Clay Bennett, 58, retired lineworker for Auglaize County Electric, leaned against the splintered plywood side of the fire department’s summer beer tent, cold Pabst sweating through the paper napkin wrapped around its base. He’d shown up only because his old crew chief had begged him, said the guys missed shooting the shit with the guy who’d climbed 80-foot poles in ice storms to get their power back on. For three years, since his wife Linda had passed from ovarian cancer, he’d avoided every community event, every invite to fish, every half-hearted setup from the church ladies, convinced everyone saw him as nothing more than a sad widower to be pitied. The flaw he’d never admit out loud: he liked being miserable, it felt like loyalty.
The air smelled like cut clover, fried bologna sandwiches from the food truck at the end of the gravel lot, and the sickly sweet fake coconut scent of the snow cone machine. A terrible local country cover band fumbled through an Alan Jackson track half a beat off, kids screamed as they chased each other with water guns, and every so often a fire truck siren blared as crews did demo runs for the crowd. He’d snuck around the side of the tent to smoke a menthol, knowing the county had just passed that stupid new rule banning tobacco in all public outdoor spaces, figured no one would bother him back there.
He was mid-inhale when someone rounded the corner fast, and he stumbled back, half his beer sloshing over the rim onto the front of the woman’s linen work shirt, right above the breast pocket stitched with M. Hale, Public Health. He cursed under his breath, fumbling for the crumpled pack of napkins in his work pants pocket, holding one out awkwardly before he realized she wasn’t moving to take it. He dabbed at the wet spot first, his calloused knuckles brushing the soft skin of her collarbone for half a second, and he froze, waiting for her to snap at him, to write him a ticket for the cigarette, to call him a careless old fool.
Instead, she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the crowd. She was 49, he’d later learn, moved to the county six months prior from Cleveland to take the health inspector job after her ex-husband had left her for a paralegal half his age. Silver streaks ran through her dark hair pulled tight in a ponytail, freckles scattered across her nose, and she smelled like lavender and lemon dish soap, not the heavy rose perfume Linda used to wear on date nights. “I was actually coming back here to tell you to put that cigarette out,” she said, nodding at the half-smoked menthol between his fingers. “So we’re even. You ruined my shirt, I won’t write you a $75 fine.”
He grunted, putting the cigarette out on the rubber sole of his work boot, shoving the butt in his pocket to throw away later. They stood there for a minute, no awkward silence, just watching a group of teen boys trip over each other trying to carry a case of beer to their picnic table. She leaned in when a fire truck siren went off right next to the tent, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep for a full ten seconds before she moved back, like she hadn’t even noticed the contact. He felt his face heat up, something he hadn’t felt since he was 16 and asked Linda to prom.
Part of him wanted to walk away, go back to his quiet house with the stack of frozen meatloaf dinners in the freezer, the recliner that still had a permanent indent from where Linda used to sit, the silence that had started feeling like a comfort three years prior. The other part of him couldn’t look away from the way she bit her lower lip when she laughed at his story about climbing a pole in a thunderstorm and getting zapped so hard his boot laces melted. She told him she fixed up old Victorian houses on the side, had just bought a 1910 two-story on the edge of town that needed all new wiring, and he found himself offering to help, before he could even think about what he was saying.
He hesitated when she said she had a cooler of craft IPA in her truck parked down the street, asked if he wanted to ditch the loud crowd and go sit by the river that ran through the downtown square. The guilt hit him fast, sharp, like he was cheating on Linda, like he was breaking some unspoken rule he’d made for himself the day she died. Then he thought about going home to the quiet, the frozen dinner, the same reruns of Gunsmoke he’d watched a hundred times, and he nodded.
He followed her down the sidewalk, the sun dipping low over the rooflines, painting the sky pink and orange. She opened the passenger door of her beat-up Ford F150 first, the cool air from the AC hitting his face as he climbed in. She handed him a cold can of IPA, her fingers brushing his for a second as he took it, and he noticed the calluses on her fingertips, the same kind he had from holding tools for decades. She climbed into the driver’s seat, turning the key so the truck rumbled to life, an old Tom Petty track playing low on the radio. He twisted the cap off the beer, listening to the soft fizz of the carbonation escaping, and watched the beer tent fade in the rearview mirror as she pulled away from the curb.
