Nowhere but Home (31 page)

“Ms. Wake, you would do well to get in control of your emotions,” Warden Dale says. Shawn looks at Warden Dale, his entire body tense.

“You can go to hell. How's that for control?” I say, turning around to pick up my knives. I sling them over my shoulder.

“Ms. Wake, destiny has given you an opportunity here,” Warden Dale says.

“Destiny has given me an opportunity? What does that even mean?”

“It means, like so many other victims' families, you can have closure,” Warden Dale says.

“Closure is something only people who've never had someone in their family murdered talk about. How is she still even around?” I ask, trying to make sense of something.

“Her case has been in the appeals courts for years, but her time's finally up,” Warden Dale says. I would have known this had I not vowed to no longer check that Web site. Is this better? The not knowing?

“Queenie, the meal isn't until the end of next week. You can think about it,” Shawn says. My face softens as I listen to Shawn.

I nod and situate my knife case on my shoulder once again. I turn to walk out the back door of the kitchen, leaving the slip of paper on the counter.

“Ms. Wake?” Warden Dale holds up the slip of paper.

“I've been making that meal my entire life, Warden Dale. I'll let you know Monday what I decide,” I say and walk through the door without looking back. The door slams behind me. My legs are heavy and I can feel every step I take as I walk to my car. My body doesn't feel connected to my mind, which is somewhere back in that kitchen clutching that slip of paper. I dump my canvas bags and my knives in the hatch and slam it closed. My breathing is slow and I'm pretty sure I'm in some kind of shock at this point. My brain focuses on one thing at a time. Unlock the door. Check. Sit inside the vehicle. Check. I turn the key and the car revs to life. Put the car in reverse. Check. I drive past the guards' tower and see the vigil in front of the prison. A crowd of people holding signs and candles rallies and demands to be seen. I don't look at them as my breathing becomes labored. I get up on the highway and drive in silence all the way to North Star. Through the town square until I'm pulling down Merry Carole's driveway. I walk inside, holding my keys in my hand. My driver's-side door hangs open. I see it from out of the corner of my eye and stumble back over to close it. I walk inside the house again and find Merry Carole and Cal sitting at the dining room table going over his playbook.

“They want me to make Yvonne Chapman's last meal,” I say, standing just inside the open doorway.

“Cal, honey, can you excuse us for a second?” Merry Carole asks, closing up his playbook.

“No, Momma,” he says.

“What?”

“No.” Cal's bravado changes to terror as Merry Carole glares at him.

“Calvin Jaques Wake—”

“Momma, this is my family, too.” Cal leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He's staying. Merry Carole looks from him to me. Her fixed stare could cut glass. I walk into the dining room and take a seat. Merry Carole raises her eyebrows.

“Warden Dale came in . . . well, let me back up. Shawn had said that the next two meals I'd be making were going to be more high profile. We were just finishing up today's and Shawn walks in with Warden Dale. He usually just gives me the date and the order at the end of my shift. So I knew something was up. But I just thought it was another high-profile case or something went wrong. He hands me this little slip of paper, and it's the Number One,” I say, looking at Merry Carole.

“She ordered the Number One?” Merry Carole asks, bringing her hand up and covering her mouth.

“Can you believe that?”

“How did you know it was Yvonne? I mean, that meal was pretty famous back in its day,” Merry Carole says.

“She ordered strawberry ice cream. Fresh strawberry ice cream,” I say.

“Dear Lord,” Merry Carole says.

“What? Is that bad?” Cal asks.

“Yvonne used to come to the shack all the time and order the Number One. And Momma didn't allow any substitutions. She made it her way, and if you didn't like it she'd run you off. Yvonne would always be going on about how we should have strawberry ice cream. It'd be so much better with strawberry ice cream. She had tons of it in the house when we stayed with her right at the end there.”

“And she always said fresh. Fresh strawberry ice cream. Like she knew better. Like she'd tasted the old raggedy kind in the supermarket, but she was so fancy that she liked her strawberry ice cream made fresh,” I say. Merry Carole nods in agreement.

