Dress Codes for Small Towns

by Courtney Stevens

  “Where will we go?” I ask.

  “There’s a camp position open in Florida. I’ve talked to the search committee,” he says.

  “And Mom?”

  “She’s okay if you’re okay,” he tells me. “She can paint anywhere.”

  He tries to sound brave, but his voice is thick, his tone heavy. I don’t leave the floor for a long time, and when I do he says, “I’ll make sure you get a new garage. No matter where we end up.”

  This kindness, this support, gives me the courage to leave the house and bike to town to meet Davey. From the elementary school roof, we watch a group of volunteers finish transforming Vilmer’s Barn into a gathering hall—moving around the same tables and chairs Thom upended last Saturday. Men stand at a smoker the size of a tiny house while another crew unloads the dance floor in sections. It is not yet eight a.m., and the smell of barbecue is like an itch that demands to be scratched. Despite the October wind, the back of Woods’s shirt is soaking wet. He has been working for at least an hour. I take photos of everything. I store these memories.

  Today, no matter what, something in my life changes. Woods has apologized to me, and he has assured me that the guilty trio went to the committee with the truth. He has shown me Big T’s Bible. While that made me feel marginally better, I’m still expecting to be disqualified tonight. There’s the fire and the barn and the lies.

  If I’m not disqualified but I lose, there is a very good chance we are moving to Florida anyway. I couldn’t bear to ask Dad when. Before graduation? Before Christmas?

  If I’m not disqualified and I somehow win, I will have to pick a dance partner.

  Another line in the sand.

  No one, not even Woods, is convinced that what we’ve raised is enough to keep the Harvest Festival alive. A good thing is dying. Einstein has failed us. More money could be raised over the next year, but the committee is measuring commitment. The mayor told Woods, “It’s a big undertaking, son,” as if Woods hadn’t just pulled off the KickFall event.

  This is Davey’s first time on the elementary school roof. It wasn’t easy getting him up here safely with his arm, but I’m glad that if everything is going away, we were here together smelling the Downy barbecue air and wishing we could freeze time.

  “Come on. Let’s go help,” Davey says.

  “Do you want to come with me to pick up Mr. Nix at three o’clock?” I ask. The gentleman originally wanted a ride at five o’clock, but he has called three times to move the time forward. I suspect that I’ll have him in some vehicle by noon. That man could charm the pants off a tailor.

  Davey offers to drive, and the day passes too quickly. As an act of loyalty, the Hexagon is attending the dance together. We join a game of Wiffle ball. We eat pumpkin pie. There’s a dunking booth and inflatable games. I take Tawny Jacobs a popcorn ball, and she says nothing of the fact that I’m wearing ratty jeans and a T-shirt. I receive a triple-pat hand touch and a “Thank you.” She probably can’t eat the popcorn ball with her dentures, but if I’m leaving Otters Holt, I figure I owe her something for all those days of racing her perfect white fence lines.

  Woods and Janie Lee play on the stage for an entire hour, and Mr. Nix claps along. I am shocked that the time is now five o’clock. I have opted not to change clothes. I only slip on the plaid shirt I’ve had tied around my waist and knock some dust from my boots. The best boots in the world. That’s good enough for me.

  “Now, you two are going to dance, right?” Mr. Nix asks Davey and me.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Nix, I’ll make sure this girl gets a dance,” Davey tells him.

  Gerry and Thom—who have driven in for the festivities—feed Mr. Nix more pumpkin pie than Kevin, his nurse, thinks is healthy. Gerry’s smitten with the man, telling Thom, “You’d better treat me right or I’m leaving you for Mr. Nix.”

  By the time the Corn Dolly candidates are encouraged to take the stage, Mr. Nix has forgotten what a Corn Dolly is. “It’s a special corn husk, Mr. Nix,” I say.

  “Oh, right. Insignificant little thing, yes?”

  Coming from anyone else this would be a slight. Davey says, “Yes, sir. But not to the ladies who win.”

  “Do you know any of them?” Mr. Nix asks me.

