Dress Codes for Small Towns

by Courtney Stevens

  “We’re leaving, Dad,” Davey says.

  For a moment, I believe John Winters will cave. His face, well, it looks like it wants to say things his pride will not allow. I do not doubt he loves Davey. I do doubt he has ever shown that to his son. And as if to prove my theory correct, he says, “If you want your stuff, you have to come home. I told you that when you left with Mom.”

  Davey is still except for his fingers. They flex, knuckles white and knobby, around the straps of the duffel. I am still as well, trying hard to avoid blinking so I won’t miss a single nuance. While I am watching his hands, Davey drops the bag on the granite floor. Drops. Not flings. Not slams. Just a single uncurling that says he is letting go of something far more important than the contents of the duffel.

  He fights so quietly.

  We leave.

  Music in the Camaro cranks loudly from the speakers when he turns the engine. We reach the power knob at the same time, our index fingers on top of each other’s, and I say, “I’ll build you a costume. Any costume you want,” and he says, “Thank you,” but we don’t look at each other. So I don’t know if he’s crying, but I am.

  I want what any child wants: for my father to be proud of me. For Dad to look into me, and say, “You are good,” rather than to look at me and say, “You are not good enough.”

  The Corn Dolly decision, my wavering feelings on Janie Lee: I will either play the game and miss finding out the truth—or I will explore the truth and lose the game. Only it’s not a game. Because games go back in boxes and get stacked away with other games. This nomination, this competition, has real stakes.

  I know the cost. It’s the same price Davey paid just four months ago: a town, a house, a parent, a move, a hobby, friends.

  19

  We while away thirty minutes, driving through parks and subdivisions and trafficked streets. He shows me Waylan Academy. Its warm redbrick walls and avenue of Bradford pear trees leading from one section of campus to another, ending at a sports complex that’s worth millions and millions of donations. It looks like a small college campus, which is about what I’d worked out in my head before the tour.

  Text messages are pinging his phone every few seconds; Gerry and Thom are starving, Gerry is finally off work, Thom is picking her up. They’ll meet us in five minutes at Pizza Pans, because, as Gerry puts it, “My stomach is snacking on my small intestine.”

  I have my own set of messages. Mom’s Will you be home for supper? Nope. Dad’s I thought y’all were community servicing after school, even though he knows Janie Lee and Woods practice on Tuesday evenings and it’s the one night we took off. Nope. There are messages from Janie Lee and Woods. Practice night usually means, We’re on Mars, leave a message, but me wearing a polyester blend dress was either a sign of my declining emotional state or a massive victory.

  Janie Lee: You looked amazing today.

  Me: Thanks.

  Janie Lee: Don’t take this the wrong way.

  Me: I won’t.

  Janie Lee: I think I still like you better in jeans.

  Me: Good.

  The dream comes storming into my thoughts. We’re fine, I tell myself. She said it the other night: Just friends is better. But I still stop a moment and pray. I haven’t prayed much since that morning of watercolor light on Mash’s floor; the morning after Big T died and it felt like God himself was spilling into the room, just so we wouldn’t have to be alone in our grief. There are people who do not pray, and I understand why. It’s a strange thing to talk to someone you can’t see if you’ve never tried it. But for me it’s really a very nice and safe feeling. Like putting your toes in warm sand at the beach or stepping into the shower after a long day.

  But here, in the recesses of my heart, I am honest. Three words I repeat without speaking:

  I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. God, I am very afraid.

  This is my deepest well, and I have dropped a coin to the very bottom.

  We leave Waylan for the restaurant. We are parked, and I am wrung out.

  On our trip across the parking lot, Thom hugs everyone. He’s inclusive, always drawing people closer. He musses my hair and tells Davey, “This is the face of the next Corn Dolly champion of the world. You heard it here.”

  “Tell her that a couple more times,” Davey replies.

  “One, this is the face of the next Corn Dolly champion of the world. Two, this is . . .”

  I shove him away, laughing.

  I like being praised by Thom, and then Davey, in this small way. Perhaps there will come a time when I’ll think of Gerry and Thom as my friends rather than Davey’s friends. They are not people I would ever have met in Otters Holt.

