I’m thinking about these three things as I sit on the rug in Dad’s office, running my finger down the spines of old concordances and commentaries. They are the heaviest books we own. I loved them as a child. Not for their content, but because they made the best mazes for my toy cars. I whiled hours away on this rug. I’d been happy then, and Dad had been happy with me.
I ask what the deacons are saying and he tells me, “I am less concerned about deacons than I have ever been.”
One week before, I would have been happy with this news. But the deacons aren’t talking to him because they’ve switched to talking about him. Church leaders are not like tides. You can’t set your clock to high and low a week or month in advance. They take a notion, and they turn quickly, suddenly. And once they have . . . there is very little turning back.
“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.”