Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,34

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.

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