Dress Codes for Small Towns

by Courtney Stevens

  I think: I didn’t mean for all this to happen. I also think: I effing love Einstein the Whiteboard adventures. I have a moment of true fear when Woods plunges back inside the youth room. Before I even have time to process this, he reappears, coughing, and says, “Help me, Billie.” He darts into the smoky room again.

  In I go to rescue Woods, who wants to save his precious whiteboard. Einstein is too near the fire. The edge is already melted, and I assume too hot to touch. “I’ll get you another one,” I promise him.

  Not what he wants to hear. I drag Woods away and shove him toward the back stairs.

  Around us, kids are evacuating. They’re carrying phones and sleeping bags and pillow pets. Two sixth graders are getting on the elevators while Fifty screams at them, “Take the stairs! Didn’t you learn anything in kindergarten?” A very familiar form is swimming upstream against the evacuees: Brother Scott McCaffrey. My tired and scared and angry father frantically counts everyone he sees. He flings opens doors, yells, moves to the next room. Precise words are impossible to hear over the fire alarm. But as I watch him check Youth Suite 201, I see he’s putting two and two together.

  Likely conclusion: where there’s smoke, there’s Billie.

  Janie Lee and I quick-walk toward the exit. She pulls me against her and says right in my ear, so I hear it over the noise, “Billie, I think maybe I’m in love with Woods!”

  “Jesus,” I say, and hope it counts as a multipurpose prayer.

  2

  Fire trucks arrive at the curb—sirens blazing, ready to dispense water and large-coated men. Maybe the firefighters can put Dad out after they finish with the church. He’s doing a roll call from his clipboard, blazing brighter than any flame we have made. Everyone is wet, amped, and accounted for. A couple of the junior high–ers are crying.

  My crew has their butts on the asphalt, their backs against the church van. Janie Lee’s pressed against me, and for once and only once I wish she’d give me space. She says, “I left my glasses in the bathroom.”

  “You’ll get them back,” I tell her, avoiding any form of eye contact.

  Within twenty minutes, it’s clear that the church will remain standing. But within those smoking, flaming, hosing minutes, the deacons have arrived. Hands are on hip replacements. Judgment is rampant. I overhear:

  “Those youth can’t be trusted.”

  “The preacher’s daughter is the worst.”

  “I wonder if he’ll do anything this time.”

  “He’ll have to.”

  Dad walks purposefully toward the Hexagon, eyes blazing, knuckles white against the clipboard. He’s about to crank it up and let us have it when his phone rings. The cell is ancient, has a ringer that rivals the fire alarm. He recognizes the number, and clearly expects whoever it is to yell at him about the fire. With a sigh and a warning look at us, he jams a finger in his ear and retreats.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Say that again; I can’t hear you. Oh, I see. Oh.” Dad stops, his body stiffening. “I’m sorry. I’ll have him call. Yes, him too.”

  He flips the phone closed—all the fight from his face morphed into sorrow. September in the South is still hot, but Dad shivers. He pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t move. Woods grips my right elbow; Janie Lee leaves fingerprints on my left arm. Something worse than the church flambé has just happened.

  He calls Mash and Davey over. A private conversation ensues that leaves them hugging and Mash indignant. “But Big T was just . . .” We watch Mash deflate like a balloon, words gone.

  Dad gathers the rest of the group and explains the tragic facts: Tyson Vilmer had a massive heart attack and ran off to meet the Lord while we were blowing up a sock. Without a word, with most everyone choking back tears, we link hands and say prayers of comfort for the Vilmer family.

  My Grandy once said, When that sweet old coot goes, he’ll take all of Otters Holt with him. I believed her then. I believe her now. Tyson Vilmer’s life touched everyone who has ever lived and breathed Otters Holt air. A small-town butterfly effect.

  Big T had one son, Harold, and one daughter, Hattie. Hattie moved away to Nashville, married, had Davey, separated, and just recently moved back in with her dad. Mash’s parents have a better story. Harold went on a mission trip and fell in love with a black woman. There were no other interracial couples in Otters Holt, still aren’t, but Tyson Vilmer walked his gorgeous daughter-in-law, Jeanelle, down the aisle and loved her like his own. That was eighteen years ago, and the first wedding my dad ever officiated. Jeanelle has since been awarded a Corn Dolly, 2012. It doesn’t sound like much to the rest of the world, but that was groundbreaking for Otters Holt.

