Nowhere but Home

by Liza Palmer

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. The women ooze off into the crowd like a big blob of hate, looking for their next victim. No wonder Laurel had to get out of this town. I walk into the kitchen and come face-to-face with Everett.

  “Jesus Christ,” I say, unable to help it. This barbecue is like a haunted house.

  “Hey, I didn’t quite recognize you without some male model hanging all over you,” Everett says, taking a long pull on his beer. I open the refrigerator door and finagle my coleslaw onto an already stuffed shelf.

  “Oh, does that bother you? Is that hurtful to you? Seeing me with someone else? I mean, if I could only understand how that could possibly feel . . . ugh, it’s soooo hard to imagine such a thing!” I say, my hands in fists and dramatically thrust to the heavens.

  “Queenie, come on. He’s ridiculous,” Everett says, motioning out to where Hudson is standing with the other men.

  “I like him. He’s nice,” I say.

  “You like him and he’s nice,” Everett repeats, slamming his beer down a bit too hard on Reed’s tiled counter.

  “Yeah. I like him and he’s nice. Is that so revolutionary?” I ask.

  “Is his shirt tucked in or isn’t it? Did he go to the bathroom and not quite tidy himself up after? I mean, I don’t get what that look is about,” Everett says, gesticulating wildly at Hudson and the offending plaid shirt.

  “What’s happening over there?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Everett says. His voice subdued. Caught.

  “How was that nice lady your parents were setting you up with on Sunday? Talk about ridiculous,” I say, walking past him and out toward the backyard. Everett reaches out and stops me. He leans down and speaks softly, intimately, into my ear.

  “Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.” Everett’s eyes are locked on mine. Green, brown, and yellow pinwheels intense and focused.

  “So does he what?” Hudson asks, standing in the open French doors, partygoers hustling past him. Everett straightens and approaches Hudson. In that moment, I honestly don’t know what Everett is going to do. With everyone outside, the three of us are alone.

  “Everett Coburn,” Everett says, extending his hand to Hudson.

  “Hudson Bishop,” Hudson says, shaking his hand. Everett looms over Hudson, I’m sure reveling in the few inches of height he’s got on him.

  Oh. My. God.

  “I was just saying that I knew how this thing between you two ends,” Everett says, his voice low and threatening. He folds his arms and juts his chin high. I’m speechless.

  “It seems the only thing between us two is you,” Hudson says, walking over to where I am. He slides his arm around my waist and tilts his head just so.

  “Damn right,” Everett says.

  Everett flicks his gaze from Hudson to me and turns and walks outside.

  “He seems cool,” Hudson says, walking into the kitchen and pulling a couple of beers from the cooler.

  “Yeah, he’s super sweet.” He cracks them both open and hands me one. I take a long drink. Once again, I’m in that limbo. These are facts. What I’m supposed to do with all this new information, how I’m supposed to live, is the part I keep getting hung up on. Shit, if I had known Everett would react like this, I’d have trotted out a boyfriend way before now.

  “So, are these your friends? Here? This is what your friends are like?” Hudson asks, taking another drink of his beer.

  “He’s an ex. It didn’t work out. This is a very small town and I come from a long line of screwups,” I say.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Apparently, everyone but us.”

  “I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”

  “That wouldn’t be a first,” I say. Hudson laughs. I watch Everett fall into conversation with Reed and some of the assistant coaches just outside.

  “It’s a simple equation really: the amount of money you have corresponds directly to the recognition of your family’s . . . shall we say, eccentricities. Now, let’s take my family, for instance. My father thinks we don’t know he sexually harasses every single secretary he goes through and I, unfortunately, mean that literally. My mother who, I’m pretty sure, merely sidelined her true sexuality and a lovely woman named Jackie to marry my father in her early twenties for the trust fund that accompanied him on his wedding day. Aunt Jackie, as she’s now known, is actually the best role model I’ve got, which is just perfect. Which brings us back to the original equation. My father comes from money, has even more power than that, and therefore his degree of eccentricity is swept under the rug, tolerated by the Santa Barbara elite and never questioned. I imagine that same equation is in play here in North Star. You scratch the surface of any family and you’re going to find dirt. Unfortunately, my darling Queenie, you were dealt a disreputable mother with no money or power to balance it out,” Hudson says, taking a long, long swig of his beer. He continues, “Am I close?”

