“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he instructs. “There are elderly people in our church who need help with things. You are going to do all those things. Construction for destruction. Help in exchange for harm. There will be no argument. No attitude.” He eye-checks the two he expects to be rebels, Fifty and me. “And when things square with the insurance people, we’ll reassess whether I need to take another section of your hindquarters. Capisce?”
I’m rendered speechless. Manual labor is a step down from Filet o’ Billie. This actually makes sense.
“What about those of us who weren’t in the youth room when the fire started?” asks a freshman. The dude’s best friend parrots, “Yeah. What about us?”
Fifty digs into the couch cushions, finds a yellow crayon, and hurls it at them. “Then you missed out.”
“Seriously?” the boy asks. “Why should the rest of us do nice things for old people?”
“Rewind that question and ask it again in slow motion,” I say.
Dad can’t decide whether he’s proud of me or aggravated. In the end, he skips my comment and says, “You’re a group. That’s how we’re doing this.”
God’s servant has spoken, and I agree with the commandment. I never meant to hurt the church in the first place. Bring on the gerontological penance. Brother Scott tells us we’ll receive our assignments in the mail after he has consulted the elderly.
With that handled, we have a typical Sunday night. Bible is studied. Games are played. Ice cream is consumed straight from the carton.
Dad can be tough, but he really does love us enough to buy mint chocolate chip.
7
We’re still lingering in the youth room doing what we normally do after meeting: talk shit, play Ping-Pong, avoid weekend homework. Dad’s in his office doing whatever Dad does in his office. Perhaps he’s writing next week’s sermon. Or assigning us old people. Or praying he gets those mumbling deacons to extend some grace after we aerate their lawns and re-roof their sheds.
Woods is over the moon about this punishment. He’s already twirled me in circles and given me three bullet reasons we win the world. 1) Our ass isn’t grass. 2) Old people are awesome. 3) Old people are awesome.
“You know you repeated yourself, right?” I ask, as soon as my equilibrium stops spinning.
“That was for effect,” he argues.
Fifty pets his beard into submission and gets an idea. “I dare you to write those three bullets, verbatim, ass and all, on Einstein,” and Woods and I both cut eyes at Dad’s office and say, “And then we stop winning the world.”
“When you two get married, I’m not coming,” Fifty says.
Thinking only of Fifty bucking plans, not the actual plan he listed, I say, “Yes, you will.” Woods chooses to echo my exact words again, and we realize what we’ve said at the same moment.
Two faces go red. Awkward descends. We stop touching and drift to opposite sides of the room. I check to see if Janie Lee heard us. No, she’s playing Jenga with Mash and Davey. This can’t be the first time someone has joked about us being together. But it’s the first time since Janie Lee has declared her intentions.
I drift over to Einstein and try to concentrate on my plan to save the Harvest Festival. Unsuccessfully. I am not a bad friend. I can contain my feelings for Woods. I will not lose the Hexagon with a selfish misstep.
Around me are voices: Billie, who’s going to get paired up? Billie, what happens if he asks me to work during band practice? Billie, Billie, Billie . . . No one will let me stay inside my head. Janie Lee nudges my legs to the floor and takes up residency in my lap, bringing her blanket along. She was a cat in her former life.
“Yes?” I say, my attention now fully gathered.
I’ve never really understood the appeal of playing with someone’s hair, but Janie Lee can hardly keep from it. She twirls a lock of my hair around her finger. “You protected me from Brother Scott after all.”
Not true. He decided to go light on his own. But I say, “I tranq-ed him last night. Dart gun to the head. Pow. Then two hours of waterboarding and . . . voilà.”
“You two should kiss and get it over with,” Fifty says. “Or maybe you don’t want to steal the show from Davey and Thomas.”
Clearly, everything is sexual to Fifty. If I got turned on every time Janie Lee crawled in my lap or Woods turned me in a circle, I’d be in trouble.
“Maybe we will, asshole,” Janie Lee says playfully. “Maybe we will.” She nods at me, urging me to affirm this declaration. Unsure of what to do, I look at Woods, who looks at Mash, who looks back to Davey.
