Chapter 12 – GLENNA #3
Kellum, Shay, and Mia are sitting way back on a retaining wall at the other end of the art center.
Mia has bright orange earplugs peeking out between strands of brown hair, the same kind Dina used when we were kids.
Mia has a pair of kiddie binoculars, but she’s not focused on the performances.
She’s got them pointed at the river. I pivot to see what’s caught her attention.
A raft of American widgeons is paddling downstream, impervious to the hustle and bustle. The males have that awesome bright green stripe behind their eyes and white caps, and the females are plain, brown and gray.
It’s a survival thing for the females, blending in, letting the males take the risk and come to you. It’s safe. I get that.
But I also get the male widgeons, drawing a little attention, not a lot, but some. Wanting more despite the fear, quick to flutter off with the least provocation, but—showing off. Taking a risk. A small one that probably feels huge.
I take some pictures of the widgeons paddling, and I get a great sequence of a pair taking flight together, cold river water dripping from their webbed feet. If the pictures turn out, I’ll find a way to get them to Mia.
Maybe ask Cash to give them to her.
I scan the crowd again. I don’t see him, but then again, nine times out of ten, he’s wearing camouflage.
Finally, Bob Longo drives his vintage Cadillac Eldorado past. The Achesons wave from their perch on the trunk.
It’s their first year as parade co-chairs, and they look mighty comfortable in the back of Bob’s convertible, matching rust orange sweaters draped over their shoulders.
I snap a few pics. They turn in unison and mug for the camera.
Channel 13 weatherman Cal Winstop comes on the loudspeaker, thanking the sponsors and asking the judges to join him behind the stands to make their decision. That’s my cue to leave. They don’t announce the winners until the closing ceremony after the pumpkin chuckin’.
I follow the dispersing crowd into the square, stopping at booths along the path to ask if I can take pictures.
I’m greeted by stone faces and dirty looks, but everyone agrees to pose.
They’re all smiling wide enough when they’re holding their bags or jewelry or scented candles or pine cone wreaths and crab shell tree ornaments.
Somedays, it’s hard to love this town.
As I wander to the next booth, I take a break to look up and far away, toward the mountain. The crowd feels massive until I raise my eyes and West Peak puts everything back into perspective. This place is small. And it isn’t all there is. Not by a long shot.
Since I’m distracted, I almost step around the man blocking my path, but then my mind catches the fishhook on the cap and the camo pants.
Cash.
He has a brown bag with a grease-stained bottom in one hand and an apple cider donut in the other. He’s wearing a forest green ribbed sweater that molds his arms and pecs. My mouth waters.
“Hi,” he says.
I don’t know what to say.
He smiles, and it’s not tentative, not bashful or guarded in the least. It goes ear-to-ear. He’s so happy to see me.
He holds out the doughnut.
It’s a moment of decision.
I suck at decisions.
But I fucking love warm apple cider doughnuts.
Maybe this all isn’t as hard as I think.
I bend and take a big bite. Oh, yeah. It’s still warm.
Cash’s smile grows impossibly wider. He takes a bite, too.
“Hi,” he says again.
I can’t say anything ’cause my mouth is full.
I start walking again, and he falls into step beside me. When we pass the next booth—the middle-school PTA’s ring toss—I stop and take a few pics. Cash splits the remainder of the doughnut with me. While we chew in silence, we watch the proceedings.
A redheaded, freckled kid has a dozen rings around his wrist, and he’s not making a single shot. His mom records with her phone as she coaches him, shouting “it’s in the wrist” and “a little lower.” He’s aiming for the neck of glass coke bottles.
“That’s terrible advice,” Cash says.
I almost snort, but there’s too much electricity zipping inside me. He’s looming close. His shoulder brushes mine.
I sneak a peek from the corner of my eye. His beard is freshly trimmed. Did he shave for me?
I bet he did.
I shaved my legs for him, even if I didn’t consciously acknowledge it when I was doing it. I slathered on my good vanilla body butter afterwards, too.
He catches me staring at his chin, and I cover my interest, cocking an eyebrow. “You could do better?”
The kid flings a ring under a neighboring stall.
“Hell yeah, I could.”
Cash is already striding forward, digging out his wallet. The kid throws his last ring. It sails over the booth, nearly clipping a woman walking past, and his mom claps.
“How much?” Cash asks the attendant.
“Five for ten,” says the lady with the apron. I recognize her from when I was in school, but I don’t remember her name.
Cash slides me a look. It’s not smarmy. Not teasing. It’s tentative. Sparkling with nerves. “What do I get if I make it?” he asks.