“Yvonne thought she was real high class, way better than us Wakes. Of course, the rest of North Star didn't quite agree,” Merry Carole says.

“So when Momma took up with Yvonne's husband, well . . . Yvonne lost it,” I say in a haze, remembering it all now.

“How do you mean lost it?” Cal asks.

Merry Carole and I don't answer right away. We're off in our own little worlds, staring off into space. Both of us. Cal looks from Merry Carole to me and then back to Merry Carole.

“She took 'em both out,” I finally say.

“Both of 'em,” Merry Carole repeats.

“Her husband and your momma?” Cal asks. Merry Carole and I just nod.

“And the rest of the town? They couldn't care less. I heard some woman at the store talking about it and she laughed, saying, ‘It's not like there was any humans involved,' ” Merry Carole says.

“You never told me that,” I say.

“Yeah,” Merry Carole says, nodding.

“And the thing of it was, if she hadn't shot her husband, too? She would have been out a long time ago,” I say.

“Oh absolutely,” Merry Carole says.

“How come?” Cal asks.

“Shooting Momma was what any good Texas woman woulda done. They were in his bed; Yvonne was doing the Christian thing by putting us up for a time. She came home early from work and there they were. So she walked into their garage, pulled out the shotgun, loaded the shells, and . . .” I trail off.

“Holy shit,” Cal says. Merry Carole doesn't even chastise him for his language.

“So not only was her husband catting around, but he was doing it with Brandi-Jaques Wake. Which—,” I say.

“She couldn't allow,” Merry Carole says, sipping her tea. Her eyes are distant. Elsewhere.

“Why didn't she just divorce him?” Cal asks.

“Because he'd ruined everything she had worked for and he had to pay,” I say.

“But they're dead and now she's the only one paying,” Cal says.

“Not true. We're still paying. You're still paying,” I say.

“So what are you going to do?” Merry Carole finally asks.

“There's no way I'm making that meal for that woman,” I say.

“Why not?” Cal asks.

“It feels like this might bring some weird closure, you know?” Merry Carole says.

“People love throwing that word around,” I say.

“Who are you telling? Of course I understand the weight of the decision you have to make. My point is that this—” Merry Carole stops. She gathers her thoughts and continues, “We've let this one event that we had nothing to do with define our lives. Now it feels to me like you came back to North Star for a reason whether you knew that going in or not. This may not be a coincidence at all.” Merry Carole leans forward. She reaches across the dining room table and takes my hand in hers. She continues speaking. “I think it's time for both of us—for all of us—to stop paying for something Momma did.”

“And how does me making this meal do that?”

“I don't know, but the fact that you don't want to makes me think it's exactly what you have to do,” Merry Carole says.

“I'm not even sure that makes sense,” I say.

“I think it'd be cathartic. Maybe for all of us,” Merry Carole says, clearing the table.

“You don't think this is the least bit twisted?” I ask.

“Oh, it's completely twisted. But it might just be the jolt we need,” Merry Carole says.

“How can you be so calm about all this?” I ask.

“Well, first off, I don't have to make the meal, but I think you need to do this more than I need to be mad about Yvonne and what she did and how Momma probably deserved it. I think it's time we put this in the past where it belongs,” Merry Carole says.

Later, as Merry Carole bustles around the kitchen and Cal gets ready for bed, tonight's conversation settles around me like dust. I feel inordinately scared. Living in the past has its benefits. Closing the door on this means I have to look to the future.

25

Dairy Queen double-dip swirl cone

As I lie awake the next two nights, I realize I've defined myself by things I can't see and people who aren't around anymore. I've been hunting a ghost for my entire life and so has the pitchfork- and torch-wielding mob of North Star townspeople.

For someone who struggles with faith, I base a lot of my life on things I can't see. All these years looking for the answer and it comes down to the simplest question.

Do I want to go backward or forward?