Chain reaction. Davey reacts so I don’t have to. He collects his cell from the basket and shakes his jeans to proper hip placement. Nothing he owns fits him. I presume he means to leave, but I want him here to put my Corn Dolly plan in motion. We’re finally down to just the Hexagon in the room. Wordlessly, I beg Woods to compel everyone to stay. He pauses Ping-Pong, quick-walks to the door, closes it, gives everyone a cocky lip curl like he has a secret he won’t tell us unless we’re on the couch. Davey stays put near the door.
Woods makes a show of leaning toward Dad’s office and checking the hallway. He crosses the room and peers out the windows to the parking lot. Total déjà vu.
“Coast is clear,” he announces. “Billie, the floor is yours.”
I stand, carefully dumping Janie Lee to the carpet. “May I?” I ask, before picking up the dry-erase marker.
Woods grants permission. “You may indeed.”
We bow at each other and take positions on either side of Einstein. I circle the entirety of the bottom picture. “Do you know why this is still here?” I ask the group.
When no one says anything, Woods says, “Come on, Hexagon. Out with your answers. One of your own has spoken.”
“Because your dad didn’t erase it?”
“Because Fifty drew it in Sharpie?”
“Because the fire seared it into the board?”
“Because Mash puked on it?”
I need Woods to be the one to say this to everyone. “Because it’s still important,” he announces on cue.
One finger to my nose, one finger aiming at Woods, I say, “Exactly. You guys, this little drawing is a miracle. We have to treat this”—I tap Harvest Festival Forever—“like an epiphany.”
Fifty’s mouth is cockeyed with objections. He works his toothpick from side to side, states a fact. “Billie, that drawing was me dicking around. Teenagers like . . .” He means to say me, but he course-corrects, “Yo, teenagers can’t win the Corn Dolly. Lost cause.”
“Hold up,” I say. “This isn’t about me winning the Corn Dolly. Woods, tell them what you heard.”
So he does. He explains how he was having breakfast with his geezer crew at the Fork and Spoon, and Wilma Frist said the Harvest Festival is caput and defunct without Tyson Vilmer’s financial support. Old men passed the old women their handkerchiefs. Everyone had moist eyes, a moment of nostalgia. Then people salted their eggs and sipped their black coffee. Everyone in that crew already has a Corn Dolly or is married to a recipient. They’ve checked that box. End accepted.
Not me.
In some ways my whole life has been a flight of steps to the outer world. That’s when I’ll stride through the door of graduation into the jungle. Maybe to Nashville. Maybe to New York. Maybe to Charlotte, North Carolina, because Davidson College is there and they have a great art program.
Out there, the questions will be different, the people larger-minded. For four years, I’ll live a life outside the glass bowl of church and Scott McCaffrey. Out there, I might be straight or gay or bi, conservative or liberal, Christian or Buddhist, or . . . anything. Out there, I choose. No one cares whether I wear jeans or dresses. It’ll feel like jumping in a coffee shop to a song called “I Cannot Be Contained.”
Because those fictitious future people will raise a glass at my oddities. They’ll say, “Tell me about growing up,” and I’ll say, “The year I was sevent
een, I had five best friends—a pixie, a president, a pretender, a puker, and a douchebag—and I was in love with all of them for different reasons.” They’ll ask where, and I’ll tell them Otters Holt. They’ll know it. That place with the huge yellow doll statue? Yes, and huge Harvest Festival, I’ll say, and then I’ll stick out my chest and say with vigor, And I’m going back there.
I want the power to invent whatever me I desire, but I need to know I can come home and home will look like home.
Woods is wrapping up his case with, “It really all boils down to money. Big T wasn’t just the heart, he was the wallet, and they can’t see anyone else stepping up to take those reins. They’re older, so the idea of fund-raising year after year isn’t appealing.”
Mash adds, “I heard Mom and Dad saying at lunch that his estate isn’t what it used to be. They went through everything with Henry down at the bank and there’s barely enough to pay off the farm.”
Davey confirms.
“That’s where we come in,” Woods and I say together.
“Jinx,” we say.
“Jinx, jinx,” we say.
