The Middle of Somewhere (13 page)

He tightened up his lips, but his eyes shifted to Gee, then back to me. After a few seconds, he untightened enough to say, “Okay.”

The audience cheered. Seriously.

We couldn't just sit down and play. Our neighbor, Mr. Bewick, insisted on being the dealer so everything would be fair and aboveboard. Then he went to fetch his camp table for us to play on and brought back not only the table, but also a string of Japanese lanterns, Mrs. Bewick, and the nice couple from the motor home next door. Of course Melba (as she insisted we call her) had to stay, and a
family taking a walk around the lake wandered over when the kids recognized us.

An audience wasn't what I had in mind, but maybe, if I lost, one of those people could help us find a home for Leo. While the table was getting set up, I made sure Gee tied the dog firmly to a tree far away from the action.

“I know you're going to win, Ronnie.” He hugged me for luck, but then said he couldn't bear watching, and I could just let him know when it was all over.

By then night was falling, and the Japanese lanterns shed a party glow over the site as Pop and I sat down at the table. Mr. Bewick counted out a dozen toothpicks for each of us, then asked me, “You remember what beats what? Want me to write it down?”

I just shook my head. “Pair, two pair, three of a kind, straight, flush, full house.”

Mr. Bewick whistled as he snapped the cards. “She's a sharp one, Jack. Watch out.”

I didn't feel sharp—I felt sick. Note to me: don't ever propose a game with your little brother's heart on the line. Still, the scene would have been pretty cool if I hadn't been right in the middle of it. Black sky stretched out over our piece of earth, a fog of lightning bugs hovered over the grass, the little crowd murmured happily in the lantern glow. The cards fluttered as Mr. Bewick worked the stiffness out, his hands turning them to a golden blur. Then he spread them in a fan so we could draw to open.

Pop won the draw. After picking up the five cards Mr. Bewick dealt, he tossed out two toothpicks. Of course I had to do the same to stay in, even though I didn't have
anything worth betting on. We both drew three cards, then he bet four toothpicks and I folded. He showed his hand: three fives.

“That was too quick,” Mr. Bewick said as he shuffled our cards back into the deck. “Let's stretch the next one out a little, okay?”

He gave me a pair of threes this time—something to work with, though not much. Because it was my turn to open, I tossed in one toothpick and drew three cards again. Pop only took one, which made me catch my breath. But when Mr. Bewick dealt me a pair of sevens, I decided to go for it, betting two. Pop threw down his cards, showing he didn't make that straight or flush he was going for.

“Last deal, make it real.” Mr. Bewick slapped down my five cards. I was seeing how much I didn't understand about this game yet: we were tied on the best hand, but Pop was ahead on toothpicks. I should have bet at least two more on my pair of threes, and then I would have been ahead. Live and learn, except I had only one more chance to pull this off.

I picked up my five cards: a pair of jacks stared me in the face.

Don't show anything
, I said to myself, making a little frown to keep my mouth from turning up. Pop opened with two toothpicks, like he usually did. I asked for three cards and got a pair of fours and a ten. Pop asked for two cards— bad sign. Did he have three of a kind and was drawing for a full house? Or a pair and an ace, or was he bluffing me?

Two pair is a rotten hand—good enough to sucker you into making a big bet, but often not good enough to win.

Even if he didn't get the full house he was probably drawing for, hed beat me with three of anything, even measly twos.

I looked up at Melba, who was standing behind Pop and might have seen his cards, even though he was holding them close. She didn't even glance my way—this was up to me.

“It's up to you, Ronnie,” said Mr. Bewick.

I took a quick breath and tossed out five toothpicks. “Ah,” murmured the audience as I struggled with my poker face. But Pop matched those, then said, “I'll raise you two.”

A bluff, or not? Well, I thought, if I was going to lose, might as well lose big. “I'll see your two,” I said, throwing them in, “
and
raise you three.” That cleaned me out of toothpicks.

Pop hesitated, then pushed three toothpicks into the pot. “Call. What've you got?”

Slowly, I lay down the pair of fours, then the pair of jacks.

Pop stared at it for a few seconds—seconds that crawled like snails. Then he tossed his cards, facedown. “Beats me.”

I let out a breath I'd been holding, as cheers erupted all around me.

A party sort of happened after that, and that's the best kind of party—no hurt feelings over who didn't get invited, no worries over the cupcakes getting burned or the drinks running out or how to keep everybody happy. All that just took care of itself.

Boxes of doughnuts and six-packs of Pepsi and beer showed up, along with crackers and a cheese ball. Neighbors drifted in and drifted out, and for that night only they were
all our new best friends. While accepting my umpteenth congratulations for winning the poker game, I realized that this event was because of
me
. I mean, more or less. And the funny thing was, it didn't come about because of any long-or short-term goals or rowing the flow. I'd just had a flash of inspiration, and who knows where those flashes come from?

