Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,89

sweet tea and calm myself down.

“Had?” Hudson says, taking a big bite out of his ribs. His face is now covered in barbecue sauce.

“She died a while back,” I say, scooping up some of Delfina’s coleslaw. I luxuriate in it and let it erase, if only momentarily, the sludge left over from Pansy’s condescending warning.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking how she died?” Hudson asks, wiping his face and searching the table for more napkins. He pulls a handful from the basket that sits in the middle of the table.

Sigh.

“She was killed when I was sixteen,” I say, woodenly. Eating. The ribs are perfect. Pay attention to this and not Hudson’s questions. I close my eyes to really taste the sauce and the perfectly smoked meat. I open them and find Hudson just staring at me. He has a slight tinge of barbecue sauce around his mouth.

“Queenie . . . are you serious?” Hudson asks.

“Why would I joke about something like that?”

“Why would you mention your mother was killed and then casually take a bite of your ribs?” I set down the ribs and wipe my face clean. I take a long drink of sweet tea. Hudson waits.

“I don’t mean to be casual about it, I really don’t,” I say. I stop. Think. I continue, “I haven’t talked about it for so long, mainly because everyone knew. There was nothing left to say. And we don’t really talk about things here, if you know what I mean. Plus, I liked that you didn’t know; does that makes sense?”

“It does.”

“It’s one of those things in your past that you do a countdown on until someone knows it about you. And then it’s three, two, one . . . and they’re looking at you different,” I say.

“And your dad?” Hudson asks, his voice quiet.

“Never knew him. Like I said, my mom had a reputation that was well earned, if you get my meaning,” I say, not having the heart to spell it out for him.

“Jesus,” Hudson says.

“Come on, let’s eat. I don’t want to ruin th—”

“So when you’re cooking these last meals—wait, is the person who killed your mom in the system?” Hudson asks.

“Are you interviewing me for your paper now?”

“I’ve always been a curious person and never really had any boundaries, so . . .”

“Clearly.”

“You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to stare at you searchingly until you do.”

“Yes. She’s in the system.”

“A woman, interesting. Did you know her?”

I just take a deep breath and arch an eyebrow.

Hudson continues, “Too far? Okay, but just that last one. Then I’ll stop. For now.”

“We knew her.”

“So no other family? Mom dead, no father?”

“I have Merry Carole and Cal,” I say, not liking how this dinner is going.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“No ‘yeah but’ . . . we’re fine.”

“Either you’re ridiculously well adjusted about this or you, my dear, are in for quite the breakdown when the time comes,” Hudson says.

“Fingers crossed for the breakdown!” I joke. I want to get away from this conversation. I’m sorry I brought it up at all. Oh wait. I didn’t. I was scolded by Pansy Mack and now I’m being grilled by Hudson.

“If it helps, I’ve been studying criminals and death and the psychology of mortality and loss for years,” Hudson says.

“You must be a big hit with the ladies back home. Your first-date small talk is delightful.”

“A, I am a big hit with the ladies back home. B, my small talk is out of the ordinary and layered, and C, so this is a date then?”

I take a bite of my ribs and ignore Hudson’s little list. He takes this as his cue to continue.

“What I’ve found as a by-product of my research is the fallout this type of death has on the families. It’s always shocking how ill prepared they are for the loss, despite how they felt about the person. I mean, these are criminals here, their relationships with their families are always complicated. But still. I mean, even if it was bad, and it usually was—right? Even if it was bad, these families still defined themselves by their dearly departed. They were the good ones and the dearly departed made life interesting. Without them they have a hard time trying to find their own identity. I mean, right?” Hudson stops and waits for my opinion on the subject of whether or not my identity is wrapped up in my mother. If he weren’t so right on with his assessments, I