  Inside Pizza Pans, we order two pies with entire gardens buried under cheese. I’m picking off spinach when I see Thom take a hairpin from behind Gerry’s ear and fasten it to his folded napkin. Ceremoniously, he presents me with “Napkin Dolly, 2017” and says, “I hereby declare Billie McCaffrey to be deserving of this Napkin Dolly based purely upon . . .” He looks at Gerry. “What’s it based purely upon, my love?”

  Gerry says, “Soul brightness,” and Thom is happy to insert this into his speech.

  “Based purely upon soul brightness. Now mount this table”—he smacks it with his palm, rattling the dishes and splashing water from the glasses—“and give us all a speech.”

  “Is he serious?” I ask Davey.

  “Afraid so.”

  I surreptitiously check to see how much everyone has eaten. We will be asked to leave Pizza Pans and I don’t want to leave Gerry hangry. Picking up Napkin Dolly, 2017, I climb from floor to chair to table, and plant my boots near the parmesan cheese shakers and the red pepper flakes. Gerry, Davey, and Thom bang their utensils in unison. “Speech, Speech, Speech.”

  My head is almost lodged in a light fixture. Our waiter says, “Miss, miss, you can’t be up there. You have to—” when I open my mouth and sing one line from that Dirty Dancing song about having the time of my life. This is all the invitation Gerry needs. She’s on her chair. Thom and Davey follow. I lift the Napkin Dolly for the restaurant to see, and we sing—quite terribly—every word we know and don’t know.

  Fifteen seconds of fame before the manager appears.

  Money is exchanged—Thom to manager. We all land in the parking lot laughing our heads off. Thom tells me, “That was a lovely exit strategy, but I missed your acceptance speech.”

  I hold the napkin, which is back in its former state as Gerry reclaimed her hairpin, and say, “I hereby accept this Napkin Dolly and all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto.”

  Thom gives me a flourish. “Because . . .”

  “Because you gave her to me,” I add.

  “Because you are worthy,” he says.

  “Based on soul brightness,” Davey says.

  I’m chuffed. It’s silly, but being bestowed a Napkin Dolly touches me.

  We are walking to our cars. Davey is with Thomas. Gerry has claimed me. We are looped together, our elbows hooked like chain-link fencing. Her doing. Not mine. They promise that they will come to Otters Holt soon. We swear we’ll be back.

  Gerry says, “We’re all doing the LaserCon thing, yeah?”

  Davey peers over his shoulder, eyebrows raised with questions. Can I do what I said? Did I mean it?

  He senses my immediate willingness.

  “Yesssssssssssss!” he yells at the shadow of the Batman building. There’s no time to be astonished. Gerry jumps, lifting me off the sidewalk. Suddenly we’re all jumping and yesssssing like lunatics.

  I don’t really even know why. I just liked that first long yes from Davey, head bent nearly horizontal, and the top of his bandanna showing. Handsome and happy, dancing and spinning top-like through the street. Thom, who has slung his arm around Davey’s back, whispers something I cannot hear. Something that makes Davey howl at the moon.

  “What do you know of them?” Gerry asks me, also in a whisper.

  “Only
that they love each other.”

  And I wonder if she knows when I say love, that I mean the kind of love that probably excludes her. And me.

  I’m still thinking of love when we’re in the Camaro and the city is behind us. “Will you tell me more about Thom? About you and Thom?” This seems a fair exchange. I told him about my sex dream. About Janie Lee. About kissing Woods.

  But Davey bristles. Volcano Choir is on the radio. I’ve just told my parents I’ll be home by nine. It’s looking more like nine thirty, which I knew when I said nine. I’m remembering Thom’s words to me during dinner. Before the karaoke, when we were both still dazed from the afternoon. As Davey slunk lizard-like toward the men’s room, Thom said to me, “Keep a watch on our boy.”

  What specifically was I to watch? He’d moved. Lost his grandfather. Lost his father. Been hurled into culture shock. Thom was clearly sharing Davey with me, but I thought maybe he assumed Davey had told me more than he had. I wanted to keep a watch, but there wasn’t time to ask, “For what?”

