Nowhere but Home (20 page)

I think about opening up my own little place. Cooking this kind of food. I never wanted my own place before. My dream was to be the executive chef in someone else's kitchen. What does that say about me? But now? With these recipes, my family recipes, pinballing around in my head, I can't shut off the idea of my own place. My own kitchen. Maybe even ask the Dent boys to work there (when they get out prison, that is). I could find a place in Austin, maybe do one of those food trucks, maybe look a bit into something in California. I close the notebook and tuck it back into my luggage. The quiet of Merry Carole's house settles around me. I smile. There must be a part of me that takes pride in being a Texan after all. The part that loves a good brisket.

I think about the black hole that our plot of land has become. Could I open up my own place there? Could I exorcise the demons and start fresh?

I crawl into bed, finally realizing how exhausted I am.

And I lay there.

I close my eyes. They open. Wide open. My eyes adjust and I can begin to make out the shadows of the dark room. I toss and turn but can't get comfortable. I lick my lips and taste bourbon and Hudson. How different he was from Everett. Playful. Fun. Light. I turn onto my side, punching at my pillow. I close my eyes again. Triple murderer. Fried chicken. What about that ranch dressing? Should I always include it? Could I have done better? I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. A plot of land and a notebook filled with recipes. My own kitchen. It's no use. I flip off my bedding and walk out into the hall. I look down toward Merry Carole's room. Her door is cracked just a bit. I take this as a sign that she wants me to come in. I creak down the hallway, past Cal's room, and push Merry Carole's bedroom door open.

“You awake?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper. I hear Merry Carole shift in her bed.

“I am now,” Merry Carole says.

“I can't sleep.”

“Come on then,” Merry Carole says, flipping the blankets back and making a space for me. I walk over and crawl into Merry Carole's bed. Just like when we were kids. I fidget and situate. She continues with a sigh, “Working at that prison has made you jumpy.”

“Probably,” I say, now on my side facing her in the dim light of her bedroom.

“So?” Merry Carole asks.

“It was phenomenally weird,” I say, still unable to put today's experience into words.

“Phenomenally weird,” Merry Carole repeats.

“I love working in that kitchen. It's all kinds of wrong, but I love it. I get to make this perfect meal, and I've just never felt so at home,” I say.

“I can understand that.”

“But . . .”

“But . . . ,” Merry Carole repeats.

“And that's the part I'm having trouble digesting. The ‘but.' ”

“Yeah,” Merry Carole says, her sentence trailing off.

“I tried not knowing, but that just made it worse.”

“That feels like a whole new level of denial to me.”

“It absolutely was.”

“So how do you continue to do this then?” Merry Carole sits up and rests her head on her hand.

“I guess I know what I have to know,” I say, my words as confused as my thoughts.

“And what does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” I say. I flip onto my back, trying to get my breath. I wish I could say that my change in position has warranted some clarity. It hasn't.

“Maybe it's just a case-by-case deal then? You take on one meal at a time and see how you feel after each one. When the bad outweighs the good, you stop,” Merry Carole says, pulling the blankets up and smoothing them over me.

“That's brilliant,” I say.

“You don't have to know everything now,” she says.

We are quiet. I'm not sure whether she's dozed off or is just thinking. I finally am able to take a deep breath and close my eyes.

“I told Reed we needed a break,” Merry Carole says, breaking the silence.

“Oh Merry Carole.”

“I know. I just can't. The town is too small, and if it ever got back to Cal—”

“Cal would be lucky to have Reed in his life,” I interrupt.

“It's been just us, you know? I can't risk it. I would never want him to feel like we did—always second to whoever Momma was seeing at the time.”

“Honey, it's just not the same thing. It really isn't.”

“I know that almost ninety-eight percent of the time, but it's that two percent that keeps getting me.” Merry Carole's voice hitches.

“Yeah, but you're never going to be one hundred percent on anything.”

“But you see, you're wrong. I can be one hundred percent about Cal not being upset if I just shut things down with Reed. See? Problem solved. One hundred percent.”

“So you don't get to be happy, then. You don't get someone in your life?”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“Do you think there will ever be a time when you think, without asking his opinion of course, that Cal would accept the man you finally deemed worthy of being part of your family?”

“That feels like a leading question.”

“Well. Do you think Cal wouldn't consider the fact that you've never brought any man around, ever. Until now? And it's basically his father figure? The man he respects more than his actual father?”

“I know this seems silly to you.”

“It does not seem silly at all. I'm walking around with the same shit you are, trust me.”

“I know you are.”

“Cal's not holding out any hope that you and Wes are going to get back together, is he?”

“No. No way.”

“Okay, good.”

