The Crier’s White Handkerchief

Crestwood sits one cracked blacktop road away from the state route that connects the town to the six-lane freeway. Labeled a “sleepy town” by those in the big city, Dewayne considers the town a napping community with enough action to keep the locals lively, but enough quiet to take a nap on a hammock in the yard. The tavern on North Street holds an all you can eat fish fry and dollar beer steins once a month. And every Sunday, Crestwood’s population nearly doubles for three hours when the mega church holds their ten o’clock service.

Dewayne keeps tabs on the movements in the town. He is not the local police with their three squad cars and is not a member of the neighborhood watch committee.

“I am the lone undercover investigator who gets paid by no one so no one can claim I take sides,” Dewayne often tells the sheriff when he is caught examining the yard of the month or the trash bins behind the dry cleaners. The sheriff calls Dewayne the town crier.

The new housing boom of the surrounding towns has not yet tipped Crestwood. Ancestral homes with railings and porches line the nearly two dozen streets in the residential area. 

The town is growing old. Old in style with homes pressing for repairs and their tenants mourning because they can no longer cook for themselves let alone care for the broken lattice work and peeling paint. The slow exodus to the county nursing home or to live with their kids that started about ten years ago has accelerated.

Dewayne lives south of the roundabout, up a gravel driveway to his Victorian-esque charmer with its faded indigo exterior and a worn welcome sign nailed to the front door. He and his wife, Ellie moved in two weeks after their wedding nearly forty years ago with china settings for eighteen and a dream to build a family to run up and down the main staircase.

Their biological family never came. Dewayne and Ellie adopted the town, its people, and their wellbeing as family. They host the annual ice cream social on their front lawn and worry if they bought enough strawberry crunch bars or whether they should have chosen patriotic sprinkles instead of the rainbow ones. They cherish these worries and even though they do not serve elected positions, they serve the town’s constituents more than those who represent the people.

He works part time now. Two days a week as letter carrier on the Magnolia Loop, the streets within a five-block radius of Magnolia Avenue. Used to work the East-West Loop that took him from the bridge near the unincorporated land border to a cluster of grand homes known as Rutherford Estates, in honor of the town’s first mayor. Dewayne’s body had grown weary after years of hauling correspondence, magazines, and more recently, packages. His limited route gives him the precision view of the town that he needs and craves.

This is how he knows one Mr. Timothy Swank bought the deceased Mrs. Doyle’s European cottage one block from Crestwood’s center and moved in early last week. Mrs. Doyle manicured her small front patch and tended to its vegetation until the day before she died. Her daddy taught her that a home’s appearance reflects the insides of its owner. She had a weathervane installed on her roof’s peak to help mega church goer’s find their way to the main road after lunching at one of the three local eateries. Seasonal wreaths adorned her front door through hot summer suns and harsh winter gusts.

The town’s restaurants serve as designated community gathering spots and a source of gourmet nourishment second only to home-cooking. Crestwood’s tavern has the best burgers in the tri-county area. The McDonald’s is well, fast, which suits the repentant parishioners who want to combine lunch with their commute, making it home before kickoff, first pitch, or engines revving.   The Diner, which has no formal name but “The Diner,” serves the most elaborate food in the area. Chopped steak and onions. Fried chicken. Homemade pies. Comfort food with comfortable people in a comfortable town.

And comfort is what Dewayne intends to keep as the new resident invades the town’s daily flow. Most homebuyers align with the town’s pace and unspoken rituals. No speeding on the tree-lined side streets. Don’t expect a personal invitation to town events until the newbie demonstrates giving where they live. The affluent greying-haired move here for simplicity and companionship entering the last chapters of their life. Young families adopt the town’s classic lifestyle in the lessons they teach their

children. Crestwood provides the opportunity for natural freedom and indirect access to an artery that connects many to their jobs.

That’s why Swank’s purchase arches Dewayne’s brow. A young man wanting to live away from the action seems senseless. He needs the experiences of a big city to know he wants to live in a small town and not the opposite. An abnormality in the Crestwood’s demographics.

No one sees Swank for the first few days he takes up residency. Then he shows up at the hardware store at four forty-five on Saturday afternoon looking for nails. Anyone who has gone into the hardware store knows they have tons of nail options.

“I am not sure what sizes I need,” Swank told the owner, who arrived late for a standing Saturday night date with his wife because of Swank’s lack of fastener knowledge.

On Sunday, Swank shows up at church and asks a mid-praise family to scoot down in the pew so he could sit on the end.

“Church makes me nervous,” he whispered to worshiper. “I have a weak bladder when I am nervous.” The worshipers could not decline his request especially when singing the Lord’s words.

On Monday, he goes to The Diner for breakfast. The small confines crammed, he sits at the only counter seat open, the one closest to the coffee pot. The one with its worn cushions, the front left corner rubbed down to the wood base and threads growing from a slit near the middle. Swank stays in that seat for over two hours.

Dewayne learns of Swank’s behavior on his route Monday afternoon. Three neighbors on the same block relay the story of a rude young man whose negative debut is not appreciated.

“I wonder if he has manners. The Fosters have five kids,” House 201 relays.