Janie Lee is the only one looking traitorously iffy. From the floor, she gives me a this-won’t-work-it’s-dead-already glare, to which I say, “Don’t give me that cheeky look, Miller. They might not have the energy to fund-raise, but we do.”
In truth, she won’t stick around Otters Holt long enough to win a Corn Dolly. Not a girl in town can scrub the notion of winning from her head. Even if it isn’t realistic.
The rest of them nod at us.
“How?” Mash asks.
Ceremoniously, I pass the marker to Woods and say, “Lead us, Jedi Master.”
Woods writes WAYS TO SAVE THE HARVEST FESTIVAL atop the board.
Einstein crackles with new life.
Everyone talks at once.
“That sounds like work.”
“We need to raise a shit ton of money.”
“Money will fix everything.”
“Should we wait until after the ballots come out?”
Woods addresses Fifty’s concern first. “Sorry, lazy, you’re doing this with us, even if we are overreacting.” Then to Janie Lee and Mash he asks, “Fund-raising ideas?”
They present the usual suspects: bake sale, car wash, rent-a-kid—all things we’ve done at church. Woods paces the length of the room, staring at Einstein during each pass, as if the answers are written in invisible ink.
Davey reminds us Brother Scott is already renting out youth free of charge and none of us bakes.
“You could sell that Camaro,” Fifty suggests.
“You could sell that beard,” Davey says back.
I’m relieved to see Davey challenge him. Woods, not so much. “Guys, not the time. Bigger fish frying.”
The best thing to do for Davey and Fifty is stay on topic, so I say, “A donation isn’t best. We don’t need one person involved. There’s not another Big T in town except for Tawny, and that old goat won’t give us a dime. We need the whole community.”
Mash says, “Game over,” and makes a deflated video game sound. “No one will listen to us anyway. We just set the church on fire.”
Still, Woods writes Multiple Donations as a bullet point. Tapping the board, he says, “So, this isn’t our usual challenge, Hexagon. Nut up. We need to make this happen. Think of the redemption.”
“Do you think who wins has any bearing on it continuing?” Mash asks.
Theories erupt.
“It might be better if Tawny wins. She could fund the festival.”
“It might be better if Tawny loses. She’ll want to win next year and might donate enough to keep it going.”
“What about Billie’s mom, Clare? She has the backing of the church.”
“Brother Scott could get people to donate.”
“Hello, dufus, Brother Scott is in a fix because of the fire.”
Davey reads my mind, speaks. “Let’s not worry about predetermining the winner. We don’t even know who’s on the ballot yet. I say we give the town something that reminds them who they are.”
“They?” Fifty asks.
Caught in this act of treason, Davey corrects himself. “We.”
Woods asks for more details. Davey gives them. He is logical, concise. “When I was a kid, the Harvest Festival was at the elementary school. That’s where it started, right?” Everyone nods. Before it moved to Vilmer’s Barn, the school hosted the festival. “So we clean up the elementary school grounds. We revitalize a piece of history. The older generations will love the antiquity. The new generation will have ownership.”
The elementary school? I love that old ruin. And it has been the subject of much debate in the newspaper. The property is an eyesore, but a landmark, too. He’s right. Cleaning it up is a solid idea. Time-wise, I’m unsure if we can pull it off. Five weeks isn’t long.
Woods determines five weeks is plenty long enough to work a miracle. He offers the marker and Davey accepts. Before Davey proceeds, he strokes the front of his T-shirt as if he misses his tie.
“How does that raise money?” Janie Lee asks.
“Like I said, we clean up the elementary school. All of us. We plant flowers, landscape, revitalize. Then, we host some sort of game on the field a week before the festival. A community event. Something that anyone can play. Like kickball. Or Wiffle ball. And we sell tickets, cheap. But if we sell enough of them—”
“You want kickball to be the savior of the Harvest Festival?” Fifty asks. “They teach you that at Waylan Academy?”