  “And I thought my family was crazy,” I say.

  “Ha!” Hudson says.

  “Hey, y’all—can I have your attention?” Reed is standing next to the smoker, his coach voice in full force. Hudson and I exit the house and crowd into the backyard. I wedge in between a couple wearing matching T-shirts with their son’s number on it and Merry Carole.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “It’s fine. You?” Merry Carole answers, her jaw still clenched.

  “Yep. Fine,” I say.

  “I’m sure we can talk about it later,” Merry Carole says, focusing back in on Reed. I take Hudson’s hand and pull him close. He gives me a smile and I squeeze his hand. I don’t know what to say or how to react to what he’s told me.

  “I want to thank y’all for coming out to the barbecue. The team sure appreciates everything y’all do for us. Thank you to the Stallion Batallion for being the best booster club a team could ever want. I would like to particularly thank the Paragon Ranch for donating all of the food and drink you see here today. Everett Coburn, come on down, sir,” Reed says, scanning the crowd. Everett makes his way to Reed through the congratulatory, back-patting crowd.

  “Ah. Now everything makes sense,” Hudson says.

  “Yep,” I say, not able to look at him.

  “A whole opposite-sides-of-the-track thing. How adorable,” Hudson says. I don’t answer him. Once again, that switch in him. It’s as if he sees people as these little plastic army guys he can bat around on his bedroom floor.

  “Everett, every year we choose someone from the community to do the coin toss at our opening game; we’d love it if you would do us the honor this year,” Reed announces, presenting a large golden coin and hoisting it in the air. The crowd goes wild. I keep my eyes on Everett. He hates shit like this.

  “Thank you so much, Coach. On behalf of the Paragon Ranch, I would consider it my privilege,” Everett says, taking the coin and shaking Reed’s hand. People are hooting and hollering as pictures are taken of the two men.

  Merry Carole and I are as quiet as the grave.

  I don’t see Everett again. As the barbecue winds down, Hudson and I settle into a couple of plastic chairs and laugh and talk the entire time. Merry Carole joined us after about an hour and we even got her laughing, despite herself. We ate brisket, drank beer, and decided that my coleslaw was definitely better than Delfina’s. Cal came over and introduced his friends, West among them. This led to Merry Carole and me whispering the torrid tale of West Ackerman’s lineage. Hudson could only gloat, insisting that his theory about wealth trumping eccentricity was proving itself to be true sooner rather than later.

  As the sun finally set, Merry Carole fussed around the house, cleaning up, and made sure Reed was looked after in every way, except to join him in publicly declaring their love for each other. I catch them a few times in nooks and corners, whispering and pleading with each other.

  “Do y’all want to come home with us or . . .” I trail off, plopping down next to Cal and Merry C
arole.

  “Cal, honey?” Merry Carole asks.

  “I can walk home from the McKays, Momma. They’re doing that big after-party thing at their house,” Cal says.

  “Is that your version of asking for permission to attend this ‘big after-party thing’?” Merry Carole snaps.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cal says.

  “All right then. But I don’t want you staying out too late, and drinking is just out of the question,” Merry Carole says, her brow furrowed. It’s as if it’s just dawned on her that her little boy is becoming a man.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cal says.

  “I don’t need to tell you that you’re already working with a stacked deck, my love,” Merry Carole says, her voice lowering.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “People are just waiting for you to fail,” Merry Carole says.

