Nowhere but Home (11 page)

“Sure.”

“You can't let them get to you. They can't ever know that—” Merry Carole's voice cracks and she pulls a red, white, and blue handkerchief from the depths of her bra. She dabs her mascara and continues, “They can't ever know that you go home at night and cry yourself to sleep because they got to you.” I sit up and pull her in for a tight hug. She breaks from our hug and continues, “I know what they think of me, but that doesn't mean that they get to think they broke me. Broke us. 'Cause they didn't. They can't. We won't let 'em. Now get dressed, and for God's sake, take a shower and be at that band shell by six so we can watch our boy get QB1,” Merry Carole says, tucking the handkerchief back down into the recesses of her bra. She quickly wipes away my tears and stands.

“Okay,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed.

“You could even wear one of my dresses,” Merry Carole says, opening my door.

“Now you're pushing it,” I say, standing.

“Six
PM
. I'll be right in front,” Merry Carole says and closes the door behind her.

10

Strawberries and champagne

As I walk to the band shell that's in the center of town, I'm pulling and tugging at the top of Merry Carole's blue-and-white-striped dress that I'm nowhere near filling out. The red belt cinches at my waist. I hope wearing this very patriotic dress will convince Merry Carole that I'm 110 percent committed to these festivities. No more fetal positions and sobbing over spilt milk.

I make my way through the picnicking citizens of North Star, my bare feet just missing the laid-out gingham blankets, makeshift barbecues, and errant packs of kids lighting firecrackers to the dismay of their overheated parents. I'm headed for the area just below the band shell, by the dance floor with its red, white, and blue lanterns strung high just above it. The lanterns have yet to be illuminated, but I'm sure they'll add to the beautiful evening. I know I'll find Merry Carole there. I see the pink parasol first and my red-white-and-blue-bedecked sister second. She sits under the parasol like a 1940s pinup girl, all red lips and oversize sunglasses. So lovely. Cal is pouring some of Merry Carole's lemonade for himself and West.

“Queen Elizabeth, this is West Ackerman,” Merry Carole says as West clambers to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Ma'am,” West says, extending his hand to me. I take his hand and his handshake is firm. He is a dead ringer, even more so up close, for Cal. The icy blue eyes and that strong blade of a nose—even the mannerisms. A shrugged shoulder here and a stifled laugh there. They are brothers in every sense of the word.

“Hey there, West, pleasure to finally meet you,” I say, my face open and my smile easy.

“You, too. Cal was telling me that you're a chef and that you've been everywhere.” We all settle on Merry Carole's blanket. Cal hands me a glass of lemonade. I thank him.

“I have,” I say.

“And New York?” West asks.

“It's like nothing you've ever seen,” I say, not wanting to burst the poor boy's bubble.

“I knew it,” West says, looking from me to Cal and back to me.

“We'd better get on. Coach wants all of us backstage by six,” Cal says. He and West pass their now empty lemonade glasses to Merry Carole with a polite thank you and stand.

“Pleasure meeting you, ma'am,” West says.

“You, too,” I say, looking up into the glare of the sun.

“Good luck,” Merry Carole says, stemming the tide on a flood of emotion as the boys make their way to the stage.

“He's lovely,” I say.

“I know. Like I said, I have no idea how he got that way,” Merry Carole says, with a wry grin. She pours me some more lemonade and we fall into a comfortable, people-watching silence.

I scan the park and notice the clumps of families, laughing and celebrating. I can't find Everett or any of the Coburns. They're probably back at the Paragon stables seeing to the horses after their big parade outing. I can't find Laurel, either, but I don't look that hard. I'd probably be able to smell sulfur were she near. I see the McKays just off to the right. Whitney is attending to . . .

“Is that Wes McKay??” I ask, unable to believe my eyes.

“Oh, you didn't know? He got fat,” Merry Carole says, her voice downright gleeful.

“Yes he did. Jesus,” I say, taking in the man who used to be the model of athleticism. Now he looks like the model for the “Before” picture in a weight-loss ad.

“After his knee gave out, he stopped playing football, so . . .” Merry Carole trails off as if Wes's excessive mass is the logical result.

I take in the entire McKay clan. Whitney, Wes, a little boy and a little girl, Whitney's and Wes's parents, and various other grandchildren running around.

“Whitney and Wes's kids are cute,” I say, unable to blame the adorable red-white-and-blue–bedecked children for their mother's meanness.

