6. Summer Nights
CELESTE
Wesleyand I very quickly fell into a routine after that. Three days a week Ms. Shirley drove him out to my house so we could work on school stuff. We managed to only take short breaks most days, so even with me explaining things to Wesley, both of us were caught up in no time. Principal Roberts met with Daddy and Ms. Shirley and got the green light for the same work to count towards the missing credits on Wesley’s transcripts. Wes tried not to get teary eyed when I told him how Daddy had gone to bat for him, swearing to the principal that our family was going to do right by Wesley, but it was hard not to notice the moisture building up. I conveniently needed a pencil sharpener on the other side of the room when that happened.
On the days when we weren’t working on school stuff, I would join Daddy at The Comfy Cushion in the morning. Wesley would come with Ms. Shirley for lunch and we would all eat a meal together before Wes and I crossed over to the playground in the town square to spend the afternoon. Half the time was spent down at the creek, though. We both became bolder in our attempts to climb the tree, challenging each other to go higher and higher. When we encountered a wasp that Wes swore was big enough to saddle up and ride, we both agreed it was in our best interest not to climb too high anymore.
As the weather grew insufferably hot, we began to live in our bathing suits, dashing into the creek every so often to cool off. Wesley found a deck of cards on one of the shelves in the tower and started teaching me how to play poker. He said it was “scandalous” that I didn’t know how to play. In between dips in the creek, we would sprawl out under the branches of the old oak and play for hours. No matter how many times he explained the rules to me, I always got confused and had to fold. We only bet wood chips and pebbles anyway. I couldn’t exactly consider it a loss.
On rainy days we would hitch a ride from Daddy down to the only movie theater in the county, just a few streets over from The Comfy Cushion. It only had two different theaters and the movies were often out on DVD before the theater could get the film in, but at only $3 a ticket, it was a cheap way to spend the afternoon. The owner, Mr. Custer, was a regular down at The Comfy Cushion, so he often let us stay and watch the same movie twice. Wesley and I would mimic the characters the second time around to change their lines into something far more entertaining. We cracked up every time.
Wesley’s birthday was a special treat to both of us. Marla helped me bake a two tiered cake from scratch. I spent three long nights in our kitchen at home practicing with fondant so that I could decorate it all by myself. Nana commented that my flowers looked like they were wilting, but Wesley’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when we all surprised him at The Comfy Cushion with the cake and a few presents. Daddy and I had gone into Savannah the day before to buy Wes a real Polaroid camera since I always caught him staring at the photographs lining the walls of the tower. He laughed in delight as soon as he tore the wrapping paper off and immediately ripped it out of the box to take a photo of the two of us next to his cake. Wesley’s tan face was beaming down at me rather than looking at the camera, slightly blurring his face, but he swore it was his favorite picture ever.
Mr. Madden sent a check for $10,000 that Wesley shredded into a dozen pieces with a frown. Marla said he was going to bring Jesus down from Heaven with his attitude.
I found myself laughing most days like I used to before Mama’s death. The dark cloud that always circled around me felt lighter every day until one day towards the end of June I realized I hadn’t felt the sadness at all in a few days. Part of me felt guilty, like I was forgetting about Mama, but whenever I voiced my concern to Wesley, he asked me to tell him more stories about her. It helped keep her memory alive in a good way. I liked the way Wesley asked questions about the things she liked and the way she handled the restaurant because he always made it sound like she was still with us and he was just summoning up the courage to meet her. It helped ease the loss that hovered because I knew if she had still been here, Wesley would have made quite the impression on her.
Whether we were at my house or at the restaurant, I continued Wesley’s cooking lessons. He mastered basic things like pasta and casseroles so we started progressing to things that took more skill like homemade sauces, jambalaya, and handmade meatloaf. Wes preferred the meals where he could get his hands dirty and make a mess. I expected the novelty to wear off after he realized how much work went into cleaning it back up, but it never happened. He continued to spread debris all over the kitchen no matter where we were or what we were making.
Nana and Marla were both growing fonder of him by the day. His use of “sir” and “ma’am” increased exponentially in their presence, and he learned to hold open doors for others, to stop and pick something off the ground for someone when they dropped it, or simply to put something away because it needed to be done. Wesley admitted to me that he liked how appreciative Nana was when he placed an ice cold Coke bottle on her side table when she watched her shows, but he also thought it was hilarious to try to figure out the storyline on her soaps. Marla said we’d make a Southern gentleman out of him yet.
The fourth of July was around the corner before I knew it, and The Comfy Cushion was in a flurry of activity as we prepped for the annual county barbecue. Our restaurant had catered everything but the meat for the event since before I was born. Most of the people in town competed in the Grill Off to present the best meats for everyone in town to eat. Daddy was excluded from participating, but when Wesley saw the flyers posted, he insisted on entering the grilled chicken category. I had taught him a couple different marinades that the restaurant used for meals and he felt confident that he could make up a recipe on his own. He worked on it for days leading up to the fourth.
“Trust me, Celeste,” insisted Wesley, “it’s in the bag!”
The restaurant closed for the day as the town gathered in the square for the Fourth of July celebrations. There were cornhole tournaments and a volleyball net set up, and the baseball diamond was packed with spectators. Everyone started off with a home run derby before switching to the annual fundraising game for the Smithson County High School athletic boosters—teachers versus students. Both teams always wore comical uniforms to bring more fun to the game.
Wesley and I laughed in delight as one of the teachers came out in red clown shoes to match his American flag tank top and short shorts, then fell repeatedly while trying to run the bases. Wesley admitted he didn’t think high school would be that bad here in River’s Run if those were the kinds of things teachers would do for their students. It made my heart skip a beat to hear that he wanted to stay long enough for high school. Although we never discussed it after that first encounter, I couldn’t forget Mr. Madden’s threat to send Wesley away to boarding school.
When the game wore down, Wesley jumped up and raced over to the grilling area. People brought their own grills, sparking heated arguments about the merits of charcoal versus gas, and lined them up around the edge of the town square. Daddy let Wesley borrow our old charcoal grill and helped him get the hot coals going.
I beamed at Wesley as we dragged the heavy cooler across the street from the restaurant to the lawn where his place was set up. He wore an apron with an American flag on it and the words “Grill Master” emblazoned on the chest. Marla laughed at how long the apron was and placed a snow white chef’s cap on his head to wish him luck.
Wesley expertly pulled on a pair of rubber cooking gloves and used tongs to remove the chicken from bags inside the cooler. They had been marinating in Wesley’s special recipe for roughly 48 hours, and the smell alone when he opened the bag was enough to make my mouth water. Contestants in the grilled chicken category had to cook three breasts for entry, but were welcome to make more if they wanted to serve the meat to others. Wesley had enough for me, Daddy, Marla, Ms. Shirley, and Nana to eat, but he made us promise that we wouldn’t give him any reactions until after the judges made their verdict.
Wes looked studious and contemplative as he hovered over the chicken. In his mind, this was a battle to the death; he was determined to win first prize. When I asked him the day before why it mattered so much to him, he said, “Because I’ve never won anything on my own before. It’s always been whatever my father could buy.”
Nana sat in a folding chair underneath the tent Daddy erected for Wesley and lounged with her legs out in the sun. For once she had on a light cotton dress, making her look ten years younger, but almost overdressed compared to her usual garb. She leaned her head back and dozed while I sat on the cooler next to her, anxiously biting my nails and watching Wesley like a hawk.
His determination never wavered as he carefully turned the chicken breasts. After another four minutes, when the skins were golden brown, Wesley moved them to the outer edges of the flame, just like Jesse and Daddy had recommended. I felt on edge enough for both of us because I didn’t know how Wesley would react if he didn’t win.
The county mayor, head of the school board, and deputy sheriff comprised of the judge’s panel. They were older men whose families had lived in the River’s Run area for generations, just like Daddy. Jonah Hillsborough, the sheriff, had a family tree that stemmed all the way back to the Revolutionary War. As they made their way down the line with a clipboard where they marked notes based on each person’s entry, my nerves only worsened. Daddy and Marla joined us under the tent.
“Wesley, why’d you wanna win this so badly?” Daddy asked, probably to lighten the mood. Daddy hated any kind of tension or confrontation.
I assumed Wesley would give him the same answer he gave me about winning something without Mr. Madden’s money, but he surprised me by telling Daddy something different. “Figured it would make me really belong here.” He shrugged and kept his eyes on the judges as they approached.
My heart leapt up in my throat at Wesley’s admission. It was too easy to forget that Wesley didn’t feel as though he had anyone who cared about him when all he had known was distance and coldness from his father.
“You belong here in my book,” Nana commented in her usual sullen tone.
We all grinned at one another right as the three judges stepped up to Wesley’s grill.
“And now who is this?” Mr. Wyatt, the county mayor, asked jovially. He looked as out of place as Nana in his checkered button up, red suspenders, and light blue jeans. Puffs of white hair stuck out from under his baseball cap that was too bright and stiff to have ever been worn before. He was almost always dressed in a gray suit, so today’s ensemble felt at odds with his personality.
With an encouraging nod from Daddy, Wesley held out his hand to Mr. Wyatt. “My name is Wesley Madden, sir. I moved here to live with my great-aunt Shirley a couple months back.”
Mr. Wyatt shook his hand while Dennis Hildebrandt, the school superintendent, merely smiled and let his eyes roam. He had to be 90 years old if he were a day, but he simply refused to retire. I doubted he even knew what was going on.
It was Sheriff Hillsborough who made me question if something was wrong. He glared at Wesley, gripping his duty belt tightly where his badge hung at his hip. I had only ever had a reason to greet him or wish him a good evening when he stopped at The Comfy Cushion with his family, but the look he seared Wesley with in that moment made me wonder if I really knew him at all. Wesley was a problem to be eliminated immediately in his eyes, and I did not like it one bit.
When Wesley went to shake the sheriff’s hand, the deputy merely glared at it before adjusting the toothpick clenched between his teeth. He ignored Wes’ outstretched hand completely without saying a word.
I saw my friend’s smile falter for a moment, but he managed to brighten as Mr. Wyatt moaned in delight from his first bite of Wesley’s chicken.
“My word, this is positively delightful!” Mr. Wyatt crowed. “What is this marinade you have?”
Had Wesley not looked directly at me when he said it, I might not have believed it. “It’s an old recipe of Rachel Hendricks’ that I changed up for the grill.” The blue in his eyes was brighter than I remembered seeing, his megawatt smile back in place so Wes perfectly embodied the angel I knew him to be.
“Jonah, you’ve got to try this!” Mr. Wyatt beamed and held out a plate with a plastic fork and knife for his co-judge.
Deputy Hillsborough wouldn’t take it. “He cheated. He’s disqualified,” the sheriff declared.
“What?!” squawked Marla and Nana.
At the same time, Daddy said, “How do you reckon?”
The chief stood taller and crossed his arms across his chest. “I heard him say he used someone else’s recipe. That means he cheated.”
“Jonah, every person here used someone else’s recipe,” Daddy countered. “There isn’t a rule against that.”
Mr. Wyatt looked intimidated as he glanced between the two of them while Mr. Hildebrant smiled and watched the entire scene with a bemused detachment.
“Now, Chief, we don’t have a set rule about these things,” Mr. Wyatt began, but the sheriff cut him off.
“I say we do.” He took a large step towards Daddy, squaring up with him.
Wesley’s face was crestfallen. Without a word, he threw the tongs down on the ground and ran into the crowd, heading in the same direction as the old oak tree.
“Jonah, your daddy would tan your hide for hurting a kid like that!” Nana sputtered at him. She leapt out of her lawn chair in a fit of anger.
The chief took a step back and gave a curt nod to her, ever the Southern gentleman respecting his elders. “My daddy wouldn’t want a little hothead punk from Atlanta to bring trouble into this town,” he challenged. “I did some digging on that brat as soon as I heard he stepped foot in my town. He shouldn’t be here, and the sooner we get that through his head, the better.”
The injustice of it all made my blood boil. It was just a silly contest at a local party, but I knew Wesley wouldn’t see it that way. He would internalize it as another way he was different, another justification for why no one wanted him, only now he would believe that of River’s Run just as much as Atlanta. It wasn’t fair for anyone to do that to him.
For once I didn’t care about my manners. “You’re just a big, ugly asshole!” I had never used a swear word a day in my life and I imagined my mama rolling over in her grave from hearing that word come from my lips.
Except I couldn’t bring myself to care. Whirling around, I ran into the crowd, pushing people out of the way as the tears streamed down my face.