by Liza Palmer
“It does.”
“It’s one of those things in your past that you do a countdown on until someone knows it about you. And then it’s three, two, one . . . and they’re looking at you different,” I say.
“And your dad?” Hudson asks, his voice quiet.
“Never knew him. Like I said, my mom had a reputation that was well earned, if you get my meaning,” I say, not having the heart to spell it out for him.
“Jesus,” Hudson says.
“Come on, let’s eat. I don’t want to ruin th—”
“So when you’re cooking these last meals—wait, is the person who killed your mom in the system?” Hudson asks.
“Are you interviewing me for your paper now?”
“I’ve always been a curious person and never really had any boundaries, so . . .”
“Clearly.”
“You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to stare at you searchingly until you do.”
“Yes. She’s in the system.”
“A woman, interesting. Did you know her?”
I just take a deep breath and arch an eyebrow.
Hudson continues, “Too far? Okay, but just that last one. Then I’ll stop. For now.”
“We knew her.”
“So no other family? Mom dead, no father?”
“I have Merry Carole and Cal,” I say, not liking how this dinner is going.
“Yeah, but . . .”
“No ‘yeah but’ . . . we’re fine.”
“Either you’re ridiculously well adjusted about this or you, my dear, are in for quite the breakdown when the time comes,” Hudson says.
“Fingers crossed for the breakdown!” I joke. I want to get away from this conversation. I’m sorry I brought it up at all. Oh wait. I didn’t. I was scolded by Pansy Mack and now I’m being grilled by Hudson.
“If it helps, I’ve been studying criminals and death and the psychology of mortality and loss for years,” Hudson says.
“You must be a big hit with the ladies back home. Your first-date small talk is delightful.”
“A, I am a big hit with the ladies back home. B, my small talk is out of the ordinary and layered, and C, so this is a date then?”
I take a bite of my ribs and ignore Hudson’s little list. He takes this as his cue to continue.
“What I’ve found as a by-product of my research is the fallout this type of death has on the families. It’s always shocking how ill prepared they are for the loss, despite how they felt about the person. I mean, these are criminals here, their relationships with their families are always complicated. But still. I mean, even if it was bad, and it usually was—right? Even if it was bad, these families still defined themselves by their dearly departed. They were the good ones and the dearly departed made life interesting. Without them they have a hard time trying to find their own identity. I mean, right?” Hudson stops and waits for my opinion on the subject of whether or not my identity is wrapped up in my mother. If he weren’t so right on with his assessments, I would have thrown my entire sweet tea at him a long time ago.
“You tell me,” I say, ripping open the wet nap Delfina always puts in the basket along with her ribs. I begin wiping my hands, the sterile smell invading my nose.
“I mean I only know what my research tells me. But judging from the cartoonish steam coming from your ears right now, I’m either right on the money or need to shut up. Probably a combination.”
“Or you’re just being a dick,” I say.
“Well, that’s a given. I mean, if I may be so bold, what I found was even in those cases where the relationship was strained, it’s the day-to-day stuff. That startling moment when your guard is down, which usually happens in a grocery store or sitting on the toilet, when you realize, tragically, that someone is gone. Like, off the face of the earth gone. Never gonna come back—”
“All right. Enough,” I say, my breath quickening.
“Queenie, you’ve been through some real shit here.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Oh, I know you know it. That sounds ridiculous . . . I know you know it, but it sounds like, and this could be total bullshit Psychology 101 and the fact that everyone in California—including me—has been in therapy forever, so you can take what I have to say or leave it—” Hudson collects himself. He continues, “You’re strong, Queenie. That’s clear. I just hope you will also allow yourself to be—” Hudson stops. Thinks. He sits back in his chair. I’m not breathing. I haven’t taken a breath in minutes. His eyes search the heavens and he runs his hand through his hair, the shampoo wafting over the smell of barbecue, fresh and clean. “I just hope you allow yourself to be affected. Got to, if that makes any sense . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Vulnerable,” I whisper.
