by Liza Palmer
“You need a drink,” Hudson says, his hand now resting on my car door.
“I need to—”
“Follow me,” he says, tapping my car twice and walking to his car a few parking spaces down.
“I appreciate th—,” I start, but he’s already getting into his car, the engine revving to life. “I could use a drink,” I say to myself, watching as he pulls out of his parking space. I quickly pull out my cell phone and text Merry Carole so she won’t worry.
“Today went fine. Need a drink. Stopping for one with Professor California.” I send the text and back out of my parking space. My phone buzzes as I’m just about to put the car in drive.
“You okay?”
I text back, “I’m good. We’ll talk in the morning. Night-night.”
Hudson drives past guard towers and razor wire and out of Lot B. Just as I’m about to follow my phone buzzes again.
“What will North Star do with two town whores? It’ll be an embarrassment of riches. Be careful. Call if you need a ride.”
I text back, “Will do. Xoxo.”
I follow Hudson down the street that takes us away from the prison. Takes us away from today. I stare at his red taillights as my mind continues its vigilance with the dams, walls, and panic rooms it’s built in the last few hours. Growing uncomfortable with the silence, I turn on the radio and follow Hudson as we wind through the hills just outside Shine to somewhere only he knows. With so much thought about futures and pasts lately, it’s nice to be with someone who is firmly in the here and now.
After twenty or so minutes, we arrive in a town just east of North Star called Evans. Evans is where Hollywood goes to film a “quaint Texas town,” with its main street done up just so and its inhabitants fully aware of how appealing the town is. I only know Evans because North Star beats their football team handily every year. Hell, everyone beats the Evans football team each year quite handily.
Hudson pulls up in front of a picturesque bed and breakfast that’s off the main street. We get out of our cars and walk toward each other in the empty street.
Of course, this is where Hudson is staying for the summer.
“The bar’s just over here,” Hudson says, motioning toward the next block over.
“Oh good,” I say as we begin walking.
“You seem relieved.”
“I thought this might quickly be turning into a whole ‘come on in for a nightcap’ thing.” He smiles back in a way that makes my face flush. We pass warmly lit homes with families sitting on porches sipping lemonade. Doing everything people not from here think small-town life is about. Evans’s townspeople wave and call out to Hudson by name. Everyone knows everyone here—especially the out-of-towners. A lot of the talk is about how hot it is and how Hudson probably wishes he was back in California. He laughs and says the food is better here. Before I know it, we’re in front of the local watering hole. It’s called the the Meat Market. Get it? Even Evans’s bars are endearing.
The bar is better than I would have thought given its name and location. It’s dimly lit—albeit self-conscious. The wood paneling isn’t smoke stained and as old as the railroad, it’s actually tasteful and adds warmth to the room. Hudson and I walk past a pool table and weave through the bar crowd. The crowd is dense and loud. Young. These are college kids home for the summer. A lot of girls in short skirts and cowboy boots sing along to Carrie Underwood as they hang on each other and warn their suitors they’re not above taking a Louisville slugger to both headlights.
I need bourbon.
The crowd moves and sways as Hudson and I inch our way through. It’s a Friday night and this is the only good bar for miles. As the crowd jostles, Hudson takes my hand and leads me on toward the bar. So easy. Just like that and no one is looking, no one is gossiping, and no one is wondering why a man like that would hold the hand of a woman like me. I squeeze his hand tight as we approach the bar.
“What are you having?” Hudson yells over the din.
“Bourbon and branch,” I yell back.
“What?” he asks, leaning in close.
“Bourbon and branch. Garrison Brothers, if they have it,” I say, my breath fluttering his black flips of hair.
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m getting two,” he says, leaning forward on the bar. The chiseled-jaw, cowboy-hatted bartender (who looks like he does some stripping on the side) leans forward and offers Hudson a kind—if not somewhat stereotypical—“Howdy.”
“I’ll see if I can find a table,” I yell, scanning the crowded bar.
