Nowhere but Home A Novel

13




Country breakfast, coffee, Piggy Peggy’s face



“Well, look at who stayed in town!” Piggy Peggy oozes as she almost leaps over to where Cal and I are sitting at the Homestead later that week.

“Oh hey,” I say, narrowing my eyes once again at Cal. Everything related to the Homestead is, apparently, his fault. He smiles.

“Oh hey! Haven’t had your coffee yet, I see?” Piggy Peggy says, making a face insinuating that I’m either in a foul mood, or based on her amateurish miming, drunk and/or having some kind of seizure.

“What’s that you’re doing there?” I ask, motioning to her solitary game of charades.

“Oh, you know,” Piggy Peggy says, looking over at Cal.

“Nope, I don’t,” I say with nary a smile.

“You’re just . . .” Piggy Peggy trails off as she launches into another bizarre bout of charades where she acts out what a bitch I’m being instead of just telling it to me straight to my face.

“I didn’t know the Homestead had turned into dinner theater,” I say, looking around the room.

“Oh,” Piggy Peggy laughs, waving her hand at me to just stooopppppp. So crazy, she insinuates without a word. Again. God forbid she’d actually say something unkind to my face. I doubt Piggy Peggy is this tongue-tied about my less attractive characteristics when she’s with her friends. I bet there’s a lot to be said about me when I’m not around.

“I’d like two eggs over medium, some wheat toast, and your house potatoes,” I say.

“And coffee?” Piggy Peggy asks, eyebrow arched.

“Sure,” I say, not looking at her.

“Cal, honey?” Piggy Peggy’s voice cuts across his name. The way she says it sends a chill down my spine. It’s icy at best and downright disrespectful at worst.

“Country breakfast, please,” Cal says.

“You sure do have quite an appetite, son,” Piggy Peggy says, writing down Cal’s order on her order pad.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cal says, looking over at me.

“Just like your momma, I guess,” Piggy Peggy’s words are more mumbled than actually said.

“Ma’am?” Cal asks, looking confused.

“What did you just say?” I ask, standing and placing my entire buzzing-with-rage body centimeters from Piggy Peggy.

“Oh, you know . . . ,” Piggy Peggy trails off, her eyes darting around at all the restaurant patrons who are now watching our every move.

“Nope,” I say, stepping even closer.

“Aunt Queenie,” Cal says, his eyes imploring me to sit down.

“I’m just asking Peggy to point out where the bathroom is,” I say, loudly, so all can hear.

“Right back that way,” Piggy Peggy says, her voice shaking.

“See? We’re fine here,” I say, for Cal.

“Fine. We’re fine,” Piggy Peggy says, clearing her throat.

“I would appreciate it if you would show me to the bathroom personally,” I say to Piggy Peggy.

“Sure . . . sure,” Piggy Peggy says, carefully turning toward the bathroom.

“Please don’t kill Piggy Peggy, Aunt Queenie,” Cal says, just as we step away from the booth.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a quick wink.

Piggy Peggy walks toward the bathroom as a condemned man walks to the gallows. Maybe I should ask her what her last meal would be. In the tiny hallway that holds the bathrooms, I corner Piggy Peggy.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Piggy Peggy says, bracing for the physical harm I mean to save her from. This time.

“Then why did you say it? To my fifteen-year-old nephew? What kind of person does that?” I ask, my voice a violent whisper.

“He should know what kind of woman his mother is,” Piggy Peggy says, defiantly.

“What did you just say?”

“I just . . . he should know.”

“Know about what?”

“That people are saying Cal only got the QB1 position because Merry Carole is . . . you know . . . with Coach Blanchard,” Piggy Peggy says, still not making eye contact with me.

“Is that what you think?” I ask.

“What I think?”

“Yes. Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know that you can think for yourself, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then answer the question. Do you think Cal got the QB1 position because of a rumored relationship between Merry Carole and Coach Blanchard?”

“Well, Wake women . . .”

“Wake women, what?”

Piggy Peggy is silent.

“Wake. Women. What?” I repeat.

