Nowhere but Home (29 page)

“They're horse breeders. All they do is think about pedigree and bloodlines. And Arabella was worried about Everett not marrying the right kind of woman. No offense,” Whitney says.

“None taken,” I say.

“I remember Momma telling me that Arabella went the whole nine. Made a big show of it. She took Everett down to the hospital, and with Felix lying in the bed, all the tubes and cables or whatever hanging all over him, she begged Everett to do the right thing so Felix could . . . well, she basically said so Felix could get better . . . so that he wouldn't die. What would you have done?”

“I would have married Laurel,” I say. We all stand there staring at Whitney. Maybe this town can keep a secret after all. Well, until Whitney gets hold of it anyway.

“See? You guys don't know everything,” Whitney says.

“Obviously,” I say, barely able to speak.

“Whitney, don't you think West deserves to hear it from you?” Merry Carole asks.

“Hear what?” Whitney asks. We all just stand there. “Oh.
That,
” she says, deflating.

“On the off chance that he's heard even one bit of the rumor?” I ask. Whitney crumples in her chair. It's dramatic and kind of ridiculous. I swear I catch her looking at her reflection, although this is probably the first time she's talked about this in years.

“You can handle your business any way you want, but taking it out on Merry Carole has to stop,” I say.

“I'm not the only one, you know,” Whitney says, sniffling.

“Oh, I know,” I say.

“So—”

“You stop. They stop,” I say.

“You know Cal really likes West. It's a shame they don't know they're kin,” Merry Carole says.

I can see the idea of Cal and West, and moreover the Ackermans and the Wakes, being family ruffle Whitney. But then something kicks in. Her face calms and she resolves herself to the task at hand. That's the piece my mom never had. Whitney is going to do this because it's the right thing to do for West.

23

Hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, homemade potato chips, lemonade, and a Texas sheet cake

I do my rounds. The butcher. The farm stand. The farm where I buy fresh eggs. I found a local apple farm just over the hill and if the perfect apple isn't in this bag, I don't know where it is. I am running myself ragged so I don't have to think about Everett being trotted down to that hospital where Felix lay dying while Everett's own mother tells him that he's basically the cause of it. I slam my hand on the kitchen counter.

After my morning run with Cal and West, I prep the wood and get the brisket in the smoker early Thursday morning. I stack and settle the wood, pondering the idea that Arabella Coburn and BJ Wake are a lot more alike than I had previously thought. I haven't been able to even look at Everett since I found out. Why didn't he tell me? Of course he wouldn't tell me. That's so him. Shit, that's so us. Going through this stuff and thinking we needed to shoulder it all ourselves.

I set up my station: My barbecue sauce, my sopping brush, meat thermometers, the works. It's supposed to be close to 104 degrees out here today, so I also bought a pretty good–size kiddie pool. I catch a glimpse of myself: drinking my morning coffee in a pair of cut-off jeans and a tank top, filling up a plastic kiddie pool with the garden hose. I am the picture of class and good breeding. Momma would be so proud.

“So I'm telling Reed and the girls to be here by . . .” Merry Carole trails off.

“We want it to cool down some, so I'm thinking seven to seven thirty?”

“That sounds fine; the girls usually get to bed around eight, so we can always set them up in my bed right inside,” Merry Carole says, closing the door behind her and walking out into the backyard.

Merry Carole's backyard is a testament to what one woman can coax her fifteen-year-old son into doing. The lawn is mowed within an inch of its life and the flora and fauna around the surrounding fence consist of overgrown shrubs and bushes. I've set the smoker up in the back of the yard where there's a concrete slab; no need to set this place on fire. The kiddie pool sits in the middle of the lawn, much to Merry Carole's displeasure. The patio is furnished with a lovely table and chairs that'll do nicely for tonight's festivities, although if the heat doesn't break we might have to eat inside.

“Honey, I don't think I even know these girls' names. You just always call them ‘the girls,' ” I say, turning the hose off and curling it back up.

“Oh right. Amelia is six and Rose is four. I bought them these little dresses for the opening game? Black and yellow, of course. The girls really liked them. Even Reed's ex-wife said she was happy I was . . . you know, when she came to pick them up for the weekend. She congratulated us, said the dresses were cute. I just . . . Queenie, I have always wanted little girls,” Merry Carole says, her face a mixture of terror and excitement. I've been seeing that a lot lately.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Honey.” Merry Carole looks inside the house.

“He's at practice,” I say, now seemingly knowing Cal's schedule better than Merry Carole.

