by Liza Palmer
“Which makes it all the more annoying that she was right. You love your parents. I had a complicated relationship with mine—”
“To say the least.”
“Right,” I say, laughing. I continue, “But we’re not them. We have to take what we want from our family and leave the rest behind. I’m not my mom—”
“No, you’re not. I’ve always told you that.”
“I know. I know you have,” I say, tears now streaming down my face. Everett hands me his handkerchief and I take it. His face is flushed and those green-pinwheel eyes are now rimmed in red.
I continue, “But you don’t see people as cut and dried, as your parents do. You saw me. You loved me despite my last name. Even Arrow, for crissakes. You saw the good in that dog when no one else did.”
“Not all the time. Trust me,” Everett says with a laugh that lets more emotion loose than he was ready for.
“I think you have to figure out how to be yourself and also be the man your parents want you to be. I won’t be responsible for you turning your back on your parents. You’d be miserable, and I love you too much to ask you to do that.”
I can see him winding through every scenario until he arrives at the same one I did. He finally nods, his lips tightly pursed, his brow furrowed.
“We get to be happy, Ever,” I say. I dab at my eyes once more with his handkerchief, finally handing it back.
“Keep it,” he says.
“I don’t need any more souvenirs from you that aren’t actually you. It hurts too much,” I say, placing the handkerchief in his hand.
“Please,” he says, his hand pressing the handkerchief into mine. His hand lingers. He looks back at me. I give him a smile, a genuine smile for once, unguarded and vulnerable.
“Thank you,” I say, closing my hand around the handkerchief. I look up into his eyes and in the quiet of this hidden corner in the churchyard, the sun streaming down, I say, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He just looks lost. So sad it breaks my heart. I nod once more and try to keep myself together long enough to turn away from him. As I walk away, my legs almost giving beneath me, I dig through my purse and mercifully pull my sunglasses from its depths. I shove them on my red, blotchy face as the tears begin to stream down my face. I leave him standing there and join Merry Carole again. She wraps her arm tightly around my waist and pulls me close. Fawn and Dee are watching me like hawks.
“Queenie, you remember West,” Merry Carole says. I gather myself quickly, thankful that my sunglasses will mask my red-rimmed eyes.
“Good to see you again, ma’am. Cal says y’all went on a run this morning. I may just join you one of these days,” West says, offering his extended hand.
“I’d like that. I mean, I’d like it only if you’re slower than Cal,” I say, embarrassed that my voice is a little shaky.
“He’s faster,” Cal says.
“Then it’ll be a shame you can’t join us,” I say, calming down.
Cal and West both laugh. Shawn and Pete ask them how practice was this past week as I watch Felix and Arabella introduce Everett to a nice-looking woman dressed in her Sunday best. It’s clearly a setup. Merry Carole looks from me to the little vignette and I can feel her whole body tense.
“I’m okay . . . in that kind of dead inside way,” I say in a hushed tone to Merry Carole, a beleaguered smile breaking across my face.
“Oh yes, I’m well acquainted with that feeling,” Merry Carole laughs. I can’t help but join her.
“West, there you are!” Whitney says, inserting herself into our little circle.
“Hey, sis,” West says. Whitney’s entire body deflates. Her smile falters and I can see her flinch at the word “sis.” Once again, despite all of her terribleness, not being able to claim this delightful boy as her son must kill her. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Even Whitney McKay. Merry Carole may have been blackballed, but at least her boy knows who his momma is.
“We’d better get on, you know how your mom needs all day for Sunday dinner,” Whitney says.
“Yes, ma’am,” West says, politely saying his good-byes.
“Come on then,” Whitney says, urgently pulling him away.
“We’d better get on, too,” Merry Carole says.
“Queenie, we’ll see you in the salon tomorrow?” Fawn asks. This is not a question.
“Yes, ma’am.” I say my good-byes to Dee and her brood. Shawn and I don’t speak about Friday. I imagine he doesn’t talk at all about what goes on at Shine Prison.