“People say Wake women are evil and will ruin you,” Piggy Peggy recites. Felix Coburn’s exact words.

“How can you even say that?” I ask, hating that I’m actually having this conversation with Piggy Peggy in the darkened hallway by the bathrooms in the Homestead of all places.

“Well . . .”

“Well, what? Jesus, Peggy. Just say it.”

“Your mom? I mean, BJ didn’t care whose man she was taking. Poor Yvonne Chapman put y’all up and look what happened to her. And then Merry Carole and Wes. I mean, that near broke Whitney’s heart,” Peggy says, in an almost mathematical tone. As if our rumored sexual conquests were just another string theory she’s devised.

“We are not anything like our mother,” I say, my voice strong and clear.

“Aren’t you, though?”

“It’s as if you want me to punch you in the face.”

“I certainly do not.”

“Then stop saying shit like that.”

“My, my . . . your language, Queenie. My word.”

“We’re nothing like our mother,” I say again, my voice dipping.

“Laurel’s told us all about you and Everett, you know.”

“What?” My words are a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t even know I’m speaking. My mouth runs dry and I can feel the blood rush to my head.

“Everything,” Peggy says, folding her arms across her chest.

“I don’t know what that means. There’s nothing between me and Everett,” I say. Ouchhhhhh.

“Well, yeah . . . ,” Peggy says as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world. She continues, “But that doesn’t mean you still didn’t ruin him.” Peggy’s eyes are now fixed on mine.

“How did I ruin him?” My voice is tiny. Unguarded. Dangerously open.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how you people do anything.” You people.

“Oh, is there a line?” a woman says, motioning to the women’s bathroom.

“No, ma’am! It’s all yours,” Peggy says as we step back out into the restaurant. The cook dings the bell and Peggy perks up. She continues, “That’s me. I’ll bring you over your coffee.” Peggy flips around and walks—nay, struts—back over to the kitchen. She can’t wait to tell Laurel and Whitney about what happened here. She finally stood up to me! she’ll say. She told me everything she’s always wanted to say! And all I did was stand there and wonder how it all had come to this.

How did both Merry Carole and I turn out to be just like Mom?

“Everything okay?” Cal stands up as I slide back into the booth.

“Fine, darlin’,” I say, my eyes hazy.

“It didn’t look fine,” Cal says, sitting.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. Peggy walks over to our booth with our breakfasts. She sets down my mug of coffee.

“Anything else I can get for you?” Her voice is triumphant.

“Nope,” I say, not willing to give her the satisfaction that her little outburst by the bathrooms has left me speechless.

“Just holler if you need something,” Peggy says, her voice light and airy.

Cal and I finally leave the Homestead. I leave an enormous tip thinking that I can never let Peggy know she got to me, even though she absolutely did. In every way. Her words shook me to my core. I can be a lot of things in this world, but one of them cannot be “just like Mom.” Because no matter how many cities I run to, how many kitchens I cook in—that truth will follow me everywhere. Am I my mother’s daughter? How can that be?

Cal heads over to the high school weight room to work out and I make a beeline for the hair salon. I need to talk to Merry Carole. Now. I burst through the salon door and find the salon brimming with big hair, twangy music, and rip-roaring conversation.

“Hey there, Queenie,” Fawn says, doing some busywork behind the front counter.

“Hey,” I say, scanning the salon for Merry Carole.

“She’s back in the kitchenette refilling her coffee,” Fawn says without me saying a word.

“I appreciate it,” I say, giving her a quick smile. I nod a quick hi to Dee as I walk by her. She’s deep in conversation and blue rinse.

“So I had a nice little chat with Piggy Peggy at the Homestead,” I say, walking into the kitchenette and closing the door behind me.

“Well, she works there, so . . . ,” Merry Carole says, setting her Lone Star coffee mug on the small table and opening up the refrigerator in search of creamer.

“Sit down,” I say, my arms folded across my chest.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Merry Carole says, pouring creamer into her coffee.

“Don’t be flippant,” I say, pulling out a chair and motioning for her to sit. She arches an eyebrow. Standing.

