“I did?”
“Yep.”
“It’s—is it? It sounds like the singer’s being sucked through a funnel. In fact—”
Tom threw himself to the edge of the bed and seized his phone, angrily punching the screen until he shut down the unholy wailing coming from it. “God damn it, Craig,” he muttered.
“Sleep okay?” Craig called from the kitchen.
“Hang on,” Tom yelled from the bathroom. He flushed, washed his hands, and scowled in the mirror at a bump on his jawline that had appeared overnight.
“Tom,” Craig said in a singsong voice.
Tom stopped picking at his face. “Coming.”
Craig was at the table, bent over a library book and munching handfuls of Frosted Flakes.
“Like your wake-up call?”
“The music from hell?”
“You asked for something to get you moving.”
“And it was….”
“Barney the Dinosaur’s theme song from 1992. Played backward.”
“That explains the demons.”
Craig looked up. “What?”
“Nothing.” Tom reached for the cereal, but Craig beat him to it. “You’re snowing,” Tom said.
“What?” Craig said as he crunched.
“There’s sugar all over your book.”
“Oh.” Craig held it up and whacked it.
“I don’t suppose there’s any coffee?” Tom said.
Craig pointed to the kitchen without looking up. “Waiting for you.”
Tom padded to the kitchen and returned, slurping a freshly poured cup of Folgers. “Thanks.”
“Welcome,” Craig murmured.
Tom sat. “So what’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Your book.”
Craig snapped it shut and sat up. “You’re going to be late.”
“What? What time is it?”
“Six fifty.”
Tom drained his mug and stood. He arched his back and stretched, groaning mightily until Craig tickled his belly. “Don’t.”
Craig poured cereal into his mouth straight from the box. “I wuff oo.”
Tom smiled and kissed his forehead. “I love you too.”
AFTER TOM was out the door, Craig cleaned up his crumbs and washed Tom’s coffee mug. He stared at his book. I should paint first.
Craig entered the spare bedroom he used as an art studio and stared at the cloth draped over his canvas. He sighed and sat at a small desk with his back to the painting and opened a spiral-bound notebook. The first page was titled Dreams, divided into two columns: Tom on the left, Craig on the right. Under Tom were Find better job, Save enough to quit, and Set up carpentry shop. Craig added Become known as master furniture craftsman. Under his own name, Craig had Stop teaching, Be free to paint what I want, and Establish summer art camp for underprivileged kids. He ran his finger over each line, then added Make Tom happy to his own list and underlined it twice. He stared at the canvas again. Maybe later.
In the living room, Craig took a legal pad and pen from under the couch along with his book’s slipcover. Starbursts in garish reds and yellows highlighted the title Power Up Your Powerball: Surefire Strategies for Power Winners. Craig turned to Chapter Four—“The Three Essentials for Choosing Your Numbers”—and settled down to take notes.
TOM PULLED at the front of his shirt, already sticking to him the bright summer heat in spite of the wind as he shot down the two-lane to Harris Mobile Homes. He flicked on the AM radio. Seven forty-three. Gotta hurry. Tom accelerated out of a sharp curve but had to brake for a line of cars creeping past a sixteen-wheeler pulled over by a cop. Goddamn rubberneckers. The radio display read seven fifty-one. As the line sped up just past the scene, Tom prayed for a break in traffic. There’s my chance. He hit the gas. His pickup coughed twice, and the engine died.
“No, God damn it, no!” Tom yelled as he pulled off the road and coasted to a stop.
CRAIG PUT his book and notepad under the couch and stood to stretch. Well, I know what I have to do now. He hummed the Barney song as he went to the bathroom to shower.
After dressing, Craig stood in the middle of the bedroom, looking from the closet to the door and back. No risk, no reward. Finally he went to the closet and took down a large jar from the top shelf. He emptied it on the bed and sorted through their rainy day fund. I won’t take it all. Just the bills and quarters.
When he was done, he scooped the small change into the jar and stuffed the rest in a fanny pack. He put the jar back and grabbed his keys. As he locked the front door and headed to his battered Dodge Charger, he bit his lower lip. This is the right thing to do. It’s got to be.
He wheeled out of the driveway and headed to the Kwikie Mart by the freeway exit.
TOM WAS sweating profusely when he walked into Harold Mann’s office. Mann, fiftyish and trim with a steel-gray crewcut, looked up from paperwork. “Hullo, Rendelle.”
“Mr. Mann, I—”
“You know what time it is?”
“I—”
“You look like shit. What happened?”
“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Mann. My pickup broke down. I got here as quick as I could.”
“Broke down,” Mann said flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
Mann stood and opened a file cabinet. “When did you start, Rendelle?” he said over his shoulder.
“Uh, last Monday.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mann sat with the thick folder he’d retrieved.
When Mann didn’t speak, Tom said, “I just wanted you to know I did my best to get here.”
“How far you walk?”
“From just past the Patterson house.”
“Shit, Tom, that’s better than a mile and a half.”
“I ran most of it.”
“Huh.”
When it was obvious that Mann had nothing more to say, Tom said, “I’ll get right to work, sir.”
Mann sniffed and returned to his paperwork as Tom went through the door.
WHEN CRAIG got home, he went straight to the studio and cleared the desk to organize his purchases from the Kwikie Mart. He made a neat row of playslips for Mega Millions, Powerball, Jumbo Bucks, and 5 Card Cash above stacks of Bronze and Silver scratchers. The Gold and Platinum cards—just one each because they were expensive—went to the side.
One of these is definitely a winner. The system says if you buy right and buy enough, one of them is bound to win. He bumped the edge of the table next to him, and his notebook slid off. “Dreams,” Craig whispered as he picked it up and put it back. He smiled and went to work.
AN HOUR later, the front door opened. Craig popped up and hurried to the living room. Tom stood just inside the open door.
“You’re home early.”
“Yeah.” Tom’s voice was listless, and it sent a chill through Craig.
“Anything wrong?”
Tom snorted. He dropped his lunch pail on the table, refusing to meet Craig’s eyes. Craig closed the front door carefully. He knew Tom’s attitude meant bad news, but he also knew trying to force it out of him would guarantee a blowup.
“I was just about to get some lunch,” Craig said brightly. “Got busy and didn’t think about the time, so I haven’t had anything yet. You want something?” He went to the kitchen and pulled bologna and mustard from the fridge. “How many sandwiches you want? Or how about I fry ’em? We haven’t had fried bologna in—”
“Would you just shut the hell up?” Tom growled.
Craig left the kitchen. Tom was still at the table, his head down. Craig came close but knew better than to touch him when he was this upset. “Tell me what happened,” he said quietly. Tom didn’t respond, so Craig took his hand. “Tom?”
Tom pulled away and said, “I was fired.”
Craig stepped back. “Fired? Why?”
Tom nudged a table leg with the toe of his boot and said, “For being late.”
“But you left on time. I made sure you
were—”
Tom looked up and raised his voice. “The truck broke down, okay? I ran the last mile and showed up at twenty after eight, sweating like a pig and stinking like one too. Mr. Mann acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but he called me to his office at lunch. Said I was a hard worker, but he didn’t have a place for people that couldn’t be dependable.”
“But you’re the most dependable guy I know! If you say you’ll do something, you do it. How can he possibly think—”
“He doesn’t know me, Craig. All he knows is I was late once last week—my first week on the job—and now today.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
“You think he cares? Mann’s got a dozen or more in line praying for a chance. To him, I’m replaceable. I’m disposable.”
Craig sat on the arm of the couch and pulled Tom’s head to his chest. “He couldn’t be more wrong,” he said gently. “You’re the exact opposite. You’re irreplaceable. And if anything’s disposable, it’s Harris Mobile Homes.” Craig kissed Tom, ignoring the tears brimming in his eyes.
“You think so?” Tom said.
“I know so. Assembling mobile homes isn’t who you are. And don’t say you’re a carpenter. That’s not who you are either. You’re a woodworker. You’re just as artistic as I am—probably more. And I’m going to find a way to set you free to create the furniture you want to make.”
Tom stared into Craig’s eyes, then said, “Now who doesn’t deserve who?” He smiled a tiny bit.
“I think we both deserve each other,” Craig said as he returned to the kitchen.
“Why’s that?” Tom called after him.
“Because we’re both winners. We have dreams, and we don’t give up on them. We just need a break, that’s all. You just wait. One day we’ll be able to—”
Craig stopped when Tom hugged him from behind.
“This is what I love about you.”
“What?”
“If you ever get down, you don’t let me see it. And you always find a way to make me see things aren’t as bad as I thought they were.”
Craig stopped his sandwich making and put his arms around Tom’s neck. “You’ll find another job.” He kissed him. “And we’ll get a break.”
Tom kissed him back. “Yeah.” He released Craig and looked down. “I think I need another shower.”
“Want me to help?”
Tom laughed. “You fry that bologna. I’ll start looking for another job after lunch.”
Craig took an iron skillet from the stove’s bottom drawer and turned on a burner. When a water droplet skittered across the surface, he picked up a slice of bologna. He dropped it on the counter when Tom screamed.
“What the hell?”
No. No!
Craig ran to the studio. Tom was staring at dozens of used-up scratcher cards scattered on the floor. The look of anger and pain in his eyes stung Craig. Finally he croaked out, “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
Tom’s quiet tone was more devastating than any scream could have been. “Where did you get the money?”
Craig hung his head and mumbled.
“I said, ‘Where did you get the money?’”
“The jar in the closet.”
“You take all of it?”
“Almost. I left the pennies and nic—”
Tom shouldered Craig aside and left the house. Craig put his hands to his face and wept.
III.
Wednesday morning
TOM ROLLED over and yawned. He put his hand out to cold sheets instead of Craig’s warm shoulder. What happened last night?
