Nowhere but Home A Novel

8




Gentleman Jack Bourbon



As I drive over the river and through the woods to the Shine Prison just twenty minutes away, I call Dee and tell her what I’m doing. Her response is subdued. This particular job definitely has a ghoulish edge to it that might dampen the normal celebrations a new job would bring. This job might change me. I’d know the terrible things people are capable of. That isn’t something I want to sign on for, but my life hasn’t been free of that already. I’ve seen the dark side firsthand and I know the complicated relationship we humans have with right and wrong. I’m painfully aware of how human beings can turn other human beings into something that’s below an animal.

I pull into the visitors’ parking lot just outside the barbed-wire fences that surround the prison. Guard towers anchor each corner of the compound, and as I walk to the entrance I swear even the wind is hesitant to float over these parts. The air is still. The humidity follows me through the door like a monkey on my back.

“Queenie Wake to see Warden Dale Green?” I ask the woman behind the glass.

“I knew the Queen Elizabeth herself wasn’t coming on down to Shine!” the receptionist says, laughing with the other woman in the front office.

“You probably get that all the time,” the other woman says.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“Well, Queen Elizabeth, I’ll be right with you. I’ve been dying to say that forever!” The women cackle together. They look like every other receptionist. Matching floral separates, sentimental doodads littering their desks, and yet they’re here. The first faces visitors see when checking in at a prison. The receptionist looks up after talking a bit with another woman in the front office. She continues, “Juanita’s going to come get you in a second. Go ahead and have a seat, Queen Elizabeth,” the woman says with a wink, motioning to the bank of chairs just behind me. I thank her and take a seat.

Sterile. Beige. Nothing to observe or draw conclusions from. Every now and again a guard comes in and talks with the ladies in the front office. They are easygoing; it feels like any other office. Except. Except there are hundreds of men just beyond those walls who are behind bars. What am I doing here? I should just work part time at Merry Carole’s salon. I don’t need to be doing this. What do I think I’m going to find here? Is this—

“Queen Elizabeth Wake?” A round woman in a fuchsia blouse and flowery skirt comes through the front-office door. Her cocoa skin shimmers with sweat, as the heat of the day has sneaked into the waiting room with the opening and closing front door. Her sensible shoes squeak and settle as she walks over to me. I stand, wiping my palm on my pants as she approaches.

“Please. Queenie,” I say, shaking her extended hand.

“We spoke on the phone. I’m Juanita,” the woman says, motioning for me to follow her through the front office. I oblige. She continues, “Now, Warden Dale is right through here. He’s ready for you to go on in, if that’s okay by you.” Juanita’s shoes squeak down the long, sterile hallway.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, trying to take in everything. It’s a wraithlike symphony of sounds. The echoes bouncing off the institutional walls are not unlike those of a schoolyard or a playground, but the speed has been slowed down so the voices are lower. My gut is telling me to run. The instinct of impending danger is on overdrive. The authoritative yells are vomit inducing and the voices they quiet are menacing and frenzied. I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto the front lines of a looming rebellion.

“Don’t mind it. They keep to themselves and you get used to it,” Juanita says, without so much as a look back my way. I nod and focus my eyes on Juanita’s waddling floral skirt just in front of me. She continues, “Right through here.” She opens a heavy metal door. The door shuts behind us and the rebellion is silenced. She walks through the anteroom, with its deep woods and rich fabrics. I follow close behind her. She knocks on the wooden door.

“Come on in,” I hear from just beyond the wooden door. Juanita opens the door and motions for me to go through. She nods to the warden and closes the heavy wooden door behind me. I swallow. Hard. The warden continues, “Have a seat, Ms. Wake.” The warden is a titan of a man. He stands way over six feet, but with the worn-in Stetson that he’s hung on the antlers of the mounted stag behind him, I expect he’s pushing NBA standards. The Stetson also probably hides a reddish-auburn hairline that’s clearly receding. His skin is pale and his brown eyes are clear and bright. He extends his hand to me and he envelops mine.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, not knowing whether to shake his hand, sit down, or do the hokey pokey.

“Please call me Warden Dale,” he says, motioning for me to sit. He comes out from behind his desk and walks over to a drinks cart on the far wall of his office.

