Six Hundred Corn Dogs on Opening Day

Trent Again

Trent came back a little after seven. The sun was low but still bright, coming in sideways across the midway and lighting up the dust.

He did not come to the table. He stood off by the power pole, near where my cord was plugged in, and waited until I looked up.

I handed the next basket to Lacey and walked over to him.

“Jo,” he said. Then he did not say anything else for a long time.

I waited. I have a lot of practice waiting. You learn it, standing over a fry pot.

“I wanted her to think I could make something happen,” he said finally. “She was down there by the pigs, and she was crying about it, and I thought, I can fix that. I’m the one who does the power.”

“You can fix a lot of things,” I said. “That wasn’t yours to fix.”

He nodded. He looked like he did when he was nine and broke the latch on my show box and told me before I could find out.

“Hank wrote me up,” he said. “First time in four years.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, and I meant it.

“Don’t be. I earned it.” He scuffed his boot in the grass. “Is Lacey mad at me?”

I looked back at Lacey. She was handing a corn dog to a little girl in a sundress and smiling.

“Lacey doesn’t stay mad at anybody,” I said. “She gets that from Grandpa. Not from me.”

He almost smiled at that.

“You want a corn dog?” I asked.

“I don’t deserve one.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

He took one. He ate it standing by the power pole, looking out at the Ferris wheel, and after a while he went back to work.

Sold Out

The last batch went into the pot at eight-thirty. The sun was going down behind the grandstand, and the sky over the Ferris wheel was pink and orange, and the midway lights were just starting to come on.

I counted later. Between the burners and the trailer fryers, we sold six hundred corn dogs that day. It was the most I have ever sold on an opening day, by more than a hundred.

The last one went to an old woman in a lawn chair who had been sitting near the table for an hour, just watching. She said she had not had a corn dog since her husband died. She ate it very slowly.

When the batter bowl was empty, I turned off the propane. Lacey taped a sign to the window that said “Sold Out, See You Tomorrow,” in her neat round handwriting with a smiley face.

I sat down on the trailer step. My arms were spotted with little red burns from the splatter. My feet felt like they belonged to someone else. My yellow tee was stiff with dried sweat.

Lacey sat down next to me and put her head on my shoulder.

“Mama,” she said. “I think Grandpa would have liked today.”

I put my arm around her. “I think he would have too, baby.”

We sat there until the sky went from pink to gray, and then we packed up and went home.