Nowhere but Home

by Liza Palmer

  “Ever?” Ever. My brain sputters over Everett’s pet name. I quickly collect myself.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I don’t know if you’re being purposely obtuse or just being a dick,” Hudson says, kissing me again.

  “Probably a combination,” I say, unlocking my car door and climbing inside. He slams my door shut. I reach over my shoulder for my seat belt as I start the car.

  “New York plates, huh?” he says as I roll down my window.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he says, with a raised eyebrow. Hudson stands back from the car and steps out on the empty street. I give him a wave and pull out into the night.

  I drive the few minutes home and find myself at that red blinking light at the edge of North Star without really knowing how I got there. The last meal. Hudson. Epiphanies about playing my part and being faithful to a man who was never faithful to me. I’m officially a zombie at this point. I pull down Merry Carole’s driveway, pull my now empty canvas bags out of the hatch, lock my car, and make my way down the manicured pathway, past Cal’s glorious sign and into the darkened house.

  I walk through the dark and empty house to my bedroom. I push open my bedroom door and flick on the light. I put the piece of paper with my next last meal written on it on top of my dresser and decide to keep it folded. Closed. I pull my pajamas out of the dresser and begin to undress. The air-conditioning clicks on and the clunk of the fan startles me. I take a deep breath and continue undressing. Focus on the food. Think about the next meal and envision the day, cooking perfection. Tamales. Cabrito. Churros. I walk over to my dresser, unfold the little piece of paper, and start scrawling ideas I have about the meal. I’ll serve the churro with a Mexican hot chocolate. I can do the Mexican rice that I learned while I was in San Diego. I didn’t learn the recipe from one of the other chefs, mind you, but from this amazing man they only let wash the dishes. I traded him my ranch beans recipe for it. It was absolutely worth it. This is the good. Herein lies the balance.

  I enjoyed my day more than I should have. What kind of person enjoys making last meals for triple murderers? That’s just it, though, isn’t it? Me. I don’t know why or how, but I did. I didn’t even know I still knew those recipes. It’s not as if they’re written down anywhere. Mom learned them from her mother and on up the Wake family tree. No one wrote anything down. It just wasn’t done. I pull on my tank top and scrounge through my luggage, pulling a little notebook from its depths. I grab the pen from my dresser and flip the notebook open. And I write. From beginning to end, I walk through my first last meal—what I cooked, the recipes, the processes, what worked and what didn’t. My hand is hurting as I finish, the house still so quiet. As I flip the pages, rereading my work, I feel a surge of emotion. I’m proud of myself. My attention to detail and the respect I have for the food of Texas catches me off guard. I didn’t even consider changing these recipes or evolving them. It never occurred to me to reimagine the fried chicken or think of a new way to prepare chess pie. No. Those recipes are bigger than me. As I relive my last meeting with Brad in New York, I’m proud that I’ve at least learned one lesson since I’ve been back in North Star: it’s one thing to have an ego about one’s cooking, but it’s a whole other to have an ego about oneself as a chef. Reclaiming those magnificent black-and-white moments of our past can only work if I am true to the recipes. True to their history by making them just as Texans have been doing for hundreds of years. Just as my family has been making them for hundreds of years.

  I think about opening up my own little place. Cooking this kind of food. I never wanted my own place before. My dream was to be the executive chef in someone else’s kitchen. What does that say about me? But now? With these recipes, my family recipes, pinballing around in my head, I can’t shut off the idea of my own place. My own kitchen. Maybe even ask the Dent boys to work there (when they get out prison, that is). I could find a place in Austin, maybe do one of those food trucks, maybe look a bit into something in California. I close the notebook and tuck it back into my luggage. The quiet of Merry Carole’s house settles around me. I smile. There must be a part of me that takes pride in being a Texan after all. The part that loves a good brisket.

  I think about the black hole that our plot of land has become. Could I open up my own place there? Could I exorcise the demons and start fresh?

  I crawl into bed, finally realizing how exhausted I am.

  And I lay there.

  I close my eyes. They open. Wide open. My eyes adjust and I can begin to make out the shadows of the dark room. I toss and turn but can’t get comfortable. I lick my lips and taste bourbon and Hudson. How different he was from Everett. Playful. Fun. Light. I turn onto my side, punching at my pillow. I close my eyes again. Triple murderer. Fried chicken. What about that ranch dressing? Should I always include it? Could I have done better? I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. A plot of land and a notebook filled with recipes. My own kitchen. It’s no use. I flip off my bedding and walk out into the hall. I look down toward Merry Carole’s room. Her door is cracked just a bit. I take this as a sign that she wants me to come in. I creak down the hallway, past Cal’s room, and push Merry Carole’s bedroom door open.

  “You awake?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper. I hear Merry Carole shift in her bed.

  “I am now,” Merry Carole says.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Come on then,” Merry Carole says, flipping the blankets back and making a space for me. I walk over and crawl into Merry Carole’s bed. Just like when we were kids. I fidget and situate. She continues with a sigh, “Working at that prison has made you jumpy.”

  “Probably,” I say, now on my side facing her in the dim light of her bedroom.

  “So?” Merry Carole asks.

