Nowhere but Home (19 page)

“So,” Hudson says, leaning over the table. The two bourbons are beginning to warm me, making my brain happily hazy.

“So,” I say, guarded. It wouldn't matter if I saw Hudson coming out of a burning building saving a puppy and a baby, something about him makes me think he's up to no good. Let's face it, if I saw him coming out of a burning building with a puppy and a baby, I'd probably think he started the fire.

“We can not talk about it, we can talk about it until the bar closes, or we can get drunk. Your call,” Hudson says, bringing his face ever closer to mine.

“I don't know what I want, to be honest,” I say. My mind is a minefield. Desperately searching its darkened depths, but terrified of what it might find, it then retreats into the light once more. I think about Merry Carole and Cal and that makes me happy. I think about my day in the kitchen and that makes me happy. I think about Everett and become mournful. I look at Hudson sitting across from me and I feel . . . curious.

“I'm actually an expert on these things, if that matters,” Hudson says.

“An expert on what it feels like to cook for a murderer?” I ask. The cocktail waitress approaches our table, her body visibly reacting as she hears the tail end of my sentence. I smile. She puts our beers and a couple of glasses of water down. I thank her and she leaves. Great.

“You cooked for a triple murderer today, if that counts,” Hudson says, taking a long pull off his beer.

“What?” I can feel the blood drain from my face and I feel like I'm going to be sick.

“You didn't know?” Hudson asks.

“No,” I say, my voice quiet. Asking Shawn about the next guy's grandmother and now this? I can feel the light cracking under the closed doors in my mind. I can't do this. I can't live like this. If I'm going to do this job, then I need to talk about it. This isn't working. This can't be about me shutting myself off even more. I've been doing that for too long and this is getting even worse than before.

I continue, “I told myself I didn't want to know. That if I focused on the food, then whatever they did wouldn't infect me, if that makes any sense,” I say, my eyes on his. Piercing blue, even in this light.

“It makes total sense, but it's just not possible,” Hudson says.

“I'm realizing that now,” I say, taking a pull on my beer.

“It takes the term ‘elephant in the room' to a whole new level,” Hudson says. I can see him thinking and processing. It fascinates me to be around someone when I have no idea what he's going to say or do next. How his mind works is an absolute mystery to me. He seems different from anyone else I've ever known.

“I know it was naive,” I say, starting to peel the label off my beer.

Hudson sits back in his chair, cradling his beer. He is thinking. He looks up at the tin roof of the patio as Patsy Cline wafts through the bar's speakers. I watch him, searching his face as he starts and stops a thousand sentences.

“It's interesting though, isn't it? Before I decided to come to Shine this summer, I did a ton of research on the death penalty and all that. And aside from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice having a fantastic Web site, they also cater to the somewhat morbid,” Hudson says.

“How so?” I ask, leaning forward.

“They have a place where you can see who's next in line, you know? And they also have this list of who has already been executed and what their last words were. And inevitably the last words are gorgeous . . . downright poetic. I mean, if you told me some great thinker or writer said them, I'd believe you. But then you click over and see what this guy did to get there? Fuuuuck,” Hudson says, trailing off and taking a swig of his beer. I am quiet. I know exactly what he's talking about, because I've been checking a very similar Web site to follow Yvonne Chapman.

Hudson continues, “And for a while I thought, just don't click over, you know? Just read these beautiful words and think of it like some great injustice was done and this is some misunderstood hero, but it's not. It's some dipshit who held up a gas station and killed the poor schlub who had the misfortune of being behind the counter.”

“That's exactly it,” I say.

“I know,” Hudson says, still contemplating.

“I read about—shit, even Ann Boleyn, right? What she was thinking and what must she have felt in those last few feet? I just . . . to know you're walking to your death. And yes, I'm infusing my own humanity where there might be none, but even at our basest we are all still animals who don't want to die. I don't care how right with God you are or how long that chaplain talks to you,” I say, speaking of things I didn't even know I'd thought about.

