Nowhere but Home A Novel

9




Buttermilk biscuits, honey butter, not enough coffee



After a fitful night’s sleep, I inexplicably find myself sitting on the curb outside Merry Carole’s hair salon. I’m holding a tiny American flag in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. It’s early in the morning and Merry Carole is urging me to wave my flag “like I mean it.” She’s dressed in an outfit I can only describe as Wonder Woman’s lounge wear and keeps pointedly waving her flag at me.

“This is just the biggest day of the year, Queen Elizabeth, and you can’t even muster up a little flag wave?” Merry Carole asks, poufing and poufing a head of hair that is already as high as it can get without someone thinking it’s a cartoon thought bubble brought to life.

I wave my flag violently in her face.

“You’re only hurting America, Queen Elizabeth,” Merry Carole says, checking herself in the reflection of her salon’s front window.

“When does the football team come down the route?” I ask as she finally sits down.

“They’re last, of course,” Merry Carole says, producing the biscuits I baked last night when I couldn’t sleep. I made honey butter for good measure. Merry Carole flips the red, white, and blue handkerchief back over the top of the basket filled with biscuits. Fawn and Pete lunge for the biscuits. She sets the basket down with the rest of the food and drinks we brought out here at the crack of dawn.

“Of course,” I say, leaning back on my hands and stretching my legs in front of me, out in the street.

I’ve been coming to this parade my entire life. It’s one of those things your hometown does that you think is ridiculous and yet you wouldn’t miss it for the world. The entire town shuts down and everyone just has fun. Merry Carole and I would always stake out a place along the route. We’d gawk at the North Star queen and her court, the pack of zany rodeo clowns, the mighty North Star Stallions, and of course, the Coburns and their beautiful Paragon quarter horses. It was a day off for the bogeymen of North Star.

We hear the siren of the ancient fire truck and know that the parade is starting.

“Oh, here we go!” Merry Carole says, tousling my hair. I look over at her and we smile. I pull my legs in close and perch on the curb, awaiting the parade.

We watch as half the town walks by waving and we wave back. We wave our flags as antique cars pass by carrying members of the city council, small-business owners, and rodeo heroes. The rodeo clowns roll around the street in brightly colored barrels and tiny cars to the delight of the kids lining the parade route. We’re laughing, patting backs, and passing food and drink to one another as the packs of North Star citizens pass by.

The float—and by float I mean a flatbed truck with silver tinsel along its bumpers—trundles by with the North Star queen and her court of three princesses. Merry Carole and I wave our flags and clap as the girls go by, but both of us are less than impressed. The North Star court is Laurel Coburn and Whitney McKay’s domain. Merry Carole and I would have killed to be in that court—waving to everyone in those pretty dresses. It was all I thought about as a kid. I later denounced it as “lame,” but I’m sure everyone knew sour grapes when they saw them. I certainly did. I could barely get the harsh words out before swooning into another fantasy about being crowned queen and Everett finally professing his love for me as he scooped me up onto one of those quarter horses and we rode off into the sunset. That was not quite how it played out. Laurel was queen to Everett’s king and I was the lank-haired interloper who said the parade was for “losers” as I watched out of the corner of my eye. Everett came by later that night . . . when no one was around to see us together.

Take that, Queen Laurel.

The queen and her court pass by and Merry Carole and I clear our throats. “Their hair looks great,” Fawn says to Merry Carole.

“Oh, thank you,” Merry Carole says, looking at their high hair with pride. She poufs her own hair that much higher.

I can hear them before I see them. The clop, clop, clop of the Paragon quarter horses. Two by two. Riders in crisp white shirts, jeans, and white Stetsons ride majestic animals that defy the expectation of what a horse should be. The crowd hoots and hollers for the pride of North Star. A chill runs down my spine as they round the corner by Merry Carole’s salon.

Felix and Arabella Coburn are right in front. Smiling and waving and looking down at all of us, as they always do. Right behind Felix and Arabella is their only girl, Everett’s sister, Florrie. Florrie was actually kind of a badass—and not into being the queen of the North Star court at all. She was one of the only female cutting champions and is on her way to making the National Cutting Horse Hall of Fame. She was a staple in rodeos in her time. Now she’s a sought-after rodeo judge and mother to her five little girls—who trot just behind her in the parade. Florrie married well, had beautiful babies, and is everything her parents could want. I always thought Florrie and I could have been friends. She was never anything but cordial to me. I always thought she knew about Everett and me, but never gave it away. She didn’t say a word when Felix laid down the law about never bringing a Wake into his home. But I can’t fault her for that.