Warden Dale’s office is decorated as if it were a hunting lodge. Along with the stag, he’s got a stuffed wild boar, a six-point buck, and various and sundry varmints posed in threatening positions, which they most certainly were not in when shot by Warden Dale. Warden Dale’s heavy wood walls anchor his dark leather furniture and expensive oriental rugs. He takes the stopper out of a crystal decanter and pours two glasses of bourbon. He walks over to me, hands me a glass, and clinks his glass to mine in a quick toast. He leans against his desk, just in front of me. He crosses his legs and I notice that his cowboy boots finish the ensemble perfectly.

“To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising his glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink. Bourbon. I was right. My entire throat is warmed and I can feel the heat of the liquor trickle down into my empty stomach.

“Ms. Wake, I am a visionary,” Warden Dale says, taking the glass from me and walking back over to the drinks cart. He pours two more glasses. I steady myself in the leather club chair.

“Yes, sir,” I say, taking the second glass of bourbon. He leans against his desk once more, his cowboy boots crossed, self-assured in front of me.

“To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising the glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink again. Warmth. Trickling. I focus my eyes.

“I believe in justice,” Warden Dale says, taking my empty glass once again. He walks back over to the drinks cart and pours two more glasses.

“Yes, sir,” I say, steadying myself once again. He walks back over to me and hands me a glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” he says, raising his glass.

“To the great state of Texas,” I say, raising mine. We drink. I set my empty glass down and continue, “Warden Dale, I’m going to stop you here. I was born in Texas and I’m probably going to die in Texas, so if you’re trying to drink me under the table as some kind of rite of passage, it’s never gonna happen. I worked next to a bar when I was in elementary school, and while your bourbon is better than anything they served there, I guarantee this will not end well for you. Shall we get down to business then?” I ask.

Warden Dale is quiet. I meet his gaze and wait. And wait.

I continue, “I’ve been bullied by worse than you, sir, and this little pissing contest is just a waste of my time.” I stand and start for the door.

“Let’s get down to business, then,” Warden Dale says, a wide smile across his face. He motions for me to sit down. I oblige and he walks back around his desk and sets his half-full glass of bourbon on a Lone Star coaster next to his calendar. He continues, “I would like to offer you the position of cook here in the Death House.”

“The Death House?”

“You’d be making last meals, but also cooking for the Death House crew,” the warden says.

“How often would I be . . . uh . . . cooking?” I ask. One meal equals one life. What am I getting myself into?

“We’ve been running about three to five executions a month. We’ve been getting some down from Huntsville as well as some of our own convicts,” Warden Dale says, his voice serious and heavy.

“Three to five,” I say, deliberately not saying the other word.

“Executions, yes.”

“Executions.” I said it. The word gets caught in my throat. The warmth of the bourbon is all but gone and all that remains is the icy chill of who I’m cooking for.

“You would have a staff of two convicts—the Dent boys. I’ve handpicked them for you. They’re a father and a son who went on one drug-filled crime spree, but have since found Jesus. They’re harmless and perfect for your needs.”

“Would I be cooking for the Death House crew every day or just when there was a . . . an—”

“Just when there was an execution,” Warden Dale says, finishing my sentence.

I nod.

“You never have to know the name or what they’ve done. You just have to cook a meal and make enough of it for the four members of the Death House crew, and Captain Richter. Chaplain Boothe tends to keep to himself. And you can decide if the Dent boys get your meal, if you want.”

“Yes, sir.” Merry Carole was right. I wasn’t taking this seriously. These are real people. Real people who are going to die. Real people who have done the worst things humans are capable of. I’m . . . I’m . . . “I’m going to need another drink, Warden Dale,” I finally say.

Warden Dale stands and pours me another glass of bourbon. He does not pour himself one. I slam the bourbon down, letting the warmth move through my body. I breathe.

“Can I give you an answer at the end of the weekend? We’ve got Fourth of July festivities and I need time to think,” I say, my mind a haze.

“Yes. Absolutely. I know it’s a lot to take in. But you have to see this as an opportunity to be that last shred of humanity before these men and women meet their maker. You are offering them a bit of . . . home.” We stand and he extends his hand to me.

“Home.” I take his hand and we shake.

“Please think about it, Ms. Wake. I know you are the right person for the job.”

“I will think about it, Warden Dale. You’ll have your answer by Monday.”

“Ms. Wake?” I turn around, my hand desperately clutching for the doorknob. I have to get out of here.

“Yes, sir?” I ask. Juanita is standing and waiting to walk me back through the Long Hallway of Echoes.