“Vulnerable,” Hudson repeats, nodding.
“If I may be so bold,” I say.
“Please.”
“These ‘subjects’ you speak of so cavalierly, they’re people. Not data. You might want to curb your utter joy at their falling apart because it backs up your theory,” I say, balling up my wet nap and throwing it on the table.
“I’m sorry. I went too far.”
“I’m sure you do that a lot.”
“I’ve been known to in the past, yes.”
“I love that you’re passionate about what you do, but you don’t get to automatically know that shit about me just because you studied it at some fancy school.”
“You’re right. Shit, I’m sorry.” Hudson settles himself in his chair, and even through my spiraling rage at his lack of boundaries, I can see him struggling to make this right.
“Okay, here’s the deal. You need to tell me one thing about yourself that you have never told anyone. Then we’re square,” I say, my voice softening. Hudson looks away and just lights up. Relieved. He nods and sits back in his chair. Thinking. A smile every now and again, some more devious than others. He leans forward.
“So . . . this is . . . okay, no. I deserve this. Okay . . . so when I was younger . . . see my eyebrows—” Hudson leans over the table and stares directly into my eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that set off the black hair and eyebrows were one of the first things I noticed about him. It’s hilarious—and probably a ruse—to think he doesn’t know that.
“Yes, I see your eyebrows and this better get a lot juicier than just something about your eyebrows,” I say, having to look away. Damn.
“When I was younger—they’re thick, right? And like super black and I’m pale and the brow just went all the way across. Total unibrow. It was terrible. And at the time, I thought there was nothing I could do. I knew it looked bad, the other kids made fun of me relentlessly. It was a testament to the academic excellence of the boarding schools I went to that the insults were so unendingly imaginative. A lot of Neanderthal jokes, which would inevitably lead to the whole Homo erectus pantheon of options, whole dialogues about evolution and how I’d clearly been skipped, I mean . . . it was—” Hudson stops and just shakes his head. He continues, “I finally met this girl, and after a few months of what I thought was flirting, she leans over one night—and you know, I think I’m going to kiss her, and she says, ‘You know, I have a great waxer.’ And she’s just looking at my eyebrows.”
“Eyebrow,” I say, correcting him.
“You’re so mean. That’s so fucked up,” Hudson says, howling with laughter. I can’t catch my breath I’m laughing so hard.
“So yeah. I wax. I’m a waxer. I get waxed,” Hudson says, taking a bite of his coleslaw.
“That’s fantastic,” I say.
Hudson picks up his ribs and digs in. I let Delfina’s cooking comfort me as it always has. The sweet tang of that barbecue sauce was always a tonic for what ailed me. Seems it still is.
As the hours pass, we eat and laugh and in no time Hudson is walking me back to Merry Carole’s salon. The tension of earlier this evening is not forgotten, but the sting of it has lessened. As Hudson slows i
n front of his car, my stomach is in knots. I’m excited, but wary of him. I went from being his dinner guest to his test subject in three seconds flat and that makes me nervous. I also hate that he’s right. About it all. Of course I’ll never tell him that. The salon is dark and I know Merry Carole is waiting for me back at the house.
“Hey, Aunt Queenie,” Cal says, trotting back from his second football practice. I am so thankful we weren’t doing anything embarrassing.
“Oh hey, sweetie. Hudson, this is Cal, my nephew. Cal, this is Hudson Bishop,” I say, introducing the two.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Cal says, easy and open.
“Nice to meet you,” Hudson says.
“I’d better be getting on,” Cal says. He makes his farewells and runs the rest of the way until he’s inside, looking back suspiciously only once.
“You’ve got a real football player in your midst,” Hudson says.
“We do. He’s such a good kid,” I say, unable to help myself.
“Yeah, definitely,” Hudson says. He’s not listening to me, I realize. He’s focusing on my face. My mouth. I watch those intense blue eyes fix on my lips.
“You make me nervous,” I say, my voice quavering. Damn.