Just behind Florrie’s brood is the youngest Coburn—Gray. Gray is catnip for the young women of North Star. He’s the vet at Paragon and perpetually single. I never saw any signs of him settling down, but I’m sure he’ll bow to his family’s pressure and find a suitable wife. Until then, he’s going to continue leaving a string of broken hearts behind him. At Gray’s age, Florrie already had two babies and a successful rodeo career. Florrie didn’t have the luxury of freedom that Gray has. Neither did Everett, I suppose.

Ranch hands, rodeo riders, and the rest of the men and women of the Paragon Ranch trot by two by two. I’m not breathing. I’m waiting. He’s always last.

Everett is riding by himself in the very back carrying the flag of Paragon. He might as well be on a white charger instead of the beautiful blue roan he’s on. I can’t help myself, and just like at the Drinkers Hall of Fame last night, I let my eyes wash over every inch of him. His crisp white shirt pulls tight across his broad shoulders. Stubble outlines his strong, yet always clenched, jaw. His full lips are pressed in a hard line, nary a crooked smile for the waving citizens of North Star. His eyes are hooded as they search the crowd, intense and concentrated. His brownish hair is curling up from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat and I can see his neck starting to glisten from the heat. His bitten-down fingernails curl around the flagpole as the flag waves and flickers in the air just above him. His legs are powerful around the animal that he controls beneath him, but my eyes stop on the big silver belt buckle at his waist. I know it well and can’t help but smile. I gave it to him as a joke when we were going through a rough time at UT. I told him that as long as he was going to act like the king of the a*sholes, there should be some sort of commemoration. Then I elaborately presented him with the belt buckle emblazoned with a crown on the front and an inscription on the back: EVER THE KING OF THE ASSHOLES. LOVE, QUEENIE.

I can’t believe he still has it. I hate that I’m running through the same teenage list: this means that and that means this and Everett doing that clearly means this and because he did this one thing it means when that happens we’ll do that, but we had that moment in the bar where our love for each other literarily froze us in time and on and on.

As Everett rides by he tips his hat, his eyes fast on mine. The crooked smile that’s just for me. I hate that my face flushes and my body reacts to him as it always has.

Divorced.

The tiniest of voices inside my head offers up that maybe he never stopped loving me. His marriage to Laurel was doomed. And now? Now we can be together. We’re adults, aren’t we? I’ll take this job and we’ll start up again. I mean, what’s worse? Running all over the world alone, becoming a shell of myself, or being back in North Star and being with Everett—in the shadows or not? Why are these my only options? Loving Everett means I’m either alone or his dirty little secret. I shake my head as he trots on down the parade route. He knows. I’ve never been able to hide what I’m feeling from him. What I could never understand was how, if he really did know what I was feeling, how he could treat me the way he did. He must think we’re together in this treachery. We’re both prisoners of the North Star law that says we can’t be together. But that’s not true. He chose not to be with me all those years ago. He could have taken a stand. He could have told his father exactly what he could do with his ideas about dating Laurel. He could have fought for us. He could have fought for me. He could have fought for true love. But he didn’t. I didn’t, either. I ran.

It’s worse knowing he loves me. I keep waiting for him to do the right thing by it . . . by me. Now all we’re bound by is pain and the knowledge that we can never be together, that we can never be truly happy. Knowing that the other is just as miserable—or at least hoping—is what connects us. What do we do? What do I do? I can’t stop loving him and I’ll never be able to hate him. Do I learn from New York? Do I try to muster up the ability to be indifferent to him? Is that the goal? There’s no one else for me but him. He’s the love of my life. So I hold out hope. I read into belt buckles and a tip of his cowboy hat just like I did when I was eleven. And I wait for his parents to suggest another worthy spouse who isn’t me. Loving Everett has molded me, but it’s also taught me that my love is something no one wants out in the open.

And then the crowd goes wild.

“Here he is! Here he is!” Merry Carole yells, jumping up behind me. I steady my legs after they turned to jelly seeing Everett and stand up next to Merry Carole.

