Chapter 10
Angie
Corn, like people, can grow in many places,
but it thrives where it belongs.
~ Wes Jackson
The town is out in full force for Bordeaux Days. Everywhere you look there’s an homage to corn.
I spent the first half of the day with the boys, but now Mom’s taking them around to ride the rides and pet farm animals in the petting zoo while I work my late-afternoon shift at the kettle corn booth.
The air smells like salt and butter and sweetness. People are dressed in shirts that say things like I’m All Ears, or It Might Be Corny, but I Love Bordeaux. My personal favorite is the full-length tee with rows of corn. It says This is My Crop Top.
I’ve seen kids wearing hats with corn kernel motifs or corn sunglasses, escorted around with moms wearing corncob earrings, necklaces and socks.
I’m just wearing a yellow T-shirt and green ribbons tied around the pigtails I pulled my hair into this morning.
I’ve seen EJ in passing. He’s busy with the other firefighters dropping foam corncobs for the cob drop and then he’ll be at the booth down the way from ours roasting corn once the dinner hour hits.
Lexi and Trevor approach the booth, pushing Poppy in her stroller.
“One large bag, please,” Lexi says.
“I’ll get it,” Laura says.
“We were just talking to EJ,” Lexi says to me with a conspiratorial smile.
“Oh?”
Laura hands the bag across the table to Trevor and takes his cash while Lexi focuses on me.
“He was talking about your boys,” Lexi says.
Trevor exchanges a look with Lexi.
She cuts herself short and says, “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be gossiping. Trevor’s convinced we can turn the tide and stop that habit from carrying into future generations.”
I just nod. But Laura says, “What’s a small town without a little juicy gossip now and then?”
“I just think we should get our news from the source,” Trevor says.
“Spoken like the journalist you are,” Laura says. “And as the owner of the town hair salon, I beg to differ.”
Trevor bends to put the bag of kettle corn in the basket under Poppy’s stroller.
Lexi gives me a shy wave when what I really want are more details about whatever EJ said about my boys.
I wave back. “Enjoy the popcorn.”
“We always do,” Trevor says. “I wait a whole year for this stuff.”
He turns Poppy’s stroller and waits for Lexi to catch up with him. I watch as they stroll away together. Not only do they look like the perfect little family, they are one. And I love that for them.
Laura looks over at me. “The things we consider high points around here.” She shakes her head. “Waiting all year for kettle corn.”
“It is good popcorn,” I say.
“True,” Laura says, grabbing a handful out of the bowl we keep on a side table just for the two of us to munch on throughout our shift.
Shannon shows up. “Hey! How’s it going?”
“Getting busier,” Laura says. “Put on that apron and some of those plastic gloves and get ready to serve the people of Bordeaux.”
“I’m ready!” Shannon says, grabbing the apron and tying it on.
The crowd continues to grow. Lines extend out from all the food booths, including the frozen lemonade stand next to us and the one serving funnel cakes two booths over.
EJ stops by. He literally jogs up to the booth, leans over the table and places a kiss on my cheek. Then, as quickly as he appeared, he’s telling me, “Can’t stay. I’ve got to prep the grill for the corn.”
“Have fun,” I say.
My cheek hums where his lips touched me.
“I’ll call you later,” he says, walking backwards away from the booth and then pivoting and jogging toward the roasted corn booth.
Alicia Stonebrook approaches us with her mom. “Hey girls! We’ll each take a large bag.”
“She’ll end up coming over to my house to eat half of mine anyway,” Mrs. Stonebrook says.
“Mama!” Alicia says in mock offense. “I’ll only eat a quarter at the most.”
They burst into a peal of shared laughter while Shannon grabs two large plastic bags of popcorn off the side table and Laura rings them up.
“I just saw EJ,” Alicia says as she’s putting her wallet back into her purse.
I guess people now feel obliged to report EJ sightings to me.
“I did too,” I tell her. “He just stopped by a minute ago.”
“He seems pretty smitten with you,” Alicia says with a light wag of her brows.
My smile comes without any effort. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s so obvious. I mentioned you and his face lit up.”
Mrs. Stonebrook leans closer, lowers her voice and asks, “Is he ready to be a father? That’s a lot to jump into all in one leap.”
Laura steps up next to me, looking Mrs. Stonebrook in the eyes and wrapping her arm around my shoulder.
“Oopsie,” Laura says to Mrs. Stonebrook. “It looks like you dropped something.”
All our eyes collectively fall to the ground, searching the asphalt around Mrs. Stonebrook’s feet.
“I don’t see anything,” Mrs. Stonebrook says. Her brow scrunches in confusion when she looks back up at Laura.
“It was your manners,” Laura says with a sugar-sweet smile. “But, look at that. I think you retrieved them already.”
Laura’s arm drops from my shoulders and she busies herself dumping the fresh batch of hot popped corn onto the cooling table.
Alicia turns to me, stepping close so her words are just between the two of us. “Sorry, Angie. You know how my mom can be.”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly. “She’s just stating facts.”
“Well, don’t pay her any mind. EJ knows you have your two blessings. Any man who pursues you is well aware of the twins. He’s obviously willing to take them on.”
I smile politely. But something about what her mom said rubs me wrong. Mrs. Stonebrook isn’t wrong. It is a lot to jump into in one leap. Even Alicia’s words of comfort land a little off-kilter in my heart—willing to take them on—as if my boys are something to be endured.
I’ve surely had my moments where I thought they were more than anyone should have to handle, but every mom feels that way at times.
That’s entirely different than asking a man to become a father to children he barely knows.
His heart isn’t invested in my boys like mine is.
He’d be taking them on just to be with me.
