Page 14 of Full Circle

“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.

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