by Liza Palmer
“You just ‘got to talking’?” I repeat.
“It’s more than Wes and I ever did, I assure you.”
“What?”
“Months of flirting in the hallways, turned into a few awkward make-out sessions, and then that was capped off by one thankfully short . . . I don’t even think you can call it sex; I mean, I was a virgin, but even I knew it was terrible,” Merry Carole says, her face flushing.
“You were a virgin?” I ask, my eyes wide and my heart breaking.
“Of course,” Merry Carole says.
“I didn’t know that,” I say.
“You don’t know a lot of things.”
“That, I know,” I say, smiling. She laughs.
“I never went near another man. Why would I? Terrible sex after which he threw me over and called me ‘a Jezebel,’ which were his exact words, and then hey, looka that . . . I was pregnant. Not quite the fairy-tale romance I’d been dreaming of,” Merry Carole says, her voice cutting and bitter.
I am quiet. This is the most my sister has spoken about her personal life . . . ever. EVER. The entire world feels as if it’s fallen away and it’s just the two of us here in this cramped kitchenette with just our secrets to nourish us. We shall never go hungry.
Merry Carole continues, “I didn’t even like Wes, I just liked the idea of him. He was a McKay and I thought . . . this is my ticket out. People can’t look down on me now if I am married to him. I wouldn’t be a Wake anymore. I’m somebody, you know?” She takes a slow, measured sip of her coffee followed by a sour eye roll.
“I thought you—”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“What does a seventeen-year-old know about anything?”
I fell in love with Everett when we were in kindergarten. Was I just in love with him because he was something I could point to and say, “See? I’m somebody. I’m a Coburn now.” Am I any different from Merry Carole and Wes McKay?
“So Wes is the only man you’ve ever been with,” I say. It’s not a question.
“Until Reed,” Merry Carole says, somewhat embarrassed.
“I can’t believe you—”
“Can’t you?” Merry Carole’s face is hard and focused.
“What?”
“You were going to say that you can’t believe I’ve only been with one man, right?”
“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that that was exactly what I was going to say, word for word. Merry Carole just looks at me. I continue, “Fine. Maybe I was going to point out the tragedy of One-minute Wes being your only sexual experience. I mean, what kind of whore are you?”
“You tell me,” Merry Carole says, her laughter subsiding.
“Not a very good one,” I say.
“But it’s not like it’s something you can’t identify with, right?” Merry Carole’s tone is strong. Her eyes are laser focused on mine. Her hands are tight around her steaming mug of coffee. She continues, “I mean, if we’re going to do this . . .” I don’t understand what . . . Oh my God. I can feel the blood leave my face. I can feel my mouth drop open. I am quiet, stunned. Speechless.
“How long have you known?” I ask, my words barely a whisper.
“Twenty years,” Merry Carole says, her voice quiet.
“Of course you did,” I say.
“Of course I did,” she repeats.
“What . . .” I don’t even know what to ask her first. I can’t breathe. First Piggy Peggy and now Merry Carole. Who else knew? Everyone? My voice crackles as I speak, “Did everyone know?”
“Yes.” One word. Simple.
“Oh.”
We fall silent.
“How did my dramatic Spanish Inquisition of you turn into your Spanish Inquisition of me?” I ask. I walk over to the counter with the coffeemaker, open one of the cabinets, and try to find a mug.
“Because I’m your older sister and that’s how this works. Take the yellow one with the flower on it. It’s an extra,” she says, guiding me through the mugs in the cabinet. I obey. I pour coffee into the little yellow mug.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I say as I open the fridge to find the creamer. I can’t look at Merry Carole. I can’t face her. I’ve essentially been lying to her for twenty years. I’ve been lying to everyone.
“Well, that’s just silly,” Merry Carole says and yawns. She takes a sip of her coffee as I pour creamer into mine.
“Is it, though?” I stir my coffee.
“You were eleven. You thought no one would understand. It’s actually quite . . . romantic,” she says, her voice downright wistful.