  “I know all three.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, and make my way to the stage. Unlike at the football game, I am on time.

  The mayor hushes the band with a wave. The town stands in reverence. In a panoramic glance, I realize how flat everything in this town is. There are only one- and two-story buildings. Nothing taller than trees except for Molly and the dam. This place in Kentucky has only dips and ridges, no hills or valleys. We are at the highest point in our world.

  The mayor holds the Corn Dolly high above his head.

  Out in the crowd, Davey winks at me. Mr. Nix takes a nibble from a Little Debbie cake he’s brought along. Janie Lee Miller looks right at me and smiles.

  “Well, Otters Holt, it’s that time,” the mayor says. “Years and years stand at attention as we look to these three women and the most sacred award of our town.” He talks about each of us, what he’s observed, why we are worthy—a much better speech about me than at halftime—and the strength of this vibrant town to survive heartbreak and loss with the tools of community and love. By the time he finishes with his introduction, I’m not sure if he’s described Otters Holt or Heaven.

  Fifty’s leaned over to Mash, probably saying as much. I imagine Gerry telling him to “hush his face.”

  “I had the privilege of counting the votes myself. We’ve never had better voter turnout. I can only assume that is thanks to the hard work of some young people who spearheaded the KickFall and revitalization project at the elementary school. I want to thank them, and each of these three candidates.”

  I spot my father near the stage. His shoulders are back, chin up. Even in his neat button-up and jeans, he is a man of faith, of principles. He does not look like a man who will easily wear swimming trunks at a youth camp in Florida. He nods at me for the moment of truth.

  The mayor says, “And the recipient of this year’s Corn Dolly is . . . Mrs. Tawny Jacobs.”

  I am glad she finally won.

  It is a loss for my family, but I think of Fifty’s stick drawing and Einstein. How he said, “I was just dicking around.” Me winning was always a joke. But Woods must still be disappointed. I am not disappointed. This is exactly what I expected. My dad is kissing my mom’s cheek, accepting a different future for our family.

  I stand there, clapping for Tawny, realizing I’m relieved I didn’t win. Because it would not have been fair. I’d rather be sad than ashamed.

  Tawny Jacobs walks to the microphone, accepts the Corn Dolly from the mayor, and says, “I always wanted one of these.” The crowd chuckles. “Or at least, I always thought I did. You know what they say, you know you don’t really love something unless you learn to give it away. Elizabeth McCaffrey, will you come up here and join me?”

  “What did she say?” I ask Caroline.

  Caroline says, “I believe she’s giving you a Corn Dolly.”

  I join Tawny at the microphone and she passes me the Corn Dolly. “I happen to have it on good authority that the margin of vote separating me from this beautiful young lady is four. And if I recall the night of the voting correctly, you and your friends were at the hospital and were unable to vote.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked.

  “You deserve this,” she tells me. And where no one can hear, she whispers in my ear, “Now, ask your girl to dance.”

  I recognize the precise tone. It is the voice I heard across the sanctuary. The one that urged me to forgive myself.

  The crowd is stunned by her Corn Dolly gift. I am stunned by her words.

  Across the field, Fifty and Mash catcall and whistle. The Hexagon calls out above all the rest. Janie Lee jumps in celebration with Woods.

  I thank Tawny. I try to
give the doll back. But she will have nothing of this.

  I find myself in front of the microphone, and everyone asks for a speech. I say, “I wouldn’t be on the stage without my friends and family.”

  “Name your dance partner,” calls the mayor.

  It is time to kick off the last Sadie Hawkins celebration. I look at Tawny and she gives me an encouraging nod.

  The town is satisfied with this turn of events. “The preacher’s daughter,” they say. “I did love my Book Dolly,” they comment. “She’s a good Corn Dolly to end on,” someone says in the front row.

  I wonder if they mean that. Because I’m about to do the most unorthodox thing ever done at an Otters Holt Harvest Festival.