“I have clients, Queen Elizabeth.” Merry Carole sighs, replacing the creamer in the refrigerator and closing the door. She stirs her coffee. The chair sits vacant as my folded arms slowly tire.

“She knows about Reed. How much longer are you going to keep this a secret? It only fans the fire,” I say, letting my arms now fall to my hips. I stand there in that tiny kitchenette arms akimbo. Merry Carole blows on her coffee and couldn’t look less impressed.

I continue, “You guys have known each other since elementary school and he’s such a good guy. He’s divorced, his wife has remarried. I’m sure his little girls will love you. You’re single. What’s the problem?” I ask, finally sitting. Merry Carole is quiet. Still. She finally speaks.

“The problem is he’s Coach Blanchard and I’m the town whore,” Merry Carole says, not making eye contact with me.

“You’re not the town whore,” I say.

“We both are, dear. Just like our momma,” Merry Carole says, pulling out the other chair and finally settling in.

We are quiet.

Merry Carole continues, “So what exactly did she say?”

“Cal ordered the country breakfast and Piggy Peggy insinuated that he had quite an appetite,” I pause and then put air quotes around “just like his momma.”

“That bitch,” Merry Carole says, her face flushing red. She slams her coffee down on the tiny table.

“Yep.”

“Why you gotta bring the boy into it? What did Cal do to any of these women?”

“He never bought into the party line, I guess. He never knew he was supposed to apologize for who he was, right?”

“Right. I tried . . . I hoped . . .”

“Honey, you get to be happy.”

“Being Cal’s mom makes me happy.”

“I know it does.”

“I don’t think I know how to be in a normal relationship,” Merry Carole says, her words chosen carefully, as if each is being excavated from deep, deep below the surface.

“Do you even . . . I mean, you’ve never actually been in a relationship. Any relationship, so . . . ,” I say, smiling.

“What a mess,” Merry Carole says, hunching down over the table, her head in her hands.

We are quiet for a good long time. I can hear the music and the gossip out in the salon. The refrigerator runs. The faucet drips. Our lives fall apart. My mind wanders over the information that Laurel knew about Everett and me. Laurel knew and confided in her friends about our affair. So they knew about it all then? How much did they know? Did they know I loved him? Do they know I still love him? Could they know if he loved me? Or if he still loves me?

“Reed and I have been seeing each other for over a year,” Merry Carole finally confesses, her voice an exasperated sigh.

“And he asked you to keep it secret?” I say, my blood beginning to boil at the thought of another man asking another Wake woman to hide in the shadows.

“No. I asked him,” Merry Carole says.

“What?”

“I just didn’t want the scrutiny, you know?”

“Why would you want . . . what . . .” I can’t make sense of this.

“He had just gotten divorced and everyone was coming out to see Cal play when he was over at the junior high. Cal was a star even then. So we just got to talking, I guess,” Merry Carole says.

“You just ‘got to talking’?” I repeat.

“It’s more than Wes and I ever did, I assure you.”

“What?”

“Months of flirting in the hallways, turned into a few awkward make-out sessions, and then that was capped off by one thankfully short . . . I don’t even think you can call it sex; I mean, I was a virgin, but even I knew it was terrible,” Merry Carole says, her face flushing.

“You were a virgin?” I ask, my eyes wide and my heart breaking.

“Of course,” Merry Carole says.

“I didn’t know that,” I say.

“You don’t know a lot of things.”

“That, I know,” I say, smiling. She laughs.

“I never went near another man. Why would I? Terrible sex after which he threw me over and called me ‘a Jezebel,’ which were his exact words, and then hey, looka that . . . I was pregnant. Not quite the fairy-tale romance I’d been dreaming of,” Merry Carole says, her voice cutting and bitter.

I am quiet. This is the most my sister has spoken about her personal life . . . ever. EVER. The entire world feels as if it’s fallen away and it’s just the two of us here in this cramped kitchenette with just our secrets to nourish us. We shall never go hungry.

