The Night the Linemen Lit the Sale Barn

I put my face against Grant’s shirt and cried. Not because I was sad.

There are things you do not know how badly you need until somebody gives them to you, and I had not known I needed Stan Kober to ring that bell until he rang it.

The dance went on for hours. The church ladies danced with the linemen. The 4-H kids danced with each other and with anybody who would let them.

My aunt danced with Hank and told him he was a terrible dancer, and he agreed, and kept right on dancing.

Mama danced once with Grant’s father and once with my cousin’s little boy.

The rest of the time she stood by the rail with her sweater around her shoulders, watching the road. Every time a pair of headlights came up the gravel, she looked.

I did not look. I told myself I did not care. That was not true, and I knew it was not true, but I said it to myself anyway and I kept dancing.

He had walked me down the aisle. I told myself that would have to be enough.

It got dark. The lights got brighter against it. Somewhere around ten the cool came in off the prairie and people started putting on jackets.

Somebody’s cousin said into his microphone that he had about three songs left before the generator needed a rest.

I was dancing with Grant’s father when Hank touched my elbow. He did not say anything. He just tipped his head toward the gate at the end of the yard.

Daddy was standing there.

He was still in his good suit pants and his good boots, but he had taken off the jacket and the tie, and he stood outside the gate with one hand resting on the top bar, right at the edge of the light.

I do not know how long he had been there. Long enough, I think.

Mama saw him the same moment I did. She did not go to him. She stayed where she was.

The yard did not go quiet exactly, but it got quieter, the way a crowd does when people are trying very hard not to look at something.

He did not come in. He stood there looking at the trucks and the booms and the lights strung between them, and then at the pens, and then at all those people.

Finally he looked at me. Then he looked past me, right at Grant.

Grant came across the yard from where he had been standing with the crew and walked over to the gate. I followed a step behind him.

Up close I could see Daddy’s face, and he looked older than he had that morning, older than I had ever seen him.

“Son,” Daddy said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said.

Daddy looked down at his hand on the gate. “I’d be obliged,” he said, “if you’d dance my daughter the last song.”

His voice caught. “I don’t think I’ve earned it tonight. And I’d like to stand here and hold her mother’s hand while you do.”

Nobody said anything for a second. Then Grant nodded, slow, the way men nod at each other over a fence when something has been settled.

“I’d be glad to, sir,” he said. “But you come inside the gate. You don’t need to stand out there.”

Daddy opened the gate. It is a heavy steel gate, and it squeaks, and I had heard it squeak a thousand times.