  “It was phenomenally weird,” I say, still unable to put today’s experience into words.

  “Phenomenally weird,” Merry Carole repeats.

  “I love working in that kitchen. It’s all kinds of wrong, but I love it. I get to make this perfect meal, and I’ve just never felt so at home,” I say.

  “I can understand that.”

  “But . . .”

  “But . . . ,” Merry Carole repeats.

  “And that’s the part I’m having trouble digesting. The ‘but.’ ”

  “Yeah,” Merry Carole says, her sentence trailing off.

  “I tried not knowing, but that just made it worse.”

  “That feels like a whole new level of denial to me.”

  “It absolutely was.”

  “So how do you continue to do this then?” Merry Carole sits up and rests her head on her hand.

  “I guess I know what I have to know,” I say, my words as confused as my thoughts.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I have no idea,” I say. I flip onto my back, trying to get my breath. I wish I could say that my change in position has warranted some clarity. It hasn’t.

  “Maybe it’s just a case-by-case deal then? You take on one meal at a time and see how you feel after each one. When the bad outweighs the good, you stop,” Merry Carole says, pulling the blankets up and smoothing them over me.

  “That’s brilliant,” I say.

  “You don’t have to know everything now,” she says.

  We are quiet. I’m not sure whether she’s dozed off or is just thinking. I finally am able to take a deep breath and close my eyes.

  “I told Reed we needed a break,” Merry Carole says, breaking the silence.

  “Oh Merry Carole.”

  “I know. I just can’t. The town is too small, and if it ever got back to Cal—”

  “Cal would be lucky to have Reed in his life,” I interrupt.

  “It’s been just us, you know? I can’t risk it. I would never want him to feel like we did—always second to whoever Momma was seeing at the time.”

  “Honey, it’s just not the same thing. It really isn’t.�
�

  “I know that almost ninety-eight percent of the time, but it’s that two percent that keeps getting me.” Merry Carole’s voice hitches.

  “Yeah, but you’re never going to be one hundred percent on anything.”

  “But you see, you’re wrong. I can be one hundred percent about Cal not being upset if I just shut things down with Reed. See? Problem solved. One hundred percent.”

  “So you don’t get to be happy, then. You don’t get someone in your life?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Do you think there will ever be a time when you think, without asking his opinion of course, that Cal would accept the man you finally deemed worthy of being part of your family?”

  “That feels like a leading question.”

  “Well. Do you think Cal wouldn’t consider the fact that you’ve never brought any man around, ever. Until now? And it’s basically his father figure? The man he respects more than his actual father?”

  “I know this seems silly to you.”

  “It does not seem silly at all. I’m walking around with the same shit you are, trust me.”

  “I know you are.”

  “Cal’s not holding out any hope that you and Wes are going to get back together, is he?”

  “No. No way.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “I’m just happy they have some kind of relationship now. He goes over there for dinner once a week. And I have to give it to Whitney—she’s been nothing but nice to Cal. And their two kids—”

  “Their three kids.”

  “Well, yeah, that . . . but the two official kids love Cal.”

  “And you’re positive he doesn’t already know about Reed?”

  “I’m not positive of anything.”

  We settle into Merry Carole’s bed, pulling on the covers like we always did. I knead and push the pillow into the proper position as Merry Carole tugs on the sheet that I’ve pulled too far to my side.

  “So, Professor California. Tell me his real name again?” Merry Carole asks.

  “Hudson,” I say.

  “When am I going to meet him?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “He can come with you to the team barbecue,” Merry Carole says, flipping onto her side and finally settling in for the night.

  “I don’t even know if I’m coming to the team barbecue,” I say.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Merry Carole pulls the blankets up over her shoulders.

  “Right,” I say, trying not to smile.

  “You’re also coming to church with me on Sunday,” Merry Carole says.

  “What? What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “And I get to pick out what you wear,” Merry Carole says, kissing me on the top of my head and settling back onto her pillow. She continues, “It’s late. Get some sleep.”

  “I missed you,” I say, my voice tiny in the darkened room.

  “I missed you, too,” Merry Carole says. I sigh. She continues, “But you’re still coming with me to church.”

  “Fiiiine,” I say, unable to hide my smile.

  As I tuck myself in tight, I think about the idea of happiness. Lying here with Merry Carole is as close as I’ve gotten in recent years. It’s utterly blissful. I haven’t felt this safe in a long time. What if I stayed in North Star? I could have this all I want. Merry Carole and Cal. Dee and her brood. I think about Hudson and am grateful for tonight. There’s something to be said for not knowing anything about a person. It’s a refreshing change from everyone knowing everybody’s business. I pull the blanket up and begin to drift off to sleep. A single thought dances around the edges of my brain, threatening my dreamy imaginings of staying in North Star.

  Everett.

  I close my eyes ever tighter and push those brown-and-yellow- pinwheel green eyes as far from my brain as I can. I sigh and finally drift off to sleep.