Merry Carole continues, “I didn’t even like Wes, I just liked the idea of him. He was a McKay and I thought . . . this is my ticket out. People can’t look down on me now if I am married to him. I wouldn’t be a Wake anymore. I’m somebody, you know?” She takes a slow, measured sip of her coffee followed by a sour eye roll.

“I thought you—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“What does a seventeen-year-old know about anything?”

I fell in love with Everett when we were in kindergarten. Was I just in love with him because he was something I could point to and say, “See? I’m somebody. I’m a Coburn now.” Am I any different from Merry Carole and Wes McKay?

“So Wes is the only man you’ve ever been with,” I say. It’s not a question.

“Until Reed,” Merry Carole says, somewhat embarrassed.

“I can’t believe you—”

“Can’t you?” Merry Carole’s face is hard and focused.

“What?”

“You were going to say that you can’t believe I’ve only been with one man, right?”

“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that that was exactly what I was going to say, word for word. Merry Carole just looks at me. I continue, “Fine. Maybe I was going to point out the tragedy of One-minute Wes being your only sexual experience. I mean, what kind of whore are you?”

“You tell me,” Merry Carole says, her laughter subsiding.

“Not a very good one,” I say.

“But it’s not like it’s something you can’t identify with, right?” Merry Carole’s tone is strong. Her eyes are laser focused on mine. Her hands are tight around her steaming mug of coffee. She continues, “I mean, if we’re going to do this . . .” I don’t understand what . . . Oh my God. I can feel the blood leave my face. I can feel my mouth drop open. I am quiet, stunned. Speechless.

“How long have you known?” I ask, my words barely a whisper.

“Twenty years,” Merry Carole says, her voice quiet.

“Of course you did,” I say.

“Of course I did,” she repeats.

“What . . .” I don’t even know what to ask her first. I can’t breathe. First Piggy Peggy and now Merry Carole. Who else knew? Everyone? My voice crackles as I speak, “Did everyone know?”

“Yes.” One word. Simple.

“Oh.”

We fall silent.

“How did my dramatic Spanish Inquisition of you turn into your Spanish Inquisition of me?” I ask. I walk over to the counter with the coffeemaker, open one of the cabinets, and try to find a mug.

“Because I’m your older sister and that’s how this works. Take the yellow one with the flower on it. It’s an extra,” she says, guiding me through the mugs in the cabinet. I obey. I pour coffee into the little yellow mug.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say as I open the fridge to find the creamer. I can’t look at Merry Carole. I can’t face her. I’ve essentially been lying to her for twenty years. I’ve been lying to everyone.

“Well, that’s just silly,” Merry Carole says and yawns. She takes a sip of her coffee as I pour creamer into mine.

“Is it, though?” I stir my coffee.

“You were eleven. You thought no one would understand. It’s actually quite . . . romantic,” she says, her voice downright wistful.

“Romantic,” I repeat. I think of our last time together. My face flushes as my body remembers Everett’s touch. I sigh. The same yearning, ridiculous sigh I’ve been heaving for twenty years.

“It’s not like he ever loved Laurel. Everyone could see that. Even Laurel, unfortunately,” Merry Carole says, leaning forward into her gossiping position.

“How much do you know?” I ask, maybe not wanting to take in the horror or truly understand how transparent my entire covert life has been. I guess those shadows weren’t as dark as I thought. As we thought.

“Everything,” Merry Carole says, almost offended that I’d insinuate any less.

“Everything,” I repeat. Jesus. Merry Carole’s phone buzzes. She checks it and laughs. She turns the phone around so I can see it. It’s from Fawn.



Dee says she won the bet. She texted first about y’all’s little exchange at the Hall of Fame.



“For heaven’s sake. There was a bet?” I ask, standing and opening the door to the kitchenette. Fawn and Dee are just outside the door. Fawn is still busily texting, unaware the jig is up.

“Oh, well . . . look at that, Fawn. There’s no customers back here,” Dee says, her entire face alight. Why didn’t I ever feel as though I could share this with anyone, regardless of what they might think or feel? Why did I feel I had to be so alone with my secret?