“I think you’ll fit in here. Please think about it,” Warden Dale says. I nod and walk with Juanita through the hallway and front office. I walk across the parking lot and sit in my car. I turn the key and blast the air-conditioning as my car idles. I turn off the radio and rest my hands on the hot steering wheel.

“I’ll fit in here? At a prison. That’s perfect. That’s f*cking perfect,” I say, putting the car in reverse and hightailing it as far away from Shine Prison as possible.



Once I get back to North Star, I park my car and head toward Merry Carole’s salon. I skirt the folded chairs and red, white, and blue streamers that Merry Carole has put out in front of her salon to mark off her territory for the parade. Country music, hair dryers, and gossip greet me again as I walk through the front door. Merry Carole is standing at the front counter talking to Fawn; she looks up as I approach.

“Laurel Coburn has an appointment in ten minutes, so talk fast and then get back to the house,” Merry Carole says, flipping through her appointment book. Fawn scans the appointment book for further “issues.”

“I’m not going to sneak out of here like a dirty little secret. I’m your sister,” I say, hating that I’m begging not to be hidden from the light of day. Again.

“I just don’t want a whole thing, you can understand that,” Merry Carole says.

“I’ve done nothing. We’ve done nothing. She has a problem with us, remember?” I ask, my blood boiling.

Merry Carole just sighs.

“It’s actually adorable that you think you can hide enough of yourself so these people will accept you, bless your heart.”

“Well, they’ll have to accept me after tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“The parents of the starting team are automatically appointed to the board of the Stallion Battalion, so once Cal gets named QB1, they’ll have to put up with me.” Merry Carole flips a small mirror on the front desk around and checks her hair in it. A quick pouf, a lip-gloss touch-up, and she turns the mirror back around.

I don’t say anything. My blood goes from boiling to running cold. I feel nothing but compassion for my beautiful sister. She must know those women will never accept her. She must know that they will find some loophole and not let her be part of the Stallion Battalion. How can she not know this by now? I guess for the same reasons I don’t. We’re constantly waiting for this town to be . . . fair. We’re waiting for our home to accept us, as we accept it. I guess we’re waiting for our “terms” to be considered.

But it’s never going to happen.

“Five minutes,” Fawn says, her eyes darting toward the door.

“I just want to talk to Dee and then I’ll sneak out the back. I promise,” I say.

“You guys can talk back in the kitchenette. And close the door,” Merry Carole says, motioning to Dee to make it quick.

Dee and I walk to the kitchenette and I elaborately close the door behind us.

“Can you get away tonight? Maybe we can drink and talk?” I ask.

“Sure, sure . . . Shawn gets home around seven, I can meet you at the Hall of Fame at what . . . eightish?” Dee says.

“That’s perfect. I’ll meet you there,” I say.

“Just real fast, how’d it go?” Dee asks, pulling a Coca-Cola from the minifridge and cracking it open.

“He offered me the job,” I say.

“What . . . did you . . . are you taking it?” Dee plays with the top of her Coke can, dusting it and spinning the flip top around and around.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

“Okay . . . we’ll talk. Tonight. Now go on before we both get into trouble,” Dee says, shooing me out the back.



That night, I walk down the same side streets Merry Carole and I played on endlessly as kids. The closer I get to the Drinkers Hall of Fame, the closer I get to the plot of land where Momma’s restaurant once stood. It’s dark enough that I won’t have to really see it, but I know the terrain like the back of my hand.

I step up onto the curb and walk through the dirt and overgrown weeds that have overtaken where the shack once was. I just stand there looking at the emptiness. Haunted. The cicadas sing. The music wafts out from the bar. The leaves rustle at a rare summer breeze. And I just stare. Gone. It’s gone. The eight-by-eight shack where I spent my childhood is gone and now just blackness remains. In a lot of ways. I let my head fall to my chest as I try to steady my breathing. I know Merry Carole hasn’t sold this land out of some warped sense of loyalty to Mom. I wish she would. That way the failures of our family wouldn’t live on as a black hole in the North Star landscape. A couple of people burst out of the bar just next door and it snaps me out of my unwelcome literal walk down memory lane. I turn and drag myself away from the gravitational pull of my disastrous family tree.

The Drinkers Hall of Fame. An induction ceremony no one wants to be a part of. The Hall of Fame, as we call it, has stood on that dusty plot of land for as long as North Star has been a stop on the railway. It’s been called the Hall of Fame since around the 1950s. Before that it was called every hackneyed Texan name in the book: the Two-bit Whore, the Hitching Post, Old West Tavern, Lone Star Saloon, the Cowboy, and the ever memorable Three Wise Men Bar and Grill (which never really caught on).