  I began with what I knew, greasing the track. “He’s really great. Is it hard for you to see him with Gerry?”

  “Billie. I think you’ve gotten this wrong.”

  “I’m just saying, you can talk to me. I’ll still like them both.”

  “Which costume should we build for LaserCon?” he asks.

  I barrel forward with the previous conversation. “I get it. I promise I do. I mean . . . you know I do, what with Woods and Janie Lee. And I’ll bet you had a lot more freedom in Nashville than in Otters Holt.”

  He knuckles the wheel. And then the gearshift. And then his thigh. “I’m thinking something classic. Maybe old Marvel. Or old Disney.”

  “But even if you had freedom at Waylan, that doesn’t mean your parents are cool.” I am remembering Dad’s voice from the dinner table, and how Hattie needs to come to coffee with my mom because she’s upset. “Like I know I could come out in the Hexagon if I wanted to, but at home, that would never be an easy conversation. Never an easy life. If I followed that path into the future, my dad would never come to my wedding. Mom probably would. But Dad, never.”

  “How do you feel about Iron Man?” Davey’s poker face is amazing. “Or Wolverine?”

  “It’s hard to know the consequences in advance. Hard to have the freedom to still choose when you know how all the pieces in the game will behave if you do.”

  He stays to his path. “Iron Man will probably be overdone. Disney is better. What if we did a duo? Would you think on an interesting duo? Something creative that will stand out?”

  “I just needed to say that. To say, you can talk to me if you want.”

  “Maybe Beauty and the Beast. Would you like that? If we win the money, you can have it all. It’s a thousand bucks.”

  “I love Beauty and the Beast,” I say.

  “Good talk,” he says.

  I know he heard me.

  20

  Davey’s Part

  It started with a phone call. Woods Carrington had never called me before. Group text, yes. Voice in an actual receiver, no.

  He jumped straight to the point, saving his idle chitchat for people collecting Social Security. “I need your help, Davey.”

  I’d been giving him help nearly every morning at 6:45 a.m. What else could he possibly need?

  “Meet me at the Fork and Spoon tomorrow morning before school? Six thirty?”

  I’d said yes and yes, because people do not tell Woods no. They don’t even tell Woods they’ll think about it.

  “Bring Big T’s Bible.”

  It was a peculiar ask, but I showed up at 6:10, Bible under my arm, and found him tapping his foot in the vestibule, as if I was late. Janie Lee was standing in the corner looking amped. They didn’t explain our objective, but they’d clearly discussed it with each other, and from the body language, he thought it would work, she didn’t. They saw the Bible, Woods said, “Good work, Winters,” and in we went.

  There in the middle of the Fork and Spoon was a long wooden table, covered in sunny yellow coffee mugs and eggs cooked hard to runny. A little wooden sign read The Liars Table. There sat ten Otters Holtians, who gathered daily to natter and chatter their morning away. Woods was the only one under the age of Depends who had a regular seat. Some guys played video games and scrolled their phones; Woods Carrington sipped coffee and collected stories. His vernacular here included: “Don’t you go throwing a hip,” and “You been kickin’ back too much Ensure?” and “You do that again, and I’ll take you to the home myself.”

  I saw it all play out as he made the rounds; they loved him like a mascot.

  I have a vague memory of Big T bringing me to this same table, propping me on his knee, and ordering us two Cokes. He’d take a pen from the breast pocket of his polo and tell me to color in the O’s on the paper place mat while he chewed the fat with a few folks.

  Janie Lee sat down next to Woods while I stole a chair from a nearby table and coughed at the smoke billowing from an adjoining room. This must be the one restaurant in the state where you could still smoke indoors. Or maybe you can’t and they did it anyway.

  I ordered some diesel from a waitress who was probably here when Big T ordered those Cokes years before. I was in my usual attire, so one of the ladies grunted, and another sneered. I was with Woods, so they kept it kinder than they would if I were alone.

  Billie’s grandma was there. She said, “These young people have been up cracking the whip. You should see the elementary school, Abram,” and a lady down the table said, “We know, Clarissa.”

  Abram gave me a wink, as if we had a secret. “Oh, I’ve motored by there a time or two. Looking mighty nice, kids.”