“The quieter the better,” Hudson yells over the noise. I nod and edge my way out toward the patio. The outside area is much quieter and a lot more authentic than I expected. A welcome discovery. The patio furniture is easy and relaxed. Swamp coolers and fans make the temperature only a bit wet and muggy. Even with all these amenities, there are very few people out here. It’s perfect. I find a wooden bench in a distant corner, situate the canvas striped pillows, and settle in. The wooden table is scarred by numerous drink rings, knotty flaws, and even a few carved-in initials. Some older women cradle their Lone Stars a few tables over. They crouch over their table in a drunken sway, their hair matted, their spirits dashed. They are the “last call” women. They remind me of Mom. I realize I’m staring. Maybe I’m just brain dead after today. I didn’t sleep at all last night and I can’t imagine tonight will be any better.
Next Tuesday. Oddly, it’s not the traditional Mexican Christmas that gets to me, although this inmate trying to re-create a happier time is tragic. It’s the Starburst. It seems so childlike to want candy. The two older women hoot and holler as a drunken frat boy stumbles by them. I’m actually thankful for the jolt. It’s too early to be depressed about the next meal. I’ve got work to do. I have to experiment with the cabrito, and once I know where his grandmother is from, I can start doing my research on what kind of tamale we’re talking about. Once again, Queenie . . . focus on the food. Focus on the food.
“Here you are,” Hudson says, walking over to the table two drinks in each hand, four total.
“You’re a genius,” I say, reaching for two glasses.
“Cheers,” Hudson says, clinking glasses with me as he settles himself across from me, his wooden chair skittering under his weight.
“What are we toasting?” I ask, downing my drink in one gulp.
“Life,” Hudson says, downing his.
“Ironic,” I say, reaching for my other bourbon.
“Is it?” Hudson says, pulling his other bourbon close.
“I can’t figure out if you’re being purposefully obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, downing my second bourbon.
“Probably a combination,” Hudson says, downing his second.
“Hmm,” I say, eyeing him closely. I scan the patio for a cocktail waitress. I need a beer. We need beer.
“So branch is just water. A bourbon and branch is just bourbon and water,” Hudson says, looking over his shoulder for the cocktail waitress as well.
“It’s water that comes right from the land where the distillery is. It’s not just any water,” I say, finally getting the cocktail waitress’s attention.
“But it is water, just the same,” Hudson says, just as the cocktail waitress approaches.
“What are y’all drinking?” the cocktail waitress says, dropping a couple of Lone Star beer coasters onto our table.
“Apparently, we’re drinking bourbon and fancy water,” Hudson says.
“Bourbon and branch, hon,” the cocktail waitress says, looking to me. We share a “yes, he’s not from here” moment.
“Two Shiner Bocks, please. And water when you get the chance. Just regular water,” I say, my accent thick enough to make up for Hudson’s languid California drawl. The cocktail waitress gives me a quick nod and is off into the bar.
“So,” Hudson says, leaning over the table. The two bourbons are beginning to warm me, making my brain happily hazy.
“So,” I say, guarded. It w
ouldn’t matter if I saw Hudson coming out of a burning building saving a puppy and a baby, something about him makes me think he’s up to no good. Let’s face it, if I saw him coming out of a burning building with a puppy and a baby, I’d probably think he started the fire.
“We can not talk about it, we can talk about it until the bar closes, or we can get drunk. Your call,” Hudson says, bringing his face ever closer to mine.
“I don’t know what I want, to be honest,” I say. My mind is a minefield. Desperately searching its darkened depths, but terrified of what it might find, it then retreats into the light once more. I think about Merry Carole and Cal and that makes me happy. I think about my day in the kitchen and that makes me happy. I think about Everett and become mournful. I look at Hudson sitting across from me and I feel . . . curious.
“I’m actually an expert on these things, if that matters,” Hudson says.
