Poster Day by Matthew Betti (Canada, 35)

          “I heard she ran off with that boyfriend of hers,” I overheard from Ms. Avery as I tried to
get lost in the crowd. “You bet,” she said in response to some mumbling from Mrs. Jorge, “heard
it from Jim Francois’ dad.”
​          “Poor Jim,” Mrs. Jorge shook her head. “That boy is good for this town; too good to be
have been pining over a girl like that.”
​          ​“Now that she’s left maybe he’ll get his priorities straight.”
​          I lost the conversation as others filled in the growing space between us; their words
overtaken by the hundred others speaking around me. From above, the crowd must have looked
like a flock of starlings. There were groups of people talking among themselves, but no group
lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes before merging and morphing with a new group and
eventually splitting into new circles of gossip. The movement was sustained by the need for
everyone to make sure that everyone else knew they were there; lots of big waves across the
crowd and “Oh, I just knew I’d find you here!”
​          I finally found Cheryl; a stationary point amid the ever-flowing crowd. She was wearing an
old pair of ripped jeans; they could have started blue or black but only she would ever know. Now,
they were grey-white and nearing shapelessness. Despite the heat, she had on a thick black hoodie.
There was a hole in the shoulder where she had ripped off whatever branding the sweater had.
​          She stood out from the others in the crowd, if not for her clothes, then for her porcelain
skin. Everyone else was varying shades of orange or brown, brought on by the dry August sun. I
walked up to her without saying a word and gave her a reassuring squeeze on her forearm. She
responded by nudging her shoulder into my chest.

​          I followed Cheryl’s gaze forward to the empty lectern upon a makeshift stage. There were
two speakers framing the stage, and six empty folding chairs set back and to the right of the
lectern. The whole set up localized in space and time by a blue curtain acting as a backdrop.
​          Shep Tucker walked up to us, I could smell the elixir of barn, whiskey and stale cigarettes
long before he was within my eyeline. His shirt, possibly his only one, was so thin it gave the
impression that his dark skin itself was etched with plaid. His loose, beige cargo pants were held
up with a stretch of old rope. Holding his cigarette between his index finger and his pinky, the
only two remaining fingers on his left hand, seemed natural if I didn’t think too carefully about it.
​          “’Nother one,” he said to me, “Unbelievable.”
​          “You think they’ll actually do something this time?” I asked him.
​          ​He huffed and smiled.
​          “I’m gettin’ tired of these,” Cheryl added.
​          “Been like this my whole life, dear,” Shep said, “ain’t nothin’ never changes ’round here.”
​          ​Shep looked after me, and I liked that. I don’t know if it was because he saw me as a
kindred pariah, or some substitute for his children that never called or visited.
​          ​“They come here, and they bring their problems,” Frannie McBridal was tut-tutting behind
me, “We don’t need those kinds of people here.” Was she talking about us, or Kait. I wasn’t sure I
wanted to know.
​          ​She was wearing a flower-print blue dress and a large yellow sunhat; they were
cooperating to hide, and distracted from, her size. Her sandals were almost entirely swallowed by
the flesh of her feet, her toes looked disproportionately small, and her leg disproportionately large.
The grotesque features compiled to an image of a woman balancing on hooves. The expression on
her face permanently twisted in disgust.
​          ​Frannie answered the question I didn’t ask when she said, “good riddance is all I have to
say”.
​          ​“Did you see the picture in the paper?” I overheard the unmistakable gravel of Bern
Gothard say. “Then these people cry when something happens.”
​          ​Shep kissed his teeth and tightened his face at the mention of these people. Old wounds.
​          ​I didn’t know how long Cheryl had been standing in that spot before I got there, but if she
had been listening to this drivel the whole time, her demeanor made sense. She wasn’t focused on
the podium, nor deep in thought, she was devoting all her energy into not making a scene. That
was the number one rule in towns like ours: you don’t make a scene.
​          ​Everyone knew of Kait. One time, she had set up a display of photographs of deformed,
inviable fetuses that were forced to term outside the Temple of the Greater Good after their
parishioners had been caught trying to set fire to the newly opened women’s clinic in town.
​          ​Stephen Dayton was the preacher there. He was the first to take his seat in a row of chairs
set back from the podium. He was dressed in grey slacks and a black button-up. Stephen wasn’t
wearing a preacher’s collar, but the white button that accented the top of his shirt made the
implication. His crisp, clean outfit was topped off with impossibly dark sunglasses and perfectly
immobile hair. All this contrasted by the muddy, worn work boots on his feet.