  I didn’t actually think he’d seen the elementary school yet, but he wanted Grandy to think he had. His teeth were big crooked squares, all tobacco-stained. He reminded me of Big T. I tweaked my mouth and swallowed some emotion.

  I exchanged a fitful look with Woods, and he said, “The elementary school was all Davey’s idea.”

  I shrugged. “The elementary school’s history is tied to the festival. It would have made Big T proud.” This was an easy thing to say because it was the truth.

  “Honestly, Mr. Jones”—Abram’s last name—“don’t we owe it to Big T’s memory to make this the best Harvest Festival ever?” Woods said.

  Janie Lee added her own fuel. “I think we owe it to his memory to never let it stop.”

  “It does seem a shame to let a wonderful thing die,” a lady with one of those trach voice boxes whispered.

  Another woman, much plumper than the first, death-gripped her coffee and said, “Plus, there’s Molly. We can’t rightly have a statue without the festival. Just feels wrong.”

  I couldn’t keep up with the banter that followed. Some agreed. Some disagreed. The fact remained that the Harvest Festival is expensive, and no one is sure how to change that.

  Woods retrieved a saltshaker from the center of the table, slid it back and forth in a soothing rhythm. “Ada May, if you ask me, I think you’ve got a golden opportunity with the ballots.”

  “You’re a sly pup, Woodsey Woodsey, but we’re not telling you who we’ve chosen,” said Wilma Frost.

  Woods gave Wilma a handsome but overbearing wink. “I’m not asking you to tell me you’ve chosen Tawny Jacobs again, darlin’. I’m asking you to work with me. I’ve got a plan to save this thing, money and all, but I need your help.”

  “Yeah, we need your help,” Janie Lee said.

  I watched the plump lady and the lady with the trach have another conversation and overheard, “Is that the Miller girl?”

  Woods shut that down. “Ada May, you and the committee should give the town something to talk about.” Woods slid the Bible slightly toward them. “And you know who thought of this idea?”

  “Thought of what idea?” Wilma asked.

  “The next round of nominees. Or a nominee,” Janie Lee supplied.

  I was not sure what Woods and Jan
ie Lee had dragged me into, but it was interesting. To my knowledge, Woods had never perused Big T’s King James, so whatever he was playing at, he had to hope they took the bait without asking for evidence.

  Wilma stroked her blouse, both offended and interested. “You’re saying Big T wrote someone he wanted nominated for this year’s Corn Dolly in his King James? Because he never spoke hide nor hair of it to me.”

  Woods tapped the worn leather right on the golden embossed letters of Tyson Vilmer’s name. “Right there in the book of Luke.”

  “And who did he have in mind?” Abram asked.

  Woods looked at Grandy and then at me. “Elizabeth McCaffrey.”

  The table was silent. My brain cranked to life. Now I saw. I imagined a conversation that happened between Janie Lee and Woods after he so stupidly put Billie on the guys’ side of the Hexagon.

  We’re idiots, he might have said.

  Huge ones, she might have agreed.

  But I’ll fix this, he would have said.

  And then he came up with this plan to take Billie from tomboy to best woman in town, ignoring the fact that Billie would not appreciate this campaign.

  Ada May started to say, “And didn’t Billie catch Community Ch—” but Grandy would hear nothing negative about her granddaughter.

  “An accident. Nothing more,” Grandy snapped.

  Abram added his two cents. “But what’s not an accident is all the hard work the youth have been doing in the community. Think on that, Ada May.”

  Wilma talked over Ada May. “Please, Abram. Several weeks of work do not a Corn Dolly candidate make. This has to be a woman of valor or the whole thing loses its intention.”

  “It takes heart,” someone else said.

  “Which my granddaughter has in spades.”

  This brought the conversation circling back to the King James. Janie Lee said, “And heart is precisely why Tyson wrote Elizabeth McCaffrey’s name down as the next nominee.”

  Woods lifted the Bible from the table and placed the evidence in his lap. “Come on, Ada May, it’s good for the town. We’ve never had a teenage girl on the ballot before. Bring some new life to the festival. People will respond. They’ll remember why it’s important. They’ll donate. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”