Nowhere but Home (16 page)

“Then what is it?”

“Apparently, I'm a whore again,” Merry Carole says, taking a long pull from her beer.

“I'm sorry?”

“Oh yeah—haven't you heard? Cal only got QB1 because I'm screwing Coach Blanchard,” Merry Carole says, threading her hands through her long blond hair that's damp from the shower. No pageant height and nary a product in use. She is (for once) au naturel. And she's as radiantly beautiful as ever.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“The orientation for new Stallion Batallion parents was today,” Merry Carole says.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Merry Carole takes a long drag on her beer.

“And they were terrible.” It's not a question.

“Of course.”

“Which shouldn't be a surprise.”

“But it always is.”

“I know.”

“I'm nice, Queenie.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It should.”

“It never does.”

“The sad thing was, I walked in there thinking this time was going to be different. Why do I keep doing that?”

“I don't know,” I say, knowing I did the same thing with Everett. Thinking this time was going to be different. Now that we're adults, he was going to sweep me up and finally admit to God and everybody that we're in love. But no. It was the same. It's always the same.

“I mean, let's not get crazy here. I got a whiff that it was happening within seconds and smacked that glazed smile on my face as quickly as I could, taking my place along the wall,” Merry Carole says, her hand pointing to her plastered-on pageant smile as a game-show presenter would. She stands and reenacts the entire thing. Perfect. Breezy. Unaffected. We laugh. Her laugh crackles and breaks as it spirals down into the vast pain that is at the very foundation of us both. She sits back down and takes another swig of her beer.

“So what happened?”

“I'm in line at the stupid potluck just before we start planning the team barbecue, which you're coming to, by the way,” Merry Carole says, her eyes laser focused.

“You're in a fragile state, so I'll agree to this. Now continue,” I say, already trying to figure a way to get out of the team barbecue, a fund-raising event thrown by the Stallion Batallion. It's not
if
Merry Carole and I will be completely ostracized, it's whether or not we'll be able to have some barbecue before it happens.

“So I was ladling out some tacky punch and I hear these two women talking about Coach Blanchard. I give them the Smile. They, of course, don't smile back.” I nod in agreement. Of course. Merry Carole continues, “And I hear one of them say, ‘
Her? He can do way better than that!
Just like her momma, that one
.' ” Merry Carole's smile fades quickly. The story has stopped being funny.

“What a bunch of bitches,” I say.

“I'm . . . I wasn't even wearing something . . . I mean, this is my body. I'm not going to hide it because . . . I shouldn't have to apologize for looking the way I do.” Merry Carole can't finish a thought or a sentence.

“Trying to understand rationally what those women were talking about is useless. They're catty bitches and the only way to put you back in your place is to make sure you feel as terrible about yourself as possible,” I say.

“Mission accomplished,” Merry Carole says, raising her bottle of beer.

“So it's the same old shit, then?” I ask, knowing this chatter well.

“Yeah, but I just hate to see Cal brought into it, you know?” Merry Carole's voice sputters and chokes.

“I know,” I say, leaning across the table, through receipts and binders, to give her hand a squeeze.

“It's fine. Really. It just . . . it just caught me by surprise,” Merry Carole says, taking her hand back. She begins to collect herself. Rebuild the walls. Armor back up with Aqua Net, push-up bras, and a well-placed “no, thank youuuuuu, ma'am.”

“Well, it's not fine, actually.”

“Yeah, but it's just the same old shit. Like you said.”

“Don't you think it's a bit old, though?”

“I thought it was old back when I was walking around fourth grade and these people were calling me the same exact names. So now it's just embarrassing that they haven't even tried to come up with something new.”

“They're not known for their imaginations.”

“Except when it comes to scenarios about me wanting to steal all their men. The ideas they get about my sex life.” Merry Carole flushes. For looking and dressing much like a 1950s
Playboy
centerfold, Merry Carole has always been way too prudish for her own good.

“Do you have any idea what this round of rumors is about?”

“None.” Merry Carole's answer is . . . suspicious.

“Uh-huh,” I say, my eyes narrowing.

“I don't.”

“Well, I don't believe you, but I guess you'll tell me in your own good time.”

“What?” She is ridiculously putting on some faux-innocent bullshit routine. It's actually hilarious.

“The texting the other day and now this? There's someone in the picture that you're not telling me about. It's fine. It's your business, but if I'm going to defend you in the court of public opinion that is North Star's town square, I should have all the information.”

Merry Carole remains silent. For a long time. And then . . .

“Reed and I—”

“I knew it,” I say, my voice a bit too excited.

“We thought we were being discreet. I thought so, at least.”

“They know everything that goes on in the entire great state of Texas, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“Is it serious?”

“It was. It is. I don't know anymore. I tried to talk to Cal about it, how he would feel about me seeing someone, and it just . . . he got confused and I've just never seen him so upset.” Merry Carole cinches her robe tight.

“What was he upset about?”

“I think he's afraid everything is going to change? I don't know—it's always been just us, you know? I think he also—I think the other boys on the football team might talk a bit about me. I think he feels like he has to defend my honor a lot and maybe he thought me seeing a man was like me being with someone who talked about me like those boys on his football team did, you know?”

“I'm sure the boys on the football team talk about you. You're a beautiful woman,” I say.

“I don't think they put it so lovingly, Queenie.”

“I'm sure they didn't. Did you tell him it was Reed you were seeing?”

“No.”

“But Reed's not that guy, so telling Cal that it's Coach Blanchard would have calmed him down about you being objectified, don't you think?”

“I don't know. It was the most uncomfortable conversation in the entire world. I thought talking to him about, well,
you know . . .
” Merry Carole shifts her eyes south. I get the point. She continues, “But this? This is a thousand times worse. Sometimes I think this is me paying for not being married to his daddy, you know? Then we wouldn't have this issue if he just expected me to be with—”

“Wes? Really?”

“I know. I just hate how the rumors are right, you know? They're right. I am seeing Reed. So what leg do I have to stand on to be righteous about it, you know? I just hope Cal doesn't get wind of it.”

“You guys must think Cal doesn't get wind of a lot of things,” I say.

“He thinks about football, girls, and rap music. I am relying on him being a selfish teenager—please don't burst my bubble.”

“He's not a selfish teenager and you know it,” I say.

“I knowwwww. Let's change the subject. How was the new job?”

We sit at that dining room table for another hour drinking beer and talking. It's glorious and just what I need. We talk about the orientation, Cal, the football team. We don't talk about the men we're not mentioning. We take apart the women of the town, again and again. Then we talk about the brisket and the new job. I don't tell her about yesterday (or the last twenty years) with Everett. I also don't tell her about Hudson. Not yet. It'd be like cutting out a picture of some movie star and announcing, “This is my new boyfriend!” It feels just as unlikely.

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.