  16

  Cabrito stew, cabrito kebabs, grilled cabrito, cabrito chops, and pork tamales

  I spent all Saturday starting to experiment with the next last meal’s recipes while Cal watched TV. Shawn called last night and said that the inmate’s grandmother was from the mountain area just outside the city of San Cristóbal de las Casas. As Cal watched the game, I finally finished my research. I nearly lost it when I realized that the tamales from this region use a banana leaf, but I managed to find a small Mexican market just a few towns over that actually sells them. All I have to do is heat them up the day of and everything will be fine. It’s a more difficult version of the tamale, using a light, sweet mole in the pork filling, but it should be delicious.

  It’s now early Sunday and I hear Cal moving around the house in the haze of early morning. I check the clock, it’s just after six. I slept okay, but still had nightmares. The kinds of nightmares in which you’re running through Escheresque mazes and never quite find a way out. It’s been only two days since I made my first last meal. I have a little over a week until my second one and I’m already obsessing, as evidenced by my pork tamale and cabrito cook-a-thon yesterday. I need to busy myself. I flip off my sheet and walk out into the house. Cal’s in the kitchen trying to stem the tide as an avalanche of plastic bags filled with my tamale experiments tumbles out of the freezer.

  “I just wanted some ice,” he says, picking up a couple of bags and stuffing them back inside the already full freezer.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I say, picking up the remainder of the bags and finessing them back into the freezer.

  “First you make me an omelet and don’t tell me until after I’ve finished that I just ate goat,” Cal says.

  “But when you fell for the goat soft tacos later that day . . . ,” I trail off. Cal shudders.

  “Where do you even get goat?”

  “I found this great butcher who had all this different stuff,” I say.

  “Different stuff? Wait, I don’t even want to know. I’m sure I’ll be tricked into some more experiments soon enough,” Cal says, finally getting that glass of water.

  “You’re up early.” I say, smiling. Cal rinses his water glass and places it on the dish strainer.

  “So are you.”

  “I’m going on a run; you’re welcome to join me,” Cal says, walking out into the dining room. He sits down and starts lacing up his gym shoes.

  “I think I will, actually,” I say, surprising even myself. This is exactly what I was looking for.

  “Really?” Cal says as I walk down to my bedroom. Merry Carole walks out of her bedroom, cinching her robe tightly around her.

  “What’s going on around here?” Her voice is a yawn.

  “Aunt Queenie is going with me on my run,” Cal says.

  “Really?” Merry Carole says, stopping in my doorway as I pull out an old pair of sweats from a dresser drawer.

  “Really,” I say, sliding the sweats on. I rummage around in my closet and pull out my gym shoes and walk back out into the front of the house with Merry Carole.

  “Church is at nine fifteen, so I’ll have breakfast ready for y’all when you get back,” Merry Carole says, walking into the kitchen and flipping on the coffeemaker. It burbles and shudders to life.

  “Oh yeah,” I say, lacing up my shoes.

  “Yeah,” Merry Carole says, folding her arms across her chest.

  “I forgot about that,” I say, standing.

  “I didn’t. I’ll have your outfit picked out by the time you get back as well. Now run along,” Merry Carole says, shooing us out the door.

  “Don’t open the freezer, Momma,” Cal warns.

  “What? Why?” Merry Carole says, eyeing the appliance.

  “Just don’t. And don’t ask what was in those soft tacos, either,” Cal says. I can only smile as I see Merry Carole’s face turn pale.

  The early morning mist settles around Cal and me as we walk down the driveway and out into the town square. Cal begins to stretch. I mimic him as much as I can.

  “So how’s practice?” I ask, stretching
my leg back in a way no one is really comfortable with.

  “Good,” Cal says, now on to another stretch. I try to catch up.

  “Good,” I repeat.

  “Momma says you’re coming to the team barbecue,” Cal says, folding over, his fingertips brushing the pavement. I bend over, almost vomit, and stand back up.

  “Yeah, I can’t wait,” I lie. I decide then that pinwheeling my arms is probably just as good as what Cal is doing. Cal straightens back up. And stares.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, placing his heel on the curb and bending back over.

  “Stretching,” I say, placing my heel on the curb next to him.

  “Uh-huh,” Cal says.

  We are quiet.

  “So do you have any friends on the team? A girlfriend maybe?” I ask as all the blood rushes back to my head. Cal switches feet and I follow. I can hear him chuckling as he bends over.

  “You mean are people as mean to me as they are to you and Momma,” Cal says.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, caught off guard.

  Cal stands and I follow. He meets my gaze.

  “As long as I keep playing football the way I do, people will be nice to me, but it’s not like I think it’s real or nothin’. I just want to get to UT,” Cal says. He looks down at his watch and messes with the buttons. Setting the stopwatch, probably. A stopwatch that will most certainly end in me having a coronary on some back road of North Star.

  “Oh,” I say, hating that he knows this at his age, but happy that he’s able to tell the difference.

  “You ready?” he asks, motioning to the open road.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I say. Cal and I start to jog down the street, past the Homestead.

  “Some people are nice . . . for real,” Cal says, his breath completely regulated. I, on the other hand, am going to die.

  “That’s good,” I cough out. We head out of the town square and into the maze of streets that leads out of town and into the rolling hills and plots of land as far as the eye can see.

  “You all right?” Cal asks, trotting along like a colt.