Moe Pritchard is 62, retired state bridge inspector, and he hasn’t deviated from his Friday routine in eight years, not since his wife Lois’s lungs gave out after decades of smoking two packs a day. He shows up to the VFW post in scuffed steel-toe boots at 6:17 sharp, orders a Bud Light, gets in line for the catfish fry, sits at the same Formica table by the jukebox that only plays 90s country, and leaves by 8:30 to feed his tabby, Garlic, who hates being left alone past nine. His worst flaw, the one Lois used to nag him about constantly, is that he plans for every possible risk, down to carrying three spare tire pressure gauges in his truck and refusing to cross a street against the light even if there’s not a car for three blocks. He spent 38 years hunting for cracks in bridge supports, for rust spots that could send 18-wheelers plunging into rivers, and he never turned that instinct off, even when he cashed his final pension check.
He’s halfway through the fish fry line when he notices the woman serving coleslaw isn’t the usual 72-year-old Mabel who calls everyone “sweetie” and sneaks him extra pickles. It’s Clara Hale. 58, ex-wife of his old work partner Roy, the man he hasn’t spoken to since 2011, when Roy faked a structural report on an overpass outside of Dayton to save the county money, Moe turned him in, and Roy got fired, blaming Moe for ruining his career. He’d thought Clara moved to Florida with Roy when he retired four years ago, but here she is, wiping her hands on a faded apron printed with bass fish, her silver hoops glinting under the fluorescent lights, the same ones Roy used to scream at her for wearing because he said they made her look “cheap.”
Their hands brush when she passes him his paper bowl of coleslaw, and he feels a jolt go up his arm, like he touched a live wire. She’s wearing lavender hand cream, the same scent she wore to the crew Christmas party in 2010, the one night he danced with her when Roy was off getting drunk at the bar, the night that kicked off the whole rift between them. “Thought that was you, Moe,” she says, holding eye contact a full two seconds longer than a stranger would, her mouth tugging up at the corner like she’s holding back a laugh. “You still wear that same ratty Carhartt jacket? I’d recognize the oil stain on the cuff anywhere.”
He’s so flustered he fumbles his Bud Light, sloshing a little on the linoleum. He’s spent 12 years actively avoiding thinking about Clara, because it felt like a betrayal on every front: betrayal of Lois, betrayal of the unspoken rule that you don’t look at your partner’s wife, even when your partner is a lying piece of garbage who almost got people killed. He mumbles a greeting, grabs his catfish platter, and hightails it to his usual table, his neck burning, the smell of lavender stuck in his nose even when he takes a big bite of fried fish.
Ten minutes later, she slides into the seat across from him without asking, carrying two slices of pecan pie. She says Roy left her for a 28-year-old waitress at a beach bar in Pensacola three years ago, she moved back to Ohio to be close to her grandkids, she’s been volunteering at the fish fry for six months, wondering if he’d ever show up. Her knee brushes his under the table when she leans in to tell him about her 7-year-old granddaughter’s soccer game, and he doesn’t move away, even though every risk-assessing instinct in his head is screaming that this is a bad idea, that this has too many loose ends, that it’s going to blow up in his face. She reaches across the table to brush a crumb of hush puppy off his flannel shirt, her calloused fingers (she gardens, she says, grows tomatoes and jalapenos) lingering on his shoulder for half a second too long, and he feels his chest go tight, like he’s 22 again, kissing a girl for the first time in the back of his dad’s pickup.
He’s torn. Half of him is disgusted with himself, for even entertaining this, for wanting something that feels stolen, off limits by every unspoken code he’s lived by his whole adult life. The other half is hungry, hungry for the way she laughs at his dumb joke about the time a seagull pooped on his hard hat mid-inspection, hungry for the way she listens when he talks about Lois, like she actually cares, not like the other women at the VFW who change the subject the second he mentions her name.
She asks him if he wants to go to the county fair after her shift ends, says the demolition derby is tonight, she remembers he used to drag the whole crew to them every summer, that he knew all the drivers by name. He almost says no, almost makes up an excuse about Garlic waiting for him, about having to get up early to fix the fence in his backyard. Then he looks at her, twisting one of her silver hoops with her thumb like she’s nervous, her cheeks pink from the heat of the fryer, and he says yes.
They walk the three blocks to the fairgrounds as the sun dips below the treeline, the sky turning pink and orange, the glow of the Ferris wheel lights flickering on ahead of them. The air smells like fried Oreos, cotton candy, and diesel fumes from the derby track, mixed with her lavender lotion. She slips her hand into his, her palm warm and a little sweaty, and he laces their fingers together, doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t run through a list of possible worst case scenarios for the first time in 38 years. The first roar of a demolition derby engine echoes across the field, and she leans into his side, her shoulder pressing into his bicep, as they walk toward the noise.