“I'm just happy they have some kind of relationship now. He goes over there for dinner once a week. And I have to give it to Whitney—she's been nothing but nice to Cal. And their two kids—”

“Their three kids.”

“Well, yeah, that . . . but the two official kids love Cal.”

“And you're positive he doesn't already know about Reed?”

“I'm not positive of anything.”

We settle into Merry Carole's bed, pulling on the covers like we always did. I knead and push the pillow into the proper position as Merry Carole tugs on the sheet that I've pulled too far to my side.

“So, Professor California. Tell me his real name again?” Merry Carole asks.

“Hudson,” I say.

“When am I going to meet him?”

“I don't know,” I say.

“He can come with you to the team barbecue,” Merry Carole says, flipping onto her side and finally settling in for the night.

“I don't even know if I'm coming to the team barbecue,” I say.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Merry Carole pulls the blankets up over her shoulders.

“Right,” I say, trying not to smile.

“You're also coming to church with me on Sunday,” Merry Carole says.

“What? What are you talking about?” I ask.

“And I get to pick out what you wear,” Merry Carole says, kissing me on the top of my head and settling back onto her pillow. She continues, “It's late. Get some sleep.”

“I missed you,” I say, my voice tiny in the darkened room.

“I missed you, too,” Merry Carole says. I sigh. She continues, “But you're still coming with me to church.”

“Fiiiine,” I say, unable to hide my smile.

As I tuck myself in tight, I think about the idea of happiness. Lying here with Merry Carole is as close as I've gotten in recent years. It's utterly blissful. I haven't felt this safe in a long time. What if I stayed in North Star? I could have this all I want. Merry Carole and Cal. Dee and her brood. I think about Hudson and am grateful for tonight. There's something to be said for not knowing anything about a person. It's a refreshing change from everyone knowing everybody's business. I pull the blanket up and begin to drift off to sleep. A single thought dances around the edges of my brain, threatening my dreamy imaginings of staying in North Star.

Everett.

I close my eyes ever tighter and push those brown-and-yellow- pinwheel green eyes as far from my brain as I can. I sigh and finally drift off to sleep.

16

Cabrito stew, cabrito kebabs, grilled cabrito, cabrito chops, and pork tamales

I spent all Saturday starting to experiment with the next last meal's recipes while Cal watched TV. Shawn called last night and said that the inmate's grandmother was from the mountain area just outside the city of San Cristóbal de las Casas. As Cal watched the game, I finally finished my research. I nearly lost it when I realized that the tamales from this region use a banana leaf, but I managed to find a small Mexican market just a few towns over that actually sells them. All I have to do is heat them up the day of and everything will be fine. It's a more difficult version of the tamale, using a light, sweet mole in the pork filling, but it should be delicious.

It's now early Sunday and I hear Cal moving around the house in the haze of early morning. I check the clock, it's just after six. I slept okay, but still had nightmares. The kinds of nightmares in which you're running through Escheresque mazes and never quite find a way out. It's been only two days since I made my first last meal. I have a little over a week until my second one and I'm already obsessing, as evidenced by my pork tamale and cabrito cook-a-thon yesterday. I need to busy myself. I flip off my sheet and walk out into the house. Cal's in the kitchen trying to stem the tide as an avalanche of plastic bags filled with my tamale experiments tumbles out of the freezer.

“I just wanted some ice,” he says, picking up a couple of bags and stuffing them back inside the already full freezer.

“I know, I'm sorry,” I say, picking up the remainder of the bags and finessing them back into the freezer.

“First you make me an omelet and don't tell me until after I've finished that I just ate goat,” Cal says.

“But when you fell for the goat soft tacos later that day . . . ,” I trail off. Cal shudders.

“Where do you even get goat?”

“I found this great butcher who had all this different stuff,” I say.

“Different stuff? Wait, I don't even want to know. I'm sure I'll be tricked into some more experiments soon enough,” Cal says, finally getting that glass of water.

“You're up early.” I say, smiling. Cal rinses his water glass and places it on the dish strainer.

“So are you.”

“I'm going on a run; you're welcome to join me,” Cal says, walking out into the dining room. He sits down and starts lacing up his gym shoes.

“I think I will, actually,” I say, surprising even myself. This is exactly what I was looking for.

“Really?” Cal says as I walk down to my bedroom. Merry Carole walks out of her bedroom, cinching her robe tightly around her.

“What's going on around here?” Her voice is a yawn.

“Aunt Queenie is going with me on my run,” Cal says.

“Really?” Merry Carole says, stopping in my doorway as I pull out an old pair of sweats from a dresser drawer.

“Really,” I say, sliding the sweats on. I rummage around in my closet and pull out my gym shoes and walk back out into the front of the house with Merry Carole.

