries, principals walking down hallways with squeaky shoes, and, most of all, about Everett Coburn—with his light brown hair that gets the tiniest flecks of blond just at his temples as the summer goes on. I’ll cook and really not think about his powerful hand resting on Cal’s throwing arm, the muscles threading up his arm like piano wire. I’ll cook so I won’t have to think about those green eyes pinwheeled in brown and yellow playing against his olive skin. The same green eyes that implored me to understand that he was marrying that girl anyway—even as we lay in my bed. No. I’ll cook. It’ll be fine. I’ve been not thinking about Everett Coburn for going on twenty years.

  I walk into Merry Carole’s salon with my plan. I open up the front door to the salon, and am met with country music, the hum of hair dryers, and gossip. As I’m pulling a butterscotch hard candy from the decorative bowl, it all screeches to a halt.

  “QUEEN ELIZABETH!” Fawn yells, coming around the front desk and diving into me with a hug. She has always been a big woman; her ability to take up space astounded me. Fawn’s ever changing hair color is now an orangey shade of red and cut in a diagonal razored style that should be reserved for teenagers. Her trendy clothes always one size too small and, as always, some version of a rhinestone cowboy boot on her feet. She hasn’t changed a bit. She pulls away from me and settles her eyes on mine.

  “Good to see you again,” I say, smiling.

  “Oh, she is thin, Merry Carole. Just a slip of herself. You said you been feeding her?” Fawn talks as if I’m not there.

  “We had a proper Sunday supper,” Merry Carole says, focusing on the hair she’s cutting.

  “You’d think after working in all those fancy kitchens you would have bothered to eat some of it,” Fawn says, anxiously swiping my lifeless bangs out of my face.

  “I was working in all those fancy kitchens making food for other people,” I say.

  “Look at you,” Fawn says, her voice breathy.

  Fawn is my mother’s age and would like to think of herself as a maternal figure in our lives. But she’s too much like our mother to be anything close to maternal. Merry Carole and I play our parts anyway. While Fawn and my mother trolled the bar scene back in the day, like two peas in a pod, Yvonne Chapman was the happily married friend who finished out their tight trio. Momma and Fawn would lament their love lives while Yvonne endlessly doled out relationship advice to the hapless duo, trotting out her happy marriage like a prize pig. When Mom stayed away for days at a time, Fawn and Yvonne would always come by with a couple of Happy Meals, an apology, and the assur
ance that Mom was doing the best that she could . . . she really was. We took the food, but could never quite swallow the excuses. I don’t begrudge Fawn any of it. She wasn’t our mother. She chose not to have kids and is now happily married to a roughneck named Pete who works the oil rigs on the Coburn back forty. And Yvonne? Well, she made her bed.

  “I want to cook supper for you guys tonight if you can make it. All of you,” I say, hoping that the customers don’t think I mean them.

  “We’d love that,” Merry Carole says, brushing the freshly cut hair from her customer’s shoulders.

  “Pete and I are definitely in,” Fawn says.

  “Is Dee working today?” I ask, scanning the salon. Dee Finkel is my oldest friend in North Star. When I left I remember thinking how small her dreams were—she wanted to get married, have some kids, and work in a hair salon. I was going to set the world on fire. No, you go ahead and cut some old lady’s hair in some backwater in Texas Hill Country. What an epic jerk I was.

  “She’s back in the shampoo room.” Merry Carole nods toward the back of the salon.

  “Six? Tonight?” Fawn says, trying to hammer out the details.

  “Sounds perfect. Don’t bring a thing,” I say, walking toward the shampoo room.

  “I can’t wait!” Fawn says before launching into a diatribe about how worried she is about me.

  I walk into the shampoo room and see Dee pouring big gallons of shampoo into smaller bottles of shampoo that are next to the washing stations. She looks exactly the same.

  “Dee Finkel, is that you?!” I say, walking toward her.

  “Dee Finkel?” Dee asks, still focused on the shampoo. I stumble a bit, thinking she would welcome me with open arms.

  “It’s Queenie. Queenie Wake?” I ask, my voice half of what it was.

  “Oh my God, you’re so funny! I haven’t been Dee Finkel in years,” she says, setting the gallon of shampoo down and wiping her hands on her apron. We hug for an awkward amount of time and I find myself patting her back to break free.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I say, backing away from her. Of course she wouldn’t be super glad to see me. I was a heinous bitch the last time we saw each other.