  I call Grandy. She is awake, voice cloudy and broken. Someone on the telephone chain reached her first. “Dad just told us about Big T,” I say. She’s crying the way old people do, reserved, composed. She’s the type to use a Kleenex or a handkerchief instead of her sleeve. I say, “I just wanted to tell you I love you.” We hang up so I can check on Davey and she can bake a casserole for the Vilmer family.

  “This blows.” Fifty’s bluntness is appropriate for once.

  Janie Lee and Woods automatically take their places at Mash’s side. We’ve done death before. My granddad. Fifty’s aunt. Woods’s mom lost a baby five years ago. We’ve learned how to huddle up like a football team to tackle the shit out of grief.

  I leech myself to Davey without actually touching him. I tell him I’m incredibly sorry about Big T. I also admit sorry is a lackluster word. We stare at a nub of moon, him presumably thinking of Big T, me thinking of Big T and everything else. This night. The fire. The ramifications. Janie Lee’s impromptu confession. The ramifications. Emotions lap me, round and round.

  I stop thinking because Janie Lee scoots next to me. “I saw Big T yesterday. He gave me a peppermint.”

  “Me too,” Woods says, joining us.

  Mash says, “He loved peppermints,” even though we know.

  After Dad handles the immediate red tape with the deacons and fire chief, we trudge mournfully to the church van and Dad drives toward the Vilmer farm in near silence. Day-old McDonald’s and smoke smells become our burden to bear for the next ten minutes.

  I’m sidesaddling the captain’s seat across from Dad. He’s wearing the blank expression of prayer. Poor Mash has his head on Janie Lee’s flannel lap; her fingers weave and love their way around his ears and scalp and braids. Davey has the whole back row. He’s texting someone. Mash spent the first years of his life riding on his granddad’s shoulders. I wonder where Davey fits into that equation. Fifty sobers up in the middle, and Woods—Woods tries to decide whether he can tell a story yet. I know this because our telepathy isn’t all that miraculous. His eyes are the windows of his brain. I nod, agreeing that it’s appropriate to speak.

  “You know . . .” Woods begins. He tells four, maybe five, tales about Tyson Vilmer while Dad navigates the curves on Stoney Temple Road. Stories we all know. Woods is one of those people who make you hang on their recycled words. By the end of his yarns, Mash is sitting upright, adding details, Dad has stopped sucking air through his front teeth, and Janie Lee touches Woods’s shoulder in thanks. Her hand lingers there for a three count and lands on my elbow, sticking like glue. Davey’s still texting, still glazed, still apart. Fifty’s asleep.

  And as I look out over my Hexagon . . . I’m . . . well, I’m in love with them all. Death can muddle beliefs and raise questions, but it makes love crystal clear.

  We roll into Mash’s driveway at four thirty a.m., because that’s where the family has gathered. Already cars and trucks are parked willy-nilly. Church members march antlike in and out of the farmhouse wearing red-rimmed eyes and ratty robes, delivering frozen casseroles—prepared for occasions like this—and promises of support. Each person bows in tearful sympathy as Mash and Davey make their way to the screen door. Mash’s back hitches with a deep breath. He goes inside. We all follow and take our turns sorrying the Vilmers and mustering brave faces. Janie L
ee, Woods, Fifty, and I park ourselves in Mash’s room and poke each other to stay awake, unsure of what Davey and Mash might need upon return from the living room. The boys arrive an hour later, noses running, saying their parents said we should all try and rest. The first rays of pink morning light peek through the mini-blinds like a watercolor painting streaking the hardwood.

  “Thanks for staying,” Mash says.

  But he knows there is nowhere else we’d rather be.

  We fall asleep in a big pile on the floor. When I wake around noon, I’m Woods’s little spoon and Janie Lee’s big spoon. Mash and Davey are back-to-back and snoring heavily. Fifty has moved to the bed. I have to pee, but I hold it for an hour, not wanting to wake anyone else. For most of that hour, I cry and chat with God on three grievances: death, forgiveness, and jealousy. Prayer is my live journal. It’s the one place I don’t ever have to be a rock star about life. I figure if God made my tear ducts, He has to deal with me using them. I wrap up with a final promise. “And if you could help me with the Janie Lee problem and the church fire, I’ll never get that stupid with Einstein again.”