Davey backs down at the mention of his old school. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I want to believe you, except . . .” Fifty uses a pregnant pause and gestures to the room. “Everyone knows you’re serving time here, I’m just asshole enough to call you on it. You’re always on your cell with Thomas instead of hanging with us. And that’s fine and all, but don’t act like our savior now.” He’s pulling at his beard, just below his chin. Large sweat rings line his armpits. “Woods, dude, come up with something better.”
“Fifty, chill.” Woods’s words are sharp. To Davey, he says, “Tell us more about kickball.”
Mash says, “Let’s call it KickFall,” and is genuinely surprised when Davey writes it down.
Within minutes there are five bullets below MULTIPLE DONATIONS.
Clean up school: bush hog, mow, drag field, repair playground, landscape
Sell KickFall tickets for $2/raise $2000/1000 people to attend
Door-to-door recruiting/announce at football game
KickFall game: before Corn Dolly vote/food & drinks—ask church ladies
Flowers?
When Fifty thinks no one is looking, his lips part in a smile. I am unsure whether he was a dick to rile Davey up, or because Fifty is Fifty. Based on that knowing expression, I’m leaning toward riling. “You really believe you can save the festival?” he asks Woods.
“Absolutely.”
“Want to bet on it?” Fifty asks.
Everyone oooohs, knowing exactly what he’s going to say. Janie Lee rockets a pillow at his head, and says what he wants to hear. “Robert Fifty Tilghman, if we raise two thousand dollars on KickFall, I solemnly swear to you the whole Hexagon will walk Vilmer’s Beam.” Janie Lee is a master at knowing who responds to what. Woods is nodding at the approach. At her strategy. Maybe he’s nodding at more than that.
Fifty pops up to full height. “No shit, J-Mill?”
He has advocated relentlessly for this particular group activity every time we’re in sight of the barn. And often when we are not. All because Fifty was out of town the weekend we were stupid enough to walk it in middle school, and he has been hell-bent ever since.
“No shit,” Janie Lee says.
Woods adds to Einstein, ADDITIONAL STAKES = $2000 OR HEXAGON WALK VILMER’S BEAM.
Game on.
8
You really shouldn’t do that in sunglasses,” Janie Lee says.
That is ope
rating my band saw, which is technically Dad’s band saw, but the ability to turn it on is nine-tenths of ownership.
“I belong to a small tribe of people who don’t like to do anything without sunglasses,” I tell her. My clear safety glasses are elsewhere, and I’m too focused to stop. We have fifteen minutes before Davey picks us up for Service Projects: Super Saturday, and I intend to make the most of them. God knows I’ve had no time to work this week.
“You’re going to belong to a small tribe of people without thumbs,” she warns.
I pshhh this notion. The garage door is up. Light lazes about like it has nothing better to do than disrupt shadows, and I’ve already stripped down to a tank top because where there’s light, there’s heat. And where there’s Billie, there’s sawdust.
“You should teach me sometime.”
Before she arrived, I discovered the Daily Sit was in need of an interior frame to be structurally sound. Since she’s longing for an invitation, I say, “Come here to me,” and Janie Lee snaps her violin safely away and places it near the door where she won’t forget it later. Then, we are standing at the saw, me dressing her in sunglasses—they’re a little too small—looking uncertain, adorable. Maybe even excited.
I place a scrap of wood in her hands while she complains. “Billie, be careful with me. I’m shit for this work.”
I circle her like a dad teaching a kid to hit a baseball, and together we run wood through the saw. A fine spray of pine coats the front of her sweatshirt and my glasses. She runs the line straight. I flip the switch to off, clear the board, and wipe her glasses clean. She is dusty and lingering, as if she’s forgotten everything except me and the two-by-four. I force her to smell the tips of her fingers. “Smell that?” I ask.
Freshly sawed art. Perfect lines. Ahhhhh. After inspecting the raw edges of the wood and assessing how it will fit into the larger picture of the Daily Sit, she says, “For all the times your ideas get us in trouble, I’m still in love with your brain.”
I like it when she says stuff like this. Mainly because she’s one of those annoying people who doesn’t start things she can’t finish and yet we get on so charmingly. “Shoot, Miller, don’t get gooey on me. I’m only training you up for your gerontological punishment.”
Dress Codes for Small Towns Page 6
