Chapter 11: The Fair

The Hancock County Fair opens on the last Sunday of September.

By Tuesday night the grandstand was full and the air smelled of diesel and funnel cake.

Darlene's invitation had included the children, so the children were with me.

Dale had come as their coach and their uncle, in a clean flannel shirt, and he stood at the rail with one boot up.

He and my son had a running bet on the demolition derby.

"The blue Buick," my son said. "No contest."

"The green wagon with the dented hood," Dale said. "Hood doesn't matter. Look at the driver's neck."

"What does the neck have to do with it?"

"Everything," Dale said, and my son stared at him, then at the cars.

My daughter sat on the fence between them with a lemon shake-up and her notebook, writing down the car numbers.

I leaned on the rail on the far side of my son, which put four feet of air between me and his uncle.

I had measured it.

The wagon won.

My daughter screamed, and my son threw his arms in the air and shouted something about the neck.

Dale lifted my daughter off the fence so she could see the winner's lap.

His arms were bare to the elbow in the stadium lights, brown and corded, and the old cut on his thumb showed white.

I looked.

I let myself look for as long as it took him to set her down.

Looking was not touching, and I had made a promise about touching.

It still felt like a different promise every time.

"Mom, did you see?" my daughter said.

"I saw," I said. "You called the wagon."

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