I believed going on all these adventures meant that I was jumping into my future with everything I had. I left North Star thinking I'd seen the last of the chains and the masks and the pitchfork-wielding mobs. With my two pieces of luggage, I'd brag that I liked to travel light, insinuating that the usual trappings didn't weigh me down. The joke was clearly on me. I hauled the burden of Mom's unceremonious death, my abandonment of Merry Carole and Cal, and my cowardly heart that I never really risked on Everett everywhere I went. It's ironic that after spending my whole life believing in ghosts, I became one.

I didn't live in those cities. I haunted them.

As I sit in church that Sunday, I think about what's real. I look to my left and see Merry Carole, Reed, Cal, and the girls sitting together for the first time. That's real. What's also real is that none of them has urged me to get on my way or leave them be. They've made sure I knew I was family. What's not real are the gossiping ladies and whispering townspeople who snicker behind gloved hands about Reed and Merry Carole: the new, scandalous couple. What's finally sinking in is the knowledge that their opinions are only reflections of themselves and how unhappy they are in their own lives. I should know. I've spent years snarling at people because of how lonely I am. Angry. Sad. Angry is just sad's bodyguard. I gaze up into the high-coffered ceiling and let the sweeping, epic music wash over me. That's real, I think to myself as I relax into the morning.

As we file out of the church, I'm still in a bit of a haze. We all congregate on the edge of the church's front lawn. Reed takes the girls to the table where the punch and cookies are. Rose pointed it out as we walked in. I secretly believe it's why she comes to church. Cal followed them over, but soon got sidetracked by members of the Stallion Batallion wanting to know if he's ready for the big opening game coming up. I saw Everett inside, but haven't yet spotted him out here.

“It's almost Monday,” Merry Carole says.

“Yes, Monday customarily follows Sunday.”

“Queen Elizabeth, don't be flip.”

“I still don't know, but I'm taking it seriously,” I say.

“That's it, Momma. Enough,” Whitney yells from the other side of the churchyard. The entire lawn of people screeches to a halt. Merry Carole and I look around and see Cal standing right in the thick of it. Next to West.

Oh shit.

Merry Carole and I immediately hightail it over to where Cal is standing.

“Whitney Shelby Ackerman, this is not the time or the place.” Whitney's mother, Cheryl, is all tasteful, matching separates, helmet hair straight from the salon.

“Sweet pea, I know you—” Whitney's daddy, DeWitt Ackerman, always did coddle that girl.

“Momma, my name is Whitney McKay. I'm a McKay. And so is he,” Whitney says, reaching up to West's shoulder and pulling him close.

“This needs to stop right here and now, young lady. I am not too old to put you over my knee,” Cheryl Ackerman says in a low growl. You could hear a pin drop in this churchyard.

Whitney turns West around and faces him, her hands still on his shoulders. She looks up at him, squinting in the sun, as her chin quivers from tears that are now pooling in her eyes. West shifts and shoots a quick glance at Cal. Cal steps in close. Merry Carole is ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

“Sweetie, I'm so sorry. To be doing this here. Like this. But mommas fight for their kids, and I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to stand up for you. Baby, I—”

“I know,” West says, his low voice cutting through the thick humidity like a bell.

“You what now?” Whitney asks, stumbling over her words.

“I know. We've known for a while,” West says, looking over at Cal again. Cal steps even closer. Merry Carole inches forward.

“Yes, ma'am,” Cal says, now shoulder to shoulder with West. Seeing them both there. Together. Whitney finally looks at them. Really taking them in. And she just loses it. She claps her hand over her mouth and begins to sob. Wes steps up and takes her in his arms.

“I've never . . . I couldn't bring myself to really look at him,” Whitney says, referring to Cal.

“Why didn't you say nothing?” Wes asks the boys.

“It just . . . it seemed really important to you that we didn't know. So we kept it to ourselves,” West says, looking from Wes to Cal.

“For how long?” Whitney moans.

“Maybe four years,” West says, looking at Cal for confirmation.

“Junior high school, so three years,” Cal corrects.