“We had dinner over there last night, you remember?”

“Sure. Did everything go okay?” I ask.

“It went fine. Better than fine. It was . . . perfect. Too perfect. Everyone was on their best behavior and I just felt . . . Cal was sitting there like he'd never even met Reed, when I know for a fact that Reed had been yelling at him not two hours before about letting go of the ball earlier. Cal hangs on to that ball way too long. Thinks because he's quick he can just hang out in the pocket for hours. I just want to, you know, get past all the niceties, I guess,” Merry Carole says, sitting down on one of her patio chairs.

“Yeah, well, wouldn't we all.” I walk over and sit down next to her.

“I hope today they can loosen up, you know? Remember that we actually know each other.”

“Tell them to bring their swimming suits. They can play in the little pool,” I say.

“They are not going to play in that dopey little pool.”

“If you bring those children over here to this house and they see this dopey little pool and don't have their swimming suits, you're going to have some naked children on your hands,” I say.

“Fine, but it may just be too hot,” Merry Carole says.

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I say as the temperature rises. I continue, “Have y'all set a date?”

“What?”

“You and Reed? Have you set a date?” I ask.

“Oh . . . I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“I know we don't want anything big.” Merry Carole is acting downright shifty.

“So something small. Like how small?”

“Queenie, it's not going to be in the next few weeks, so I don't even know if you're going to be here.” She fixes her gaze on me and doesn't let go. A raised eyebrow only accentuates her doubt at my staying.

“Honey, I would stay for your wedding,” I say, standing. I walk over to the smoker and fidget with my station. Shifting the bowl one inch to the right, waving away a few flies.

“Dee says she talked to you about Momma's shack.”

“She did.”

“And?”

“I can't say I haven't thought about it,” I say.

“You can't say you haven't thought about it? What does that even mean?”

“I've never really thought about having my own restaurant until lately. Making these recipes, having a kitchen of my own—it's definitely making me think.”

“It's our land, Queen Elizabeth. This house and that land are the only things we own and that land is yours if you want it.”

“Mine?”

“Well, it's ours, but if you stay you can live on it, work on it. Have it.”

“Why . . . why would you just—”

Merry Carole stands and walks over to me. As she gets closer, I can see her close her eyes and just inhale. The hickory smoke is signaling that the Wakes are back in business.

“You seem happy,” Merry Carole says, her voice easy and calm.

“If I stayed, I would have to deal with Everett,” I say. Out loud. For the first time. I hate that he's my reason—always is my reason—for running away from North Star.

“Yes, you would.”

“I didn't know any of that stuff that Whitney was talking about,” I say.

“Neither did I.”

“I just don't know what else I can do. I don't know how to make this work. I don't know if I can be here and not turn into this crazy person who just gazes at him longingly and sighs,” I say.

“You do do a lot of sighing.”

“I nearly hyperventilated the other day, for crissakes,” I say.

“Cal loves having you. I love having you. You can't tell me that you're not having fun catching up with Fawn and Dee?”

“No, they're great.”

“And isn't it time we concentrated on that rather than what Piggy Peggy thinks?”

I look at her. Purposefully.

Merry Carole continues, “Fine,
fine
. I'm totally full of shit.” She laughs. And laughs.

“Yes, you are,” I say.

“But me not telling people about Reed is not the point of this conversation, Queen Elizabeth.”

“And are you going to wear the engagement ring outside this house?”

“I am certainly thinking about it,” Merry Carole says. I can't help but laugh. Merry Carole continues, “I want you to think about staying and doing something with our land. You can't work at that prison forever, so if you want to stay, that could be a great option.”

“Honey, I think about that plot of land and I just get—”

“Emotional?”

“Overwhelmed. I feel claustrophobic just thinking about walking back in there. When I met Dee at the bar, I stood there staring at that black space where the shack used to be and I just froze,” I say, trying to steady my breathing. I continue, “I was stuck in that shack almost every day after school. I never thought a person could be ignored in such a tiny space. No matter how long I spent in that shack with Momma, it was always the same. I was a means to an end just like everyone else.”

“She's gone now. She can't ignore us anymore. She can't use us anymore. There are no ghosts on that land, trust me. All I'm saying is that you love to cook. You apparently love to cook Texas food and I can attest to the fact that you're damn good at it. Why let Mom win again? Why not open up your own place? You said yourself that you love having your own kitchen.”

“I do. I love it.”

“Honey, you belong here. This is your home, Queen Elizabeth.”

