Nowhere but Home A Novel

18




Barbecued pork ribs, coleslaw, white bread, and a slice of peach pie



“Queen Elizabeth Wake, get your bottom in this house,” Delfina says, tugging me inside by the arm.

“Yes, Mrs. Delfina,” I say, while being squeezed and crunched to death by a tiny woman pushing seventy. She pulls me close, wrapping her arms around me and reaching up to kiss me on the top of my head. She’s always been a tiny woman, not an ounce of fat on her. And the way she cooks, she should be as big as . . . well, as the people who eat her food.

“And who’s this fine-looking man you’ve brought with you?” Delfina shunts me aside and takes Hudson’s hand, acting like a schoolgirl.

“Mrs. Delfina, this is Hudson Bishop. He’s not from here,” I say.

“You’re telling me he’s not,” Delfina says.

“Ma’am,” Hudson says, his face coloring.

“Get on out back now. Pansy will bring y’all a plate,” Delfina says, shooing us out into her backyard. I nod and oblige her. We walk out the back door and onto the patio.

“We don’t order?” Hudson whispers.

“Delfina brings you what she’s cooking and you say thank you,” I say, whispering.

“This night just keeps getting better and better,” Hudson says, taking my hand and squeezing it tight.

Delfina’s Place is known only to locals and apparently patrons of a particular B and B in Evans. Delfina Mack is part of the DNA of North Star. She started cooking at her momma’s side as soon as she could walk. I used to hang around here a lot as a kid, picking up whatever I could. Delfina knew I didn’t have much in the way of a home life, so she obliged me. Although, sometimes she would try to wheedle Mom’s recipes out of me and vice versa. It’s hardly an understatement to say that the two women were competitive.

We walk out into the backyard; swamp coolers clunk and boom on the edges of the potholed lawn. The huge smoker sits over on the side of the backyard, Delfina’s only son at the helm. The smell of oak and barbecue permeate the air around the small house. Delfina was always on one side of town and Mom was on the other. Delfina uses oak for her barbecue and Mom (and me) always used hickory. People said that you could tell where North Star was solely based on the competing smells that met in the air just above the town. That little weevil of an idea pops back up. Our plot of land. It’s still there.

“There’s a table in the back,” Hudson says, gesturing toward the table. I nod and smile, finding myself a bit distracted by the possibilities. About a lot of things. I hold Hudson’s hand a bit tighter.

Plastic chairs sit around small tables, and benches line a big wooden community table that runs down the center of the lawn. White Christmas lights are thrown absently over wash lines, but it’s perfect. Delfina’s Place is heaven on earth. Everyone talks and laughs over the swamp coolers, eating the best food this region has to offer. I wonder where I would fit in. Would I carve out my own place just like Momma did? Would I do better? The same? Different? Where would my cooking fit into North Star’s tradition?

Hudson and I settle into the table in the back of the yard.

“Queenie Wake, well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Pansy Mack squeals, setting down two sets of cutlery wrapped in paper napkins. Pansy is one of Delfina’s nine daughters. All nine girls are named after some kind of flower. Her oldest and only son, however, is simply named Steve.

“Hey there, Pansy,” I say, smiling.

“And who do we have here?”

“Pansy Mack, this is Hudson Bishop. He teaches over at UT,” I say, looking from Pansy to Hudson.

“Nice to meet you,” Hudson says, offering his hand. She takes it and shakes it ever so slowly. Pansy is all big tits, blue eye shadow, and cackling laughter. She’s been married more times than I can remember, but she’s also the first person to buy you a beer or bring you a plate if you’re going through something. She’s also the same person who makes a point of reminding the Wakes that they’re a bit lower than the Macks in the town bogeymen pecking order.

“Y’all want some sweet tea, lemonade, Coke, or a Dr. Pepper?” Pansy asks, scanning the full to bursting backyard. With the community table stretching down the middle, combined with the smattering of tables on the fringes of the lawn, there are about thirty people here tonight. Pansy and Daisy, the youngest Mack, are the only waitresses Delfina needs. They are a well-oiled machine.

“Two sweet teas, please,” I say.

“You guys don’t have something a little stronger, do you?” Hudson asks.

“Aren’t you just the cutest?” Pansy says, walking away from us with a flourish.