I point to the stuffed animals clothes-pinned to a line hung from the poles of the tent. “Looks like you have your choice of a turtle or a snake.”
“Get the snake,” the kid advises. Both he and his mom sidle up to watch. The mom’s eyes are glued on Cash’s throwing arm. His biceps do bulge, and the sweater clings just right.
“You know what I meant,” Cash says to me, his voice low.
I swallow. My pulse kicks up. I shove my hands in my hoodie pocket. “A turtle or a snake,” I repeat.
He squints down at me. My cheeks warm.
Without looking away, he throws a ring and hooks a bottle.
“Whoa!” the kid shouts. A few other people wander over. They recognize me. They say hi to Cash.
He throws again. Another ringer.
“No way!” the kid squeals. “Mom, did you see that? Did you get that?” She’s recording Cash now.
I pull my hoodie up, readjusting my camera strap. More people join us.
“What’s up, Wall?” Gary Ellwood slaps his back. He was a football player, a few years ahead of me in school. “How many so far?”
“Only two in a row.”
“Bet you twenty bucks you can’t go ten for ten,” he says.
Cash shakes his head. “No bets, but I am going ten for ten.” He throws another and another. Both ringers.
The excitement rises. There’s more than one camera out now.
Cash takes a few big steps backwards and then proceeds to throw four more ringers in a perfect diagonal line. Folks crowd closer. We’re surrounded.
Cash raises the last ring, really hamming it up. Everyone holds their breath. Cash grins down at me and winks. Then, with his eyes shut, he rings the bottle in the very center.
Cheers erupt. There are high fives all around. The kid jumps up and down like he’s on a pogo stick, hollering, “Did you see that? Did you see that?”
Cash’s brown eyes twinkle, and his chest puffs in that way it does, the way I used to find insufferable. It’s actually kind of cute. He’s showing off for me.
Was he always?
“Well, Glenna Dobbs?” he says, stepping to me, toe-to-toe, arching an eyebrow. “I have a question I want to ask you. A very important question.”
He pauses, dragging the moment out, grinning like a damn fool.
The crowd strains to listen. Inside my pockets, my hands tremble.
“And fair warning, if you run away this time, I’m gonna follow you.
Uh—” He notices the redheaded kid hanging on his every word.
“But, uh, only with your permission and at a distance and if you tell me to leave, I will respect your boundaries.” He directs this to the kid before turning back to me. “But, Glenna Dobbs, I need to know—”
In the suspense-filled silence, the redheaded kid’s mother whispers breathlessly, “He’s gonna propose!”
Cash’s grin widens to his ears, and he says, “Turtle or snake?”
Gary Elwood snorts, and the tension in the clustered lookie-lous dissipates.
The tension inside me doesn’t ease at all though.
I’m wired taut and there’s a lump in my throat.
Cash isn’t joking. He’s not playing around, messing with me.
I don’t know how I know or where I get the certainty, but it’s there, as solid and real as anything I know.
He’s not really asking me turtle or snake.
I glance at the stuffed animals to play for time.
Am I brave enough to risk this?
Cash Wall is not a safe bet. Not by a long shot. Neither am I. Neither is anything in this life.
“Well?” he prompts.
Oh, hell.
“Turtle,” I say, and a few folks cheer. The lady from the PTA shoves a turtle the size of a bed pillow into my arms. Where am I going to put this?
The church bell chimes twelve. It’s time for them to announce the bake-off winners.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” I say.
Cash guides me away from the booth, taking the turtle and sticking it under one arm. “How many more pictures do you need to take?”
I shake my head to clear the fuzz, but Cash is so close, and his sweater looks so warm and his chest so solid. And I remember. His hands all over me. His hunger and stamina. All night long. Over and over. My knees get weak and I stumble a step, but not enough that he notices.
“A lot. I have to do the bake-off winners and the funny produce and pumpkin chuckin’.”
“I want to talk,” he says.
“I know. Yeah.” I scuff the gravel path with the toe of my Chuck Taylors.
“After the closing ceremony?”
“Okay.”
“Where to next?”
“The pies.” I gesture toward the gazebo.
“I’ll walk you.”
We take our time, and on our way, we pass Mr. Carroll’s table.
Every inch is covered. Fox, squirrel, rabbit, snakes, antlers, coyote claws, a porcupine foot under a glass dome.
There’s a stack of furs on an overturned crate, and as kids pass by, they stroke the pelts or bury their faces in the softness.
Mr. Carroll’s chatting with Levi from the feed store. Cash darts around the table to give Mrs. Carroll a hug, startling her from scrolling on her phone. When she sees me, she waves.
“Haven’t gotten rid of him yet?” she asks.