Nowhere but Home by Liza Palmer Page A

people think they’ll have privacy—until the rumors about what they did are being whispered all over town the next day. I push open the creaky wooden door and try to prepare myself for what’s just inside.
    Steve Earle’s “Feel Alright” hits me like a ton of bricks. The darkness blinds me momentarily as I blink to steady myself. A crack of the cue ball hitting a newly set up triangle of balls, a hoot and a cowboy boot shuffle, and the sound of beer bottles hitting the inside of a trash can wafts over me. I open my eyes and the room comes into focus.
    The Drinkers Hall of Fame. Just like I remember it. The smoke-tinged dark wood floors set off the dark wood paneling nicely. The dark wood paneling goes well with the dark wood raftered ceiling. The beautiful dark wood raftered ceiling is complimented by the dark wood tables and chairs. And the dark wood bar brings the whole room together. The giant Lone Star flag on one wall is set off against several neon beer signs on the other. The pool table in the back of the room with the jukebox just behind it is where people go to loiter, lean, and observe. They’ve all “got next.” Cowboy hats are pulled low and beer bottles are held close. Women drape themselves over their men, arms hung over broad shoulders clad in plaid shirts. The tiniest of dance floors invites you to sway close and don’t you never let go.
    â€œQueenie!” I can barely make out Dee in one of the dimly lit corners that’s usually saved for lovers. Her pastel flowery separates are a beacon that leads me to the safety of her saved table.
    â€œHey there,” I say, sitting down across from her and fighting the urge to hug her. We’ll hug with our good-byes, I tell myself.
    â€œI ordered you a Lone Star. I know how you like the puzzles,” Dee says, twisting around to hook her purse on the back of her chair.
    â€œWhat are you drinking?”
    â€œSea breeze,” Dee says, taking a genteel sip from the tiny straw.
    â€œI didn’t know this place did sea breezes,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.
    â€œYes, Queen Elizabeth—it’s not just New York City that has all the fancy new cocktails,” Dee says.
    â€œI heard you were in town,” Bec says, setting my beer on a coaster she flips deftly down first. Bec. Not Becky. Not Rebecca. And Bec? Bec is terrifying. Just the sort of waitress you’d expect in a bar like this. She’s ageless and she’s worked here forever. She used to let me sneak in to use the bathroom when I worked at Momma’s shack. Merry Carole and I were positive she was a witch of the Hansel and Gretel variety.
    â€œHey, Bec,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.
    â€œThat’s all you got for me?” Bec says.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” I say, standing and wiping my now clammy hands on my jeans. I extend my hand to her and she takes it, gripping tightly. We shake hands efficiently and I’m positive she’s stealing my soul or channeling some long-lost relative who’ll tell me in some spooky elsewhere voice that “Queeeen Elizzabetthhhhh, your grandmamaaaaa looooves youuuu.” I’m for sure going to have nightmares.
    â€œI’m glad to see you safe and sound,” Bec says as I take my seat.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I say. My posture is perfect.
    â€œAll right then.” Bec pauses. The look. It’s the same look we get from a lot of people. Not the ones who are actively wishing us ill, but the other minority. The other people this town looks down on. They’re sorry about what happened to Momma. They’re sorry we got a momma like that in the first place. And then they’re just sorry. I nod and offer her a smile. A tight smile back and she’s gone to the next customer.
    â€œI swear to God, that woman . . .” Dee takes a long, dainty sip of her sea breeze.
    â€œI know,” I say. I look toward the bar. I’m