Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,102
who was too young to know any better. At least that’s what everyone kept saying during supper. “Too young to know any better.” “He didn’t have a chance,” they repeated. They felt worse about this kid than they did about the first man I cooked for, because they felt he wasn’t responsible for his actions. I imagine the family of the store clerk he shot would think differently.
Hudson. I should be angrier. Instead, I can’t stop thinking about Everett. I get off the highway and find myself driving through the town square, past Merry Carole’s house and on into the hills where Cal and I run every morning. It’s black as pitch up here at night. I drive past the Paragon gate and think. I know he inherited some land from his grandparents. I remember us going and taking a look at it. I slow my car to a snail’s pace as I try to remember. I turn off the radio and roll down the window. I make a few turns. Wrong ones. Flip a U-turn. Another couple of turns and a few dead ends later and I’m pulling down a long dirt road that I recognize. There it is. At the end of the dirt road. Everett’s home.
I shut the lights off like they do in the movies, but it’s too late. The porch light comes on and the front door opens. Everett. Arrow is just behind him, barking and wobbling in the doorway. He’s calming the old dog and telling him to cool it.
I roll to a stop, finally turning off the car. I don’t know why I’m here. My stomach is somewhere in my throat. I collect the Starburst on my passenger seat and crawl out of my car, slamming the door behind me. I can see it in Everett’s entire body when he realizes who it is. He walks forward and out onto his porch. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and some plaid pajama bottoms and is barefoot. His hair is uncombed and he’s wearing glasses. Everything about how unguarded he is right now breaks my heart. Maybe that’s why I’m not mad at Hudson. Because the first thing I thought about after driving away from Evans wasn’t what I’d lost with Hudson, it was what I’d lost with Everett. Hudson never had a chance. Of course, he knew that.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say, walking the apparent nine miles to his house from where I parked.
“Ah, yes. I’m going blind in my old age. I didn’t know you knew where I lived,” Everett says.
“You showed this land to me once. When you first got it,” I say, stepping up onto the porch. Arrow waddles over to me, tail wagging, still half-barking. “Hey, boy . . . look at you. All grown up. That’s a good boy.” I hold my hand out to let him smell it and he finagles an entire pet out of the opportunity.
“That’s right, but you haven’t seen the house yet. You brought candy?” Everett asks, stepping aside and gesturing for me to come inside. Arrow launches himself into the house first.
“No, I haven’t seen the house. And this is the last-meal candy that I don’t know what to do with. He didn’t eat it,” I say, walking inside Everett’s house, holding the handful of Starburst aloft. Everett shuts the door behind me.
Everett’s house is not as grand as I would have thought based on the amount of land around it. Arrow waddles over to his dog bed, his feet skidding a bit on the dark hardwood floor. He plops down and sighs, letting his head fall on the cushion, still watching our every move.
“I know. He’s getting old,” Everett says, walking over to the large gray sectional and shutting off the sports recap playing on the flat-screen TV. The flat screen’s positioned over the large fireplace that anchors the far wall. The great room is just that. Great. High ceilings with exposed rafters soaring to and fro. French doors and wood paneling. Warmth and light combined in a way that makes you want to sink into Everett’s house with a cup of tea, a good book, and watch the seasons change. This isn’t helping the situation.
“He’s such a great dog,” I say, not knowing where to stand or why I’m here.
“No, he’s not,” Everett says, looking just as awkward.
“I’m sorry I barged in on you,” I say.
“I’m glad you did. Can I get you anything or did you just