“Super cute,” Merry Carole says, offering me some strawberries out of a red Tupperware bowl. I take one and immediately eat it.

“They look happy,” I say.

“Do they? I never noticed.”

“Your lies only hurt America,” I sigh, with a mouth full of strawberry.

“Fine. I noticed.” Merry Carole shifts in her lawn chair, recrossing her legs that go on for miles.

“He wasn't good enough for you. Even at seventeen,” I say.

“Oh, I know.” Merry Carole's answer comes out a bit too easily. She continues, “He just has to be good enough to be Cal's daddy. They've actually been getting on these past few years. Thank God for football,” she says.

“And there's been no one since?” I ask, treading lightly.

Merry Carole lowers her sunglasses and gives me a ridiculous, cartoonish, dismissive look.

“Fine.” I say.

Merry Carole is quiet. A vault. As she always has been. Of course, my decades-long affair with Everett is just as secret. For being each other's confidante, we sure don't know each other very well.

“Are you not even going to mention that I wore a dress?” I ask, smoothing out the blue-and-white-striped skirt.

“I know! Don't you look pretty.”

“Thank you,” I say, flushing.

“I mean, you could have finished it off just a bit. A lip gloss maybe. Some mascara. Maybe even done something with that hair, but . . . no, you look really pretty. I wish you'd dress up more,” Merry Carole says, doing everything she can to not drag me back to the salon right that minute.

“Is that . . . am I thanking you again or . . .” I trail off.

“I'm sorry. You're right. You look beautiful,” Merry Carole says, smoothing my bangs back off my forehead.

I smile and take another strawberry from the red bowl and bite into it. Merry Carole rushes a paper towel under my chin as the red juice drips and oozes out of my mouth. I thank her through a mouth filled with luscious strawberry.

The mayor of North Star climbs the stairs to the band shell, taps the microphone, and asks everyone to quiet down. Everyone obliges. Merry Carole sits up, getting her camera ready.

“Happy Fourth of July to the people of North Star!” the mayor says. He looks like every mayor of every small town anywhere in the country—gray haired, potbellied, and authoritative. One difference: in Texas, he's got on a cowboy hat.

The crowd claps, firecrackers go off in the distance, and we all quiet down as we await his next announcement.

“I'm not going to take much of your time because I know y'all see who's coming up right behind me,” the mayor says, motioning to the growing mob of black and gold just off the stage.

The crowd hoots and hollers as the football team reciprocates with a big wave.

“After Coach Blanchard comes up here and announces your Stallion starters for this next season, we'll get this party started with a couple of great bands for your dancing pleasure and we'll end, o' course, with the fireworks spectacular,” the mayor says. The crowd goes wild. The mayor continues, “So, without further ado, I give you your North Star Stallions!”

To a standing ovation, the marching band and the football team congregate just behind Coach Blanchard—who was just Reed Blanchard when Merry Carole and I went to school with him. He played football, but wasn't the star. He kept to himself, but wasn't a loner. He married his high school sweetheart, but then got divorced when they'd grown apart. His wife remarried and now lives a couple of towns over and they amicably share custody of their two little girls. He was always a good guy, fair minded and not easily swayed by public opinion. Most important, he was always nice to Merry Carole and me. But now he's the mythical Coach Blanchard—one state final under his belt and, with an even better team than that year, on the verge of winning the whole thing again.

“Reed looks good,” I say, standing with everyone else and clapping for the team.

“I suppose,” Merry Carole says, taking pictures of Cal.

“Now that he's divorced, would you ever consider—”

“How could I possibly settle down with one man when, according to the town gossips, I'm bedding every man from North Star to Austin?” Merry Carole's voice is tight, even though she's trying to make a joke.

“Reed's always been a good guy,” I say.

“I thought Wes was a good guy, remember?”

“No one ever thought Wes was a good guy,” I say.

“I know,” Merry Carole says, laughing.

“I'm just putting it out there, is all,” I say.

“Oh you are, are you?” Merry Carole asks, focusing back on the stage.

Reed's wearing a black baseball cap with a gold stallion on it, pulled low. His dark brown hair is cut in an almost militaristic style. His broad shoulders thrown back and his chest puffed out. Reed Blanchard's always ready to be the man people hold up as the shining example of decency.