​          ​I giggled and whispered to Cheryl, “hey, remember when you fucked that guy?” Trying to
lighten the mood.
​          ​“Ugh,” she responded, trying hard not to smirk, “would you believe me if I told you he had
Lego pubes to match his Lego hair?”
​          ​“It tracks,” I said.
​          ​“It was like getting spanked by a cricket bat.”
​          ​We both giggled, Shep joined in with his rough, monotone laugh even though he didn’t
know what we were laughing about. The man just liked to laugh.
​          ​I stopped as spontaneously as I had started; we both had, almost in unison. Neither of us
could be sure, but it felt like Stephen was staring right through us. It was piercing and unsettling,
we were far enough back that there was no way he could have heard anything we said. Shit, Shep
couldn’t even hear, and he was right next to me. Stephen’s subtle closed mouth smile that made
him so welcoming to his acolytes seemed sinister as he stared in our direction.
​          ​“Fuck,” Cheryl said.
​          ​“Fuck’n right,” Shep said, as if he knew. “You all don’t pay no mind, ok? Just keep your
heads down and carry on.”
​          ​I didn’t quite know what he meant, but it was nice to hear. It seemed supportive and, in
that place, at that time, the illusion of support was good enough.
​          ​It was the worst part of small-town living, especially on days when everyone was gathered.
There was always the feeling, if you stayed still long enough, if you relaxed a little too much, that
someone was watching you. The idea that everything you were, down to your most private,
intimate thoughts, was always on full display for everyone else. Your name, inevitably, would end
up on someone’s lips sooner or later, and it was never good if any of the unwritten, unspoken rules
of the town were broken. Everyone had a reputation. Everyone had two stories: there was the story
you lived and the story everyone else told.
​          ​Rule two was that things are fine the way they are. When Cheryl, Kait and I organized to
revitalize the library, the town council marked it a historical building.
​          ​“It is just impractical to be adding computers connected to the internet without
compromising the historical significance of the building,” said Judy Forester, the mayor’s wife
and deputy mayor of the town at the town council meeting where we opposed the historical
building moniker. The way she cut into the word internet showed her age and ignorance.
​          ​“A library is a focal point of a small community, it is a living space that should be kept
current and modern,” Kait retorted.
​          ​“Then I suggest you build a new one Ms. Carver,” said the mayor before dismissing us
with his gavel.
​          ​The seats on stage began to fill. Mayor Brown took the seat closest to the podium, and next
to him was Sister Grahan, the head of the Church of the Next Day. The two seats to the right of
Pastor Stephen were occupied by two white-haired men, both in grey suits. One was unfamiliar to
me, the other I recognized one as Dale Williams, a man whose authority in town seemed to have
been established in the distant past and had no expiration date. He was the gatekeeper of all things
philanthropic. No charity program, no volunteer-run services of any kind took root in town
without his explicit, and often overbearing, involvement. All, I suspect, to enforce rule three: there
are those that belong here, and those that just live here.
​          ​Cheryl and I had first-hand experience with Dale when we tried to start a reading camp for
illiterate adults. When we put in our proposal with the town, it somehow came back to us with
Dale added as an organizer. The whole thing dissolved when Cheryl refused to discourage, as Dale
put it, “particularly troubled individuals” from attending.
​          ​“Generally, there’s a big overlap between illiteracy and the people you’re shitting on,”
Cheryl told him.
​          ​“Well, Miss Cheryl,” Dale responded, “this town has certain expectations and a reputation
to uphold. We can’t be making this place a refuge for poors and addicts.”
​          ​The whole program dissolved at his behest, without anything but a “sorry, maybe next
time” email to Cheryl and me informing us that our program’s approval was revoked.
​          ​“ – disappointed her mother with all her antics,” I heard as someone passed behind our
little trio. Cheryl tensed; I could feel it through her shoulder that was pressed up against mind.
​          ​“Last I saw her, she had a drink in her hand,” someone else responded as a new little cabal
of gossip formed.
​          ​​“Her poor husband,” said the first voice, “who knows what else she was on.”
​          ​The last time I had seen Kait, she was sitting on Shep’s couch with a cigarette.
​          ​“They’re calling me an adulterer, a baby killer. Only reason I keep that women’s clinic
open is to get rid of all my illegitimate children,” she said.