“I can’t believe you guys knew,” I say as we finally walk out into the now empty salon.

“We didn’t all figure it out at the same time,” Merry Carole says, coming out from the kitchenette, her mug of coffee still in her hand.

“Merry Carole knew from the start,” Fawn says, motioning to my sister.

“I found that adorable pink card he made you,” Merry Carole says, her hand against her chest as if she’s still emotional about it.

“I just thought you had a crush on him, you know, in junior high and all that,” Dee says. This is like This Is Your Life, but the version where it’s actually, “This is the life you thought you hid from everyone!” Dee continues, “But then I saw you guys one day as you were walking home from school, I guess it was freshman year? Y’all were holding hands and . . . well, it was sweet. He was leaning in and talking to you and you just threw your head back laughing at whatever he’d said. I’d never seen either of you like that, you know? Laughing like you’d heard the funniest thing in the world. I tried to ask you about it the next day at school, but you acted like I hadn’t seen what I knew I had seen, so I just . . . I, well, I got my feelings hurt for a bit, but then just thought it was something you wanted to keep secret.” Dee’s face flushes.

“I’m so . . . I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified. Every time I think I can’t get more mortified the bar just keeps going higher and higher. Or lower and lower depending on how you look at it.

“I figured it out right after your momma died . . . was killed . . . whatever,” Fawn starts. We all shift our focus to her. She continues, “I kept seeing him in that old truck of his, coming around, circling the house, and then he’d see me and speed on down the road like a bat out of hell. Until one night I was coming in from the market and I seen him crawling in your window when he thought I wasn’t looking or what not. I didn’t knock on your door all night, but . . . well, I heard you crying in there. And I remember thinking . . . thank Jesus, she’s got someone in there with her. It was really the first time you’d . . . well, you’d let any of that out,” Fawn says, growing more and more emotional as the story unfolds. I can’t look at any of them. Reliving all of these moments from my past. Feeling the love I’ve cherished and treasured for Everett all these years grow too big for my chest again and again. Always fearing that one day it’ll burst through and fly away.

We are all quiet. Swept away in the romance of it all.

“So did y’all also know about Ms. Merry Carole here?”

“No!” Merry Carole blurts out.

“Oh sure,” Fawn and Dee say simultaneously.

“What?” Merry Carole says, her face flushing. A wide smile breaks across my face. Now this is the kind of scene I can certainly get behind. No more of that tragic slide show of my life, a life I know will no longer have Everett in it. I can’t . . . I can’t even bear thinking about it.

“You’re talking about Coach Blanchard, right?” Fawn asks, just for clarification.

“Yep,” I say, my eyes darting from Fawn and Dee to Merry Carole.

“Oh yeah, that’s old news. They’ve been seeing each other for . . .” Fawn trails off and looks to Dee (not Merry Carole).

“About a year?” Dee works out, her face crinkled up and doing the math.

“About a year,” Merry Carole clarifies.

“About a year,” Dee repeats.

“I think they’re actually quite well matched. What with Merry Carole and Cal and Coach Blanchard and those two little girls of his? It’s just . . . well, I don’t know why they’re keeping it all secret,” Fawn says, sitting down in one of the salon chairs.

We all look at Merry Carole.

“I want him to,” Merry Carole says, striding over to the front counter and violently flipping open the appointment book.

“We don’t have anyone for another thirty minutes,” Dee says, her voice light.

“That’s just fine,” Merry Carole says, defeated.

“Why do you want him to?” Fawn asks.

“We were rejected once by someone I thought wanted to be Cal’s daddy; I can’t do that again. I can’t risk that again,” Merry Carole says.

“Reed Blanchard is not Wes McKay, and you are not that seventeen-year-old girl anymore,” I say.

“But don’t you see? All this? Makes me feel exactly that. Seventeen and helpless,” Merry Carole says, searching for the word “helpless” deep in herself. Even the very word is hidden away.

“Oh honey,” Fawn says.

