Nowhere but Home by Liza Palmer Page B

hungry and those potato chips clipped to the Budweiser mirror are looking better and better.
    â€œSo, the job,” Dee says, settling into her chair as Kenny Chesney wafts through the bar talking about me and tequila.
    â€œI think I’m going to take it,” I venture, saying it out loud for the first time.
    â€œI’ve got to tell you, I just . . . Shawn hasn’t been the same man since he’s been working there, you know?”
    â€œI can see how that would happen,” I say, fidgeting with my beer bottle.
    â€œHe comes home after . . . well, after . . . and he’s like a robot. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he just wants to be around the boys. I think it has to do with just wanting to be around goodness, you know?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI mean, from what he was telling me, it’ll be very different for you. It’s not like you even have to see who you’re cooking for.”
    â€œI’m counting on that.”
    â€œI think that’s what wakes him up at night, you know? The faces.” I nod. Dee continues, “So, you don’t have to worry yourself with that. You just cook the meal and that’ll be that.”
    â€œI know, that’s kind of what I was thinking,” I say.
    â€œIs the money that good? I mean, it’s not like you have any expenses here. Why . . . why take it if there’s some question about it, you know?” Dee is being very careful with her words.
    â€œAs I was leaving, Warden Dale said that I was the right person for the job. That I’d fit in there. No one’s ever said that to me before,” I say.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah, I get these jobs and there’s always all these explanations and addendums about ‘taking a chance on me’ and how hiring me is ‘out-of-the-box thinking,’ and on and on. This was the first time someone just flat out said they wanted me and only me.”
    â€œIt sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” Dee says.
    â€œThe last time I got fired, my boss talked about how I didn’t have any passion for the food unless I was complaining about their recipes. Like I had none of my own, you know?”
    â€œBut you do.”
    â€œI know. So why didn’t I make them?”
    â€œMaybe because you’ve been making those same recipes since you were a kid? I can see how you would have gotten burnt out,” Dee says.
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œMaybe you thought you’d find another way to cook that you liked better.”
    â€œBut I didn’t. And then I just forgot everything. And started yelling at tourists for putting ketchup on their eggs.”
    â€œChance puts ketchup on his eggs. It’s disgusting.”
    â€œDifferent strokes, right?” I say, my stomach turning.
    â€œI guess. Makes me think I’ve failed as a parent is what it does.”
    We are quiet.
    â€œI don’t know. Something about being able to cook food for real Texans, and that it has to be perfect? That’s speaking to me something fierce,” I say.
    â€œI can see why you’d like that,” Dee says, not making eye contact.
    Dee continues in an awkward blurting out, “Laurel was in particularly fine form this afternoon. I think Merry Carole was right about not having you in the salon.”
    â€œI just think it’s all so futile. Like there’s anything we could do or have done already to make it so they don’t hate us. It’s their little pastime at this point. It’d be like taking away scrapbooking or making deals for people’s souls. And Merry Carole playing into it isn’t helping. They’re going to smell it on her and . . . I just hate to think of what’s going to happen,” I say.
    â€œLaurel’s been different ever since the divorce,” Dee says, taking another sip.
    The bar sounds muffle around me. My breath is yanked from my body and I can