“An expert on what it feels like to cook for a murderer?” I ask. The cocktail waitress approaches our table, her body visibly reacting as she hears the tail end of my sentence. I smile. She puts our beers and a couple of glasses of water down. I thank her and she leaves. Great.
“You cooked for a triple murderer today, if that counts,” Hudson says, taking a long pull off his beer.
“What?” I can feel the blood drain from my face and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“You didn’t know?” Hudson asks.
“No,” I say, my voice quiet. Asking Shawn about the next guy’s grandmother and now this? I can feel the light cracking under the closed doors in my mind. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. If I’m going to do this job, then I need to talk about it. This isn’t working. This can’t be about me shutting myself off even more. I’ve been doing that for too long and this is getting even worse than before.
I continue, “I told myself I didn’t want to know. That if I focused on the food, then whatever they did wouldn’t infect me, if that makes any sense,” I say, my eyes on his. Piercing blue, even in this light.
“It makes total sense, but it’s just not possible,” Hudson says.
“I’m realizing that now,” I say, taking a pull on my beer.
“It takes the term ‘elephant in the room’ to a whole new level,” Hudson says. I can see him thinking and processing. It fascinates me to be around someone when I have no idea what he’s going to say or do next. How his mind works is an absolute mystery to me. He seems different from anyone else I’ve ever known.
“I know it was naive,” I say, starting to peel the label off my beer.
Hudson sits back in his chair, cradling his beer. He is thinking. He looks up at the tin roof of the patio as Patsy Cline wafts through the bar’s speakers. I watch him, searching his face as he starts and stops a thousand sentences.
“It’s interesting though, isn’t it? Before I decided to come to Shine this summer, I did a ton of research on the death penalty and all that. And aside from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice having a fantastic Web site, they also cater to the somewhat morbid,” Hudson says.
“How so?” I ask, leaning forward.
“They have a place where you can see who’s next in line, you know? And they also have this list of who has already been executed and what their last words were. And inevitably the last words are gorgeous . . . downright poetic. I mean, if you told me some great thinker or writer said them, I’d believe you. But then you click over and see what this guy did to get there? Fuuuuck,” Hudson says, trailing off and taking a swig of his beer. I am quiet. I know exactly what he’s talking about, because I’ve been checking a very similar Web site to follow Yvonne Chapman.
Hudson continues, “And for a while I thought, just don’t click over, you know? Just read these beautiful words and think of it like some great injustice was done and this is some misunderstood hero, but it’s not. It’s some dipshit who held up a gas station and killed the poor schlub who had the misfortune of being behind the counter.”
“That’s exactly it,” I say.
“I know,” Hudson says, still contemplating.
“I read about—shit, even Ann Boleyn, right? What she was thinking and what must she have felt in those last few feet? I just . . . to know you’re walking to your death. And yes, I’m infusing my own humanity where there might be none, but even at our basest we are all still animals who don’t want to die. I don’t care how right with God you are or how long that chaplain talks to you,” I say, speaking of things I didn’t even know I’d thought about.
“The myth that people can possibly be ready to die is one of the cruelest,” Hudson says, taking another long swig of his beer.
We are quiet.
“I haven’t talked about life and death in a long time,” I say, curling my foot up beneath me on the bench. I’m closing in on myself. I’m thinking about that day. The principal and his squeaky shoes, being wrenched away from Merry Carole, complicated monsters, and a mother with the cruelest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“I think about it all the time,” Hudson says.
“I hear you’re an expert,” I say with a beleaguered smile.
“Yeah, well.”
“What does that mean?” I’m happy we’re moving on to another subject. I’m also happy we talked about it. I feel . . . better. Lightened ever so slightly.
“It means I’m trying to be heard in a room of screaming people, I guess. My opinions and thoughts are . . . completely new and revolutionary. This whole summer is about trying to put some power behind my words,” Hudson says, gesticulating wildly.
“You’re here to keep it real then. Get a little street cred,” I say.