“I just don't know.”

“Do you remember that first morning after you got here? You kept asking where you could get a cup of coffee even though you had a cup right in front of you?” Merry Carole asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Drink the coffee that's right in front of you, Queen Elizabeth.”

“It just all seems too close, you know?” I say, still feeling trapped.

“It's good to be close. Maybe take a walk over there after church on Sunday and look at it with fresh eyes. Can you promise me that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say.

“I'm going to ask if you did, and I always know when you're lying, Queen Elizabeth,” Merry Carole says.

“I know,” I say.

“Okay then,” Merry Carole says, kissing me on the cheek. She continues, “I've got Grandma Ackerman's color in ten minutes, I'd better head over. But I'll check in every now and again, and you can count on us around seven.” Merry Carole blows me a kiss and goes back into the house, closing the sliding door behind her.

I walk over and stand in the kiddie pool, wiggling my toes in the cold water. The temperature is already climbing and it's not even eight
AM
. I sip my coffee and think about being close to someone. I spent my life thinking about love and closeness in the context of Mom. Loving Mom felt like running after a train that never stopped. Then I started defining love by what it felt like with Everett. Loving Everett felt like dunking my head in a bucket of ice and then setting myself on fire. Over and over again. Over and over.

But loving Merry Carole? Tears spring immediately to my eyes as I think of the life I've shared with her. Loving Merry Carole is the best of everything. I'll walk over after church. But she's deluding herself if she thinks there are no ghosts on that land.

I spend the day basting and trying to stay out of the heat. I watch terrible daytime television and run up to the salon when I can. I find Cal's cowboy hat on the bookshelf and decide to wear it. I need the shade it offers. If nothing else, it's designed exceptionally well. This is what I tell myself as I get another glimpse of myself in the sliding glass doors. Smoking brisket, standing in a kiddie pool in cut-off jeans, a tank top, and a broke-down cowboy hat.

This is you. This is now.

“At least I don't have a piece of straw hanging out of my mouth,” I mutter, tearing my gaze away from my reflection. I've got the hot dogs and hamburgers in the kitchen, ready to go. I figure Reed can handle those on the little grill I'll get ready for him so we can eat sooner rather than later. I'll focus on the meat (or murderer meat as Merry Carole likes to call it) in the smoker. I also did a potato salad, some homemade potato chips, and I'll make a Texas sheet cake later on. I hope the kids will get a kick out of that.

As seven
PM
nears I hop in the shower and try to wash the smoke and heat off of me to no avail. My eyes are bloodshot and I can't stop coughing. I put my cut-off jeans back on and find another tank top that's not stained with barbecue sauce (yet). Once the salon closes, Merry Carole fusses around the house, cleaning and dusting. Cal takes a shower and is still . . . off. Not himself. And I get it. He just needs some time, but we all can't help but worry.

At seven, the guests arrive.

“So let me get this straight. You're smoking a brisket and we're having hot dogs?” Pete asks. Fawn shushes him and tells him the brisket is for “my job.” She actually does giant air quotes around “my job.”

“I'm doing sausage and ribs, too,” I say, with a wink.

“Now you're just being cruel,” Pete says, bending over to pull a beer from the cooler. Fawn and Pete settle in around the table. Merry Carole has the fans going and a big swamp cooler set up so the temperature is somewhat comfortable. Of course, all bets are off by the smoker. Which is where I am.

Shawn and Dee arrive with their brood. The boys are wearing eight coats of sunscreen and swimming trunks. Dee is overloaded with canvas bags filled with dry clothes, toys, hats, and plastic bags filled with goldfish crackers. The boys clutch their special swimming towels to their chests as they file out onto the patio like ducklings. Merry Carole has suggested that if the pool looks scary to the boys, we can also just turn on the sprinklers. The boys eye them both. Shawn makes his way back to me as the boys walk over to the kiddie pool. They circle it suspiciously.

“This is for tomorrow then?” Shawn asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Smells great,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“So you all set?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“There might be a bit more of a crowd tomorrow, but you won't see much of it,” he says.

“Why would there be a crowd?”

“Like I said, the next two meals you're making are for higher-profile inmates, so with that comes the media and the people with the signs and the candles,” Shawn says.

“Oh right,” I say. “Of course.”

“Don't you worry about that, though,” Shawn says, his eyes going from me to the boys. Merry Carole has turned on the sprinklers and the boys are running through the cold spray and into the kiddie pool as their grand finish. Shawn smiles as he watches them.