“Romantic,” I repeat. I think of our last time together. My face flushes as my body remembers Everett’s touch. I sigh. The same yearning, ridiculous sigh I’ve been heaving for twenty years.
“It’s not like he ever loved Laurel. Everyone could see that. Even Laurel, unfortunately,” Merry Carole says, leaning forward into her gossiping position.
“How much do you know?” I ask, maybe not wanting to take in the horror or truly understand how transparent my entire covert life has been. I guess those shadows weren’t as dark as I thought. As we thought.
“Everything,” Merry Carole says, almost offended that I’d insinuate any less.
“Everything,” I repeat. Jesus. Merry Carole’s phone buzzes. She checks it and laughs. She turns the phone around so I can see it. It’s from Fawn.
Dee says she won the bet. She texted first about y’all’s little exchange at the Hall of Fame.
“For heaven’s sake. There was a bet?” I ask, standing and opening the door to the kitchenette. Fawn and Dee are just outside the door. Fawn is still busily texting, unaware the jig is up.
“Oh, well . . . look at that, Fawn. There’s no customers back here,” Dee says, her entire face alight. Why didn’t I ever feel as though I could share this with anyone, regardless of what they might think or feel? Why did I feel I had to be so alone with my secret?
“I can’t believe you guys knew,” I say as we finally walk out into the now empty salon.
“We didn’t all figure it out at the same time,” Merry Carole says, coming out from the kitchenette, her mug of coffee still in her hand.
“Merry Carole knew from the start,” Fawn says, motioning to my sister.
“I found that adorable pink card he made you,” Merry Carole says, her hand against her chest as if she’s still emotional about it.
“I just thought you had a crush on him, you know, in junior high and all that,” Dee says. This is like This Is Your Life, but the version where it’s actually, “This is the life you thought you hid from everyone!” Dee continues, “But then I saw you guys one day as you were walking home from school, I guess it was freshman year? Y’all were holding hands and . . . well, it was sweet. He was leaning in and talking to you and you just threw your head back laughing at whatever he’d said. I’d never seen either of you like that, you know? Laughing like you’d heard the funniest thing in the world. I tried to ask you about it the next day at school, but you acted like I hadn’t seen what I knew I had seen, so I just . . . I, well, I got my feelings hurt for a bit, but then just thought it was something you wanted to keep secret.” Dee’s face flushes.
“I’m so . . . I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified. Every time I think I can’t get more mortified the bar just keeps going higher and higher. Or lower and lower depending on how you look at it.
“I figured it out right after your momma died . . . was killed . . . whatever,” Fawn starts. We all shift our focus to her. She continues, “I kept seeing him in that old truck of his, coming around, circling the house, and then he’d see me and speed on down the road like a bat out of hell. Until one night I was coming in from the market and I seen him crawling in your window when he thought I wasn’t looking or what not. I didn’t knock on your door all night, but . . . well, I heard you crying in there. And I remember thinking . . . thank Jesus, she’s got someone in there with her. It was really
the first time you’d . . . well, you’d let any of that out,” Fawn says, growing more and more emotional as the story unfolds. I can’t look at any of them. Reliving all of these moments from my past. Feeling the love I’ve cherished and treasured for Everett all these years grow too big for my chest again and again. Always fearing that one day it’ll burst through and fly away.
We are all quiet. Swept away in the romance of it all.
“So did y’all also know about Ms. Merry Carole here?”
“No!” Merry Carole blurts out.
“Oh sure,” Fawn and Dee say simultaneously.
“What?” Merry Carole says, her face flushing. A wide smile breaks across my face. Now this is the kind of scene I can certainly get behind. No more of that tragic slide show of my life, a life I know will no longer have Everett in it. I can’t . . . I can’t even bear thinking about it.
“You’re talking about Coach Blanchard, right?” Fawn asks, just for clarification.
“Yep,” I say, my eyes darting from Fawn and Dee to Merry Carole.