“He’s young and they don’t teach social etiquette in schools anymore. Closing time is closing time.” Comments from the east side of the street.

“I want him to be happy here, but not at others’ expense. Tucker needs a moment of rest during the morning rush.” The Diner owner’s wife declares. “The restaurant does not run itself.

The accusations fly through Crestwood’s news funnel. Not spiteful. Only informational. Dewayne knows a hospitality visit is due.

“Remember this young man may have no intent on ruining our town,” Ellie says with a wink and a hug as he leaves for the suspect’s residence.

The Crestwood visitor guide features a picture of Mrs. Doyle’s street at twilight. Each house has a unique brilliance to it as the sun sets. The pinks, blues, and yellows of the houses soften to a baby shower mix against glowing white porches and grey concrete.  Spotlights highlight leaning whispering willows looking to rest on the ground for the night. Open curtains reveal that most of the block is home and readying for dinner. A lone dog barks at a barely visible squirrel collecting the last of its daily bounty.

Dewayne glances at the street’s illuminated beauty before ascending the three steps to Mrs. Doyle’s covered stoop. Her wreath gone, replaced with two-toned color splotches not quite dark enough to outline the vines that once dangled.

Swank opens the door before Dewayne can knock.

“I am guessing you are Dewayne Sample. I am Tim. Nice to meet you.”

Dewayne pauses at the handshake. How did the intruder know he would make a visit? He scans the house for what Swank might have hung with all of the nails he bought. Surprisingly Dewayne notices Mrs. Doyle’s vintage four-door walnut buffet in the dining room and her candlestick crystal lamps set by the large living room window. Swank turns them on as night firmly takes hold.

“My family speaks highly of you Mr. Sample. I understand you are the town caretaker.”

“And how might your family know me? I understand you are from Kentucky.” Not used to being the recipient of someone’s homework, Dewayne’s palms sweat. He leans in closer as if he wants to look at Swank through a magnifying glass. 

“Oh yes, let me explain.”

Swank motions to the follow him to the kitchen. Its Amish-fabricated cabinet doors look old and new with the vintage character offered by thick wood and double stained oak yet updated with polished nickel hardware. Dewayne sees a section of the tile behind the sink has been chiseled away with its replacement choices leaning nearby.

Swank offers coffee, wine, beer – a local lager from the tavern’s bottled craft list. Dewayne accepts the brown bottle and sips a taste of Crestwood.

“You may not know this but my Gertie Ann,” he says pointing to a picture of Mrs. Doyle on a side table, “is who I have to thank for introducing me to Crestwood’s local ales. This one in particular.” He holds up the bottle. “My mom brought a case home whenever she visited her sister here.” 

Dewayne relaxes his raised senses and realizes Mrs. Doyle’s kin bought the house. Mentally he checks off one red flag and changes Swank to Tim.

“Tim, son, while you think you know this town, you don’t know this town. You haven’t lived here long enough for residents to marinate on you.”

Tim looks like a child who opened a Christmas present under the tree before the big day and gets caught. The child knew better. And from the shaking of his head, he knows better.

“My mom explained to me that Crestwood was a special place to live and not to screw it up.”

Tim looks hopeless.

“Let’s walk into town.” Dewayne suggests.

The two men walk on a moonlit sidewalk to the heart of downtown. Quiet stillness hoovers except for the crickets that echo on either side of their ears. Dewayne talks of owning a small business like the hardware store. 

“The owners work long hours with limited help to keep the costs down. They stay open late because they know last minute business builds customers.”

Tim walks slower and shares his guilt.

“I wanted to help the town and buy local, not run to the Walmart off the interstate. I needed the nails to finish a project.  I thought nail buying consisted of picking up a box, paying and walking out. Not display cases of choices.”

Tim’s atoned confession strikes Dewayne tenderly. Tim had done wrong by trying to do right. His potential viability in the town notches higher.

They pause at the corner of Main Street and the cracked blacktop road that leads to the mega church. A solar-fueled stop sign blinks red in a solitary beat. The street lights dim just enough so the flashing reflects off the windows of the realtor’s office and the chiropractor’s entrance. The beacon keeps pace through the night. Dewayne gazes down the road like he is looking for something to appear. He bows his head in silent prayer, wondering of he should address the pew takeover

Tim sits on the “Dedicated to Sal” pine bench still tacky on the sides from stain. He looks directly at Dewayne’s forehead not ready to make eye contact.

“To long time churchgoers, family pews rank as a scared treasure. We have a family pew at our church in Louisville. Even has our name on it.” Tim pauses to look at Dewayne for forgiveness.

Without acknowledging, Dewayne crosses the street and waits for Tim to follow. Their game of follow the leader takes them to the entrance of The Diner. Dewayne’s hands cup the window as if to look for a patron in its darkness.

“The Diner opens at five for the breakfast crowd.” Dewayne knows he need not say any more.

“How about a buy us a round at the tavern?” Tim offers. “I hear they have a dry ale on tap that even the people in Kentucky know about.”

“Now how would anyone in Kentucky know about the little town of Crestwood’s beer?” Dewayne whips.

“The Irish love to talk about their beer.”

As the newcomer entertains the loyal townie, Main Street rests awaiting the morning. A day like today, but never exactly the same.