THE HOLITOPA TRESTLES

CHAPTER 9: DINNER AT THE DAVENPORTS

Last-minute fast food sprawled on a third-hand coffee table is how Tiny Lamar handled dinner. If it was just me, I made a box of scalloped potatoes or Hamburger Helper (without the meat) and washed it down with a Coke.

Since formal dinners weren't a part of my upbringing, I still feel out of place after years of eating with The Davenports. At first, it felt like I was in a play where the stage lights were too bright, and no one gave me the lines. Nowadays, it's awkward for entirely different reasons.

For eight months, I avoided taking 3rd Avenue on my way to Britt's, so I didn't have to drive past Knox's parents' house. His bedroom window faced the street, and for the longest time, seeing it had the same effect as hearing a song my heart couldn't bear to listen to yet. There were too many memories of him and his, comparatively, perfect family. Too many times when I made the mistake of feeling safe and like it was forever.

Jasper Mabry made good on his promise to get my car to a mechanic, but I haven't heard what the damage is gonna be yet. I park my loaner Datsun pick up from Pete on the curb in front of the boxy peach Antebellum home of Dr. Ethridge—Mayland's favorite large animal vet. He and his younger, Finnish wife sit on the porch swing with their two yappy rescue dogs resting at their feet. They wave in unison, and I have to smile at the sheer perfection of Mayland sometimes.

Crooked Letter Living Magazine once described The Davenport home as "an understated, meticulously maintained pale yellow, 3-story Queen Anne style with a wrap-around porch, five indoor fireplaces, and a fairytale tower". The four cane rockers on the porch hardly ever get used outside of special occasions the family is hosting, which I've always thought was a shame. It's the perfect place to sit and read. Or do lots of things, really. But they remain mere decoration equally spaced apart and angled in the same direction.

There's an extra car parked in the driveway. I'd forgotten Britt's aunt was in town this weekend from The Delta. Miss Adair and Aunt Clare are identical twins, but that's where the similarities end. Aunt Clare is a hunting widow, which means her husband is MIA, come any hunting season. The frequency of her visits to Mayland increases as do the tales of folks I've never met.

"Evenin', Georgie," Miss Leela greets me at the front door. She didn't have silver streaked hair or wrinkles around her narrow mouth when I first met her. She's been working for The Davenport family since Britt was in diapers. I always thought she could play a younger Mrs. Claus, if needed.

"Can you believe this weather? 'Course they say it's gonna get real cold tomorrow."

I fan myself. "I'll believe it when I feel it."

"Uh-huh. I saw it on Midday this afternoon," she reports as if it's been carved into stone on a mountaintop somewhere. "Augusta Ray was wearin' one of those berets with a coat and scarf."

"I'll get my berets out then," I tease.

"They're all in the dining room, baby. There's Beef and Creole rice and fresh bread from the Mennonite bakery."

My stomach rumbles as I head towards the room wallpapered with a pattern Southern Lifestyle magazine called a "modern take on French Toile". I pass the parlor where a commissioned painting of the late Gran Dee hangs over the fireplace that hasn't been lit yet this season. She, like everyone I've met in The Davenport family, appeared to have blue blood coursing through her veins. I guess it wasn't any surprise her only son, Nolan, was also destined for business greatness.

For the last two years, Mr. Davenport indulged in a "passion project" revitalizing commercial buildings in the all but vacated downtown areas around the state. Mississippi Daily Dispatch reported most of those towns were "surely grateful for the intrusion which would bring businesses back." The Mayland Monitor named him "Businessman of The Year" for the fifth year straight.