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I take it from her and consider snapping several photos of myself instead and handing it back. But I’ve recently set a new goal to only reach for pettiness in extreme situations, and also, I notice the Watermelon Queen sash around her. I remember being that age. Barely.
I position the phone, snap a photo, and hand it back to her. She glances at the screen, brings it close to her face, studies it, and scrunches her nose. Then she shows her friend, shakes her head and thrusts the phone in my direction. “Would you mind taking another?”
Actually, I would. But that’s not what I say. I take several shots, hand the phone back, wait for the approval of a teenager, and think about how far I’ve let myself go. Finally, she looks up at me and shrugs. “I guess it’ll do.”
Her friend says, “We can filter it.”
No one says thank you.
I stand there, annoyed, and I search the crowd, thinking about the past, thinking how much better it must have been when everyone didn’t try so hard. When everything didn’t feel so manufactured, when people didn’t have to make their memories perfect, with exactly the right shot—and maybe that’s the problem. Now people expect things will live forever. It used to be that someone could write something bad about your town, or your place of business, and it would be gone the next day. Now, it lives in digital form forever, only to be repurposed and shared in controversial bits, bits that never quite tell the whole story. There’s a lot that can happen between perfect takes. I could’ve strangled the Watermelon Queen, for example. I certainly pictured it in my mind.
My eyes aren’t the only thing scanning the crowd. I pick up bits and pieces of conversation, mostly small town gossip, but also threads about what happened with the girl we found by the courthouse. I listen to two women talking: Georgia, who runs the floral shop, and Anita Bealls, who was widowed last year and owns a boutique but spends all her time shopping. You have to be careful about making eye contact with her. Any conversation vacillates between her ocean of grief and her latest internet find.
But now she’s onto a different topic, which doesn’t happen often. Which is probably why I listen. “All I’m saying is you ought to be prepared. When word gets out, the tourists will stop coming. I can’t say I’d blame them. It’s not safe.”
Georgia waves her off. “It’s terrible. But unfortunately these things happen.”
Anita’s hand flies to her chest. “Not in Jester Falls, they don’t.”
Georgia furrows her brow. She wants to argue but rape is a tricky subject to navigate. “I’ll be praying for the Jenkins tomorrow in church. I’m sure we all will.”
“I don’t know,” Anita says. “I hear even church attendance has dropped.” She shakes her head slowly from side to side, clutching her actual pearls. “This town is changing. It’s not the same as it was when I moved here. Back when Bill and I were married.”
Georgia takes offense, but she does it the way most women in this town do, politely with a bit of an edge. “Well,” she answers with a smile. She places her hand on Anita’s forearm. “I was born here. And summer season at First Baptist has always ebbed and flowed. Everything will be fine. There’s no need to worry. And like my mama said…” She leans in close and lowers her chin, leveling her eyes. “Worrying gives you wrinkles.”
“Maybe,” Anita quips. “But I just hope word doesn’t get out that we have a rapist on the loose, or I’m going to be buying a lot more flowers to save your ass.”
I can’t help but laugh, even though nothing is really funny, considering, but I can’t stop. I laugh until tears well in my eyes, until eventually the two women turn and look at me. Anita looks me over from head to toe while Georgia Adkins goes about it a little more subtly.
“I guess she’s been drinking again,” Anita says, turning her back to me.
Georgia follows suit. “It’s a shame. She’s so pretty. Always has been. You should have
seen her when she was little. She turned heads on the street, that girl. People stopped to watch her go by. Now, it’s almost like she’s stopped trying.”
“That’s what happens when girls don’t listen. They think they can have it all. And then they become old maids.”
“Who drink too much.” She ribs Anita. “What’s your excuse, then?”
“I’m a widow. And I’m already old,” Anita laughs. “But yeah, I mean, who can blame her?”
“Did you catch the Johnsons’ float?” Georgia asks. “I thought they did a lovely job. We supplied the flowers, but they did all the work.”
“The who?” Anita cocks her head. “Oh and hey— about the Channing girl.” She points in my direction. “Look at her. I really do think something’s wrong with her.”
“Ruth is Ruth,” Georgia says. She and I do a fair amount of business together. Surely she knows I can hear them.
“No,” Anita says, “It’s that entire family. I’ve always thought there was something off about them. Bill always thought so, too.”
I walk toward the carnival with my phone pressed to my ear. The scent of popcorn and nostalgia fill the air. I listen to my voicemail, two of which are from Julia, and one is about a reservation.
I try Davis again, and when it goes to voicemail, I send a text. I consider going back to the house. There’s no point in being here.
And anyway, I know that photo albums, old records, and brandy await me at home. It’s like they’re reaching out, beckoning me, proving to me where I belong. All the elements are in place for that kind of disaster. Those women, the situation at the courthouse, seeing Ryan, reminiscing about the past. Thinking of what could have been. Thinking how much can change in an instant. Thinking he knows that now. He’s living it.
I glance back at the stage, where a slideshow is playing. Photos flash across the screen displaying all the former Watermelon Queens. Mama’s photo is there, but I know I won’t stay long enough to see it.
I think about what Jester Falls must have been like then, and I wonder if Anita is right. Maybe things have changed and not for the better. Surely they faced controversies too. But I have a hard time coming up with anything significant, even though I know this can’t be true. Things are never as perfect as they seem.