“Oh yeah, that’s old news. They’ve been seeing each other for . . .” Fawn trails off and looks to Dee (not Merry Carole).
“About a year?” Dee works out, her face crinkled up and doing the math.
“About a year,” Merry Carole clarifies.
“About a year,” Dee repeats.
“I think they’re actually quite well matched. What with Merry Carole and Cal and Coach Blanchard and those two little girls of his? It’s just . . . well, I don’t know why they’re keeping it all secret,” Fawn says, sitting down in one of the salon chairs.
We all look at Merry Carole.
“I want him to,” Merry Carole says, striding over to the front counter and violently flipping open the appointment book.
“We don’t have anyone for another thirty minutes,” Dee says, her voice light.
“That’s just fine,” Merry Carole says, defeated.
“Why do you want him to?” Fawn asks.
“We were rejected once by someone I thought wanted to be Cal’s daddy; I can’t do that again. I can’t risk that again,” Merry Carole says.
“Reed Blanchard is not Wes McKay, and you are not that seventeen-year-old girl anymore,” I say.
“But don’t you see? All this? Makes me feel exactly that. Seventeen and helpless,” Merry Carole says, searching for the word “helpless” deep in herself. Even the very word is hidden away.
“Oh honey,” Fawn says.
“I spent my entire childhood being thrown over for a man. I know what that feels like and I am not going to subject my boy to that feeling. No, Reed and I—well, there’s just no future there,” Merry Carole says, the emotion bubbling up from so deep within her.
“But Coach Blanchard is—,” Fawn says.
“Coach Blanchard is what?” Cal says, standing in the doorway to the salon.
The entire salon grinds to a halt. All of us. Horrified. We look from Cal to Merry Carole. She looks . . . pisssssssssed.
“What about Coach Blanchard?” Cal asks again.
“Oh hey, sweetie, we were just talking football,” Merry Carole says, her cheeks flushed, her voice high and nervous.
“Oh okay. Can I borrow some money? A couple of the guys want to go catch a movie just to get in some air-conditioning,” Cal asks, approaching a very relieved-looking Merry Carole. As Merry Carole and Cal wind through whose mother is driving the boys, when he’ll text her to check in, and which movie they’re seeing, I wonder where Everett fits in all of this. Merry Carole is so scared of being vulnerable that she’s willing to forgo her own happiness to protect herself. Am I any different? What am I willing to do and put up with just so I can feel in control and protected?
“That was too close,” Merry Carole says, watching Cal walk outside to meet his friends. She turns and speaks to the three of us as one. “I will figure out what I want to do about Reed in my own time. Until then, y’all need to stay quiet about it.”
“That’s all we ever are,” I say.
“Queen Elizabeth,” Merry Carole warns.
“Honey, I’m not going to say anything. Of course I wouldn’t dream of it, but I do wonder what it is we’re ashamed of, you know?”
“I’m not ashamed of my relationship with Reed,” Merry Carole says.
“Oh, it’s a relationship now?” I ask. Fawn and Dee move in closer.
“He’s the best man I’ve ever known.” Merry Carole is reverent. The entire room swoons. Merry Carole rolls her eyes and walks over to her station, readying for her next client. She continues, “I have to figure this out on my own. And if Cal has heard the rumors and asks me about it, then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” We all nod in agreement.
“Now you and Everett, on the other hand,” Merry Carole says, her voice cutting through Willie Nelson’s twangs like a knife.
“There is no me and Everett,” I say.
“What?” they ask in unison.
“Like you said, there’s no future there. He loves his parents and Paragon,” I say.
“And he loves you,” Dee says.
“I know that. I do. And he knows I love him. But it’s just not going to work out. We can’t sneak around anymore . . . I don’t think it makes us happy. We start getting sad about the situation pretty much right away. It wasn’t always like that. Maybe when we were younger we thought it could be different? We had a chance. I think we both know we don’t have a chance anymore.”
Merry Carole, Dee, and Fawn are quiet. Sad.
“So that’s it?” Dee asks.