“All right now. Quiet down. Let's get down to business,” Reed says, his voice an annoyed sigh. Everyone obliges. The football team behind him settles down. Reed continues, “We've got some great boys coming out this season and I'm proud of all of them, but—” Reed motions for his assistants to bring out the lawn signs. The holy grail for proud Stallion parents across the town. These signs announce the player's last name, jersey number, and position he plays, along with the usual rearing black stallion. Every player gets a lawn sign, but—and
this
is crucial—the starting lineup's signs are black with gold writing as opposed to gold with black writing. Merry Carole hasn't breathed in minutes. Cal stands off to the side. His face is creased with worry. He's about to find out, along with the rest of us, if he's the starting quarterback. The suspense is killing all of us. Reed starts with the defense, wending his way through the offense. He announces each boy's name and presents him with his sign. A posed picture is taken with each boy, his sign, the now beaming parents, and an inconvenienced-looking Reed.

Reed announces that West will be starting as one of their wide receivers and the boy just looks relieved and happy. Whitney's parents (West's grandparents) make their way to the stage and are absolutely beaming as they pose for their picture. I look over at Whitney and Wes and they just look . . . broken. In all of this, I never thought about what it must be like for them not getting to be West's parents. And he's such a good kid. Wes takes Whitney's hand as she brushes away tears—that she'll pass off as tears of joy—and she collects herself long enough to take a few pictures of the big moment.

And then it's time for the starting quarterback—the coveted title of QB1. The fabled black sign is brought out, accompanied with much fanfare.

“This year we have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to quarterbacks. North Star is very lucky to have so much young talent, but I've decided that one player can lead the North Star Stallions to the state championships this year,” Reed says. The crowd goes wild at the mention of North Star's team reaching the championships.

“I can't believe he's just a freshman—Cal Wake, come on up, son,” Reed says, turning around and extending his hand to Cal. The rest of the football team proceeds to stomp on the stage as hard as they can. At first I'm thrown. Then they start chanting, “CWake! CWake! CWake!” as the stage rumbles like an earthquake. Cal's face lights up and he takes a second to gather himself. I know he's holding back a torrent of emotion. Cal and Reed shake hands and I look over at Merry Carole to see how she's reacting to all of this. But she just shoves her camera at me and bolts to the band shell. The people of North Star go crazy as Cal raises his sign high above his head.

Wake.

The citizens of North Star are applauding for a sign that is emblazoned with the name “WAKE.” I never thought I'd see the day. I snap pictures of Reed and Cal shaking hands, Cal celebrating with his team, and then Merry Carole taking her place by Cal's side. She's trying to keep herself together, dabbing at her mascara, poufing up her hair, collecting herself on her proudest day. Merry Carole, Reed, and Cal gather around the sign and the official photo is taken. She hugs Cal, shakes Reed's hand, and walks back and sits down with me.

As the rest of the football team is announced and presented with their signs, Merry Carole and I just sit in silence.

“I can't believe it,” I finally say.

“I know,” Merry Carole says, her eyes still covered by her oversize sunglasses.

We fall silent again.

“I thought . . . I thought for sure they were going to switch him out, you know? That, like everything else in this town—”

“It wouldn't be fair,” I finish.

“Damn right,” Merry Carole says, pulling out a bottle of champagne she's been hiding in her cooler up until now. I'm sure she thought she'd jinx Cal's chances if she brought it out early. She pops open the bottle with ease. She kneels on the blanket and pours the bubbling contents into our plastic cups.

“To Cal,” I say, raising my glass.

“To Cal,” Merry Carole repeats, clinking her glass with mine. We drink. In that moment I realize I didn't look to see what Whitney and Wes were doing as Cal was being named QB1. I didn't check and see what the enemy's faces looked like as we vanquished them. This is new. Every success was only half experienced while I searched the room for that one disapproving face. My glories were never mine, just a pie to throw in the face of my adversary. What would life be like if I was just happy? Not happy because it would drive someone crazy, but happy because I want to be happy? Celebrating Cal felt great. For once, I let happiness just live and didn't allow the stench of North Star's usual disapproval. As I sip my champagne, I realize I might like to try that a bit more in the future. Maybe those are my terms. And maybe that starts with taking the job at Shine Prison. It seems odd that such a grisly job could make me happy, but there's something pulling me to it. Something I want to figure out. So, instead of inviting everyone to look down on me, why don't I just decide what I want to do . . . and do it.