I’m sure I don’t know.
That’s how he’d replied when she had asked him what might be on her mind. And in the strictest sense, he hadn’t known.
But he could have made a pretty good guess.
He understood well enough what Sally had come to expect. At one time, he may even have given her cause for expecting it. That’s the sort of thing young people do: fan the flames of each other’s expectations—until the necessities of life begin to make themselves known. But Emmett hadn’t given her much cause for expectations since he went to Salina. When she had sent him those packages—with the homemade cookies and hometown news—he had not replied with a word of thanks. Not on the phone and not in a note. And in advance of coming home, he had not sent her word of his pending arrival or asked her to tidy the house. He hadn’t asked her to sweep or make beds or put soap in the bathroom or eggs in the icebox. He hadn’t asked her to do a thing.
Was he grateful to discover that she had chosen to do these things on his and Billy’s behalf? Of course he was. But being grateful was one thing, and being beholden, that was another thing altogether.
As Emmett drove, he saw the intersection with Route 7 approaching. Emmett knew that if he took a right and circled back on 22D, he could reach town without having to pass the fairgrounds. But what would be the point of that? The fairgrounds would still be there whether he passed them or not. They’d still be there whether he went to Texas or California or someplace else altogether.
No, taking the long route wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe letting one imagine for a moment that what had happened already hadn’t happened at all. So not only did Emmett continue straight through the intersection, he slowed the car to twenty miles an hour as he approached the fairgrounds, then pulled over on the opposite shoulder where he had no choice but to give it a good hard look.
For fifty-one weeks of the year, the fairgrounds were exactly like they were right now—four empty acres scattered with hay to hold down the dust. But in the first week of October, they would be anything but empty. They would be filled with music and people and lights. There would be a carousel and bumper cars and colorful booths where one could try one’s hand at pitching or riflery. There would be a great striped tent where, with an appropriate sense of ceremony, judges would convene, confer, and bestow blue ribbons for the largest pumpkin and the tastiest lemon meringue pie. And there would be a corral with bleachers where they would hold the tractor pull and calf roping, and where more ribbons would be awarded by more judges. And back there, just beyond the food concessions, would be a spot-lit stage for the fiddling contest.
It was right by the cotton-candy vendor, of all places, on the last night of the fair that Jimmy Snyder had chosen to pick his fight.
When Jimmy called out his first remark, Emmett thought he must be talking to someone else—because he barely knew Jimmy. A year younger, Emmett wasn’t in any of Jimmy’s classes and didn’t play on any of his teams, so he had little reason to interact with him.
But Jimmy Snyder didn’t have to know you. He liked running people down whether he knew them or not. And it didn’t matter for what. It could have been for the clothes you were wearing, or the food you were eating, or the way your sister crossed the street. Yes, sir, it could have been about anything, as long as it was something that got under your skin.
Stylistically speaking, Jimmy was one for framing his insults as inquiries. Looking curious and mild, he’d ask his first question to no one in particular. And if that didn’t hit a sore spot, he’d answer the first question himself, then ask another, circling ever inward.
Isn’t that cute? was the question he’d posed when he’d seen Emmett holding Billy’s hand. I mean, isn’t that the cutest thing you ever saw?
When Emmett realized that Jimmy was referring to him, he brushed it off. What did he care if he was seen holding his younger brother’s hand at the county fair. Who wouldn’t be holding the hand of a six-year-old boy in the middle of a large crowd at eight in the evening?
So Jimmy tried again. Shifting gears, as it were, he wondered out loud whether the reason Emmett’s father hadn’t fought in the war was because he’d been 3-C, the Selective Service classification that allowed farmers to defer. This struck Emmett as an odd taunt given how many men in Nebraska had received the 3-C designation. It struck him as so odd that he couldn’t help but stop and turn around—which was his first mistake.
Now that Jimmy had Emmett’s attention, he answered the query himself.