The Stonebrooks leave with their bags of kettle corn and Shannon helps the next customer.
Laura steps over to me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She arches one brow and crosses her arms. “That was a lot for me to swallow and I’m not even the one dating EJ.”
“It’s fine. I know I’m asking a lot of him.”
“Let’s focus on the part where Alicia said he’s obviously smitten with you, okay?”
“Right,” I say, my smile half as wide as it was the first time I heard those words. “Okay.”
Over the next hour, customers come one after the other.
We’re popping batch after batch of popcorn, tipping it from the hot kettle onto the cooling table and filling new bags like we’re running an assembly line to meet the demand.
I’m hot and sweaty, but the busyness has kept my mind from drifting back to the two reports about EJ and the various other comments from townspeople about him, or us, or the boys.
I’m mostly distracted. Thoughts of EJ and my twins linger low beneath the surface like the tip of a buried splinter that only screams when bumped.
The line for kettle corn stretches halfway down the street that’s been cordoned off for the festival. All the vendors have equally long lines. We’re barely able to keep up at this rate.
The popping in the kettle slows. I walk over to dump a batch, replacing it with a fresh portion of oil, kernels and sugar.
“Looks good,” I say to myself and anyone else who’s listening. “We’ve got this.”
Saying we’ve got this is often the moment things go haywire. I shove that thought aside and walk to the front of the booth.
Esther, Mabel and Memaw approach the table.
“We can help!” Esther says, rounding the booth and coming through the back without another word.
“That’s okay, Esther,” Laura says.
“What’d ya say?” Esther asks. “I can’t hear a thing over this machine!”
Mabel rounds the corner right behind Esther. “It sure is loud back here. I think she said, okay.”
“I said, it’s okay. We’ve got it. No need to help,” Laura says in a louder voice.
“Oh, don’t you worry about a thing,” Memaw says, joining Esther and Mabel. “We’ve been cooking since long before you three were twinkles in your mamas’ eyes. We’re an asset.”
The booth feels increasingly hot and crowded.
“Can you move to the left?” Laura asks the three interlopers.
“For goodness’ sakes,” Esther says. “I still can’t hear you.”
She steps over to the machine and presses the large red button on the bottom of the popper.
The whirring slows and comes to a halt.
The occasional pop pop pop fills the air.
“That’s better,” Esther says, brushing her hands together with a look of satisfaction on her face.
“Esther!” Laura says. “You can’t …”
Mabel interrupts. “I think you stopped the poppin’.” She briskly walks over to the popper and lifts the lid. A veritable snowstorm of kernels flies out of the machine.
The booth is a still-life. Laura, Shannon and I stand with our mouths agape, a collective stunned silence stealing our words.
A beat later, Laura snaps into action, shouting, “Catch it! Bag it!”
I grab a paper bag and start running around like a child with her mouth open and tongue out, catching the first fluffy flakes in winter, only I’m holding the bag and catching less than one out of every thirty popped kernels. The booth is crammed chaos.
People outside the booth are grabbing at stray kernels midair.
Esther shouts, “I didn’t mean to turn it off!”
And before anyone can stop her, she’s pressing the red button again, sending the sweeping arm inside the kettle whirring, only this time the lid is open, so kernels fly at twice the speed.
“I’ve got this,” Mr. Silvers says, stepping past the table and walking down the side of the booth. “We just need to unplug the machine.”
He bends toward the electrical outlet that sits at a little distance behind several of the booths. Large, industrial plugs are all attached to one main power source.
He’s got the tone of a man opening a some-assembly-required box from IKEA. Calm authority before all the parts spill out with a thin paper of directions in Swedish.
He looks over his shoulder, seeming to track the extension cord from our popper to the outlet. Then he puts his hand on one cord and gives it a firm pull.
Everything stops. Everything: Cookers, rides, lights.
The kettle falls silent.
So does the whirring of the frozen lemonade machine in the booth next to us. And the funnel cake deep fryer. And all the string lights on the front of the booths.
The Ferris wheel lights blink once and then the ride stops moving. Someone shouts from the top, “Help! We’re stuck up here!”
Someone shouts back, “Hang tight!”
An eerie quiet fills the street and the park behind us.
I stand there holding my barely filled paper bag of popcorn, staring around the booth, my eyes landing on Laura.
“Well,” Mr. Duggins says from his spot at the front of our line. “That can’t be good.”
There’s a light crackling from the main stage toward the center of the park, like static through a microphone. And then, echoing through the sound system, a noise I don’t recognize at first.
It’s low and rumbly and throaty. Almost like a growl, but more … airy and vibrating.
“Was that a … ?” Laura asks.
“Burp?” Mabel answers. “Yessir. That was one bodacious belch.”
It’s followed by another loud, sustained, burp that reverberates through the overhead speakers.
In a casual, unbothered voice, Otis Dixon’s words ring through the sound system. “Man oh man, that chili gave me all sorts of gas.”
The crowd stills. A few people snicker.
And then Otis asks, “Hey, is this thing on?”
The crowd of townspeople shout, “Yes!” almost in unison.
I close my eyes, shaking my head in second-hand embarrassment.
Otis goes silent. There’s a long pause.
Then Otis clears his throat right into the microphone.
His voice is subdued at first, but he grows in boldness with each word. “Well,” he coughs lightly. “Sorry about that, folks.”
I press my lips together, trying not to lose my composure.
Otis hesitates just long enough for a ripple of amused laughter to spread through the crowd.
Then he adds, “Junie warned me about having seconds on the chili.”
The laughter explodes. Memaw snorts. Even Mr. Duggins doubles over in laughter. Laura wipes a tear from her eye.
Otis sighs. “I guess I should’ve listened to Junie.”