  This thing between Janie Lee and me isn’t a picture on Einstein or a bullet point from Woods. We’re sloppy and disorganized, organic. Davey is pointing at her, mouthing, “Do it!” and I know he understands that I’m not choosing between them, but creating an opening in this town. The freedom Thom gave him. That Tawny Jacobs gave me. And if Tawny Jacobs can bring herself to understand, then there is hope for change.

  For less fear in kids like me.

  “Janie Lee Miller,” I say bravely, “will you come up here and dance with me?”

  36

  The crowd parts, their expressions unreadable. A few scoff, but most just get wide-eyed and watchful. There is no way to know how they will respond when the band plays.

  My parents have been absorbed by the crowd. I suspect I know what Dad’s thinking: Dammit, Billie. Because I was so close to doing something the easy way.

  I am marching to the platform, consequences be damned. Janie Lee is marching toward me. We are both smiling at each other.

  It feels as though flint is striking steel inside my cheeks. She beats me to the dance floor, arms outstretched. The band strikes a chord. And the decision is made.

  The crowd claps. They stomp feet and call moves—“do-si-do”— as they have always done. We are sponges for the music, taking it, keeping it, reveling in it, as we step in time to the beat. Square dances were asexual before the term existed, but we are still very close. And no one seems to mind.

  In a moment when our hands touch above our heads in a bridge, she asks, “Aren’t you worried what people will think?”

  “Yes,” I say. She is a whirling dervish who is gone and then back again before I can add, “But I’m trying not to care.”

  She has been trying not to care her whole life, because she is a Miller, and that’s the way it is to be born a Miller. Her smile squeaks. I don’t hear it—I can’t hear anything except the music—but that’s the smile that squeaks.

  I must be staring and flat-footed because she says, “Dance, Billie.”

  We arm turn. Reverse. Another arm turn. Do-si-do. My arm hooks around her elbow for a swing.

  “I’m glad you forgave me,” she says.

  “How could I not?” I say.

  We settle into the dance, the steps coming easily—years piled on years of Harvest Festival experience. We are weightless as we dance through decades of memories. Nearby, Woods hooks an arm around Mash and they gallop toward us like wild horses. Two boys dancing. Two girls dancing. No one cares. It is the very nature of a square dance to dance with everyone. We promenade and wave at Fifty to join us. This isn’t a Fifty-approved event until Gerry drags him forward. Davey and Thom are here, having fought their way to us from mid-crowd.

  The town cracks open like one of Tawny Jacobs’s pecans. Everyone dances, nearly everyone smiling and laughing, just as they have always done on this night.

  This is how we grew up. Thirty minutes of square dancing followed by something a little more honky-tonk. Fifty will end up drinking beer from a Solo cup, Mash will throw up pumpkin pie, and it’ll take me two washes to get the straw from my hair. But for now we listen as the mayor calls steps and the band unleashes more fiddle than seems possible. The Hexagon becomes heart-shaped.

  We have almost danced our way to Mom when Wilma Frist and Ada May Adcock try to hush the band and storm the microphone. The music still plays and people keep moving, but their eyes are on the stage. Wilma Frist is the size of a toothpick beside Ada May; they look like a comedy routine from the sixties. Ada May pecks at the microphone, and yells, “Keep dancing. We just wanted to say, we’ve had a donation of five thousand dollars come in, which means, we don’t care what the mayor says, we’re doing the Harvest Festival next year.”

  There have been many cheers already tonight. None as loud as the one that follows this announcement. I feel like Cindy-Lou Who from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I found a way to live with the festival being gone, but now it’s all come back better than ever because we had to fight for it.

  I locate Woods. He gives me an innocent shrug, which I disbelieve. He knows something. Woods didn’t donate five thousand dollars, but he’s too damn smug to not be involved. He wanted to have fun with a church microwave. He did. He wanted me to win the Corn Dolly. I sort of did. He wanted to save the Harvest Festival. And, uh, yeah, he did. His expression tells me that he’s going to spend the next year of his life turning Judith at the Lamplighter or some unsuspecting individual into next year’s candidate. He’ll be mayor before he can legally drink.

  I’ll vote for him.

