by Naomi Niles
Luckily, I was dealt a full house—three Jacks and two queens—which ought to have been enough to beat him if I played my cards right. Joe would need either a royal flush, a straight flush, or a four of a kind to beat me, and unless he had recently acquired some skill at bluffing, I could tell he didn’t have it. I kept my own face grave and inscrutable until the end of the round when we laid our cards down, at which point, he revealed that he also had a full house—three tens and two sevens. I won the round, the tournament and the money—all $2,500 of it.
Afterwards, we had shaken hands. Joe looked a little embarrassed—I could tell he wasn’t used to being beaten by guys who were half his age. He stuttered shyly and said, “Well, you really did it. Kudos to you,” before turning and walking away with shoulders slumped in defeat. It was almost enough to make me wish I had lost.
I told Sean I was tempted to give him the money, and Sean had reacted in horror.
“If you give twenty-five hundred dollars to an old man,” he said, “that’s twenty-five hundred dollars you will never see again. And he’ll probably die in a few months and then what was the point?”
“Remind me again why I ever ask your advice?”
I accelerated my pace, and Sean struggled to catch up, nearly bowling over a woman who was holding a large bag of cotton candy. After making his apologies, he said to me, “I just want you to think of the DVD collection you could buy with all that money. Think of the movies!”
“Are you being paid by the DVD industry?” I shot back. “Anyway, it would mean a lot to that old man. He could use the money to buy himself a new sweater. Every time I see him around town, he’s wearing that same sweater, and it’s starting to fray at the elbows.”
We paused at the back of a line leading up to a booth selling vegetarian pizza by the slice. In front of us, a girl of about seven in light-up sneakers hopped up and down impatiently and clutched at her stomach.
“Don’t look now,” murmured Sean, “but guess who just got in line behind us.”
He didn’t have to tell me: I could already hear the shrill voice of Annie Tcherepnin complaining to a friend about the price of mosaics. “I don’t remember them being nearly this expensive last year. I think they ought to at least give me a discount for—well, for being me.”
Of all the eccentric people who populated Summerville, Annie may have been the most exasperating. She was convinced she was going to become a famous musician, despite having only written a handful of songs of variable quality. She spent a good chunk of her time practicing her autograph and attempting stunts to get the attention of producers and record labels.
“And what makes you think you’re so special?” asked her friend, Shannon Oakes, in a teasing voice.
Annie tossed her head back. “Well, if they knew who I was—who I’m going to be—they wouldn’t think twice about letting me have one. ‘It would be an honor, Ms. Tcherepnin.’ Or do you think they’ll just call me Annie?”
“I think we ought to get you a stage name,” said Shannon, her eyes twinkling, “if you’re ever going to make it big. Who has heard of David Robert Jones?”
“I don’t know who that is,” Annie sniffed, as if resenting that the subject had turned to someone else.
“Exactly. But everyone knows him as David Bowie.”
I turned around and crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t see us and try to make conversation. Approximately three seconds later, I felt a long, bony hand on my shoulder. “Marshall Savery!” exclaimed Annie. “And Sean Wood.”
“Hello, Annie,” said Sean through gritted teeth. Somehow, he found her even more irritating than I did.
“You enjoying the festival?” asked Shannon.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s crowded, but the weather makes it bearable,” I replied. “So far, every food vendor has run out of food right as we were finally getting to the front of the line. I was really looking forward to eating some spicy chicken wings, but the woman in front of us took the last of them.”
“Don’t you hate that?” asked Annie with a dark look. “Some women feel entitled to everything.”
“I don’t know if it was a case of her being ‘entitled.’ She just happened to be ahead of us in line. Anyway, how are you liking it?”
“Good, so far!” Shannon motioned to the bag she was carrying. “I bought a narwhal bracelet and a couple of holiday-themed cross-stitches. And Annie—”
“I told you, I’m not here to buy anything,” said Annie in a prickly tone. “I just wanted to play my guitar, and I couldn’t even do that.”
“Why not?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“Because the music is too loud. There’s no way I was ever going to be heard over Bowie and Morrisey.” She let out a long sigh. “Someday, my name will be better known than both of theirs, but for now, I’m just biding my time.”
“Too bad!” said Sean. Her endless quest for fame irritated him, I suspect, because he saw in it a reflection of his own and hated being reminded that he wasn’t as exceptional as he thought.
But the sarcasm seemed lost on Annie. “It’s okay. Once I make it big, I’ll come and play at the festival, and the level of attendance will set records. I just hope it’s a nice day, like this one,” she added in an undertone. “I would really hate to have to play in the heat.”
“Maybe you and Sean could tour together,” I suggested. They both glared at me.
Soon, we reached the front of the line, only to find out that the last vegetarian pizza had just been sold to the girl with the light-up sneakers. Feeling hungry and irritable, we parted ways with Shannon and Annie and went looking for a vendor that wasn’t sold out.
“Do you think she’ll ever get over this delusion of hers?” asked Sean, his stomach giving a loud rumble.
“Doubt it,” I said. “She’ll be mailing demo tapes to record labels well into her sixties.”
