She glared at me while she wrapped a sweet potato pie, a two-time winner, in a clean dish towel. The sour cream and raisin pie sat on the kitchen table next to the buttermilk pie, ready for the icebox. The fruit pies were still cooling on the racks, and a dusting of white flour coated every surface in the kitchen.
“Only two days into summer and you’re already under my feet? You’ll wish you were over at the high school takin’ summer classes if you drop one a my prizewinnin’ pies. You want to help? Stop mopin’ and go pull the car around.”
Tempers were running about as high as temperatures, and we didn’t say much as we bumped our way out toward the highway in the Volvo. I wasn’t talking, but I can’t say anybody noticed. Today was the single biggest day of Amma’s year. She had won first place in Baked and Fried Fruit Pies and second place in Cream Pies every year at the Gatlin County Fair for as long as I could remember. The only year she didn’t get a ribbon was last year, when we didn’t go because it was only two months after my mom’s accident. Gatlin couldn’t boast the biggest or the oldest fair in the state. The Hampton County Watermelon Festival had us beat by maybe two miles and twenty years, and the prestige of winning the Gatlin Peach Prince and Princess Promenade could hardly compare to the honor of placing in Hampton’s Melon Miss and Master Pageant.
But as we pulled into the dusty parking lot, Amma’s poker face didn’t fool my dad or me. Today was all about pageants and pies, and if you weren’t balancing a pie wrapped as snugly as someone’s firstborn, you were pushing a kid in curlers holding a baton toward the pavilion. Savannah’s mom was Gatlin’s Peach Pageant organizer, and Savannah was the defending Peach Princess. Mrs. Snow would be overseeing pageants all day. There was no such thing as too young for a crown in our county. The fair’s Best Babies event, where rosy cheeks and diaper dispositions were compared like competing cobblers, drew more spectators than the Demolition Derby did. Last year, the Skipetts’ baby was disqualified for cheating when her rosy cheeks came off on the judges’ hands. The county fair had strict guidelines—no formal wear until two years old, no makeup until six years old, and then only “age-appropriate makeup” until twelve.
Back when my mom was around, she was always ready to take on Mrs. Snow, and the Peach Pageants were one of her favorite targets. I could still hear her saying, “Age-appropriate makeup? Who are you people? What makeup is age-appropriate for a seven-year-old?” But even my family never missed a county fair, except last year. Now here we were again, carrying pies through the crowds and into the fairgrounds, same as ever.
“Don’t jostle me, Mitchell. Ethan Wate, keep up. I’m not gonna let Martha Lincoln or any a those women beat me out a that ribbon on account a you two boys.” In Amma’s shorthand, those women were always the same women—Mrs. Lincoln, Mrs. Asher, Mrs. Snow, and the rest of the DAR.
By the time my hand was stamped, it looked like three or four counties had already beaten us there. Nobody missed the opening day at the fair, which meant a trip to the fairgrounds halfway between Gatlin and Peaksville. And a trip to the fairgrounds meant a disastro
us amount of funnel cake, a day so hot and sticky you could pass out just from standing, and if you were lucky, some making out behind the Future Farmers of America poultry barns. My shot at anything but heat and funnel cake wasn’t looking too good this year.
My dad and I dutifully followed Amma to the judging tables under an enormous Southern Crusty banner. Pies had a different sponsor every year, and when it couldn’t be Pillsbury or Sara Lee, you ended up with Southern Crusty. Pageants were crowd-pleasers, but Pies was the granddaddy of them all. The same families had been making the same recipes for generations, and every ribbon won was the pride of one great Southern house and the shame of another. Word had it that a few women from town had their sights set on keeping Amma from winning first place this year. Judging by the muttering I’d heard in the kitchen all week long, that would happen when hell froze over and those women were skating on it.
By the time we had unloaded her precious cargo, Amma was already harassing the judges about table placement. “You can’t put a vinegar after a cherry, and you can’t put a rhubarb between my creams. It’ll take the taste right out a them, unless that’s what you boys are lookin’ to do.”
“Here it comes,” said my dad, under his breath. As the words came out of his mouth, Amma gave the judges the Look, and they squirmed in their folding chairs.
My dad glanced over at the exit, and we slunk outside before Amma had a chance to put us to work terrorizing innocent volunteers and intimidating judges. The moment we hit the crowds, we instinctively turned in opposite directions.
“You going to walk around the fair with that cat?” My dad looked down at Lucille sitting in the dirt next to me.
“Guess so.”
He laughed. I still wasn’t used to hearing it again. “Well, don’t get into trouble.”
“Never do.”
My dad nodded at me, like he was the dad and I was the son. I nodded back, trying not to think about the last year, when I was the grown-up and he was out of his mind. He walked his way, I walked mine, and we both disappeared into the hot and sweaty masses.
The fair was packed, and it took me a while to track down Link. But true to form, he was hanging out by the games, trying to flirt with any girl who would look at him, today being a prime opportunity to meet a few who weren’t from Gatlin. He was standing in front of one of those scales you hit with a giant rubber mallet to prove how strong you are, the mallet resting on his shoulder. He was in full drummer mode, in his faded Social Distortion T-shirt, with his drumsticks stuck in the back pocket of his jeans, and his wallet chain hanging below the sticks.
“Lemme show ya how it’s done, ladies. Stand back. You don’t wanna get hurt.”
The girls giggled as Link gave it his best shot. The little meter climbed up, measuring Link’s strength and his chances of hooking up at the same time. It passed a REAL WUSS and WIMPY and headed toward the bell at the top, A REAL STUD. But it didn’t quite make it, stopping about halfway, at CHICKEN LITTLE. The girls rolled their eyes and headed for the Ring Toss.
“This thing’s rigged. Everyone knows that,” Link shouted after them, dropping the mallet in the dirt. He was probably right, but it didn’t matter. Everything in Gatlin was rigged. Why would the carnival games be any different?
“Hey, you got any money?” Link pretended to dig around in his pockets, like he might actually have more than a dime.
I handed him a five, shaking my head. “You need a job, man.”
“I’ve got a job. I’m a drummer.”
“That’s not a job. It’s not called a job unless you get paid.”
Link scanned the crowd, looking for girls or funnel cake. It was hard to tell which, since he responded equally to both. “We’re tryin’ to line up a gig.”
“Are the Holy Rollers playing at the fair?”
“This lame scene? Nah.” He kicked the ground.
“They wouldn’t book you?”
“They said we sucked. But people thought Led Zeppelin sucked, too.”