Eleven Wives at the Ribbon Cutting

The stubs

We did not go up to the door. We did not crowd anybody.

We lined up on the sidewalk, all eleven of us in a row, right where the people with the coffee cups would have to look past us to see the ribbon.

The men stood at the back, along the curb, in their caps, work jackets and good jeans. Eleven men.

Tom had driven back from Cedar Rapids at six that morning, and Karen had not known he was coming until she saw his truck.

Nobody said anything. We just stood there, each of us holding a little paper slip in front of her with both hands.

Sandy was in the middle of her speech. She was talking about investment in our downtown and the importance of local craftsmanship, and then she looked over and saw us, and she stopped in the middle of a word.

People turned around. I heard a woman behind me say, “Oh,” very softly. Somebody else said, “Is that Larry Ostrander’s wife?”

Kyle looked at us. I watched him read us the way you read a sign, left to right. Deb, then Angie, then Tammy, then me.

I watched his eyes go to the paper in my hands, and I watched him understand exactly what it was.

The Courier photographer lifted his camera. I heard the shutter go. Then again. He did not ask anybody’s permission, and to his credit, he did not stop.

Kyle did not move. He stood there with the scissors halfway open in front of the ribbon, like somebody had pressed pause on him.

It was cold enough that I could see his breath, and for a while that was the only thing about him that moved.

I did not look away. I did not smile. I did not say a word. I just held Dave’s stub up a little higher, so the numbers faced him, and I waited.

It felt like a very long time. I think it was about a minute. The wind snapped the end of the ribbon.

Somebody’s coffee cup crinkled. A truck went by on Main Street and slowed down to look.

Then Kyle closed the scissors. He set them down on the folding table by the door, next to a tray of cookies, very carefully, the way Dave taught him to set down anything with an edge.

He walked past Sandy. He walked past the mayor. He walked past the eleven of us, so close I could have touched his sleeve, and he did not look at me. He was looking at the back.

He walked right up to Dave, standing at the curb in his tan work shirt, and he held out his hand.