From the outside, the Hall of Fame looks like every other bar in a small town. Not really welcoming, but not scary either. But for us in North Star, it’s our watering hole. The place where the lights are low enough and the music is loud enough so people think they’ll have privacy—until the rumors about what they did are being whispered all over town the next day. I push open the creaky wooden door and try to prepare myself for what’s just inside.

Steve Earle’s “Feel Alright” hits me like a ton of bricks. The darkness blinds me momentarily as I blink to steady myself. A crack of the cue ball hitting a newly set up triangle of balls, a hoot and a cowboy boot shuffle, and the sound of beer bottles hitting the inside of a trash can wafts over me. I open my eyes and the room comes into focus.

The Drinkers Hall of Fame. Just like I remember it. The smoke-tinged dark wood floors set off the dark wood paneling nicely. The dark wood paneling goes well with the dark wood raftered ceiling. The beautiful dark wood raftered ceiling is complimented by the dark wood tables and chairs. And the dark wood bar brings the whole room together. The giant Lone Star flag on one wall is set off against several neon beer signs on the other. The pool table in the back of the room with the jukebox just behind it is where people go to loiter, lean, and observe. They’ve all “got next.” Cowboy hats are pulled low and beer bottles are held close. Women drape themselves over their men, arms hung over broad shoulders clad in plaid shirts. The tiniest of dance floors invites you to sway close and don’t you never let go.

“Queenie!” I can barely make out Dee in one of the dimly lit corners that’s usually saved for lovers. Her pastel flowery separates are a beacon that leads me to the safety of her saved table.

“Hey there,” I say, sitting down across from her and fighting the urge to hug her. We’ll hug with our good-byes, I tell myself.

“I ordered you a Lone Star. I know how you like the puzzles,” Dee says, twisting around to hook her purse on the back of her chair.

“What are you drinking?”

“Sea breeze,” Dee says, taking a genteel sip from the tiny straw.

“I didn’t know this place did sea breezes,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.

“Yes, Queen Elizabeth—it’s not just New York City that has all the fancy new cocktails,” Dee says.

“I heard you were in town,” Bec says, setting my beer on a coaster she flips deftly down first. Bec. Not Becky. Not Rebecca. And Bec? Bec is terrifying. Just the sort of waitress you’d expect in a bar like this. She’s ageless and she’s worked here forever. She used to let me sneak in to use the bathroom when I worked at Momma’s shack. Merry Carole and I were positive she was a witch of the Hansel and Gretel variety.

“Hey, Bec,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.

“That’s all you got for me?” Bec says.

“No, ma’am,” I say, standing and wiping my now clammy hands on my jeans. I extend my hand to her and she takes it, gripping tightly. We shake hands efficiently and I’m positive she’s stealing my soul or channeling some long-lost relative who’ll tell me in some spooky elsewhere voice that “Queeeen Elizzabetthhhhh, your grandmamaaaaa looooves youuuu.” I’m for sure going to have nightmares.

“I’m glad to see you safe and sound,” Bec says as I take my seat.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. My posture is perfect.

“All right then.” Bec pauses. The look. It’s the same look we get from a lot of people. Not the ones who are actively wishing us ill, but the other minority. The other people this town looks down on. They’re sorry about what happened to Momma. They’re sorry we got a momma like that in the first place. And then they’re just sorry. I nod and offer her a smile. A tight smile back and she’s gone to the next customer.

“I swear to God, that woman . . .” Dee takes a long, dainty sip of her sea breeze.

“I know,” I say. I look toward the bar. I’m hungry and those potato chips clipped to the Budweiser mirror are looking better and better.

“So, the job,” Dee says, settling into her chair as Kenny Chesney wafts through the bar talking about me and tequila.

“I think I’m going to take it,” I venture, saying it out loud for the first time.

“I’ve got to tell you, I just . . . Shawn hasn’t been the same man since he’s been working there, you know?”

“I can see how that would happen,” I say, fidgeting with my beer bottle.

“He comes home after . . . well, after . . . and he’s like a robot. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he just wants to be around the boys. I think it has to do with just wanting to be around goodness, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, from what he was telling me, it’ll be very different for you. It’s not like you even have to see who you’re cooking for.”

“I’m counting on that.”