“Church is at nine fifteen, so I'll have breakfast ready for y'all when you get back,” Merry Carole says, walking into the kitchen and flipping on the coffeemaker. It burbles and shudders to life.

“Oh yeah,” I say, lacing up my shoes.

“Yeah,” Merry Carole says, folding her arms across her chest.

“I forgot about that,” I say, standing.

“I didn't. I'll have your outfit picked out by the time you get back as well. Now run along,” Merry Carole says, shooing us out the door.

“Don't open the freezer, Momma,” Cal warns.

“What? Why?” Merry Carole says, eyeing the appliance.

“Just don't. And don't ask what was in those soft tacos, either,” Cal says. I can only smile as I see Merry Carole's face turn pale.

The early morning mist settles around Cal and me as we walk down the driveway and out into the town square. Cal begins to stretch. I mimic him as much as I can.

“So how's practice?” I ask, stretching my leg back in a way no one is really comfortable with.

“Good,” Cal says, now on to another stretch. I try to catch up.

“Good,” I repeat.

“Momma says you're coming to the team barbecue,” Cal says, folding over, his fingertips brushing the pavement. I bend over, almost vomit, and stand back up.

“Yeah, I can't wait,” I lie. I decide then that pinwheeling my arms is probably just as good as what Cal is doing. Cal straightens back up. And stares.

“What are you doing?” he asks, placing his heel on the curb and bending back over.

“Stretching,” I say, placing my heel on the curb next to him.

“Uh-huh,” Cal says.

We are quiet.

“So do you have any friends on the team? A girlfriend maybe?” I ask as all the blood rushes back to my head. Cal switches feet and I follow. I can hear him chuckling as he bends over.

“You mean are people as mean to me as they are to you and Momma,” Cal says.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, caught off guard.

Cal stands and I follow. He meets my gaze.

“As long as I keep playing football the way I do, people will be nice to me, but it's not like I think it's real or nothin'. I just want to get to UT,” Cal says. He looks down at his watch and messes with the buttons. Setting the stopwatch, probably. A stopwatch that will most certainly end in me having a coronary on some back road of North Star.

“Oh,” I say, hating that he knows this at his age, but happy that he's able to tell the difference.

“You ready?” he asks, motioning to the open road.

“As I'll ever be,” I say. Cal and I start to jog down the street, past the Homestead.

“Some people are nice . . .
for real,
” Cal says, his breath completely regulated. I, on the other hand, am going to die.

“That's good,” I cough out. We head out of the town square and into the maze of streets that leads out of town and into the rolling hills and plots of land as far as the eye can see.

“You all right?” Cal asks, trotting along like a colt.

“Sure . . . sure,” I say, keeping stride while trying not to notice that he's probably going at half his normal pace. We run past a more upscale neighborhood just on the outskirts of the town square. We pass several houses that have their own signs boasting a North Star Stallion in their midst. My breathing steadies and I begin to enjoy the syncopation of our steps. Within ten minutes there are no houses. I'm reminded of how isolated all of these little Texas towns are. They were built around the corresponding railroad stations of old.

“How was your first last meal?” Cal asks, looking straight ahead.

“It was weird,” I say, looking at the low white fences, the high grass, and the grazing cattle just beyond.

“What did he order?” Cal asks. Is his pace getting a bit faster?

“Fried chicken, okra, potato salad, a chess pie, and some Blue Bell ice cream,” I say, my mouth watering even now.

“Chess pie?”

“It's old fashioned. Basically a pecan pie without the pecans.”

“That seems kinda pointless. This way now,” Cal says, merging left onto another road.

“It's good. Real sweet, though,” I say, noticing that this new road is turning into a hill. I'm going to kill this kid.

“He was a bad guy, you know. Real bad,” Cal says, looking around to check my reaction.

“Yeah, I heard,” I say, not wanting to remember it.

“I'd think cooking for someone who deserved to die would be better than cooking for someone who didn't, though, you know? Like someone who was innocent?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say. I think of those damn Starburst. I push the nightmarish thought out of my mind as quickly as I can.

“Not that you like cooking for either.”

“I do, actually,” I say. I can feel a line of sweat run down my neck and along my spine. My legs are starting to burn. The hill is getting steeper. Cal's pace is unchanged.

“You enjoy it?”

“I mean, I don't like the whole death row aspect, but I don't know. Cooking in that kitchen feels like home to me,” I say, too tired to lie.

“That's weird, Aunt Queenie,” Cal says, laughing.

“I know. Trust me, I know,” I say, leaning forward just a bit as the hill gets steeper still.

We climb the hill. Although we don't speak, my labored breathing is loud enough to be a tad distracting. Cal keeps checking on me. Past plots of land each surrounded by low, vertical, white fences with barns in the distance. Cattle meander along, not bothering to look up at us. As we make another left, I begin to orient myself. I know this land. I know where we are. I turn my head and see Paragon Ranch just up over the rise. Nothing but land behind the metal gate that arches over the one road in.

