Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,59

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