“Do I?” Hudson says, stepping closer. He tilts his head just so, his eyes still fixated on my mouth.
“I don’t know if you’re being purposely obtuse or just—”
Hudson cuts me off. “Being a dick. Oh absolutely,” he says before leaning in for a kiss. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. I can’t help but smile. I feel him smiling. I let out a laugh as we break apart. The world comes speeding back into my consciousness as I hear a dog barking in the distance. I wrench my gaze away from Hudson for the smallest of seconds and see Everett idling at the stop sign in the center of town. Arrow’s barking out the window at some passersby, but my focus falls on the man driving. How long has he been sitting there? He is unreadable, and the moment that passes between us couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds. Hudson is saying something. Saying something.
“What?” I ask, focusing back on him just as Everett drives off down the street and back to the Paragon Ranch.
“When can I see you again?” Hudson asks.
“Cal has a team barbecue on Saturday. It starts at three PM. You can come to that,” I say.
“Sure,” Hudson says, with a shrug. No big deal.
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” I say. One more kiss and he hops into his car and pulls away. Out of North Star.
I smooth my skirt again. I have to stop doing that. If ever there were a nervous tic, this skirt-smoothing thing would be it. I head back toward Merry Carole’s house, anxious to tell her about my night—Laurel, Hudson . . . all of it. I let the thought of me moving on bounce and ping around in my head like a pinball.
19
Coach Blanchard’s brisket, coleslaw, and not enough Shiner Bock
As the weekdays zoom past, and Tuesday looms, I find myself in a kind of limbo between understanding the new way of things and beginning to understand what this means for me going forward. I now have information I didn’t have before. Laurel was just as miserable as I was. Everyone knew about Everett and me. I played as much a part in my being cast as an ostracized, worthless loser as the town of North Star did. These are facts. The hard part is switching these facts for the myths and rumors that I’ve based my entire life upon. I was lied to by people I thought knew better. But I gathered my own information and sifted it through a filter of self-hatred and doubt. What happens if I switch my old filter for a new one? A new one, where anything is possible, even for Brandi-Jaques Wake’s daughters.
Merry Carole, Cal, Hudson, and I walk into the team barbecue that Saturday carrying a six-pack of Shiner Bock and some coleslaw I made the night before. Are they peace offerings, maybe? Are we hiding behind them, as if the beer and coleslaw will shield us from the first line of fire as we enter the barbecue? Most definitely.
“CWake!” another football player says, charging at Cal. He gives the boy a hearty handshake. They are swept away into the fold of the already raging barbecue.
Reed’s house is on the outskirts of town, a simple one-story home with French doors that open out onto the backyard. Close to a hundred people mill around from the inside to the outside of the house. Ladies with fans and men with a cold beer in one hand and an opinion about the upcoming football season in the other. Reed has taken up his place at the barbecue and holds court as a group of men gather around. Merry Carole glances his way. She sighs. Reed’s two little girls are with his mother for the weekend. Their presence is missed, but noted. My plan to have Merry Carole stay after at the party and patch things up with Reed can be put into action now.
“So football is kind of a big deal in Texas, huh?” Hudson asks. Merry Carole and I open our mouths to speak, but Hudson continues, “I’m kidding. I’ve seen Friday Night Lights.” He smiles.
“You look beautiful today,” I say to Merry Carole as she keeps fussing with her dress.
“Thank you,” she says, breathlessly. She decided to go with a bright yellow shirtdress, a black belt cinched at her impossibly tiny waist. She’s been waiting to wear this outfit for weeks. Black and gold—the team’s colors. She continues, “I’m sure someone will tell me I look like a floozy.”
“If they’re using the word ‘floozy,’ how big a threat can they be?” I say. Hudson laughs. Merry Carole loosens up a bit. She’s not alone.
“Thank God you brought that one. It’s all anyone will be talking about,” Merry Carole says, motioning to Hudson. He’s already cracked open a Shiner Bock and is taking a long drink. He’s wearing a loose plaid shirt that he’s once again only half tucked into his relaxed-fit Levi’s. His worn-in leather belt just underneath is visible and becoming more and more inviting every day.