“If they don’t offer it, you don’t ask. They also really don’t have any hours. They’re open as long as they have food and close when they run out,” I say, settling into the rickety plastic chair.

“Thank you so much for bringing me here,” Hudson says, leaning over and giving me a kiss. It catches me so off guard that he pulls back. “Is that okay? That I do that?” I smile and think of Merry Carole, nonetheless an odd thing to think of as a beautiful man is kissing me without any thought of who sees.

“Delfina has rules,” I say, my face coloring.

“Does she now?” Hudson says, looking around at the clientele.

“We want her food, we abide by her rules,” I say. I quickly look around to make sure no one was watching. We are kind of tucked into the back, so maybe . . . I scan the crowd. It’s a hot summer night at the most popular restaurant in North Star. Maybe no one saw. Then my eyes fall on a particularly crowded table set up close to the house. We must have walked right past it.

Laurel. Whitney. And an entire cabal of mean girls staring right at us.

I take a deep breath and continue scanning the crowd as if my heart didn’t just stop at seeing them. Laurel takes her napkin out of her lap and excuses herself.

“Excuse me,” I say, getting up to follow Laurel into Delfina’s, where the bathrooms are. I wind my way through the crowd in a fugue state. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I get there, but apparently having shoot-outs by restaurant bathrooms is going to become a thing. So . . . two for two.

I walk through Delfina’s, making sure to keep to the plastic pathways. I walk down the long hallway, past all the family pictures, pictures of Jesus, a picture of Ladybird Johnson, and a poster of the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. I come to a skittering halt as I see Laurel at the end of the hallway, waiting outside the one bathroom.

“Who is he?” Laurel asks, without any greeting.

“A friend,” I say, slowing my pace as I near her.

“He’s not from here, right?”

“Of course not.”

We are quiet as whoever is in the bathroom takes their time.

“Where’s Peggy?” I ask, smoothing my skirt, fussing with my skirt, unable to keep still.

“I don’t know. Home, I guess,” Laurel says absently. I knew it. Laurel watches as I come to this smug realization. It might have ended with a sniff. Laurel continues, “What was that?”

“What?”

“That. That little hmmpf,” Laurel says.

“I was just realizing that when it comes to town gossip, Peggy is your friend, but when it comes to hanging out as friends, well . . .”

“This is my going-away dinner,” Laurel says, with a sigh.

“What?”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” Laurel says.

“Going away to where?” I ask. The person inside the bathroom flushes the toilet. We both see this as some kind of ticking clock. We have only so much time.

“I got engaged. I’m moving to Dallas to be with him,” Laurel says, her chin raised.

“Congratulations,” I say, genuinely shocked. The water turns on inside the bathroom.

“You’re surprised?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s here for me?”

“Your family, your friends . . .” I trail off. Everett.

“My family and friends are happy for me. I’m finally moving on.” The person inside the bathroom pulls paper towels from the bin and we can hear them wiping their hands dry. I am quiet.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because we’re stuck in a hallway waiting for the bathroom. And . . . because it’s about time we—” Laurel stops. Thinks. She heaves a big sigh.

“No, I get it.” I do. The person comes out of the bathroom, excusing herself as she winds through us and down the long hallway. Laurel steps inside the bathroom and closes the door behind her. I wait. The hallway begins to close in around me. Laurel is leaving North Star. She’s moving on and finally ready to take a chance on being happy. And I’m back. Here. I hear the toilet flush and the water go on. Paper towels. There’s a moment of quiet as she probably checks her makeup. She opens up the door.

“And Everett?” I ask, finally daring to say his name. Laurel lets out a bitter laugh. She just shakes her head. She folds her arms and I can see her running through a thousand different thoughts (none of them kind, from the looks of it).

“Your friend looks nice. Maybe it’s time for you to move on, too,” Laurel says, her eyes fast on mine. I never noticed how delicate she was, maybe because whenever she looked at me, she was tense and pissed. Or maybe . . . was she just in anguish? This entire time?

“Good luck in Dallas,” I say. I offer her a smile. It’s tentative, but genuine. She gives me a cold, but polite nod and slides past me out into the hall. I step inside the bathroom and close the door behind me.