“The myth that people can possibly be ready to die is one of the cruelest,” Hudson says, taking another long swig of his beer.

We are quiet.

“I haven't talked about life and death in a long time,” I say, curling my foot up beneath me on the bench. I'm closing in on myself. I'm thinking about that day. The principal and his squeaky shoes, being wrenched away from Merry Carole, complicated monsters, and a mother with the cruelest blue eyes I've ever seen.

“I think about it all the time,” Hudson says.

“I hear you're an expert,” I say with a beleaguered smile.

“Yeah, well.”

“What does that mean?” I'm happy we're moving on to another subject. I'm also happy we talked about it. I feel . . . better. Lightened ever so slightly.

“It means I'm trying to be heard in a room of screaming people, I guess. My opinions and thoughts are . . . completely new and revolutionary. This whole summer is about trying to put some power behind my words,” Hudson says, gesticulating wildly.

“You're here to keep it real then. Get a little street cred,” I say.

“Academics are hard core, yo,” Hudson says.

“That was painful,” I say.

“I know—I was midway through it and I could have totally stopped before the ‘yo,' but I didn't. I just went for it,” Hudson says, laughing.

“Yeah.
Totally,
” I say, poking fun at his Californianisms.

“Don't even get me started on the way you people talk, or should I say the way y'all talk,” Hudson says. I drain the last of my beer. Hudson continues, “You want another round?” He scans the room for the cocktail waitress.

“No, I've got to get home. My sister will be waiting up for me,” I say, wanting to just crawl into my bed and dream of anything but Shine Prison.

“I'll settle up the tab and meet you out front?” Hudson says, draining his beer.

“Sounds good,” I say, standing. Hudson stands. I keep forgetting how tall he is. How did I get here? Sitting at some snobby bar in Evans, of all places. And with him. I don't know if I could have had that conversation with anyone else. Whatever happens with Hudson, I am grateful he was here tonight.

“What are you thinking?” Hudson asks.

“What?” I ask, caught off guard.

“What were you thinking just then?” he asks, standing in front of me now. My face colors as though I've been caught red-handed. Can this motherfucker mind-read? Hudson continues, “Oh, you're totally telling me now. It's good, huh?” He folds his arms across his chest.

“I was just thinking that even though I have no idea how I landed at this bar of all places, I'm happy I did,” I say, deciding to tell the truth (some of it anyhow).

“Is that all?” Hudson asks, stepping closer. I look up at him.

“And that you're taller than I thought,” I say, finally making eye contact with him.

“Am I?” he says.

“I don't know if you're being purposely obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, his body so close now.

“Probably a combination,” Hudson says. He slides his hand behind my waist and pulls me into him. I'm caught off guard and hear myself (horrifyingly) gasp. “Oh well, that's kind of adorable, isn't it?” he asks, just before quieting me with a kiss. His mouth is warm and I can feel him smirking even now. I hear the older women at the other table making comments. There might be hooting and hollering. As the humidity settles in around us, I can hear Miranda Lambert singing about the house that built her. I can't help but smile. In front of God and everybody, Professor Hudson Bishop kissed me.

And you better believe I kissed him back.

“You sure you still have to get home?” Hudson asks, as we finally break from each other.

“I'm sure,” I say, not moving one inch.

“Then you'd better get going,” he says, pulling me in again. My heart swells as Shine Prison falls away. Hudson is fast turning into the antidote for the horror of what goes on in the Death House. I break from him again.

“Time to go,” I say, with a smile.

“Fine. Meet you out front?” he asks, swiping my bangs to the side.

I nod and walk into the bar before I get lost in him again. The music is pounding and loud, couples move and sway across the tiny dance floor. I shift and jostle through the crowd and find myself unable to think straight. What happened out there?

As I stand outside the bar among the ostracized smokers, it hits me. I've been as much a party to the Wake mythology as everyone else. They thought I was a whore; I became someone's mistress. They thought I was a deadbeat; I showed up at Merry Carole's door with nothing.