“Three years?” Whitney sobs.

“How'd y'all find out?” Wes asks.

“All you have to do is look at us,” West says, voicing what is plainly obvious to everyone.

“We had this long bus ride once, for that all-star Pee Wee League in Dallas?” Cal says. Wes nods. Cal continues. “We sat next to each other and started talking. By the time we got to Dallas, we'd figured it out.” Merry Carole pulls a hankie from her purse and swipes at her eyes, cleaning up the now trailing mascara.

“A bus ride,” DeWitt says.

“I didn't mind it. I loved living with—” West stops. Not knowing what to call the people he took as his parents for most of his life. He continues, “My grandparents.” Cheryl and DeWitt crumple into each other as West's voice cracks. He continues, “I don't ever want y'all to think I thought I was missing out.” A single tear makes its way down his face and he angrily swipes it away.

“Come on over here now, son,” DeWitt says, pulling West into him and Cheryl.

The entire churchyard is sobbing. Not a dry eye anywhere. The minister is watching the entire scene from the steps of the church and he's wiping away tears like everyone else. The entire town knew. West and Cal knew. What the hell are we all so afraid of?

West breaks from Cheryl and DeWitt and stands in front of Wes and Whitney. Their two littler kids are holding on to Whitney and Wes, unsure of what's happening, but definitely a bit scared. West looks at the two little kids and then up at Whitney.

“I want you to come home, baby,” Whitney says, finally looking up into her son's eyes. Cheryl and DeWitt look on with approval. Pride.

“I'd like that,” West says, his chin quivering just like Whitney's. There's an awkward pause as the entire churchyard waits. Please hug him. Please hug him. But it's not Whitney who pulls West in—it's Wes. And he's lost it. He engulfs West in arms as big as tree branches and is telling him how proud he is of him. As the McKays hug and cry, Cal stands by; Merry Carole has finally inched all the way up to be by his side.

Cal takes Merry Carole's hand and whispers so only we can hear, “Thank you for standing up for me. I know it wasn't easy.” Merry Carole sniffles and is doing her best to keep it together. She nods as the tears stream down her face, mascara trailing behind them.

“You're my boy,” Merry Carole finally ekes out, pulling Cal close.

My cell phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out and don't recognize the number. It buzzes again. I excuse myself and walk farther down the sidewalk, away from the church.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Queen Elizabeth Wake?”

“It's just Queenie. This is she.”

“Oh right. That's much better. Queenie, this is Neal Howard. You e-mailed us a résumé a while back—” Neal is flipping through papers. The churchgoers gather around the McKays/Ackermans and offer their congratulations. Everyone knew. The talk quickly turns to football and all is back to normal after just a few minutes. Fifteen years boiled down to five minutes in a churchyard. Whitney has yet to let go of West's hand. West hasn't moved, but is still leaning toward Cal. I love that through all of this, they had each other. That they'll always have each other.

As I walk a bit farther out of the bustling churchyard, I let my eyes rest on Merry Carole and I'm calm. Family. Love. The promise of time together. Neal continues to flip through papers and I wait for him to tell me that he thanks me for my résumé, but— Neal continues, “Aha, there it is. I'm so sorry. I spoke to Brad Carter over at the McCormick and he had some great things to say about you. We'd love it if you would come to Portland and head up the kitchen here at the Raven.” The Raven? I sent out so many résumés, it's hard to remember. I finally land on the little neighborhood grill in Portland. Family owned, really cute place.

“I applied for the sous-chef position, is that—”

“The reason I'm late getting back to you is because we've been restructuring a bit here, which you know is fancy speak for letting our executive chef go. That's where you come in,” Neal says.

“As the executive chef?”

“We thought the broad spectrum of your experience made you the clear choice for us.” I'm stunned. I continue to walk out of the churchyard.

“This is really an honor and I'm very flattered; is there any way that I can think about your offer and get back to you?”