“All right then. You girls be good. Bye now,” Merry Carole says.
We start walking home, past the loitering and laughing groups of churchgoers. Cal walks along on the curb, in front of us, his arms outstretched to help him balance.
“He used to do that when he was little,” Merry Carole says as we watch him.
“He’s such a great kid,” I say.
“So, you and Everett—”
“Done. For real this time. He has to figure some stuff out. So do I, for that matter,” I say.
“Dee texted that she was concerned. Said you looked real upset,” Merry Carole says. I can’t help but laugh.
17
Assorted types of churros offered with Mexican hot chocolate, café con leche, and/or a ramekin of cajeta
I made churros all day yesterday and I’ve set them on different plates in front of Fawn, Dee, and Merry Carole the next morning at the salon. I’ve used different types of sugar and fried them at different temperatures and for different amounts of time. For dipping, I’ve made a batch of café con leche and Mexican hot chocolate made with cinnamon (canela) and just a pinch of cayenne pepper. I also offer a small ramekin of cajeta, which is a caramelly concoction made from goat’s milk that I may have become obsessed with lately. I know which combination is my favorite, but I want to see what someone else thinks.
“I need some real coffee to balance out all this sweetness; I’m going to brew another pot. Everyone wants another cup, right?” Fawn asks. We all can’t say yes fast enough. She laughs and walks back to the kitchenette.
“If you keep feeding us like this, I’m going to have to join you and Cal on your morning runs,” Merry Carole says, dipping a churro into her Mexican hot chocolate. Dee dips her churro into the cajeta again.
My cell phone begins ringing in my pocket. I immediately think of Warden Dale. Has someone . . . is it . . . ugh, I can’t think about it. I check the caller ID. An 805 area code. I don’t recognize it right off. It could it be one of the restaurants finally calling me back about those résumés I sent out in what seems like eons ago. As the phone rings again, I get this bolt from out of the blue—do I want a job somewhere else? I look at the plates of churros and Fawn, Dee, and Merry Carole sitting around enjoying them. That little black hole of a plot of land. My eyes dart from them to the ringing phone.
“Who is it?” Dee asks.
“I don’t know, but . . .” The phone continues to ring.
“Well, why don’t you answer it, for God’s sake?” Merry Carole says.
“Hello?” I ask, walking out of the salon to the disappointed moans of Fawn, Dee, and Merry Carole.
“Hey, Queenie, it’s Hudson,” he says. I’m relieved and then immediately flushed with delight.
“Hey there,” I say.
“I hope you don’t mind that I asked Warden Dale for your number. I told him it was urgent business,” he says. I begin pacing in front of Merry Carole’s salon. The three women watch me pacing, like a tennis match.
“That’s only slightly creepy, I suppose,” I say, unable to quit smiling.
“I thought you’d be swept away by my ardent need to find you,” Hudson says, in a faux (and quite terrible) British accent.
“Aaaand now we’ve hit full-blown creepy,” I say, laughing.
“Wait until I start wearing your skin as a shirt. Don’t you want to know what the urgent business is?” Hudson asks.
“Always,” I say, laughing.
“So these people were talking around the breakfast table this morning—you know B and Bs, they want everyone to eat together. It’s fine, but slightly annoying, you know what I mean? Anyway—these people were talking about how there was this super-secret restaurant in North Star that only the locals knew about. Apparently, this woman used to serve—”
“She used to serve meals out of her back door. Yeah,” I say, knowing exactly what Hudson’s talking about.
“You know it!” Hudson says.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” I say.
“Okay, you can blindfold me or do whatever you want, but I want to eat there tonight,” he says. The invitation to blindfold him and do “whatever I want” sets off a mental chain reaction that ends with me flushing in embarrassment.
“At least the meal will be worth it,” I say.
“Worth what?”
“When I have to kill you after,” I say.
“Oh sure . . . sure. So do you want to come get me or can I meet you somewhere?” Hudson asks. I look into the salon at Merry Carole, Dee, and Fawn. They are staring at me as if I’m an animal in a zoo enclosure.