  When everyone is awake, we take turns going home to change our smoky pajamas and shower off last night’s crazy.

  By luck, Janie Lee and I return to Mash’s driveway at the same time. She’s replaced the lost bra and looks surprisingly sexy in sweats. I can tell she’s gotten ready in a hurry. No jewelry. No makeup. She was probably trying to run out the door before her mom could task her with hours at Bleach, the coin Laundromat they manage.

  “You tell your mom about the fire?” I ask, expecting a no. It’s not that the Millers aren’t understanding people; it’s that, well, setting a church ablaze is just the sort of thing one would expect from a Miller. Her dad has been in and out of jail, her mom has a reputation for selling powders that aren’t of the washing variety, and her brother got a one-way ticket to the military, courtesy of Judge Cox.

  But she nods. “Oh, she already knew. Heard it from Conner, who heard it from Johnny, who heard it from his aunt Miriam.”

  Unsurprising. I’m sure people picked up their phones last night and opened conversations with, “I just called to let you know Tyson Vilmer died,” and closed with, “Did you hear Community Church had a fire in the youth room?” And they likely had additional commentary.

  “She angry?” I ask.

  “She’s the usual. Eleven months, B. Eleven more months.”

  The usual means Mrs. Miller wants to know how much it will cost and if it will affect “the family business.” Eleven months is the amount of time until Janie Lee cracks all the rearview mirrors when she blows out of Otters Holt.

  She’s been keeping a countdown since before she could count.

  Janie Lee and I have many similarities: A love of art and music. BBC shows and reruns of anything with Betty White. Neither of us is scared of spiders, and we both love the incessant humming of cicadas in a plague year. She’d kill a whole day lying beside me in the grass, face up to the sky, sun beaming down. But Janie Lee will not be lying in that tall bluegrass eleven months from now, because she does not share my love of our hometown. While I say, “I’m from Otters Holt,” she says, “I’m from Western Kentucky.” That’s as proud as she gets.

  Janie Lee pulls me into the mother of all side hugs. She smells much better than the last time she side-hugged me.

  “I’ll fix this church stuff. Somehow,” I tell her.

  She believes me and says, “Last night seems like a million years ago.”

  Two million.

  She starts to say something else, but Davey reappears in a very non–Otters Holt, very new, and very shiny black Audi R8. Whoever is driving doesn’t get out or put the car in park. Davey slinks from the passenger side, eyeliner reapplied, one crumpled band shirt swapped out for the next. We wait on him to saunter over before we head to Mash’s room. Neither of us asks after the Audi, but I’m dying to. Sweet ride of Satan, it’s beautiful.

  Fifty’s practically licking the windowpane when we all get inside. “Nice wheels.”

  Davey coughs up a name. “Thomas.”

  “Thomas,” Fifty mouths behind Davey’s back. He puckers his lips and makes a kissing noise.

  Huh, maybe, I think. They could be a thing. Then again, Fifty thinks everyone will bag anyone.

  Woods removes his fingers from the mini-blinds. Steps away from the window and falls on Mash’s bed. “Five things to do with an Audi,” he says in his rule-the-world way.

  “Five things to do in an Audi,” Fifty corrects.

  “Ah, Einstein,” Janie Lee says nostalgically.

  “He’ll rise again.” Woods’s imperial face says, After the funeral, people, after the funeral.

  Fifty claps Mash on the shoulder and pushes him sideways onto the bed. Fifty has four older brothers. Shoving people around is his love language. Except then he adds, “You know, I hate to say it, but your granddad dying saved our ass.”

  We stare slack-jawed at Fifty.

  “What?” Fifty says. “You’re all thinking it too.”

  Nope. I’m thinking: Big T was an adult I genuinely liked. I’m thinking: He’s always held off the wolves from Brother Scott McCaffrey and his wayward daughter. With Tyson alive, this fire thing would have been a nonissue. I’m thinking: With Tyson dead, Dad could face serious consequences from my actions. Again.

  Woods tells Fifty to shut it so no one else has to, and Fifty is maybe red-cheeked, but it’s hard to tell with all that facial hair. “I’m not glad he’s dead,” he corrects. “Mash knows that.”

  He shoves Mash again. Mash shoves back. They’re fine.

