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 Janie 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.”