  Mom is next to me now. She kisses my cheek and I pretend to wipe it away. We both laugh, and I suppose she’s about to say something cheesy when Dad looks at Janie Lee and asks, “May I cut in?”

  Janie Lee puts my hands in my father’s, and he spins me away from Mom and my friends. I brace myself. What was I thinking? Have I heard nothing he said? Do I care about my family at all? How do I feel about Florida?

  I have all his angry expressions on file, but this isn’t one of them. In its place, something imperceptible. Wide eyes, closed mouth, whole head sitting crooked on his neck like he’s watching an alien land a ship in the church parking lot. He says a curious thing. “I’m proud of you, Billie.” From his pocket he takes one of my Book Dollies. “This is why they love you, but what you just did—following your gut, your heart—when you know it’s not popular, that’s why I love you. Don’t forget that. Even when I do.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, and I realize it has been a very long time since I thanked him. For anything.

  “No, thank you,” he says, and kisses my forehead.

  Gratitude: it’s a good starting place for us. No matter where we end up. Everyone dances with everyone. But I won’t forget this dance with my father. The one that makes the dance with Janie Lee even more special.

  I am with Davey now, promenading, and suddenly I’m very relieved and very tired. I’ve been sprinting a marathon for a month and a half, and it has settled in my bones.

  “Want to get out of here, Corn Dolly Queen?” he asks.

  I’ve swallowed bite after bite of town all day, and I am as full as I would be after Thanksgiving dinner. “Yes,” I tell him.

  I look around, but the rest of the Hexagon has scattered themselves throughout the festival. We walk to the Camaro. I text Janie Lee and the Hexagon; he texts Gerry and Thom. We tell them to bring themselves to the garage after they’re done dancing. Davey drives to my house, where we collapse on the Daily Sit.

  Shadows fold over us. Guinevere nods her approval. The remnants of Belle and Beast lie like discarded snakeskins in the corner. Davey spots a package wrapped in brown craft paper with his name on it, like the one he brought me after the funeral. “What’s this?” he asks.

  “A gift to make up for knocking you off a beam.”

  I help him rip the paper.

  He lifts a Batman mask circa Halloween 2007. The mask has not fared well in the summer heat—the stick-straight nose is melted against the cheek plate. It is the one I was wearing the first day we met. When I sucked at Wiffle ball and he thought I was a boy. He laughs and I say, “I found it in the garage this week when I was cleaning out drawers. “Just in case you need a reminder—”

  “That girls can do anyth
ing?”

  “Well, something like that,” I say. “It was you, wasn’t it? The money.”

  “Where would I get five thousand dollars?”

  I take the Batman mask from his lap and toss it playfully at his face. “Five years of costume winnings?”

  His answer: “I never expected to love this place again.”

  I am silent then. Eyes searching around my garage at all the unfinished things that I love. Because that’s this town too: unfinished, imperfect. My things have all surprised me in some way. They are like Tawny Jacobs, who danced with me tonight and told me about her best friend, Rachel Morgan. “Don’t count people out,” she told me. And I promised her I never would again.

  I look everywhere but directly at Davey, because if our eyes snap to attention—blue on brown—this night will become something else, and I don’t want that right now. I want to enjoy the low-grade hum of something left on in the corner—maybe a Bluetooth speaker from early this morning and the smell of epoxy from a spot in the floor and hayfields drifting in off the wind.

  The garage door is up, and there’s a full view of my driveway and the fields that lie beyond. It is vaguely light; the sky is a deep ocean blue, the moon a white rising ball. There’s a dead tree along our fencerow. When I look directly through those branches, I see the very tip of Molly the Corn Dolly’s illuminated yellow head.

  “I never expected to love that thing,” I say.

  And Davey sees what I see. He says, “No one does,” and we both laugh.

  I take off my boots. He removes his high tops.

  And then we get out the glue and newspapers and make a couch until the others arrive with an entire pumpkin pie and eight forks.

  THE SHORT PART

  after

  PART THREE

  No legacy is so rich as honesty.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER