Large white columns stretch two stories to meet an impressive rectangular roof. The house belongs on the coast. With its large porches, stacked one on top of the other, an American flag hanging from the topmost railing. With its off-white siding, black shutters, and heavily manicured landscaping that perfectly frames every corner and edge with a splash of color. It is not that the house itself couldn’t exist in Otters Holt—we do have some hundred-year-old architecture. But there would be toys in the yard, or perhaps a large ornamental chicken, or maybe algae on the siding, or even a Beware of Dog sign tacked to the tree in the front. It would be lived-in. This house was built like a display—not to play with or abide in, but simply to exist.
“This is where I grew up,” he says. It doesn’t take a genius to see he is embarrassed. “We’re going to meet Gerry and Thom later for dinner, but I need to pick something up first.”
When he opens the car door to get out, I do the same.
It is nearly five o’clock. I ask, “Will your dad be home?”
“I hope not. I’ll text him later and say I stopped by to get a few things from downstairs.”
I stay close, just behind, choosing not to walk in step with him. He unlocks the front door and walks so swiftly through the entry hall that I don’t have time to think anything except: the inside aesthetic matches the outside. Davey opens one of several doors in a side hallway. Steps lead down. We take them two at a time, arriving in a large open space that is outfitted the way Youth Suite 201 should be: pool table, five arcade games, a working foosball table.
I do not tell him this room is nice. He knows.
He’s acting cagey, and I have to guess what he’s thinking. I halfway regret getting out of the car and intruding in this space while simultaneously feeling better that he does not have to be here alone.
He rummages in a closet, and I stay behind, bouncing a pool ball along the rails with my hand, hoping this will end soon.
“You need anything?” I call.
“No, but come see this if you want.”
We’ve created many memories since he moved to Otters Holt, but my picture of him is still full of holes. I like being invited to fill in the spaces.
He’s squatting on the floor, searching for something. We are inside an oversize closet that is more organized than my garage has ever dreamed of being, and equally interesting. Large wire racks line the left and right walls. Bins are labeled: eye makeup, clown, horror, Marvel, jewelry black, jewelry gold, jewelry colorful. There must be a hundred plastic storage boxes—some very large, containing toy guns and swords, and some very small, promising colored hair and skin. One long closet bar hangs across the back of the closet. Costumes are wedged between the walls.
“This is all yours?” I ask.
“Mine and Dad’s.”
My assumptions about John Winters did not include someone who played dress-up. It turns out Davey is not rummaging around after all. He’s working from a specific list, searching from bin to bin, taking required items and filling a duffel at his feet. I do not interrupt again, imagining all the people he has been in this room: Captain America, d’Artagnan, a banana—that’s the only thing the costume in the far corner could be.
He sees my expression of wonder and misreads it as judgment. “I’m a dork,” he says.
“This, my friend, is something far beyond dork.” Before I can add, It’s amazing, he flashes a hurt expression. “I mean, I knew you were into this from the costume party, but I didn’t know you had an actual Bat Cave.”
“Dad calls it my Bunker of Personalities.”
“I see why.”
“Did he do this with you?”
He scowls and grabs an item. “The only costume Dad wears is skin. He pretends to be human. The only reason he tolerates this obsession is because I’m good at it.”
“When you say good at it, what do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve won the LaserCon contest the last five years.”
I spend a long minute examining Bat Cave Davey, realizing he has not only given up Thom to be in Otters Holt with his mom, he has given up other precious things. This is his garage. And it explains why he’s decent at eyeliner when I still cannot manage a straight line.
“Gerry said LaserCon is coming up.”
“Yeah. I don’t have any chance of winning this year, but I can’t show up naked.”
He’s painting a picture of himself. A champion who doesn’t have to win to enjoy something. I admire this. And simultaneously know that John Winters would not admire anything about this sentiment. I’ve only met him once, but his thorns were showing.
Davey shoulders the bag, flips the light off, and says, “I was thinking about you in that dress today. It felt like my closet. Like a costume rather than an outfit. It might showcase a piece of you, but not all of you.”
My tongue presses against the back of my teeth in thought. Yes, he is right.
We are up the steps and in the kitchen sneaking bottled water when we hear the back door open, the security system dinging that John Winters is home. He strides into the kitchen, trapping us. Davey has his long face and high cheekbones and forehead. His dad has worn khakis, button-downs, and sweater vests for so long that if he died, the clothes would go to work the next day without him. His keys rattle in a catch-all ceramic bowl. His voice does not rattle. “I told you,” he begins.
“I know,” Davey says.
What he has told him is unclear. Not to come here? Not to bring anyone over? I want to slip out the front door, but I don’t leave. John Winters is the kind of man who makes you straighten your back. I straighten my back and pretend I am welcome.
“You’re the pallbearer,” he says at me rather than to me.
I’ll admit, the smear is so judgmental; my shoulders fall a centimeter or two.
“We’re leaving, Dad,” Davey says.
For a moment, I believe John Winters will cave. His face, well, it looks like it wants to say things his pride will not allow. I do not doubt he loves Davey. I do doubt he has ever shown that to his son. And as if to prove my theory correct, he says, “If you want your stuff, you have to come home. I told you that when you left with Mom.”
Davey is still except for his fingers. They flex, knuckles white and knobby, around the straps of the duffel. I am still as well, trying hard to avoid blinking so I won’t miss a single nuance. While I am watching his hands, Davey drops the bag on the granite floor. Drops. Not flings. Not slams. Just a single uncurling that says he is letting go of something far more important than the contents of the duffel.
He fights so quietly.
We leave.
Music in the Camaro cranks loudly from the speakers when he turns the engine. We reach the power knob at the same time, our index fingers on top of each other’s, and I say, “I’ll build you a costume. Any costume you want,” and he says, “Thank you,” but we don’t look at each other. So I don’t know if he’s crying, but I am.
I want what any child wants: for my father to be proud of me. For Dad to look into me, and say, “You are good,” rather than to look at me and say, “You are not good enough.”
The Corn Dolly decision, my wavering feelings on Janie Lee: I will either play the game and miss finding out the truth—or I will explore the truth and lose the game. Only it’s not a game. Because games go back in boxes and get stacked away with other games. This nomination, this competition, has real stakes.
I know the cost. It’s the same price Davey paid just four months ago: a town, a house, a parent, a move, a hobby, friends.