“Oh sure. Sure. I understand that it's a lot. I have your e-mail. I'll send you the details: pay—the chef's residence is on the same plot of land—hours, and vacation days.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say.

“Queenie, I'll need to hear back from you by the end of next week, you understand.”

“Sure, and once again thank you so much for thinking of me.” Neal and I sign off and I look up to find myself just outside the church cemetery. The bustling churchyard is alive with good news and I freeze.

The broken-down picket fence that corrals North Star's departed is covered in vines and overgrown underbrush. I creak open the gate, wiping the dust and dirt from the wood onto my Sunday best. I tuck my cell phone into my pocket and pick my way through the ancient headstones and makeshift crosses, names of cowboys branded onto them as if they were cattle. I swallow hard as the emotion burns in my throat. I chalk the sensation up to what happened with the McKays. Chalk it up to a lot of things.

What am I doing here? Is it curiosity? Not enough melodrama for one day? Do I think after all I've gone through in the last few weeks I'll have a different response to this cemetery than the one I had all those years ago? Is this a test? Some kind of ritual I can put myself through to prove that I'm over her? Is this about Yvonne Chapman and her fresh strawberry ice cream? Black holes and dusty plots of land. Flaming red hair and cruel blue eyes. The first of many tears slides down my cheek.

The humidity settles around me as I make my way to where I know Mom is buried. The grass itches and tickles my legs, the dampness of the air and the earth gather inside my sandals as I walk around the graves and headstones like a cat burglar trying to avoid the laser beams in an upscale museum.

 

Brandi-Jaques Wake

1963–1998

The Number One

 

She was only thirty-five? I remember her as being so much older. She was barely older than I am now. Within a matter of seconds, I'm losing control and unable to stop my own bawling. How did I get here? My sobs are coming from a place so deep it terrifies me. The only word that comes to me is why. Why? Why me? Why you? Why did it have to end that way? Why weren't you the mother I wanted you to be? Why didn't you love me? Why wasn't I enough?

“Queenie, sweetheart?” Merry Carole comes up behind me.

“I'm fine,” I howl. I'm wailing like a lunatic at our mother's grave.

“Oh sweetie,” Merry Carole says, pulling me in close. Rose water and Aqua Net. Home. Love.

“Why didn't she love us?” I ask, my face buried in the crook of Merry Carole's neck.

“I don't know, my love. I don't know,” Merry Carole says.

“Aren't parents supposed to love their kids?” I ask.

“Apparently not,” Merry Carole says. We break apart from each other and she wipes my tears away, smoothing my bangs down. Cal passes me a handkerchief. I thank him and I'm momentarily embarrassed that he's here to see my full-blown breakdown.

“Aren't you supposed to tell me that people love in different ways and—”

“I don't want to lie to you, sweetness and light,” Merry Carole says, her chin up in pure defiance.

“Not even in my weakened state?”

“Especially not in your weakened state,” Merry Carole says with a smile.

“I think I'm going to go see the little plot of land,” I say, blowing my nose.

“Honey, you don't have to,” Merry Carole soothes.

“No, why not make today a hat trick?” I say.

“Do you even know what a hat trick is?” Cal asks.

“Three of something?”

“Yeah, but it's usually three good things; I'm not so sure—”

“No, this is good. These are good,” I say. I must look like a wreck.

Cal just keeps quiet and takes my word for it.

“Will you tell Reed, Cal, and the girls I'll see them at supper later?”

“Sure.”

“You can say something, you know.” I motion to Mom's grave.

“I've made my peace,” Merry Carole says, entirely calm.

“Am I going to get there?” I ask, envying her cool demeanor.

“Today was a start,” Merry Carole says as we walk out of that tiny cemetery and leave Mom behind us. Hopefully for good this time.

“Okay . . . well, I'll be home in a bit.”

I walk away from the church and stop at the DQ for a double-dip swirl. I take the side streets, licking my ice-cream cone and observing life in North Star. I feel cleansed. Baptized, almost. I finish my cone just as I make the final turn down the tree-lined street to where the shack used to be.