Nowhere but Home A Novel

19




Coach Blanchard’s brisket, coleslaw, and not enough Shiner Bock



As the weekdays zoom past, and Tuesday looms, I find myself in a kind of limbo between understanding the new way of things and beginning to understand what this means for me going forward. I now have information I didn’t have before. Laurel was just as miserable as I was. Everyone knew about Everett and me. I played as much a part in my being cast as an ostracized, worthless loser as the town of North Star did. These are facts. The hard part is switching these facts for the myths and rumors that I’ve based my entire life upon. I was lied to by people I thought knew better. But I gathered my own information and sifted it through a filter of self-hatred and doubt. What happens if I switch my old filter for a new one? A new one, where anything is possible, even for Brandi-Jaques Wake’s daughters.



Merry Carole, Cal, Hudson, and I walk into the team barbecue that Saturday carrying a six-pack of Shiner Bock and some coleslaw I made the night before. Are they peace offerings, maybe? Are we hiding behind them, as if the beer and coleslaw will shield us from the first line of fire as we enter the barbecue? Most definitely.

“CWake!” another football player says, charging at Cal. He gives the boy a hearty handshake. They are swept away into the fold of the already raging barbecue.

Reed’s house is on the outskirts of town, a simple one-story home with French doors that open out onto the backyard. Close to a hundred people mill around from the inside to the outside of the house. Ladies with fans and men with a cold beer in one hand and an opinion about the upcoming football season in the other. Reed has taken up his place at the barbecue and holds court as a group of men gather around. Merry Carole glances his way. She sighs. Reed’s two little girls are with his mother for the weekend. Their presence is missed, but noted. My plan to have Merry Carole stay after at the party and patch things up with Reed can be put into action now.

“So football is kind of a big deal in Texas, huh?” Hudson asks. Merry Carole and I open our mouths to speak, but Hudson continues, “I’m kidding. I’ve seen Friday Night Lights.” He smiles.

“You look beautiful today,” I say to Merry Carole as she keeps fussing with her dress.

“Thank you,” she says, breathlessly. She decided to go with a bright yellow shirtdress, a black belt cinched at her impossibly tiny waist. She’s been waiting to wear this outfit for weeks. Black and gold—the team’s colors. She continues, “I’m sure someone will tell me I look like a floozy.”

“If they’re using the word ‘floozy,’ how big a threat can they be?” I say. Hudson laughs. Merry Carole loosens up a bit. She’s not alone.

“Thank God you brought that one. It’s all anyone will be talking about,” Merry Carole says, motioning to Hudson. He’s already cracked open a Shiner Bock and is taking a long drink. He’s wearing a loose plaid shirt that he’s once again only half tucked into his relaxed-fit Levi’s. His worn-in leather belt just underneath is visible and becoming more and more inviting every day.

“That one, huh?” Hudson says, offering us a beer. Merry Carole and I decline Hudson’s offer. We need to be stone-cold sober for these festivities. Whether we like it or not.

“Merry Carole and Queenie Wake.” Whitney McKay and Piggy Peggy float over to us followed by a phalanx of no less than four indistinguishable women. Now that Laurel’s off to Dallas, it looks like Whitney has taken her place on the throne. I probably know Whitney’s Gang of Idiots from school, but their high hair and Easter egg–colored wardrobes all blend together into what is fast becoming this barbecue’s terrifying first line of offense.

“Nice to see you, Whitney. You look lovely,” Merry Carole says with a polite nod.

“Team colors. Bless your heart,” Whitney says, giving Merry Carole the once-over. Merry Carole wants this too much. Women like Whitney get a whiff of that longing and it’s hunting season.

“Queenie,” Whitney says, with a curt nod.

“Whitney,” I say, with a sniff. I can’t even look at Hudson. I can feel his grin from here. He can barely contain himself. He folds his arms across his chest, tucking his open beer bottle under his arm.

The women stand in front of us, unmoving. Staring at Hudson.

“Ladies, this is Hudson Bishop. He teaches over at UT,” I say, presenting him for inquiry.

They titter and nod their greetings.