“I think that’s what wakes him up at night, you know? The faces.” I nod. Dee continues, “So, you don’t have to worry yourself with that. You just cook the meal and that’ll be that.”

“I know, that’s kind of what I was thinking,” I say.

“Is the money that good? I mean, it’s not like you have any expenses here. Why . . . why take it if there’s some question about it, you know?” Dee is being very careful with her words.

“As I was leaving, Warden Dale said that I was the right person for the job. That I’d fit in there. No one’s ever said that to me before,” I say.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I get these jobs and there’s always all these explanations and addendums about ‘taking a chance on me’ and how hiring me is ‘out-of-the-box thinking,’ and on and on. This was the first time someone just flat out said they wanted me and only me.”

“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” Dee says.

“The last time I got fired, my boss talked about how I didn’t have any passion for the food unless I was complaining about their recipes. Like I had none of my own, you know?”

“But you do.”

“I know. So why didn’t I make them?”

“Maybe because you’ve been making those same recipes since you were a kid? I can see how you would have gotten burnt out,” Dee says.

“I guess.”

“Maybe you thought you’d find another way to cook that you liked better.”

“But I didn’t. And then I just forgot everything. And started yelling at tourists for putting ketchup on their eggs.”

“Chance puts ketchup on his eggs. It’s disgusting.”

“Different strokes, right?” I say, my stomach turning.

“I guess. Makes me think I’ve failed as a parent is what it does.”

We are quiet.

“I don’t know. Something about being able to cook food for real Texans, and that it has to be perfect? That’s speaking to me something fierce,” I say.

“I can see why you’d like that,” Dee says, not making eye contact.

Dee continues in an awkward blurting out, “Laurel was in particularly fine form this afternoon. I think Merry Carole was right about not having you in the salon.”

“I just think it’s all so futile. Like there’s anything we could do or have done already to make it so they don’t hate us. It’s their little pastime at this point. It’d be like taking away scrapbooking or making deals for people’s souls. And Merry Carole playing into it isn’t helping. They’re going to smell it on her and . . . I just hate to think of what’s going to happen,” I say.

“Laurel’s been different ever since the divorce,” Dee says, taking another sip.

The bar sounds muffle around me. My breath is yanked from my body and I can only focus on that tiny straw in Dee’s impossibly pink drink.

“The divorce?” My voice is raspy as I settle deeper into the tiny chair.

“Yeah, sure. She and Everett got divorced about a year after they got married. It barely lasted a minute,” Dee says, her voice now a conspiratorial whisper.

Everett. I can’t even form a thought. I just keep thinking his name inside my head. Everett. Everett.

“I didn’t know that,” I say, finally managing some kind of quasi-understandable succession of words.

“They said it was on account of her not being able to have babies, but . . .” Dee trails off.

“But?” I can’t breathe.

Dee looks surreptitiously around the bar—she decides we’re far enough away from the denizens of the Hall of Fame and curls her body over the wooden table. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

“I know they’re from good families and all that, but I just never thought there was anything between ’em, you know? She was okay in high school, but holy smokes, she just got meaner and meaner,” Dee says, her voice a tiny whisper. I wonder if it’s that Laurel has gotten meaner or is this what happens to the women who love Everett Coburn?

“Yeah,” I say. I can’t feel my body. I can’t feel my face, but I start to feel the littlest of embers warming inside me. I haven’t felt this heat in years, definitely not since I left North Star. We could pick up right where we left off. We’ll take our place in the shadows and . . . and I can be whole again. Even if it’s just for a little while. Or . . . or does he even love me anymore?

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Dee says, putting her hand on my shoulder as if she were comforting one of her little boys. She continues, “Here. You want another beer?” I am definitely going to need something stronger if I’m going to process this new information.

“I think I’m going to need something a little stronger,” I say, offering Dee a smile. “You want another?” I ask, pointing to her sea breeze.

“That’d be lovely, thank you,” Dee says, leaning back in her chair in search of her purse.

I excuse myself and walk over to the bar in a daze.

I don’t know what to do with this new information. Maybe the answer is right in front of me. I’ve been in town now for almost a week and I’ve heard nothing from Everett, notwithstanding his marital status. Maybe despite whatever I think happened in our past, he’s moved on. I take in a deep breath. I can’t . . . I won’t believe that. I know I meant more to him than someone he could easily get over. Shit, I’ve seen every kitchen from here to New York and I can’t rid myself of the memories of him. But maybe that’s just me. I was always the . . . my breath catches . . . I was always the dirty little secret. I was the thing that contaminated the mighty Everett Coburn. I was the old paint workhorse that would sully the Paragon thoroughbreds. He was my one and only. But what was I to him?