I put my hands on either side of the sink to steady myself. I always thought Laurel was the winner in all this. She got to swan around town with Everett and plan a wedding and walk down the aisle and see him standing at the end. She got to share his family name and think about building a family. Why didn’t it ever occur to me that she was just as unhappy as I was? Of course she was. She got to swan around town with a man who was in love with someone else. She got to plan a wedding and walk down an aisle to a man who was forced into marrying her. She changed her name, her entire identity, hoping it would make a difference. It didn’t. Her last-ditch effort to build a family and present Everett with something that would interest him, commit him, and make him happy. And not even that worked.

Laurel Coburn and I are more alike than I ever knew. Such a stupidly simple realization. I feel like I just walked outside and “discovered” water was wet. Either that or I’m trapped in some terrible romantic comedy where the music swells as the two enemies realize howwww verrrry aliiiiiiike they reeeeeealllly are. I’m a fool. So is she. All these years.

I pat my face with a wet paper towel, trying to compose myself. What a mess. I throw the paper towel into the trash can, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door.

Now let’s see about this moving-on business.

I walk out through the backyard and see that Laurel’s group is getting ready to head out. They are standing, hugging, and overloading Laurel with gift bags, cards, and bouquets of flowers. There is crying and pronouncements about being invited to the big Dallas-size wedding. Laurel shoots me a quick look and a smile. And then she’s gone. Just like that.

I walk past the wooden community table and find Hudson in the very back of the backyard. I lean down and kiss him. He puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me in close. He’s immediately passionate. Without a second thought.

“What was that for?” Hudson says as I settle in across from him.

“It’s all the barbecue. It just gets to me,” I say, flipping my napkin onto my lap.

“Then we should come here more often.” Hudson laughs. Pansy Mack comes over and sets two plates in front of us. She sets another plate down with raw white onion and dill pickle slices. She sets down a bottle of Tabasco in the center of the table.

“Cut that out before Momma sees y’all,” Pansy says, patting Hudson’s shoulder and lingering just a bit too long.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say as Pansy sets the two cups of sweet tea down.

“Now, you should know better, Queen Elizabeth,” Pansy says, her eyes narrowed. There it is. Like a slap in the face. The past infecting my beautiful present. Don’t be like your slutty momma, Queen Elizabeth.

I smile a tight-lipped assent as she walks away from me, tut-tutting me in the process.

“What was that about?” Hudson says, hunkering down and into the food now wafting up between us. It smells delicious.

“My mother had a bit of a reputation,” I say as easily as I can. The last thing I want is for this to become a topic of discussion. I take a sip of the sweet tea and calm myself down.

“Had?” Hudson says, taking a big bite out of his ribs. His face is now covered in barbecue sauce.

“She died a while back,” I say, scooping up some of Delfina’s coleslaw. I luxuriate in it and let it erase, if only momentarily, the sludge left over from Pansy’s condescending warning.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking how she died?” Hudson asks, wiping his face and searching the table for more napkins. He pulls a handful from the basket that sits in the middle of the table.

Sigh.

“She was killed when I was sixteen,” I say, woodenly. Eating. The ribs are perfect. Pay attention to this and not Hudson’s questions. I close my eyes to really taste the sauce and the perfectly smoked meat. I open them and find Hudson just staring at me. He has a slight tinge of barbecue sauce around his mouth.

“Queenie . . . are you serious?” Hudson asks.

“Why would I joke about something like that?”

“Why would you mention your mother was killed and then casually take a bite of your ribs?” I set down the ribs and wipe my face clean. I take a long drink of sweet tea. Hudson waits.

“I don’t mean to be casual about it, I really don’t,” I say. I stop. Think. I continue, “I haven’t talked about it for so long, mainly because everyone knew. There was nothing left to say. And we don’t really talk about things here, if you know what I mean. Plus, I liked that you didn’t know; does that makes sense?”

“It does.”

“It’s one of those things in your past that you do a countdown on until someone knows it about you. And then it’s three, two, one . . . and they’re looking at you different,” I say.

“And your dad?” Hudson asks, his voice quiet.

“Never knew him. Like I said, my mom had a reputation that was well earned, if you get my meaning,” I say, not having the heart to spell it out for him.

“Jesus,” Hudson says.

“Come on, let’s eat. I don’t want to ruin th—”

“So when you’re cooking these last meals—wait, is the person who killed your mom in the system?” Hudson asks.

“Are you interviewing me for your paper now?”