“I spent my entire childhood being thrown over for a man. I know what that feels like and I am not going to subject my boy to that feeling. No, Reed and I—well, there’s just no future there,” Merry Carole says, the emotion bubbling up from so deep within her.

“But Coach Blanchard is—,” Fawn says.

“Coach Blanchard is what?” Cal says, standing in the doorway to the salon.

The entire salon grinds to a halt. All of us. Horrified. We look from Cal to Merry Carole. She looks . . . pisssssssssed.

“What about Coach Blanchard?” Cal asks again.

“Oh hey, sweetie, we were just talking football,” Merry Carole says, her cheeks flushed, her voice high and nervous.

“Oh okay. Can I borrow some money? A couple of the guys want to go catch a movie just to get in some air-conditioning,” Cal asks, approaching a very relieved-looking Merry Carole. As Merry Carole and Cal wind through whose mother is driving the boys, when he’ll text her to check in, and which movie they’re seeing, I wonder where Everett fits in all of this. Merry Carole is so scared of being vulnerable that she’s willing to forgo her own happiness to protect herself. Am I any different? What am I willing to do and put up with just so I can feel in control and protected?

“That was too close,” Merry Carole says, watching Cal walk outside to meet his friends. She turns and speaks to the three of us as one. “I will figure out what I want to do about Reed in my own time. Until then, y’all need to stay quiet about it.”

“That’s all we ever are,” I say.

“Queen Elizabeth,” Merry Carole warns.

“Honey, I’m not going to say anything. Of course I wouldn’t dream of it, but I do wonder what it is we’re ashamed of, you know?”

“I’m not ashamed of my relationship with Reed,” Merry Carole says.

“Oh, it’s a relationship now?” I ask. Fawn and Dee move in closer.

“He’s the best man I’ve ever known.” Merry Carole is reverent. The entire room swoons. Merry Carole rolls her eyes and walks over to her station, readying for her next client. She continues, “I have to figure this out on my own. And if Cal has heard the rumors and asks me about it, then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” We all nod in agreement.

“Now you and Everett, on the other hand,” Merry Carole says, her voice cutting through Willie Nelson’s twangs like a knife.

“There is no me and Everett,” I say.

“What?” they ask in unison.

“Like you said, there’s no future there. He loves his parents and Paragon,” I say.

“And he loves you,” Dee says.

“I know that. I do. And he knows I love him. But it’s just not going to work out. We can’t sneak around anymore . . . I don’t think it makes us happy. We start getting sad about the situation pretty much right away. It wasn’t always like that. Maybe when we were younger we thought it could be different? We had a chance. I think we both know we don’t have a chance anymore.”

Merry Carole, Dee, and Fawn are quiet. Sad.

“So that’s it?” Dee asks.

“I don’t want it to be, but I don’t know what else to do,” I say.

“Well, is there anyone else who could take your mind off Everett?” Fawn asks as delicately as she can.

“There is this guy at the prison. He’s spectacular. Now he has the potential to be quite the distraction,” I say, my voice almost as forced as the smile that cracks its way across my face.

“Queen Elizabeth, if you are about to tell me that you are dating a convict . . .” Merry Carole holds her broom in one hand and looks as though she’s about to pounce.

“No, NO!” I say, not even realizing that’s what it sounded like.

“Oh my God, I thought she was going to say that, too,” Dee says, her hand clutching at her chest.

“No, NO? God, you guys. Right, I’m going to keep my decades-long love affair with Everett Coburn, pillar of society, a secret but announce that I’ve fallen for a convict and it’s perfectly normal.” No one thinks that’s as hilarious as I do. I continue quickly, “Fine. His name is Professor Hudson Bishop and he’s from California. He’s smart and funny and holy shit, has black hair and these ridiculous blue eyes. And he’s just . . . you just know he can DO things,” I say, waggling my eyebrows.

“At the very least this Professor California can be useful,” Merry Carole says, seeing her client come through the front door finally. Fawn walks over and checks her in.

“Useful how?” I ask, following Merry Carole. Dee listens intently.

“He’ll make Everett jealous as hell,” Merry Carole says just before greeting her next client.