I've lived my life based on what “they” think. Who are they? They don't love me. They don't know me. And they sure as shit don't care about what happens to me. Yet every decision involves thinking about what the judgmental and anonymous “they” would think.

What would
they
do if I stopped caring what they think?

“You ready?” Hudson asks, greeting me with another kiss. I can't help but let him, finally soaking up the freedom of it all.

“Yeah,” I say, as we finally break apart. He takes my hand and we start walking back to his bed and breakfast.

“The thing about this B and B is, they have—,” Hudson says, as we approach my car.

“It's not going to happen,” I say. It's time to stop allowing others to cast me as the whore and/or the deadbeat. And it has to start right now. Despite wanting to go up into that bed and breakfast and do profoundly unadorable things with Hudson, I can't. I need to start believing I'm worthy of being courted.

“Ever?”
Ever
. My brain sputters over Everett's pet name. I quickly collect myself.

“We'll just have to wait and see.”

“I don't know if you're being purposely obtuse or just being a dick,” Hudson says, kissing me again.

“Probably a combination,” I say, unlocking my car door and climbing inside. He slams my door shut. I reach over my shoulder for my seat belt as I start the car.

“New York plates, huh?” he says as I roll down my window.

“Yep,” I say.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” he says, with a raised eyebrow. Hudson stands back from the car and steps out on the empty street. I give him a wave and pull out into the night.

I drive the few minutes home and find myself at that red blinking light at the edge of North Star without really knowing how I got there. The last meal. Hudson. Epiphanies about playing my part and being faithful to a man who was never faithful to me. I'm officially a zombie at this point. I pull down Merry Carole's driveway, pull my now empty canvas bags out of the hatch, lock my car, and make my way down the manicured pathway, past Cal's glorious sign and into the darkened house.

I walk through the dark and empty house to my bedroom. I push open my bedroom door and flick on the light. I put the piece of paper with my next last meal written on it on top of my dresser and decide to keep it folded. Closed. I pull my pajamas out of the dresser and begin to undress. The air-conditioning clicks on and the clunk of the fan startles me. I take a deep breath and continue undressing. Focus on the food. Think about the next meal and envision the day, cooking perfection. Tamales. Cabrito. Churros. I walk over to my dresser, unfold the little piece of paper, and start scrawling ideas I have about the meal. I'll serve the churro with a Mexican hot chocolate. I can do the Mexican rice that I learned while I was in San Diego. I didn't learn the recipe from one of the other chefs, mind you, but from this amazing man they only let wash the dishes. I traded him my ranch beans recipe for it. It was absolutely worth it. This is the good. Herein lies the balance.

I enjoyed my day more than I should have. What kind of person enjoys making last meals for triple murderers? That's just it, though, isn't it? Me. I don't know why or how, but I did. I didn't even know I still knew those recipes. It's not as if they're written down anywhere. Mom learned them from her mother and on up the Wake family tree. No one wrote anything down. It just wasn't done. I pull on my tank top and scrounge through my luggage, pulling a little notebook from its depths. I grab the pen from my dresser and flip the notebook open. And I write. From beginning to end, I walk through my first last meal—what I cooked, the recipes, the processes, what worked and what didn't. My hand is hurting as I finish, the house still so quiet. As I flip the pages, rereading my work, I feel a surge of emotion. I'm proud of myself. My attention to detail and the respect I have for the food of Texas catches me off guard. I didn't even consider changing these recipes or evolving them. It never occurred to me to reimagine the fried chicken or think of a new way to prepare chess pie. No. Those recipes are bigger than me. As I relive my last meeting with Brad in New York, I'm proud that I've at least learned one lesson since I've been back in North Star: it's one thing to have an ego about one's cooking, but it's a whole other to have an ego about oneself as a chef. Reclaiming those magnificent black-and-white moments of our past can only work if I am true to the recipes. True to their history by making them just as Texans have been doing for hundreds of years. Just as my family has been making them for hundreds of years.