For most of the party, Gee stayed with Leo, except for when he dashed out to hug me while everybody around us said, “Awwwwww” That's what he was doing—hugging, I mean—when a big white trailer pulled by a white pickup slowly circled the campground. Not many people noticed, because Mr. Bewick's other-side neighbors had brought over a polka CD, and my grandfather and Melba were showing the kids how it's done. Suddenly, Gee screamed as though an alligator had crawled up from the lake and bit him on the leg.

Then he took off after the trailer. Before the guests could wonder if he was in trouble or just insane, I yelled, “I'll get him!”

He made me work at that, but I finally got close enough to grab him by a handful of T-shirt, gasping, “What's got into you?”

“Lemme go!” he yelled, struggling with hyper-kid energy. The trailer up ahead passed under a security light, and I had just enough time to read the gold letters painted across the double doors in back: FASTER THAN A SPEEDING BULLET—

Then it rolled out of sight. “Why'd you stop me?” Gee demanded. He was so frustrated he was stomping with both feet.

“Well,
excuse
me, but I haven't seen you chase a vehicle since you were five. What's up with that?”

“What's up with that?” he repeated. “What's up with
that?
Didn't you see? It was CANNONBALL PAUL!”

He wanted to keep running, but when I pointed out that the trailer was already out of sight, he agreed to go back to the campground with me. Very sulky, though, even after I'd won him a dog. That's gratitude.

“Cannonball Paul?” Melba repeated when we asked her about the trailer. “He's been here the last two nights, camping on the other side of the lake. I think he came from some event in Garden City.”

Stunned, Gee pulled the card out of his pocket and looked at the back. “But it doesn't say he's s'
posed
to be in Garden City. Does it?”

I scanned the dates. “Nope. Maybe he got that gig after the card was printed up.”

“It's not fair! He was here all along and I never knew it!”

He'd forgotten all about Leo. I told him to find a good place to tie up
his
dog for the night. When Gee stomped away, I asked Melba, “Do you know where this cannonball guy is going next?”

“No idea.”

I had to admit, it was kind of a bummer to think Mr. Amazing himself had been across the lake from us, and we never even knew it.

Before taking off on his Yamaha the next day, Pop said he'd be home early but he had plans for the evening and we were supposed to leave him alone. And he'd buy one bag of dog food—just one—but otherwise he'd pretend Leo didn't exist and he expected the same consideration from Leo. “And one more thing. That mutt never comes inside the RV.
Ever
. Got that?”

Around nine a.m., Mr. and Mrs. Bewick pulled out, and their other-side neighbors soon after, leaving that end of the campground to us. I spent the morning trying to make friends with Leo, or at least convince him I wasn't his enemy. He'd let me get close enough to scratch his ears, but then he'd shake his head and back off.

Gee started a stick-chasing class, but the dog never seemed to catch on—even when Gee hurled a stick and chased it himself. “Why don't you teach him to throw instead?” I suggested as Gee trotted up with the stick in his teeth. “You could do the fetching.”

“Ha, ha,
ha!
” This was his idea of a sarcastic laugh. He was still mad about being so-near-yet-so-far from his hero.

“Did you want Mr. Paul to adopt you, or what? So you can be Baby Cannonball?”

“I'm not a baby!”

“Cannonball Junior?”

“I wanna see him fly! He's everywhere and we keep missing him!” Which was true, but how do you catch a cannonball?

After lunch, we walked down to the park office, where Melba had told us we could use the phone. She was doing paperwork at her desk while eating a tuna sandwich. “Hi, guys! Some party last night, huh?” She asked about Leo and mentioned being surprised that Pop was such a good dancer (she wasn't the only one). Finally, she got around to pushing the phone to the corner of her desk.

Mama answered on the first ring. The sound of her voice saying “Hello?”—bright and hopeful, like she knew it was us—flooded me with feeling. Maybe it was homesickness, or maybe just realizing how much I'd missed her. We started talking at once. She hadn't received any postcards yet, so I tried to give her the highlights: Big Brutus Dodge City camping out four-pound bass—“And guess what?” Gee shouted in the background. “I got a dog!”

I handed him the receiver and sat back, blinking fast. Melba went about her business, pretending not to pay any attention, while Gee got stuck on Cannonball Paul and couldn't get off.

“Did he say something about a dog?” Mama asked when I took back the phone.

“Well… we sorta picked one up.” I didn't want to go into details just then.

“But your grandfather hates dogs! Is he okay with that?”

“Uh … more or less.”

“How are you all getting along?”

“Fine. He's at work now.” This made it sound like we got along best when Pop was fifty miles away, but oh well.

She started telling me about the number of chenille-wire wreaths and snowmen she'd racked up and how Lyddie came over the night before and helped her make pinecone trees and they had a blast except she missed us awfully. By then Gee was making like an inchworm trying to crawl up the side of Melba's desk, so I thought it might be time to wrap this up. “Well, Gee's getting a little antsy”—(“I'm getting wormy!” he shouted)— “so we'd better go. Take care. Love you.”