  “Honey, he’s going to a party at the McKays, not leaving for a weekend in Bangkok,” I say. Cal can’t help but laugh. Merry Carole softens just a bit.

  “I know. I know,” Merry Carole says, fussing with Cal’s hair. He is ever so patient with her.

  “So Hudson and I are going to take off. You’ll be okay?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.

  “Sure. Sure,” Merry Carole says; unbelievably, she picks up what I’m putting down.

  “Merry Carole, I’m sure I’ll see you again,” Hudson says, extending his hand to her. She takes it.

  “Pleasure seeing you again, Hudson,” Merry Carole says.

  “Take your time now,” I say over my shoulder as Hudson and I make our way to the front door. Merry Carole shoos me away as her face colors.

  As we drive through the empty streets of North Star, I’m happy. I had a good time today, against all odds. It started out a bit rough, took an unexpected turn, but leveled out rather nicely. They can’t get to me if I don’t let them. If I’m sitting there laughing and having fun, claiming my space; they can’t huff and puff and blow my house down.

  Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.

  Where do I put this “fact” in the library like purgatory that is my brain these days? I can testify and monologue all I want about being over Everett, but when he leaned over and I felt his breath on the side of my face, I knew it was all bullshit. I craned my neck to look into those eyes of his because I couldn’t help myself. It took all I had to not dive into him and kiss him right there. Please don’t let me be the only one who thought that.

  “You all right?” Hudson asks as he parks in front of Merry Carole’s salon.

  “It was just a long day,” I say, unclicking my seat belt and turning to face him. Hudson leans across and kisses me. I break from him. Feeling tired. Maybe I’m conflicted about Hudson. Or Everett. Who knows? “I’d better head in,” I say. I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I walk around to his side and lean down.

  “Your friends are super nice. I had fun today,” Hudson says.

  “You’re a really good liar,” I say, kissing him again.

  “I know,” Hudson says. He puts his car in gear and pulls away. I watch his red taillights dim in the humid haze of the evening. The center of town is quiet except for the cicadas singing their song.

  Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.

  As I walk down the manicured path, past Cal’s football sign and into the darkened house, I can’t get the words to stop repeating in my head.

  Everett knows how this ends? What does he know that I don’t?

  20

  Inmate #HB823356:

  Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with Mexican rice and beans, churros with Mexican hot chocolate and cajeta, Fanta orange soda, and a pack of Starburst

  While I was shopping for Tuesday’s meal, I found myself in the candy section staring at all the different kinds of Starburst. When did there get to be ten thousand different flavors of Starburst? Back in my day there was just the one kind and everyone ate all the red and pink ones before passing off the yellows to friends as a “kind gesture.” But now? Summer Fun Fruit? FaveREDs? Tropical? Sweet Fiesta? What’s a Flavor Morph? I grabbed one of each, just in case.

  Then it was Tuesday morning. Today I’ll make my second last meal for a man who’s trying to re-create Christmas. Could I get some dramatic, last-minute phone call telling me the inmate has been pardoned? I’ve loaded all the groceries into the car after not sleeping very well and am pouring coffee into my travel mug.

  “You’re leaving early,” Merry Carole says, cinching her robe closed.

  “This one’s going to be tough,” I say, tightening the lid on my travel mug.

  “Remember—”

  “I know,” I say, cutting her off.

  “When it’s too much, we’ll have another conversation,” Merry Carole says, coming into the kitchen and pouring herself some coffee.

  “I think we’re probably going to be having that conversation sooner rather than later,” I say, feeling utterly exhausted after this week’s ramp-up.

  “Well, you let me know,” Merry Carole says.

  “Cal’s on his run. He just left,” I say.

  “Good.”

  We are quiet.

  “Meaning, if you want to talk about things . . .”

  “Oh. Oh, no thank you,” Merry Carole says, politely.

  I wait. Merry Carole stares out the sliding glass doors and into her backyard. The sun is coming through and her blue eyes twinkle in the morning light. I begin to walk toward the front door, but turn around.

