“Which way, Frances? I’m jes’ sayin’, it’s good to git out to th’ dance ev’ry year, ’cause tha’s what folks’re supposed t’ do!”

“My life isn’t going to change because of one rotten dance. Mal, people lose their way so easily, and no dance can—”

“Now, gosh, here,” the man said, grumbling, mouthing words to himself, reaching with a tremor to the highest metal shelf atop the grill, on which sat an enormous rusted corn can. “Here!” Mal said, plucking a key from atop the can. “Times ’ent so diff’rent than they ever was, Frances. They’s good and they’s bad in life, an’ it ’ent good to stay home from th’ dance! Take this, now; it’s th’ key t’ my wife’s dressin’ shack. Ya know where th’ place is—jes’ next t’ th’ pavilion, near all th’ other dressin’ shacks, right where it’s been all these years. Use th’ shack, Frances! It’ll help set y’ right before you dance. Why, y’ can put on all the fresh dresses y’ need, epply makeup, try on shoes, an’ all th’ pretty, lacy things ladies love! Go on, take th’ key!” Mal’s voice wobbled, as if his heart had floated into his throat.

She stared in surprise. “Mal! The cabin first, and now your wife’s dressing shack!? I don’t understand!”

He waved her off. “Well, th’ shacks’re diff’rent—wee lil’ rooms fer ladies to dress in, y’know, an’ t’ peek over t’ th’ dance floor an’ see who’s there. Why, that might be th’ best fer you, Frances. B’sides, the shack is all private an’ cozy-like, an’—”

Frances’ face went dark. “You want me to bring men there, is that it, Mal? To the shack—or the cabin, or both!? Oh, first Kenny, and now you! Don’t things around here ever change?” Her voice filled with tears.

“Now, don’t git in a fix,” Mal said.

“I have a boyfriend, Mal!”

“Well . . . see, he ’ent what seems right fer you, that fella. All folks think this. Now, some day yull meet a fella who’ll charm y’ t’ death, one who’ll take his place in town th’ way a man oughtta, an’ yull wonder what you were ever doin’ in th’ first place.” Mal spoke softly. “Ray’s a mite odd, Frances.”

She nearly shrieked. “Just because he takes a lot of walks—! You don’t know Ray! And you’re just parroting what you heard in town, because you can’t think for yourself or imagine that everyone else could ever be wrong! Oh, I tell you—”

Hand quaking, Mal wrenched the cabin key from Frances’ smock pocket, and strung it, along with the shack key, onto a piece of dirty yarn, which he pressed back into her palm; then he shoved her entire arm against her chest. “Take both th’ keys, Frances, jes’ take ’em, and keep ’em! A dance kin change a girl, they say, an’ . . . y’ never know . . . y’ might need both keys in a right hurry that day . . .” Mal seemed on the brink of some enormous disappointment, and touched his fingertips to his heart.