When I was in school we all got to take a field trip to the Paragon Ranch. As we walked through the well-tended landscape, the stables, and into the main ring where they train the horses, I remember thinking how beautiful it all was. Felix Coburn sitting tall on the most gorgeous horse I'd ever seen, his Stetson bigger than all outdoors. Arabella Coburn, small, but fierce, controlling those horses (and the cowboys) as she leaned against the bars of the ring. I looked up to her. She was everything my mother wasn't. Strong. Loyal. Proud. People respected her. Feared her.

When I saw her again, I remember the look on her face after Everett asked if he could take me to the Saturday dance. She was at the school and I remember thinking that if I could just talk to her she'd like me. I walked up to her, and the teacher she was speaking to called me by name. As Everett came up behind me, she snatched him close, as if to protect him from infection. They left quickly. The hallway emptied out. I was eleven. I was understandably crushed.

I know what she did was wrong. I was an eleven-year-old kid and she was an adult. She was obviously misguided. But knowing it and acting on it are two very different things. Leaving North Star allowed me to live in a vacuum. I could create endless monologues about Arabella Coburn and tell an imaginary Laurel exactly what I thought of her as I showered and got ready for a day in some faceless kitchen in some new city. I could yell into the night sky that Felix didn't know me and how dare he tell Everett I'd ruin him. It was my own private bubble where I could kick and scream and these ghosts couldn't hurt me. They existed in an abstract snow globe that would collect dust on the sill until I was ready to shake 'em up again.

But now that I'm back, I realize how vulnerable I feel. How that eleven-year-old kid is never far away. From me or Merry Carole.

And on we run.

This entire plateau belongs to Paragon. I look from the metal gate to over the rolling hills. The view is spectacular. The wheat-colored landscape stretches on forever. As I stare down the main road, I see Everett ever so slowly ambling along as the mist crawls and hovers over the very hills his family owns. I'd recognize him anywhere. His cowboy hat sits low as he walks along with—I crane my neck. It's Arrow, Everett's dog.

When Everett was eighteen his family's chocolate Labrador had a litter of puppies. Arrow was the runt. Everett took to him immediately. He always did have a habit of choosing the underdog. They became inseparable. When Everett drove through town in that old truck of his, Arrow was always right up in the front seat, sitting tall with his face out the window trying to catch the wind. When we shipped off to college, Arrow had to stay with the Coburns . . . and he was a nightmare. All heart and no brains. He spent his days attacking drapes and getting himself locked in closets, eating kitty litter, and making himself sick when he lapped up a bottle of the best bourbon Felix had mistakenly left on the counter. Everett always defended that dog. When he finally came home after college, he and Arrow took up right where they'd left off.

“Hold up a sec?” I wheeze to Cal. I stop and clutch my side.

“You all right?” Cal asks, beeping off his stopwatch.

“Yeah, just a stitch,” I say. Cal nods and runs over to the long, white, vertical fence. He begins doing push-ups.

I stare at the slowly ambling pair. Arrow must be thirteen or fourteen by now. He looks frail. I watch as Everett slows his pace, waiting for the now barrel-bodied dog to catch up. I can hear Everett talking to the dog; I can't make out any words from as far away as I am, but the tone is easy and loving. This is how he spends his mornings? Everett stops altogether as Arrow, in his ornery way to the last, has decided to lie down right where he is. Everett just shakes his head, laughing, and bends down to him, caressing his muzzle and petting him. In time, he helps Arrow back up by lifting the dog's haunches, steadying him as he struggles to get his footing. The unlikely pair walk on, out of sight.

“You ready?” I ask, wiping away tears that I'll blame on the glaring sun.

“Yeah. You okay?” Cal says, fiddling with his stopwatch again.

“Sure . . . sure,” I say, tearing myself away from the point on the horizon where Everett and Arrow are.

I gather myself, take a deep breath, and run and run and run. I need to flush the grief I feel for what Everett and I had. That sweetness I just saw with Arrow was what I always loved about him. It's not as if I understood in the beginning what it meant to fall in love with someone. I knew love didn't mean that things were going to work out or that it made people nice. Love, to me, even at a young age, was complicated. I knew it didn't stop people from leaving or from hurting you. Love seemed to give people a free pass to treat you poorly. How many times had I heard the words “I love you” right before someone did something terrible?

When that feeling bubbled up inside me about Everett, I didn't automatically default to love. It was different, purer. In the beginning, we didn't put any barriers or rules on it, we just knew that there was something there. An understanding that we were the same in ways we couldn't comprehend. There was a safety in knowing that.