“I don’t want it to be, but I don’t know what else to do,” I say.
“Well, is there anyone else who could take your mind off Everett?” Fawn asks as delicately as she can.
“There is this guy at the prison. He’s spectacular. Now he has the potential to be quite the distraction,” I say, my voice almost as forced as the smile that cracks its way across my face.
“Queen Elizabeth, if you are about to tell me that you are dating a convict . . .” Merry Carole holds her broom in one hand and looks as though she’s about to pounce.
“No, NO!” I say, not even realizing that’s what it sounded like.
“Oh my God, I thought she was going to say that, too,” Dee says, her hand clutching at her chest.
“No, NO? God, you guys. Right, I’m going to keep my decades-long love affair with Everett Coburn, pillar of society, a secret but announce that I’ve fallen for a convict and it’s perfectly normal.” No one thinks that’s as hilarious as I do. I continue quickly, “Fine. His name is Professor Hudson Bishop and he’s from California. He’s smart and funny and holy shit, has black hair and these ridiculous blue eyes. And he’s just . . . you just know he can DO things,” I say, waggling my eyebrows.
“At the very least this Professor California can be useful,” Merry Carole says, seeing her client come through the front door finally. Fawn walks over and checks her in.
“Useful how?” I ask, following Merry Carole. Dee listens intently.
“He’ll make Everett jealous as hell,” Merry Carole says just before greeting her next client.
14
Inmate # CF785241:
Fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits, fried okra, buttermilk pie (or chess pie), Blue Bell vanilla ice cream, and a Coke
It’s Friday morning. Today’s the day I make my very first last meal.
I went to the butcher and the farm stands yesterday. I brined my chicken for four hours, set the alarm, and then did a buttermilk soak for another four. The chicken will be spectacular. I drove out to this liquor store off I-35 that I know sells the real Cokes—in beautiful glass bottles from Mexico. Purists believe Mexican Coke is far better because they use refined cane sugar, not high-fructose corn syrup. I am one of these purists. I also purchase Coke in a can and the regular American Coke, which is in one of those beautiful light green glass bottles that’s Americana personified. As I stood in that liquor store, I tried to thi
nk about what kind of guy this is—if it’s a guy at all. It could be a woman, for all I know. Shine hasn’t ever executed a woman, but Huntsville has. And I just stood there holding bottles of Coke I was about to buy for a person who was going to be put to death. In the liquor store where Everett and I used to buy condoms so no one would know.
“Today’s the big day, then?” Merry Carole says, replacing the coffee decanter this morning.
“Yep,” I say, pulling my buttermilk-soaked chicken out of the fridge. I place the Tupperware in grocery sacks and get them ready for transport. With the summer heat, I’m barely going to get the Blue Bell ice cream to the prison—even with all the ice and ice packs I’ve placed in the cooler.
I need everything to be perfect today. I lay in my bed last night and envisioned the day, the menu, everything. Where Harlan would be. Where Cody would be. The chicken crackling, the biscuits rising, the pie baking. All of it. I’ve envisioned everything but the person who will be eating the perfect meal I make. My heart sinks every time my thoughts bump into that reality.
“All right then,” Merry Carole says, her face creased with worry.
“I know this is . . .” I trail off, pouring my coffee into my travel mug. I sit down at the dining room table.
“This is . . . what?” Merry Carole asks, clearly holding back a torrent of opinions.
“I don’t know what this is yet, I guess,” I say, my stomach in knots.
“And that’s my worry,” Merry Carole says.
“I know.”
“You think this is just about cooking, but . . . ,” Merry Carole says, letting just the tip of the iceberg break through.
“I know.”
“You can’t . . . it . . . this just pisses me off left-handed,” Merry Carole finally growls.
“I know.”
“Do you even know what this person did?” Merry Carole asks, her tone barely acknowledging that I’m cooking for a person.
“I don’t want to know.”
“That’s fine.”
“I know you’re angry with me.”
“I’m worried about you. There’s a difference.”