“You can pick me up at my sister’s hair salon at five thirty,” I say. I give Hudson the address to Merry Carole’s salon and we say our farewells. I beep my phone off and can’t wipe the smile from my face. I look up into the salon and see my reflection in the window. Smiling. Happy. Coming back to North Star was the right thing to do. Whatever happens next, I’m happy I came back. Even if it ends up being just for a little while. This is me. This is now. As I pull the door open to the salon, a thought crosses my mind—what happens when that phone rings the next time and it’s a job offer? What then? I walk back inside the salon.
“That was Hudson, wasn’t it?” Dee asks, her face expectant.
“Yes, it was,” I say.
“And?” Fawn asks.
“He heard about Delfina’s place; I guess they were talking about it at the B and B where he’s staying—”
“He’s staying at a B and B?” Dee asks.
“Yeah, over in Evans,” I say.
“That boy’s from money, peanut,” Fawn says.
“What? No, he’s a professor over at UT,” I say.
“Who stays at a B and B in Evans for the summer?” Fawn presses.
“It doesn’t matter. Look, you guys will be able to check him out tonight. He’s picking me up here,” I say. Fawn squeals with delight as Dee cautiously smiles. Merry Carole just looks worried.
“What time?” Merry Carole asks.
“Five thirty,” I say.
“Piggy Peggy will be here at five thirty,” Merry Carole says.
“Will she?” I ask, my voice unable to hide the fact that I know damn well exactly where Piggy Peggy will be at five thirty.
“Queen Elizabeth, this is my place of business—,” Merry Carole starts in.
I interrupt, “Come on. She has it coming!” Dee and Fawn watch Merry Carole.
“She kind of does,” Dee says, her voice quiet.
“Look, he’ll walk in, we’ll act like it’s not even any of Piggy Peggy’s business, and it’ll all be fine,” I say, my voice giddy with excitement.
Merry Carole just sighs. Then nods in agreement.
“Thank you!” I say, walking back to the kitchenette. I continue, “Does anyone else want some coffee?”
“I do,” Dee says, following me back. She continues, “Shawn said you did real good the other day,” she says, pouring herself some coffee. She opens up the fridge in search of creamer as my entire body deflates.
“Yeah?” I ask, now pouring myself a cup.
“Said the meal was downright beautiful,” she says, not looking at me.
“Well . . . I appreciate him thinking so,” I say, genuinely touched.
“He’s worried about you,” Dee says, putting the creamer back in the fridge and shutting the door.
“I’m worried about me,” I say, bringing my steaming mug up to my nose. I inhale.
Dee is quiet.
I continue. “What is it?” My entire body is in a holding pattern. Do I want to hear what she’s about to say? It’s clearly a big deal.
“Shawn’s leaving Shine. He starts up with the sheriff ’s at the end of summer,” Dee says, speaking quickly.
“That’s amazing,” I say, relieved.
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“He thought . . . well, we thought you’d feel left behind, you know?”
“I couldn’t be happier for you guys. Honest to God. I’m so glad he’s getting out of there. It was just . . .” I trail off.
“He was turning into someone else, Queenie,” Dee says, her voice barely a whisper.
“Oh sweetie,” I say, stepping closer. She gives me a smile, trying to be strong.
“I’m so happy he’s getting out,” Dee says, tears now streaming down her rosy cheeks. I set my coffee down and pull her in for a hug. I can feel her trying to steady her coffee as she hugs me back.
“I’m going to spill my coffee!” Her giggling is contagious and I love that she’s laughing. We break from our hug and check for spillage. There is none. “You going to be okay out there by yourself?” Dee asks.
“I honestly don’t know how long I’m going to be there. I talked to Merry Carole about it and I’m going to play it meal by meal. When the bad outweighs the good, I’ll leave,” I say, robotically repeating what we decided. I’m still unable to absorb what really happens in the Death House down down down to where it settles in my psyche. It’s somewhere. It’s feeding my subconscious. I’ve been dreaming of deathly metal doors and empty trays coming back with just bones on them. I shake my head. Enough of that.
