Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,69
the bar.
“What are you having?” Hudson yells over the din.
“Bourbon and branch,” I yell back.
“What?” he asks, leaning in close.
“Bourbon and branch. Garrison Brothers, if they have it,” I say, my breath fluttering his black flips of hair.
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m getting two,” he says, leaning forward on the bar. The chiseled-jaw, cowboy-hatted bartender (who looks like he does some stripping on the side) leans forward and offers Hudson a kind—if not somewhat stereotypical—“Howdy.”
“I’ll see if I can find a table,” I yell, scanning the crowded bar.
“The quieter the better,” Hudson yells over the noise. I nod and edge my way out toward the patio. The outside area is much quieter and a lot more authentic than I expected. A welcome discovery. The patio furniture is easy and relaxed. Swamp coolers and fans make the temperature only a bit wet and muggy. Even with all these amenities, there are very few people out here. It’s perfect. I find a wooden bench in a distant corner, situate the canvas striped pillows, and settle in. The wooden table is scarred by numerous drink rings, knotty flaws, and even a few carved-in initials. Some older women cradle their Lone Stars a few tables over. They crouch over their table in a drunken sway, their hair matted, their spirits dashed. They are the “last call” women. They remind me of Mom. I realize I’m staring. Maybe I’m just brain dead after today. I didn’t sleep at all last night and I can’t imagine tonight will be any better.
Next Tuesday. Oddly, it’s not the traditional Mexican Christmas that gets to me, although this inmate trying to re-create a happier time is tragic. It’s the Starburst. It seems so childlike to want candy. The two older women hoot and holler as a drunken frat boy stumbles by them. I’m actually thankful for the jolt. It’s too early to be depressed about the next meal. I’ve got work to do. I have to experiment with the cabrito, and once I know where his grandmother is from, I can start doing my research on what kind of tamale we’re talking about. Once again, Queenie . . . focus on the food. Focus on the food.
“Here you are,” Hudson says, walking over to the table two drinks in each hand, four total.
“You’re a genius,” I say, reaching for two glasses.
“Cheers,” Hudson says, clinking glasses with me as he settles himself across from me, his wooden chair skittering under his weight.
“What are we toasting?” I ask, downing my drink in one gulp.
“Life,” Hudson says, downing his.
“Ironic,” I say, reaching for my other bourbon.
“Is it?” Hudson says, pulling his other bourbon close.
“I can’t figure out if you’re being purposefully obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, downing my second bourbon.
“Probably a combination,” Hudson says, downing his second.
“Hmm,” I say, eyeing him closely. I scan the patio for a cocktail waitress. I need a beer. We need beer.
“So branch is just water. A bourbon and branch is just bourbon and water,” Hudson says, looking over his shoulder for the cocktail waitress as well.
“It’s water that comes right from the land where the distillery is. It’s not just any water,” I say, finally getting the cocktail waitress’s attention.
“But it is water, just the same,” Hudson says, just as the cocktail waitress approaches.
“What are y’all drinking?” the cocktail waitress says, dropping a couple of Lone Star beer coasters onto our table.
“Apparently, we’re drinking bourbon and fancy water,” Hudson says.
“Bourbon and branch, hon,” the cocktail waitress says, looking to me. We share a “yes, he’s not from here” moment.
“Two Shiner Bocks, please. And water when you get the chance. Just regular water,” I say, my accent thick enough to make up for Hudson’s languid California drawl. The cocktail waitress gives me a quick nod and is off into the bar.
“So,” Hudson says, leaning over the table. The two bourbons are beginning to warm me, making my brain happily hazy.
“So,” I say, guarded. It wouldn’t matter if I saw Hudson coming out of a burning building saving a puppy and a baby, something about him makes me think he’s up to no good. Let’s face it, if I saw him coming out of a burning building with a puppy and a baby, I’d probably think he started the fire.
“We can not talk about it, we can talk about it until the bar closes, or we can get drunk. Your call,” Hudson says, bringing his face ever closer to mine.