​          ​“To be fair, they’ve called you worse.” Cheryl said. She was washing Shep’s dishes after a
week of neglect. We could see him through the window, going up to each sheep in his flock and
saying hello.
​          ​I lowered my glasses to the tip of my nose and leaned in, mocking the busy-bodies of the
town. “You know,” I said, “I heard that Kait and that Cheryl… I heard they’re Lebanese.”
​          ​Kait put her hand to her heart, “Oh my word! With each other?”
​          ​I leaned back, “that’s why she wanted that new library. Teach all our kids about
Lebaneses.”
​          ​We kept playing townsfolk, trying to mask the sadness, until Kait’s phone buzzed and she
had to go.
​          ​The mayor was stepping up to the podium, as the crowd slowly began to quiet, Shep took
the time to editorialize.
​          ​“Sons of bitches, the lot of them,” he said, probably louder than he intended.
​          ​“Come now, Shep,” I said, “this is a good thing they’re doing. At least today, they’re being
good.”
​          ​“Ain’t no good here, sweetheart, ain’t been for a long time.”
​          ​I had no idea what he meant; I doubt he did either.
​          ​“Good afternoon,” the mayor began, “I’d firstly like to offer my sincerest condolences to
the Carver family, you have our thoughts, our prayers and our hope that Kait will come home
soon.”
​          ​It was always the same, every Poster Day, the same speech, the same hope, the same
thoughts with the names replaced. Mayor Brown would then thank the other influential
community members for their support, the ones who got a privileged spot up front. The man on
the end was apparently the new town community manager; surprising mostly because I was
unaware of an old community manager.
​          ​“What makes this town great is the people, and we should never forget that,” Mayor
Brown would continue. Blah, blah, blah. We are strong, we are resilient, we are all that and a bag
of chips. So much praise for our dying little town, each statement seeded with the truth and
nurtured with embellishment until it was truth-adjacent. Then came the grand announcement.
​          ​“Today, we stand committed to justice and to hope,” the mayor said, “To show that we are
not afraid, to show that we will continue to hope, we will display Kait’s face right here until she
comes home.” More lines from a time immemorial.
​          ​The curtain behind the mayor dropped to reveal a giant missing persons poster. If you
looked close enough, you might be able to make out the edge of a rectangle around Kait Carver,
the name written in all red, bolded capitals. It was a sticker, placed over the last name. Tried as I
might, I could not recall the name, nor the face it belonged to. I saw the poster every day for the
last – I couldn’t remember when it was put up. She (he? they?) was erased, literally written over
by the latest tragedy to strike our little town.
​          ​Kait’s picture sat almost an inch off the board, separated from it by the pictures of missing
persons forgotten. Applause broke out among the townspeople, the same ones who all had their
versions of Kait. The same ones who would’ve applauded just as enthusiastically if Kait were
hung above a pyre.
​          ​“Who was up there before?” I asked Shep and Cheryl.
​          ​“Can’t remember the last one now,” Shep said, “how could anyone?”
​          ​This time, I understood Shep completely. A decade ago, it was his daughter that was put up
on the poster. Even then, Shep knew what it meant. He would stand every evening in front of the
poster and speak her name out loud until he was arrested for disturbing the peace. Rule four: the
missing were to be forgotten; their names akin to curses never to be spoken in polite company.
The mayor continued with his canned speech. The words shifted from Kait to the resolve
of the people, the history, the tradition and ‘the way we do things around here’.
The townspeople continued to applaud as if the ritual had been completed instead of just
begun. There were nods and small whispers of affirmation shared among those around us, the right
thing had been done and the matter could be put to bed.
​          ​I wondered why Kait’s parents, her husband, and children were not invited onto the stage,
but rather sat among the community with resolve and acceptance across their faces. Her two sons,
three and five, clutched pamphlets with fluffy clouds and over-serifed gold script on the front. The
five-year-old mouthed the words as he read from inside the pamphlet. His younger brother spoke
from memory, but stared at his papers as if he was reading.
I wondered about all the times I, or Cheryl, or Shep were told that we would be happier
living somewhere else; that maybe this just wasn’t the right fit for us. I wondered how many other
people were told this same thing, or if any of them were here today. I wondered then, for the first
time, why people always seemed to go missing in the early spring, when the cries of coyotes and
screams of foxes haunted the night.





​Matthew Betti is an Associate Professor of Math & Computer Science. He spends most of his working time describing the natural world using mathematics. In his free time, he prefers to use words. He lives in Sackville, New Brunswick, Canada with his partner and dog.