“Hello, Mr. Mueller,” I say, trying to steady myself. Mr. Mueller owns the Hall of Fame. He had a rocky relationship with my mother in the past. I don’t blame him for it, she was not any kind of neighbor I’d like. But he liked her cooking, so he put up with her.

“Queen Elizabeth,” he says, looking from under his low cowboy hat, the ever present toothpick switching from one side of his mouth to the other as he takes my measure.

“I’ll have a bourbon and branch and a sea breeze for Dee, sir,” I say, standing tall.

Mr. Mueller turns away without so much as a word. I continue to eye those potato chips.

“Why don’t you just order them already.”

Everett.

“I was going to offhandedly suggest that hey, Mr. Mueller, you know . . . screw it, why don’t you throw in some of those potato chips while you’re at it.”

“Seems like a lot of work for a bag of chips,” Everett says, leaning onto the bar and facing me.

Goddamn. He takes my breath away.

In the darkness of this bar, the hard edges of his face are shadowed and beautiful. The stubble that appears late at night outlines his jaw just as it always has. That crooked smile and those hooded, pinwheel-green eyes, the right one always a bit more squinted than the left. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in this room as he looks straight through me.

“These are on the house,” Mr. Mueller says, sliding my two drinks across the knotty wooden bar.

“Sir?”

“Welcome home,” he says in his gruff smoker’s voice.

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I say.

“Now you really can’t ask for those chips,” Everett says, holding up three fingers. Mr. Mueller turns and goes to get what I know will be three bottles of Shiner Bock beer.

“Hoist with my own petard,” I say, picking up my drinks. Everett smiles.

Mr. Mueller comes back over and cracks open three Shiner Bock beers. I can’t help but smile.

“Thank you, sir. Hey, Mr. Mueller, you know . . . screw it, why don’t you throw in some of those potato chips while you’re at it,” Everett says, nodding his head in the direction of my beloved chips. I sigh. I can’t help myself. I sigh.

“All right then,” Mr. Mueller says, turning to pluck a bag of chips from its hook. He sets the bag on the bar and nods to another customer as if to say, “May I help you?”

“Welcome home,” Everett says, presenting me with the bag of potato chips. I take them, the plastic crumpling under my touch.

“Thanks,” I say.

I can’t help myself. I look straight into his eyes. Just as I’ve been doing my entire life. His eyes lock back on to mine and we just stand there. We’re inches from each other for the first time in ten years and yet we’re frozen. I can’t breathe. Everett leans in mere centimeters, but it feels dangerous. A crooked smile and that right eye squints just a bit more than the left. I let out a laugh, trying to hide the nervous gasp that sneaked out as I feel the heat from his body nearing mine. I hear him take in a breath, his eyes still fast on mine. The sounds of the bar fall away and it’s just us. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Lifetimes. The crack of the cue ball. The hoot and holler and the shuffle of a cowboy boot. The beer bottles hitting the inside of the trash can. Waylon Jennings singing about being a highwayman.

My hands are cold around the drinks. I scan the bar. I see a couple of cowboys from Paragon waiting for Everett and, more important, their beers. And Dee. All riveted. I clear my throat and look back at Everett. He’s waiting. I smile and it takes everything I have to turn and walk back to my table.

“What was that about?” Dee asks, thanking me for her drink.

“Mr. Mueller gave me these free,” I say, trying to get myself under control. I can see Everett walk back to the table where they all are. He sets the beers in front of the two cowboys and sits down.

“No, I mean with Everett,” Dee says.

“Oh, nothing. It’s nothing,” I say, offering her my version of an offhanded smile.

“Sure looked like something,” Dee says.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

Dee starts talking about all the Fourth of July festivities tomorrow. Her oldest will be marching with his Cub Scout troop and the other two will be throwing tantrums about not marching with the Cub Scout troop.

My mind instantly wanders and settles on Everett. On the idea—the tiniest of ideas—that I could have him again. That we could be together—however temporarily. My throat begins to choke and burn. So many years of being trained to dream smaller and smaller, even my wildest dreams are mere bansai trees to the mighty oaks they could have been once upon a time.

Once upon a time before that bell tolled midnight and I had to go back to being a grubby Wake.