  Davey drops his phone in the back pocket of his jeans, rejoins the conversation. “Oh, we know what you meant.” It comes out more like, We know who you are.

  Davey’s texting habits distract me. Was his last text—the one right before he stowed his phone—to Audi Thomas? Is that who Davey texts when the rest of us don’t need to text anyone because we are all there? He must have a whole group of friends back in Nashville. They must love him in a way we’re only scratching at, and I wonder if it’s lonely to be with us instead of them.

  For the rest of the day, we distract Mash and Davey with cards, food, and more Best of Tyson Vilmer stories. The time he played Wiffle ball, put a pie in Tawny Jacobs’s face, rode Mash on the tractor, gave the library all his books. The time he did everything and anything needed. We even drive to the edge of town and try to sit mournfully beneath the Molly the Corn Dolly statue. Frankly, it’s difficult to sit mournfully beside a forty-foot-tall blazing-yellow roadside attraction. So we play a few rounds of Hacky Sack and brag to intermittent tourists that Mash and Davey’s granddad is the one who built Molly the Corn Dolly. The tourists seem suitably impressed.

  In late afternoon, we’re back in Mash’s room when Jeanelle leans through the doorway. There’s a poker game and a box of chicken in the center of our circle. We quiet down. “If you’re willing”—she dabs her eyes with a Kleenex—“Harold would appreciate you helping out with the funeral. Big T wrote down what he wanted in the King James. You’re all a part.”

  There are two things every old person in Otters Holt has: a King James with “arrangements” and a list of Corn Dolly winners taped to the fridge.

  Jeanelle shifts a deep-pink hair wrap and gathers her thoughts. Even now, when she is so clearly sad, she wears a touch of pink eye shadow that makes her face look thirty instead of forty.

  She starts assigning tasks. “Janie Lee and Woods, will you do your thing?”

  Their thing is a musical combo: violin, and piano and vocals. They’ve been performing together since Janie Lee picked up a bow in fourth grade. I hate them a little when they play. I can sing; they bend notes to their whims and instruments to their wants.

  “He has the rest of you as pallbearers,” Jeanelle tells us.

  We nod, as if this is expected.

  We do the other expected things too. Visitation. Sad hearts. More sleeping piles.


  The morning of the funeral, I shower at my house and ask Mom about dress codes. I’ve been to dozens of funerals—a terrible by-product of having a minister as a father. They are the one time I venture into the recesses of my closet and emerge with one of the two black dresses I own. But today, I’m thinking black pants are the ticket.

  “I can wear this?” I point to the clothes laid out on my bed. I’m still walking softly because of the fire.

  Mom fastens pearls behind her neck and checks her nail polish after the clasping. That leaves her to survey my room.

  “Yes to the clothes. No to your boots. And please move this stuff to the garage before your dad comes back here.”

  My room is totally undone. A half-carved wooden elephant head is on my desk. Eight canvases lean in the corner. Another four are on the floor. The paints and dirty brown cup of water are out too. They’re from Thursday night. A whirlwind of clothes from this weekend’s comings and goings threatens to swallow the clothes I’ve laid out.

  I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I’m wearing the boots.

  The Audi is in the parking lot when I get out of my parents’ minivan at the funeral home. While I’m staring, the car produces Thomas and Davey from its small bowels. Audi Thomas is black—a notable feature in our lily-white-except-for-Mash-and-Jeanelle town—and built like one of those guys who drinks three too many protein shakes a day. He also has the confident stride of someone who has all his daddy’s credit cards in his wallet. Davey’s lanky and lean beside him. They walk into the funeral home wearing identical suits and ties except for the difference between navy and steel gray.

  Even from behind, Davey appears changed. Back straight as a ruler. Hands buried in his pockets like a politician’s son. His shoes are high gloss.

  Inside, Hattie pins a white rose to Davey’s suit coat and then pins one to my shirt. I find my place among the other pallbearers. Mom clarified this morning that I was an honorary pallbearer—“Girls do not carry caskets,” she had said. Honorary my ass. I stand with Davey, Thomas, Mash, Fifty, and three other men from church, hoping all these guys ate their Wheaties, because Tyson Vilmer was a Great Pyrenees of a man. When you pick up a casket, you feel the weight of it very differently than you think you will. We carry it. It carries us. The real weight is carrying each other.