“Leave and go where?” Dee asks.
“I don’t know. I thought that phone call was a job offer. I applied all over, but . . . ” I trail off.
“But what?”
“I just don’t know anymore,” I say, overwhelmed. I’m surprised by the feelings that bubble up in that moment. The idea of my own kitchen. My notebook of recipes. This is what passion feels like. This is what it feels like to let the genie out of the bottle and actually admit I want something more. Something of my own. And as much as I hate to admit it, Brad was right about me. My attitude about cooking was the same as my attitude about everything else: I defined myself by what I wasn’t, not what I was. I don’t know where I’ll go, just not North Star. I don’t know who I am, I’m just not my mom. I don’t know what food to cook, but your food sucks.
“Know about what?” Dee asks.
“I was thinking about opening my own place. Maybe in Austin or one of those food trucks,” I say.
“Or you could open up your own place where your momma’s shack was. Sure, it needs some work, but it’s still y’all’s property,” Dee says. It sounds as though she’s been practicing this pitch for quite some time.
“I can’t say I haven’t not thought about it,” I say.
“You can’t say you haven’t not thought about it? I don’t even know what that means,” Dee says.
“I have thought about that option as well,” I say.
“Okay then. We’ll just leave it at that,” Dee says.
We are quiet. Just something to think about as we make our way back to the front of the salon.
Dee continues, “I personally love that Piggy Peggy is going to be here when Professor California gets here.” Dee laughs and walks back over to her station.
I spend the rest of the day sweeping up hair, filling shampoo bottles, and making appointments in the salon. When my unscientific tasting was over, the women chose my favorite version of my churro and we voted for the Mexican hot chocolate as well as that cajeta concoction that we all secretly want to bathe in later. We laugh and talk about the day’s events, all the while checking the clock, awaiting five thirty. I catch Merry Carole texting someone a few times, but decide not to bust her on it. I figure it’s Reed and am glad that she hasn�
��t cut off communication with him. I’m happy she’s at least conflicted.
I head back to the house at around four thirty to get ready, take a shower, and put on one of Merry Carole’s sundresses. I had to battle the three of them all day not to “fix my hair.” I don’t need to have Hudson walk in and be able to see my hair from the street.
As I blow-dry my hair, I can’t help but stare at my own reflection in the mirror. The freckles that dot their way across my nose, the pale skin that burns at the hint of sunshine, the pale blue eyes that always seem to be prying even when I look at myself. I borrow some of Merry Carole’s hair products to make my brown bangs stay put as I sweep them off to the side. I put on some mascara and lip gloss as the clock ticks down.
And I stare at my reflection.
I feel silly then stupid then terrified. What if I trot Hudson out in front of Piggy Peggy only to have him . . . no. Stop. I close my eyes and steady my breathing. I wonder if this is what getting your hopes up feels like. To me, it feels childlike. Silly. Like I should know better or something.
As I collect my purse from the dining room, I make a vow to myself. Tonight I will use words like “excited” and “invigorating” instead of “terrified” and “nervous.” I’ll think of it as if I’m on a roller coaster, jolting into that electrifying click, click, click of the climb before that first heart-racing drop. This is a good thing no matter how it turns out. Being with Hudson means I don’t have to think about the past or the future. I just get to be blissfully entrenched in the present. He doesn’t know who my momma was and he doesn’t care. When he walks into that salon tonight, he’s not trying to give the finger to Piggy Peggy and the North Star establishment (like I am), he just wants some good barbecue.
I walk back into the salon and see Piggy Peggy at Merry Carole’s station. Her hair’s separated with bits of tinfoil and she’s wearing a black-and-hot-pink smock that makes her torso formless and mountainlike. She’s absently flipping through a tabloid and looks up as the front door of the salon dings. The cartoonish terror that overtakes her as she compares how she looks with the state I’m in fills me with glee.
“Hey, Peggy,” I say, my voice calm and sweet.