The marching band launches into some unintelligible old standard as the cheerleaders jump and cheer down the parade route. The drum major leads the band with an unparalleled enthusiasm. We’re finishing cheers, spelling out our school name, telling the cheerleaders we will GO! FIGHT! WIN! And to every NORTH STAR we answer STALLIONS! NORTH STAR! STALLIONS!!! NORTH STAR! STALLIONS! Louder and louder. It’s a thundering pack and the entire town is being swept away. The drums pound, the brass blares. It’s all small-town glory with American flags waving as the marching band makes its way down the tiny parade route.

Then all we can see is a sea of black and gold. The football team looks more like a barreling horde of colts and puppies that have no idea how big they’ve gotten. And in the middle of it all is Cal. He’s grinning from ear to ear and strutting down the center of town. My eyes well up; I can’t believe what I’m seeing. He’s being patted on the back and fallen over by his friends. The men and women of North Star are pulling him out of the ranks to shake his hand and give him a pat on the back. I can’t believe it. I pull Merry Carole in close as she dabs to no avail at her trailing mascara. She’s waving and calling his name. He’s searching for her in the crowd and then all he can do is point, a huge smile breaking across his face. He is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.

“Wooohooooooooooo! That’s my baby!!!!!! Woooohoooooo!” Merry Carole yells, leaping up and down. I smile and laugh as the football team passes.

“Which one is West?” I ask Merry Carole, my voice low.

Merry Carole points out another boy with blond hair.

“That’s ridiculous. They look like brothers. It’s crazy that people are walking around this town acting like they’re not kin,” I say to Merry Carole so only she can hear. She nods in agreement, but then goes back to hooting and hollering for Cal and the rest of the Stallions.

The thing is? This West kid looks . . . nice. He’s walking with Cal and they seem to get along. Although it’s not as if you can see my hatred for Laurel and Whitney emanating off my body or anything, so who am I to judge what’s really happening?

“He looks like a good kid,” I say, referring to a boy who could probably pulverize me with one swat.

“He really is. I don’t know where he got it from,” Merry Carole says with a wink, her voice low and cutting. The football team finally fades down the parade route as a line of policemen signal that the parade has come to an end.

“The dance will start at six PM this evening, and fireworks start at nine PM!” the policemen repeat as they walk down the parade route.



“Queenie, honey? We’re heading over to the dance. You ready yet?” Merry Carole knocks and then opens the door. Her voice trails off when she sees me curled up in the fetal position in my tiny twin bed. Epiphanies about ballast and pacts of pain and misery cover me like a warm blanket. Merry Carole shuts the door behind her.

“I’m not going,” I say, turning over on my back and facing her. She’s in an entirely new outfit, new makeup, new hair. Merry Carole has more costume changes than Cher.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, feeling my forehead with the back of her hand. Her hand is soft and it breaks through me. She sits down on the edge of my bed.

“I just can’t face ’em,” I say, letting my arm fall over my eyes. I can’t bear to have her see me like this. Tears roll down my face.

“Okay,” Merry Carole says, taking my hand away from my face ever so gently. She swipes my bangs off my forehead and scoots closer. Her rose-water perfume wafts over me. I am immediately comforted.

“I’m sorry,” I say, truly meaning it.

“I know, sweetie,” she says, smiling as my eyes flutter open.

“All the couples and . . . I mean, I could dance with you or Cal, but . . . ,” I say, trying to make a joke.

“Cal won’t want anything to do with us,” Merry Carole says.

“Yeah, probably,” I say.

“Can I give you a piece of advice?” Merry Carole says, still smoothing my hair.

“Sure.”

“You can’t let them get to you. They can’t ever know that—” Merry Carole’s voice cracks and she pulls a red, white, and blue handkerchief from the depths of her bra. She dabs her mascara and continues, “They can’t ever know that you go home at night and cry yourself to sleep because they got to you.” I sit up and pull her in for a tight hug. She breaks from our hug and continues, “I know what they think of me, but that doesn’t mean that they get to think they broke me. Broke us. ’Cause they didn’t. They can’t. We won’t let ’em. Now get dressed, and for God’s sake, take a shower and be at that band shell by six so we can watch our boy get QB1,” Merry Carole says, tucking the handkerchief back down into the recesses of her bra. She quickly wipes away my tears and stands.

“Okay,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed.

“You could even wear one of my dresses,” Merry Carole says, opening my door.

“Now you’re pushing it,” I say, standing.

“Six PM. I’ll be right in front,” Merry Carole says and closes the door behind her.