“I’ve always been a curious person and never really had any boundaries, so . . .”

“Clearly.”

“You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to stare at you searchingly until you do.”

“Yes. She’s in the system.”

“A woman, interesting. Did you know her?”

I just take a deep breath and arch an eyebrow.

Hudson continues, “Too far? Okay, but just that last one. Then I’ll stop. For now.”

“We knew her.”

“So no other family? Mom dead, no father?”

“I have Merry Carole and Cal,” I say, not liking how this dinner is going.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“No ‘yeah but’ . . . we’re fine.”

“Either you’re ridiculously well adjusted about this or you, my dear, are in for quite the breakdown when the time comes,” Hudson says.

“Fingers crossed for the breakdown!” I joke. I want to get away from this conversation. I’m sorry I brought it up at all. Oh wait. I didn’t. I was scolded by Pansy Mack and now I’m being grilled by Hudson.

“If it helps, I’ve been studying criminals and death and the psychology of mortality and loss for years,” Hudson says.

“You must be a big hit with the ladies back home. Your first-date small talk is delightful.”

“A, I am a big hit with the ladies back home. B, my small talk is out of the ordinary and layered, and C, so this is a date then?”

I take a bite of my ribs and ignore Hudson’s little list. He takes this as his cue to continue.

“What I’ve found as a by-product of my research is the fallout this type of death has on the families. It’s always shocking how ill prepared they are for the loss, despite how they felt about the person. I mean, these are criminals here, their relationships with their families are always complicated. But still. I mean, even if it was bad, and it usually was—right? Even if it was bad, these families still defined themselves by their dearly departed. They were the good ones and the dearly departed made life interesting. Without them they have a hard time trying to find their own identity. I mean, right?” Hudson stops and waits for my opinion on the subject of whether or not my identity is wrapped up in my mother. If he weren’t so right on with his assessments, I would have thrown my entire sweet tea at him a long time ago.

“You tell me,” I say, ripping open the wet nap Delfina always puts in the basket along with her ribs. I begin wiping my hands, the sterile smell invading my nose.

“I mean I only know what my research tells me. But judging from the cartoonish steam coming from your ears right now, I’m either right on the money or need to shut up. Probably a combination.”

“Or you’re just being a dick,” I say.

“Well, that’s a given. I mean, if I may be so bold, what I found was even in those cases where the relationship was strained, it’s the day-to-day stuff. That startling moment when your guard is down, which usually happens in a grocery store or sitting on the toilet, when you realize, tragically, that someone is gone. Like, off the face of the earth gone. Never gonna come back—”

“All right. Enough,” I say, my breath quickening.

“Queenie, you’ve been through some real shit here.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Oh, I know you know it. That sounds ridiculous . . . I know you know it, but it sounds like, and this could be total bullshit Psychology 101 and the fact that everyone in California—including me—has been in therapy forever, so you can take what I have to say or leave it—” Hudson collects himself. He continues, “You’re strong, Queenie. That’s clear. I just hope you will also allow yourself to be—” Hudson stops. Thinks. He sits back in his chair. I’m not breathing. I haven’t taken a breath in minutes. His eyes search the heavens and he runs his hand through his hair, the shampoo wafting over the smell of barbecue, fresh and clean. “I just hope you allow yourself to be affected. Got to, if that makes any sense . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Vulnerable,” I whisper.

“Vulnerable,” Hudson repeats, nodding.

“If I may be so bold,” I say.

“Please.”

“These ‘subjects’ you speak of so cavalierly, they’re people. Not data. You might want to curb your utter joy at their falling apart because it backs up your theory,” I say, balling up my wet nap and throwing it on the table.

“I’m sorry. I went too far.”

“I’m sure you do that a lot.”

“I’ve been known to in the past, yes.”

“I love that you’re passionate about what you do, but you don’t get to automatically know that shit about me just because you studied it at some fancy school.”

“You’re right. Shit, I’m sorry.” Hudson settles himself in his chair, and even through my spiraling rage at his lack of boundaries, I can see him struggling to make this right.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You need to tell me one thing about yourself that you have never told anyone. Then we’re square,” I say, my voice softening. Hudson looks away and just lights up. Relieved. He nods and sits back in his chair. Thinking. A smile every now and again, some more devious than others. He leans forward.