“God! That’s so depressing. Just kill me if I get to be forty, and I’m acting like that.”
I smiled at him. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve given up hope? That you don’t think you’re going to make it?”
“No, I just don’t want to be one of those lost souls who go on clinging to a dream long after it’s apparent to everyone else that the dream is dead.”
I didn’t respond, though. I had just spotted Joe standing in line for a kiosk offering deep-fried watermelon. “Hang on a second,” I said to Sean. “I’ll be right back.”
Sean watched as I reached for my wallet with a nervous look. “Where are you going with that?” he asked. “Hey, wait, come back!”
Joe seemed surprised to see us again. He glared suspiciously at both of us as though worried he had done something wrong. I reached into my wallet and pulled out the money. “I just wanted to give you this, from both of us.”
Sean shook his head in anguish.
Joe stared at the money and then back at me, hesitant. “You sure about this?” he asked.
“I don’t need it,” I replied. “You fought hard, and there’s nothing I love more than facing off against a worthy opponent. Most of those guys had no business being in the tournament, but you knew what you were doing, and I respect that.”
Joe’s face turned a dark shade of red; he seemed more touched by the kind words than he was by the offer of money. “Thank you for this,” he said quietly. He sounded dazed, like he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune and half-expected to wake up in a moment. “This is the first time anyone’s ever given me money for losing a poker game.”
Seized with inspiration, I pulled out my phone. “Will you take a picture with us?” He and, reluctantly, Sean crowded in for a selfie.
Joe returned to the watermelon line, and we kept walking. As we passed under the shade of an elm Sean said in a low voice, “I can’t believe you did that.”
“That’s because the thought of giving up something for somebody has never crossed your mind. Generosity is good; you ought to try it.”
“If it was my girlfriend,” said Sean,
“that would be one thing—”
“You don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Hypothetically, if I had a girlfriend, I would consider giving her money if she needed it. But I’m not going to walk around handing out thousands of dollars to some old guy who lives by himself watching FOX News.”
Before I could respond, I became conscious of someone’s eyes on me. There was a woman standing some distance away under an awning watching us. It took me a moment to realize who it was.
Without giving any indication that I could see her, I said to Sean, “You remember that girl from the bakery? The one you’re in love with? She’s looking right at us.” Sensing that he was about to turn around and see for himself, I grabbed his arm. “No! Don’t look. She’ll know we’ve spotted her.”
Apparently realizing that she had been spotted, the nerdy baker came walking shyly toward us with her hands in her pockets. She was wearing thick rectangular glasses, a gray blouse with a white collar, and a green skirt with pockets that made her look like the magical nanny in a kid’s movie.
“Hey, sorry,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I hope you don’t think I was creeping on you.” I had a shrewd suspicion she hadn’t wanted us to see her and was only coming over to explain herself.
“I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced,” I said, extending my hand. “Marshall Savery.”
Sean took her hand firmly in his and whispered his name so low I could barely hear it.
“It’s nice meeting you, Marshall and…” Her voice trailed off. “My name is Lori. How do you know Old Joe?”
“Is that his name?” asked Sean. “I just call him Joe.”
“He comes into the store two or three times a week,” said Lori. We left the shade of the trees and began walking back in the direction of the kiosks. “We butt heads a lot because we have some very different views on the role of women. But I think I would be really sad if he left and never came back. It’s weird how someone can irritate you so much, and yet over time you get used to them. Like an old uncle you can’t help being fond of, even though he spouts the most bigoted nonsense at Thanksgiving.” She spoke in a hurried, nervous manner, like someone who didn’t do a lot of talking and didn’t quite know when to stop.
“Back in college, I had a professor who used to say things that were very offensive,” said Sean. “At the time we were horrified—well, most of us were—but when I got the email saying he had died last year, I actually cried. Anyone’s death is a tragedy, no matter how much I hated them.”
“Oh, there are a few people I wouldn’t shed any tears over if they died,” said Lori. After a moment’s silence, she added, “Anyway—and again, I don’t want you to think I’m a creeper—but I saw you giving him that huge wad of cash, and I wanted to let you know how much I respect that. What’s that line in Shakespeare? ‘So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’”
I had never read Shakespeare, so I couldn’t attest to the accuracy of the quote. “I was just doing what I thought was right,” I said. “I didn’t need the money, and it looked like he probably did. I hope he goes out tonight and rewards himself with a hamburger and milkshake, and maybe a new change of clothes.”
“I’ll let you know,” said Lori.
We had stopped in front of a gazebo gaily colored with dogwood and wisteria. Having said what she wanted to say, Lori now seemed to be looking for an excuse to leave. Taking out her phone, she began scanning through her texts.
“Shoot, I had better get going. My sister wants me back over there.” She held up her phone as if to show us her texts.
“Are you going to need help?” I asked quickly. Our visit hadn’t been nearly long enough, and I found myself wishing we could go out for drinks. “Sean has a truck. We would be glad to drive your pies back to the shop.”
“That’s okay,” said Lori, a trace of the old nervousness in her voice. “Thanks.”
But I wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “Let me give you my number, just in case.”
Lori began walking very quickly in the other direction. “It was nice meeting you,” she called back as her legs carried her away. “See you.”