“That one, huh?” Hudson says, offering us a beer. Merry Carole and I decline Hudson’s offer. We need to be stone-cold sober for these festivities. Whether we like it or not.
“Merry Carole and Queenie Wake.” Whitney McKay and Piggy Peggy float over to us followed by a phalanx of no less than four indistinguishable women. Now that Laurel’s off to Dallas, it looks like Whitney has taken her place on the throne. I probably know Whitney’s Gang of Idiots from school, but their high hair and Easter egg–colored wardrobes all blend together into what is fast becoming this barbecue’s terrifying first line of offense.
“Nice to see you, Whitney. You look lovely,” Merry Carole says with a polite nod.
“Team colors. Bless your heart,” Whitney says, giving Merry Carole the once-over. Merry Carole wants this too much. Women like Whitney get a whiff of that longing and it’s hunting season.
“Queenie,” Whitney says, with a curt nod.
“Whitney,” I say, with a sniff. I can’t even look at Hudson. I can feel his grin from here. He can barely contain himself. He folds his arms across his chest, tucking his open beer bottle under his arm.
The women stand in front of us, unmoving. Staring at Hudson.
“Ladies, this is Hudson Bishop. He teaches over at UT,” I say, presenting him for inquiry.
They titter and nod their greetings.
“And how did y’all meet?” Whitney asks. She damn well knows the answer, but wants to hear me say it.
“Queenie and I met over at Shine Prison,” Hudson says.
“Did you now? Isn’t that sweet,” Whitney says.
“I don’t think anyone would call it sweet. What was your name again?” Hudson asks.
“Whitney,” Whitney says, her facade cracking for just the slightest of moments. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“It’s Whitley, right?” Hudson asks.
“Whitney,” she corrects.
Hudson lets the moment hang just long enough as he takes a lengthy pull on his beer. He continues, “Anyway, I’m going to go take a look at that barbecue. Excuse me, ladies.” He gives me a quick wink and ambles over to the ba
rbecue, falling quickly into conversation with the already gathered men.
Then it’s just us. Merry Carole and I facing off against a group of women who look as though they’re about to feast on human flesh.
“How long is this little standoff going to take, Whitney? This coleslaw needs to be refrigerated sometime today,” I say, annoyed. Merry Carole tenses next to me. I will myself to take it easy. Well, easier. The party crowd mixes and mingles around us.
“Oh, is that left over from Shine? I do hope we won’t have to eat the food you served to a convicted murderer,” Whitney says, clutching her pearls.
“He was a triple murderer and he ordered fried chicken,” I say. Whitney and her Gang of Idiots are actually taken aback.
“Even for you, Queenie Wake, that’s low,” Piggy Peggy says, looking from Whitney to me. Yes, Peggy, you delivered your line perfectly.
“You’d know,” I say, stepping forward. She flinches.
“All right now. Come on,” Merry Carole says, her voice measured, but strong.
“Control your dog, Merry Carole,” one of the other women says. They all think it’s hilarious.
“That’s quite enough. That’s quite enough,” Merry Carole says, her face coloring.
“Why don’t you call in Coach Blanchard to help you?” Piggy Peggy asks, her voice raspy with excitement.
“No, ma’am. We can handle our own business,” Merry Carole says, her voice becoming more and more eerily calm. The women don’t know what to do with Merry Carole. Me, easy. I’m the uncontrollable dog. But Merry Carole is a pillar of calm. She continues, “Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to see if my son needs anything. Queenie, the refrigerator is through the French doors and to the right.” Merry Carole’s face colors as she realizes she’s said too much. Her knowledge of the ins and outs of Reed Blanchard’s house is obvious. Whitney doesn’t even attempt to suppress her joy. Merry Carole gives Whitney and her Gang of Idiots a polite nod and goes off to find Cal in the crowd.