  “When I first got here you were . . . bigger,” I say.

  “You mean fatter?” Merry Carole smooths her robe over her curves.

  “Of course not. I mean bigger.” My arms shoot in the air like an explosion.

  “Honey, using the same word but only adding your own personal game of charades to the mix doesn’t make it any clearer.”

  “It feels like you’re disappearing. A little,” I say, hating how harsh the words sound.

  “Does it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not yet, no. No, thank you.”

  “Okay.” I nod.

  Merry Carole gives me an obliging smile.

  I continue, “Should I be worried? Because now I’m worried.”

  “No, it’s good. I honestly don’t think I’m ready to even say it out loud. Funny, isn’t it? I need it to just be mine a bit longer,” Merry Carole says.

  “That makes a lot of sense,” I say.

  “I know it does.”

  “So we’ll talk later?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be crawling in bed with me later tonight,” Merry Carole says, walking with me as I head toward the front door. She opens it for me and I step outside.

  “Yeah, probably,” I say, unashamed.

  “Go on now. Good luck,” she says, with a wave. I unlock my car and climb inside. The quiet of the car surrounds me. Focus on the food. I buckle my seat belt, back out of the driveway, drive through the town square and past that flashing red light and onto the highway. Radio turned high. Mind busy. Running through the day. Envisioning the perfectly made plate. And nothing else.

  I pull into Lot B, gather my canvas bags filled with supplies and groceries, and trudge to the back door. I manage to swipe my key card without having to drop all my groceries and step inside the darkened kitchen. I turn on the lights, and as they flicker on I await Jace. The kitchen door clicks open and he walks in.

  “You’re here early,” Jace says, his hand resting on his gun.

  “I didn’t get any sleep last night,” I say, setting my knives down.

  “Nobody does,” Jace says.

  I look up from the counter and really make eye contact with him for the first time since I’ve worked here. His clear brown eyes are heavy and bloodshot. He has eyelashes any woman would kill for and I can’t beli
eve I haven’t noticed them before today. What I notice most of all, however, is how worn out Jace looks.

  He continues with an obliging nod. “I’ll grab the Dent boys for you,” Jace says. He excuses himself and is about to leave me in the kitchen by myself.

  “Does it ever get any easier?” I ask.

  “No.” No hesitation. He turns around.

  “Why do you do it?” I ask, almost unable to hold his gaze.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it. Maybe that was on purpose. It’s a good-paying job and I’ve got a wife and kids,” Jace says, looking uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve—”

  “It’s no problem,” Jace says.

  “Thank you for being in here, Mr.— I don’t think I even know your last name,” I say.

  “Murdoch. Jace Murdoch. And yours?”

  “Wake,” I say. His face changes. Just a bit. Enough.

  “You related to BJ Wake?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jace just nods. I brace myself.

  “She used to own that shack over in North Star. She made this chicken fried steak, what was it called . . . the Number One. That’s right. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it. Well, no wonder you cook the way you do, girl. Damn. Your momma was the best there was. Ain’t that something. Always wondered what happened to her. Now I know! She had you and you’re doing the cooking for that family. Ain’t that something.” Jace smiles wide and is as animated as I’ve ever seen him. I just keep smiling and nodding. It’s brightened his mood thinking about my mom’s cooking. His heaviness is momentarily gone. He sighs and walks out of the kitchen in search of the Dent boys.

  Ain’t that something, indeed.

  I put the groceries into their proper places and set up the Dent boys’ stations once more. I pull pots and pans from the cabinets while I refer to my notes about the day’s schedule. The door clicks and Jace and the Dent boys walk in.

  “I’ll be right here,” Jace says, settling into his chair by the door. He flips open his paper and begins to read.

  “Chef,” they say in unison.

  “Harlan. Cody. This is going to be a tough one today,” I say, setting my notes on the counter in front of us.