“So . . . this is . . . okay, no. I deserve this. Okay . . . so when I was younger . . . see my eyebrows—” Hudson leans over the table and stares directly into my eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that set off the black hair and eyebrows were one of the first things I noticed about him. It’s hilarious—and probably a ruse—to think he doesn’t know that.

“Yes, I see your eyebrows and this better get a lot juicier than just something about your eyebrows,” I say, having to look away. Damn.

“When I was younger—they’re thick, right? And like super black and I’m pale and the brow just went all the way across. Total unibrow. It was terrible. And at the time, I thought there was nothing I could do. I knew it looked bad, the other kids made fun of me relentlessly. It was a testament to the academic excellence of the boarding schools I went to that the insults were so unendingly imaginative. A lot of Neanderthal jokes, which would inevitably lead to the whole Homo erectus pantheon of options, whole dialogues about evolution and how I’d clearly been skipped, I mean . . . it was—” Hudson stops and just shakes his head. He continues, “I finally met this girl, and after a few months of what I thought was flirting, she leans over one night—and you know, I think I’m going to kiss her, and she says, ‘You know, I have a great waxer.’ And she’s just looking at my eyebrows.”

“Eyebrow,” I say, correcting him.

“You’re so mean. That’s so f*cked up,” Hudson says, howling with laughter. I can’t catch my breath I’m laughing so hard.

“So yeah. I wax. I’m a waxer. I get waxed,” Hudson says, taking a bite of his coleslaw.

“That’s fantastic,” I say.

Hudson picks up his ribs and digs in. I let Delfina’s cooking comfort me as it always has. The sweet tang of that barbecue sauce was always a tonic for what ailed me. Seems it still is.

As the hours pass, we eat and laugh and in no time Hudson is walking me back to Merry Carole’s salon. The tension of earlier this evening is not forgotten, but the sting of it has lessened. As Hudson slows in front of his car, my stomach is in knots. I’m excited, but wary of him. I went from being his dinner guest to his test subject in three seconds flat and that makes me nervous. I also hate that he’s right. About it all. Of course I’ll never tell him that. The salon is dark and I know Merry Carole is waiting for me back at the house.

“Hey, Aunt Queenie,” Cal says, trotting back from his second football practice. I am so thankful we weren’t doing anything embarrassing.

“Oh hey, sweetie. Hudson, this is Cal, my nephew. Cal, this is Hudson Bishop,” I say, introducing the two.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Cal says, easy and open.

“Nice to meet you,” Hudson says.

“I’d better be getting on,” Cal says. He makes his farewells and runs the rest of the way until he’s inside, looking back suspiciously only once.

“You’ve got a real football player in your midst,” Hudson says.

“We do. He’s such a good kid,” I say, unable to help myself.

“Yeah, definitely,” Hudson says. He’s not listening to me, I realize. He’s focusing on my face. My mouth. I watch those intense blue eyes fix on my lips.

“You make me nervous,” I say, my voice quavering. Damn.

“Do I?” Hudson says, stepping closer. He tilts his head just so, his eyes still fixated on my mouth.

“I don’t know if you’re being purposely obtuse or just—”

Hudson cuts me off. “Being a dick. Oh absolutely,” he says before leaning in for a kiss. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. I can’t help but smile. I feel him smiling. I let out a laugh as we break apart. The world comes speeding back into my consciousness as I hear a dog barking in the distance. I wrench my gaze away from Hudson for the smallest of seconds and see Everett idling at the stop sign in the center of town. Arrow’s barking out the window at some passersby, but my focus falls on the man driving. How long has he been sitting there? He is unreadable, and the moment that passes between us couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds. Hudson is saying something. Saying something.

“What?” I ask, focusing back on him just as Everett drives off down the street and back to the Paragon Ranch.

“When can I see you again?” Hudson asks.

“Cal has a team barbecue on Saturday. It starts at three PM. You can come to that,” I say.

“Sure,” Hudson says, with a shrug. No big deal.

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” I say. One more kiss and he hops into his car and pulls away. Out of North Star.

I smooth my skirt again. I have to stop doing that. If ever there were a nervous tic, this skirt-smoothing thing would be it. I head back toward Merry Carole’s house, anxious to tell her about my night—Laurel, Hudson . . . all of it. I let the thought of me moving on bounce and ping around in my head like a pinball.