Ray Hargrove, 58, retired lineman for Auglaize County Electric, nursed a sweating plastic cup of Pabst at the county fair beer tent. He’d only showed up to watch his 10-year-old granddaughter take first place for her 4-H hog, and he’d been planning to leave as soon as the ribbon was pinned to the pig’s pen, but the line at the exit was backed up and the beer was cold, so he’d lingered. His left work boot still had a smudge of pig manure on the toe, his flannel was tied around his waist against the evening humidity, and he still carried a grudge so thick he could taste it against the beer’s bitter fizz: the county had rezoned his 12-acre hunting plot six months prior to build a low-income senior complex, and he’d yelled himself hoarse at three separate town hall meetings over it.
The woman who’d signed off on that rezoning slid onto the bar stool two feet from him ten minutes later. He recognized her immediately: Clara Bennett, 49, the county planning director who’d stood at the front of those meetings, calm as a summer morning, while he screamed about the 70-year-old oak tree he’d sat under after every deer hunt for 22 years, the one they’d bulldozed first. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts, scuffed white sneakers, and a faded county parks hoodie rolled to the elbows, her sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a loose braid that had come half undone, a stray piece stuck to the sunscreen-slick skin of her neck. When she reached across the bar for a napkin, her elbow brushed his hard enough to slosh a drop of beer over the edge of his cup onto his jean-clad thigh.
“Sorry about that,” she said, wiping the spot with the napkin before he could move, her fingers light against his leg for half a second before she pulled back. Her voice was the same low, even drawl he’d heard through those meetings, but there was a teasing lilt to it now, like she knew exactly who he was. “You still mad about that oak tree?”
He tensed, his grip on the beer cup tightening. Part of him wanted to tell her to go to hell, to bring up the fact that he’d paid off that land two years early, that he’d planned to build a small cabin on it once he fully retired. The other part was noticing the chipped navy polish on her nails, the way her laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes when he didn’t answer right away, the faint smell of citrus sunscreen and vanilla lip balm coming off her that cut through the beer tent’s stench of fried oreos and stale cigarette smoke. She ordered a cherry seltzer, leaned against the bar, and didn’t move away when her knee brushed his as she shifted her weight.
She told him the complex was for military veterans on fixed incomes, that her dad was an Army vet who’d been priced out of the county three years before he died, that she’d fought the county commission for six months to get extra green space built into the plan, that they’d planted 18 oak saplings along the back edge of the property, right where his old tree had stood. He hadn’t bothered to read the full final plan, he realized, too caught up in his own anger to ask who the complex was for, to see what else they’d added. He felt stupid, the tips of his ears burning under his baseball cap.
He paid for the ferris wheel tickets without asking. The line was short, the sun had fully set, and the fairgrounds were lit up with string lights and neon signs for corn dog stands and ring toss booths. When their car reached the top, it swayed a little in the breeze, and she leaned into him, her shoulder pressed tight to his, as they looked out over the miles of cornfields stretching out past the fairgrounds, the dark line of the Auglaize River glinting in the distance. She told him she’d seen his name on a volunteer list for the county’s holiday toy drive the year before, that she’d thought it was funny the same guy who’d yelled at her for 20 minutes about oak trees was also the one who’d dropped off 12 brand new bikes for kids who couldn’t afford Christmas. He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months.
They walked back to the parking lot after the ride, the grass crinkling under their boots, the hum of the fair fading behind them. She stopped at her beat-up silver Ford Ranger, pulled a crumpled slip of receipt paper out of her hoodie pocket, scrawled her cell number on it with a purple gel pen, and handed it to him. The paper was still warm from being in her pocket, the ink smudged a little at the edges. “Come by the complex tomorrow around 10,” she said, leaning against the driver’s side door, her head tilted a little, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk. “I’ll show you the saplings. We can get coffee after.”
He tucked the paper into the inner pocket of his flannel, the one he kept his wife’s old lucky lineman coin in, and nodded. She climbed into the Ranger, started the engine, and waved as she pulled out of the parking spot, her taillights fading into the dark of the country road leading back into town. He stood there for a minute, holding his now warm beer, the crinkle of the receipt paper under his fingers when he pressed lightly on his flannel pocket. He kicked a loose rock across the asphalt, the sound echoing quiet in the empty edge of the parking lot, and turned to walk to his own truck, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he hadn’t felt in three years.