“Academics are hard core, yo,” Hudson says.
“That was painful,” I say.
“I know—I was midway through it and I could have totally stopped before the ‘yo,’ but I didn’t. I just went for it,” Hudson says, laughing.
“Yeah. Totally,” I say, poking fun at his Californianisms.
“Don’t even get me started on the way you people talk, or should I say the way y’all talk,” Hudson says. I drain the last of my beer. Hudson continues, “You want another round?” He scans the room for the cocktail waitress.
“No, I’ve got to get home. My sister will be waiting up for me,” I say, wanting to just crawl into my bed and dream of anything but Shine Prison.
“I’ll settle up the tab and meet you out front?” Hudson says, draining his beer.
“Sounds good,” I say, standing. Hudson stands. I keep forgetting how tall he is. How did I get here? Sitting at some snobby bar in Evans, of all places. And with him. I don’t know if I could have had that conversation with anyone else. Whatever happens with Hudson, I am grateful he was here tonight.
“What are you thinking?” Hudson asks.
“What?” I ask, caught off guard.
“What were you thinking just then?” he asks, standing in front of me now. My face colors as though I’ve been caught red-handed. Can this motherfucker mind-read? Hudson continues, “Oh, you’re totally telling me now. It’s good, huh?” He folds his arms across his chest.
“I was just thinking that even though I have no idea how I landed at this bar of all places, I’m happy I did,” I say, deciding to tell the truth (some of it anyhow).
“Is that all?” Hudson asks, stepping closer. I look up at him.
“And that you’re taller than I thought,” I say, finally making eye contact with him.
“Am I?” he says.
“I don’t know if you’re being purposely obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, his body so close now.
“Probably a combination,” Hudson says. He slides his hand behind my waist and pulls me into him. I’m caught off guard and hear myself (horrifyingly) gasp. “Oh well, that’s kind of adorable, isn’t it?” he asks, just before quieting me with a kiss. His mouth is warm and I can feel him smirking even now. I hear the older women at the other table making comments. There might be hooting and hollering. As the humidity s
ettles in around us, I can hear Miranda Lambert singing about the house that built her. I can’t help but smile. In front of God and everybody, Professor Hudson Bishop kissed me.
And you better believe I kissed him back.
“You sure you still have to get home?” Hudson asks, as we finally break from each other.
“I’m sure,” I say, not moving one inch.
“Then you’d better get going,” he says, pulling me in again. My heart swells as Shine Prison falls away. Hudson is fast turning into the antidote for the horror of what goes on in the Death House. I break from him again.
“Time to go,” I say, with a smile.
“Fine. Meet you out front?” he asks, swiping my bangs to the side.
I nod and walk into the bar before I get lost in him again. The music is pounding and loud, couples move and sway across the tiny dance floor. I shift and jostle through the crowd and find myself unable to think straight. What happened out there?
As I stand outside the bar among the ostracized smokers, it hits me. I’ve been as much a party to the Wake mythology as everyone else. They thought I was a whore; I became someone’s mistress. They thought I was a deadbeat; I showed up at Merry Carole’s door with nothing.
I’ve lived my life based on what “they” think. Who are they? They don’t love me. They don’t know me. And they sure as shit don’t care about what happens to me. Yet every decision involves thinking about what the judgmental and anonymous “they” would think.
What would they do if I stopped caring what they think?
“You ready?” Hudson asks, greeting me with another kiss. I can’t help but let him, finally soaking up the freedom of it all.
“Yeah,” I say, as we finally break apart. He takes my hand and we start walking back to his bed and breakfast.
“The thing about this B and B is, they have—,” Hudson says, as we approach my car.
“It’s not going to happen,” I say. It’s time to stop allowing others to cast me as the whore and/or the deadbeat. And it has to start right now. Despite wanting to go up into that bed and breakfast and do profoundly unadorable things with Hudson, I can’t. I need to start believing I’m worthy of being courted.
