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 Lee, 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.