“And how did y’all meet?” Whitney asks. She damn well knows the answer, but wants to hear me say it.

“Queenie and I met over at Shine Prison,” Hudson says.

“Did you now? Isn’t that sweet,” Whitney says.

“I don’t think anyone would call it sweet. What was your name again?” Hudson asks.

“Whitney,” Whitney says, her facade cracking for just the slightest of moments. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“It’s Whitley, right?” Hudson asks.

“Whitney,” she corrects.

Hudson lets the moment hang just long enough as he takes a lengthy pull on his beer. He continues, “Anyway, I’m going to go take a look at that barbecue. Excuse me, ladies.” He gives me a quick wink and ambles over to the barbecue, falling quickly into conversation with the already gathered men.

Then it’s just us. Merry Carole and I facing off against a group of women who look as though they’re about to feast on human flesh.

“How long is this little standoff going to take, Whitney? This coleslaw needs to be refrigerated sometime today,” I say, annoyed. Merry Carole tenses next to me. I will myself to take it easy. Well, easier. The party crowd mixes and mingles around us.

“Oh, is that left over from Shine? I do hope we won’t have to eat the food you served to a convicted murderer,” Whitney says, clutching her pearls.

“He was a triple murderer and he ordered fried chicken,” I say. Whitney and her Gang of Idiots are actually taken aback.

“Even for you, Queenie Wake, that’s low,” Piggy Peggy says, looking from Whitney to me. Yes, Peggy, you delivered your line perfectly.

“You’d know,” I say, stepping forward. She flinches.

“All right now. Come on,” Merry Carole says, her voice measured, but strong.

“Control your dog, Merry Carole,” one of the other women says. They all think it’s hilarious.

“That’s quite enough. That’s quite enough,” Merry Carole says, her face coloring.

“Why don’t you call in Coach Blanchard to help you?” Piggy Peggy asks, her voice raspy with excitement.

“No, ma’am. We can handle our own business,” Merry Carole says, her voice becoming more and more eerily calm. The women don’t know what to do with Merry Carole. Me, easy. I’m the uncontrollable dog. But Merry Carole is a pillar of calm. She continues, “Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to see if my son needs anything. Queenie, the refrigerator is through the French doors and to the right.” Merry Carole’s face colors as she realizes she’s said too much. Her knowledge of the ins and outs of Reed Blanchard’s house is obvious. Whitney doesn’t even attempt to suppress her joy. Merry Carole gives Whitney and her Gang of Idiots a polite nod and goes off to find Cal in the crowd.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. The women ooze off into the crowd like a big blob of hate, looking for their next victim. No wonder Laurel had to get out of this town. I walk into the kitchen and come face-to-face with Everett.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, unable to help it. This barbecue is like a haunted house.

“Hey, I didn’t quite recognize you without some male model hanging all over you,” Everett says, taking a long pull on his beer. I open the refrigerator door and finagle my coleslaw onto an already stuffed shelf.

“Oh, does that bother you? Is that hurtful to you? Seeing me with someone else? I mean, if I could only understand how that could possibly feel . . . ugh, it’s soooo hard to imagine such a thing!” I say, my hands in fists and dramatically thrust to the heavens.

“Queenie, come on. He’s ridiculous,” Everett says, motioning out to where Hudson is standing with the other men.

“I like him. He’s nice,” I say.

“You like him and he’s nice,” Everett repeats, slamming his beer down a bit too hard on Reed’s tiled counter.

“Yeah. I like him and he’s nice. Is that so revolutionary?” I ask.

“Is his shirt tucked in or isn’t it? Did he go to the bathroom and not quite tidy himself up after? I mean, I don’t get what that look is about,” Everett says, gesticulating wildly at Hudson and the offending plaid shirt.

“What’s happening over there?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Everett says. His voice subdued. Caught.

“How was that nice lady your parents were setting you up with on Sunday? Talk about ridiculous,” I say, walking past him and out toward the backyard. Everett reaches out and stops me. He leans down and speaks softly, intimately, into my ear.

“Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.” Everett’s eyes are locked on mine. Green, brown, and yellow pinwheels intense and focused.

“So does he what?” Hudson asks, standing in the open French doors, partygoers hustling past him. Everett straightens and approaches Hudson. In that moment, I honestly don’t know what Everett is going to do. With everyone outside, the three of us are alone.

“Everett Coburn,” Everett says, extending his hand to Hudson.

“Hudson Bishop,” Hudson says, shaking his hand. Everett looms over Hudson, I’m sure reveling in the few inches of height he’s got on him.

Oh. My. God.

“I was just saying that I knew how this thing between you two ends,” Everett says, his voice low and threatening. He folds his arms and juts his chin high. I’m speechless.

“It seems the only thing between us two is you,” Hudson says, walking over to where I am. He slides his arm around my waist and tilts his head just so.

“Damn right,” Everett says.

Everett flicks his gaze from Hudson to me and turns and walks outside.

“He seems cool,” Hudson says, walking into the kitchen and pulling a couple of beers from the cooler.

“Yeah, he’s super sweet.” He cracks them both open and hands me one. I take a long drink. Once again, I’m in that limbo. These are facts. What I’m supposed to do with all this new information, how I’m supposed to live, is the part I keep getting hung up on. Shit, if I had known Everett would react like this, I’d have trotted out a boyfriend way before now.

“So, are these your friends? Here? This is what your friends are like?” Hudson asks, taking another drink of his beer.

“He’s an ex. It didn’t work out. This is a very small town and I come from a long line of screwups,” I say.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Apparently, everyone but us.”

“I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”

“That wouldn’t be a first,” I say. Hudson laughs. I watch Everett fall into conversation with Reed and some of the assistant coaches just outside.

“It’s a simple equation really: the amount of money you have corresponds directly to the recognition of your family’s . . . shall we say, eccentricities. Now, let’s take my family, for instance. My father thinks we don’t know he sexually harasses every single secretary he goes through and I, unfortunately, mean that literally. My mother who, I’m pretty sure, merely sidelined her true sexuality and a lovely woman named Jackie to marry my father in her early twenties for the trust fund that accompanied him on his wedding day. Aunt Jackie, as she’s now known, is actually the best role model I’ve got, which is just perfect. Which brings us back to the original equation. My father comes from money, has even more power than that, and therefore his degree of eccentricity is swept under the rug, tolerated by the Santa Barbara elite and never questioned. I imagine that same equation is in play here in North Star. You scratch the surface of any family and you’re going to find dirt. Unfortunately, my darling Queenie, you were dealt a disreputable mother with no money or power to balance it out,” Hudson says, taking a long, long swig of his beer. He continues, “Am I close?”

“And I thought my family was crazy,” I say.

“Ha!” Hudson says.

“Hey, y’all—can I have your attention?” Reed is standing next to the smoker, his coach voice in full force. Hudson and I exit the house and crowd into the backyard. I wedge in between a couple wearing matching T-shirts with their son’s number on it and Merry Carole.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“It’s fine. You?” Merry Carole answers, her jaw still clenched.

“Yep. Fine,” I say.

“I’m sure we can talk about it later,” Merry Carole says, focusing back in on Reed. I take Hudson’s hand and pull him close. He gives me a smile and I squeeze his hand. I don’t know what to say or how to react to what he’s told me.

“I want to thank y’all for coming out to the barbecue. The team sure appreciates everything y’all do for us. Thank you to the Stallion Batallion for being the best booster club a team could ever want. I would like to particularly thank the Paragon Ranch for donating all of the food and drink you see here today. Everett Coburn, come on down, sir,” Reed says, scanning the crowd. Everett makes his way to Reed through the congratulatory, back-patting crowd.

“Ah. Now everything makes sense,” Hudson says.

“Yep,” I say, not able to look at him.

“A whole opposite-sides-of-the-track thing. How adorable,” Hudson says. I don’t answer him. Once again, that switch in him. It’s as if he sees people as these little plastic army guys he can bat around on his bedroom floor.

“Everett, every year we choose someone from the community to do the coin toss at our opening game; we’d love it if you would do us the honor this year,” Reed announces, presenting a large golden coin and hoisting it in the air. The crowd goes wild. I keep my eyes on Everett. He hates shit like this.

“Thank you so much, Coach. On behalf of the Paragon Ranch, I would consider it my privilege,” Everett says, taking the coin and shaking Reed’s hand. People are hooting and hollering as pictures are taken of the two men.

Merry Carole and I are as quiet as the grave.

I don’t see Everett again. As the barbecue winds down, Hudson and I settle into a couple of plastic chairs and laugh and talk the entire time. Merry Carole joined us after about an hour and we even got her laughing, despite herself. We ate brisket, drank beer, and decided that my coleslaw was definitely better than Delfina’s. Cal came over and introduced his friends, West among them. This led to Merry Carole and me whispering the torrid tale of West Ackerman’s lineage. Hudson could only gloat, insisting that his theory about wealth trumping eccentricity was proving itself to be true sooner rather than later.

As the sun finally set, Merry Carole fussed around the house, cleaning up, and made sure Reed was looked after in every way, except to join him in publicly declaring their love for each other. I catch them a few times in nooks and corners, whispering and pleading with each other.

“Do y’all want to come home with us or . . .” I trail off, plopping down next to Cal and Merry Carole.

“Cal, honey?” Merry Carole asks.

“I can walk home from the McKays, Momma. They’re doing that big after-party thing at their house,” Cal says.

“Is that your version of asking for permission to attend this ‘big after-party thing’?” Merry Carole snaps.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cal says.

“All right then. But I don’t want you staying out too late, and drinking is just out of the question,” Merry Carole says, her brow furrowed. It’s as if it’s just dawned on her that her little boy is becoming a man.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cal says.

“I don’t need to tell you that you’re already working with a stacked deck, my love,” Merry Carole says, her voice lowering.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“People are just waiting for you to fail,” Merry Carole says.

“Honey, he’s going to a party at the McKays, not leaving for a weekend in Bangkok,” I say. Cal can’t help but laugh. Merry Carole softens just a bit.

“I know. I know,” Merry Carole says, fussing with Cal’s hair. He is ever so patient with her.

“So Hudson and I are going to take off. You’ll be okay?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.

“Sure. Sure,” Merry Carole says; unbelievably, she picks up what I’m putting down.

“Merry Carole, I’m sure I’ll see you again,” Hudson says, extending his hand to her. She takes it.

“Pleasure seeing you again, Hudson,” Merry Carole says.

“Take your time now,” I say over my shoulder as Hudson and I make our way to the front door. Merry Carole shoos me away as her face colors.

As we drive through the empty streets of North Star, I’m happy. I had a good time today, against all odds. It started out a bit rough, took an unexpected turn, but leveled out rather nicely. They can’t get to me if I don’t let them. If I’m sitting there laughing and having fun, claiming my space; they can’t huff and puff and blow my house down.

Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.

Where do I put this “fact” in the library like purgatory that is my brain these days? I can testify and monologue all I want about being over Everett, but when he leaned over and I felt his breath on the side of my face, I knew it was all bullshit. I craned my neck to look into those eyes of his because I couldn’t help myself. It took all I had to not dive into him and kiss him right there. Please don’t let me be the only one who thought that.

“You all right?” Hudson asks as he parks in front of Merry Carole’s salon.

“It was just a long day,” I say, unclicking my seat belt and turning to face him. Hudson leans across and kisses me. I break from him. Feeling tired. Maybe I’m conflicted about Hudson. Or Everett. Who knows? “I’d better head in,” I say. I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I walk around to his side and lean down.

“Your friends are super nice. I had fun today,” Hudson says.

“You’re a really good liar,” I say, kissing him again.

“I know,” Hudson says. He puts his car in gear and pulls away. I watch his red taillights dim in the humid haze of the evening. The center of town is quiet except for the cicadas singing their song.

Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.

As I walk down the manicured path, past Cal’s football sign and into the darkened house, I can’t get the words to stop repeating in my head.

Everett knows how this ends? What does he know that I don’t?