I watched her go, feeling defeated. My one consolation was the hint of guilt I had discerned in her voice as she brushed me off.
“I don’t think she likes you much, man,” said Sean, watching as she rejoined her sister.
“I don’t know about that.” He was probably right, but I wasn’t about to admit that. “She told me she appreciated what I had done for the old man.”
“If only she had ended at that.” He shook his head. “Don’t you hate when a conversation goes on just slightly too long and starts to become awkward? Where if it had just ended ten minutes sooner, you both would have walked away feeling warm and happy?”
The great and terrible thing about Sean was that he never bothered to hide what he was thinking. “Yes, I probably shouldn’t have asked for her number,” I snapped. “But it was a lovely conversation in other respects. And at least we know each other’s names now.”
“Better luck with the next girl,” said Sean, before stalking off in the direction of the truck.
Chapter Eight
Lori
“I can’t believe you turned that guy down,” said Sam. “I know you don’t care much for dating, but sometimes your disdain for boys surprises me.”
It was Monday morning, and I was standing on a chair in the shop hanging up some of the art prints we had bought at the festival. Sam stood behind me, nervously fussing with an unlit cigarette. Although we were both glad the festival was over, she wasn’t looking forward to going back to work.
“It’s not that I hate all boys,” I said, feeling a prickle of irritation. “I didn’t even know that guy, and he wanted to give me his number.”
“I doubt he meant any harm by it. You saw him hand over those thousands of dollars to Old Joe—he doesn’t seem like a bad sort.”
I shook my head resolutely as I climbed down from the chair. “Even if he’s not a stalker, I don’t want him texting me twenty times a day. That would get old very quickly.”
Sam stared at me in disbelief. She knew I had a low tolerance for annoying boys, but I think my refusal had struck her as uncharacteristically rude. I was generally a kind person unless I thought you were flirting. Then, I felt a mysterious urge to flee into the woods where no man ever goes.
“Anyway,” said Sam, “I know you’ve been hurt in the past, but you can’t continue to act as though every potential relationship is going to be just like your last. You’ve grown up a bit, and not every boy is Jonathan.”
Sam and I had a tacit agreement not to mention Jonathan, whom I had never dated but had loved like a boyfriend. I had spent a year of my life pining after him, a fact to which he seemed mostly oblivious. We had gone out to dinner and the opera together, and our friends wanted to know whether or not we were dating and when we were going to make it official.
He gave every indication of liking me, but it was all an illusion, and the relationship ended in disappointment. I’ll never forget how I sat in my dorm and cried on the last day of school when he came in and told me he wasn’t interested and that he didn’t want us to stay in touch over the summer. Shortly after that, he had met a girl in Paris, and they had started dating. Now, they were engaged.
“Sometimes, it just seems like you expect to be rejected by every boy,” said Sam. “So you reject them before they can reject you.”
“Hmmm, deep,” I said sarcastically.
“For real, though. When is the last time you sensed a boy liked you and didn’t immediately run away or try to scare them off?”
“Sam, I can’t even remember the last time a boy liked me. I’ve told you, I’m probably going to end up a nun, and you know what? That wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing. Frankly, I don’t understand how you can bear to spend every day with the same person.”
“Well, when you really love someone, it isn’t difficult,” said Sam.
“I might just as well ask how you can bear to read hundreds of pages a night.”
“But you love books as much as I do.”
“Exactly, and that’s the real secret, isn’t it? Love.”
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t dismiss Sam’s advice outright. She could be cynical about everything else, but not this. I had seen first-hand how dating Jamal had made her tender, hopeful, and open-hearted. “Love is just about the only magic we have left in this world,” she had once told me, and she meant it.
It was an unusually busy morning, which didn’t leave me much time for contemplating my tangled love life. Customers were lined up outside the doors before we even opened, and by ten, Sam was turning them away because there wasn’t enough room in the shop. In addition to Joe and Cheryl and some of the other regulars, it seemed like half the people in my Tuesday night Bible study stopped by that morning.
“Joe, I heard you almost won the poker tournament on Saturday,” said Brian as he waited for his vanilla latte. “Tough break, man.”
“Yes, but I still got the money,” said Joe, taking a sip of his tea. “That counts as a win in my book.”
Judging from the astonished looks of those seated near him, it was clear that not everyone had heard about Marshall’s act of kindness. Sensing that he had the room’s attention, Joe explained how Marshall had found him and given him the money.
“He must already be loaded if he would willingly give up twenty-five hundred dollars,” said Alvin.
Joe hadn’t mentioned the exact amount Marshall had given him, but now several customers let out shocked gasps. I winced in surprise; I couldn’t imagine being rich enough to see twenty-five hundred dollars as loose change.
“I don’t know what would possess a person to do that,” said Brian with a shake of his head.
“I don’t know,” said Joe, “but I don’t mind.”
“Personally, I think it was the right thing to do.” Alvin took a single bite out of a doughnut hole and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe the Holy Spirit was acting on him; I don’t know. But I wish we had more examples of guys being generous with their money, instead of wasting it all on video games and bigger TVs.”