He had come home past 2:00 a.m., as drunk as his wallet would get him, and stumbled into the bedroom, intending to wake Craig and apologize. But the bed had been made up.
“Craig?”
Tom had checked the driveway. His car’s here, so… wait. I know. He returned to the bedroom to find Craig asleep on the floor on the far side of the bed, knees drawn up to his chin and a fistful of lottery playslips clutched in a hand. Tom had watched him for a long time before undressing.
Now he got up gingerly, squinting at shards of sunlight through the blinds, and took care of his bathroom business. He washed down some aspirin with a splash of water from the sink and searched the house.
Every room was empty, even the studio, now neat as a pin. He scratched his cheek and looked for his phone. Almost eleven. Where the devil is he?
“COMFORTABLE? I can adjust the air.”
“No, I’m fine, but thanks.”
“Music? What do you like? I’m sure I can find—”
“Really, I’m fine. I’d kind of like to spend the time thinking.”
George Sanders, Craig’s principal at Hamilton High, nodded. “Of course.” He forced his eyes to the road.
The silence quickly became oppressive. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Mr. Sanders,” Craig said to break the tension. “Tom was… sleeping so soundly, and I didn’t want to wake him, and…”
Sanders slowed for the traffic around Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. “You want to surprise him?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“So tell me how you felt when you found out.”
“It was kind of surreal, you know? I’d bought a bunch of tickets—way more than I should have, actually. I’m pretty sure the Kwikie Mart guy thought I was nuts. And—” I’m babbling. Craig fell silent.
“Yes?”
“Um… I missed the eleven o’clock news because—” Craig stopped, unwilling to lie or tell his boss Tom walked out on him for spending their entire rainy day fund.
“Of an art project? That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you, Craig. You’re committed to your art. It’s not just a job for you, is it? You really love your work. You’re exactly the kind of teacher we need at Hamilton High. Without the kind of spirit you bring to—”
“So I remembered there’s a cable channel where they run lottery numbers continuously on the day they come out. I freaked when I saw my numbers come up.”
“Freaked?”
“I can’t think of the right word. Numb at first. It was agony waiting for the Mega Millions to repeat. I watched it cycle seven or eight times, then remembered my phone and took a snap next time it came around. I checked my ticket against it about a thousand times.”
Sanders accelerated smoothly to pass a knot of cars exiting at Turner Field. “But you were finally convinced?”
“Uh-huh. But I still—”
“And you never woke Tom?”
“I… decided to let him sleep and surprise him, like I said.”
“Why didn’t you drive yourself?” Sanders said carefully.
Craig ducked his head. “I’m not sure my old Charger would make it.”
Sanders chuckled. “I know what it’s like to live on the edge. Someone wiser than me once said we’re all just a paycheck away from bankruptcy. I think that’s especially true for people dedicated enough to go into education, no matter what their position. Don’t you?”
“I guess.”
The silence resumed. Craig stared out the window, seeing nothing.
Sanders looked at his watch. “Not much longer. So,” he said casually, “have you given any thought to what you’ll do?” Craig seemed surprised that he wasn’t alone. “Have you?” Sanders said.
“Have I what?”
Sanders grinned. “I’d be dazed too.”
Craig smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry.”
“No problem. So, have you decided what you’ll do now?”
“Oh. Not yet. I’m still not sure I won. I mean, I know I did, but…. I guess maybe speechless is the right word.”
Sanders tapped his GPS on the dash and slowed further for thickening traffic. “There are endless possibilities, of course. I wouldn’t blame you if you quit your job, but it’d be such a shame to lose one of our best. But I’m willing to bet you’ve got more character than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m an excellent judge of people, Craig. Everybody says so. I can sense a sensitive, caring spirit immediately. I knew from our first handshake you’re a generous soul, especially to those who’ve treated you with respect. You won’t just buy a mansion and a yacht. You’ll take care of your friends too. Won’t you?”
Craig nodded uncertainly.
“There’s our exit. Would you punch up the exact address?”
As Craig did, Sanders flicked his eyes between Craig and the road over and over again.
TOM PACED the living room, stopping to look out the window every minute. Twelve twenty-two. This is so not like him. Craig’s keys weren’t in the basket on the bedroom dresser, and Tom’s truck was at Mack’s till Friday. I’d call someone, but who? Who would know where he is better than me?
Tom dropped to the couch and clicked the remote. The tail end of the noon news shocked him.
“THIS IS something else,” Craig said as he and Sanders stepped onto the escalator and ascended through a chrome and marble lobby to the Georgia Lottery office.
They rode three floors up and walked a hallway to broad glass doors. “Here we are,” Sanders said. He opened the door and followed Craig into pandemonium. Knots of people were arguing, and a red-faced woman was berating the receptionist. “I guess we get in line,” Sanders said.
Craig shrugged and said, “Looks like I didn’t need to stress about my clothes.”
“All kinds of people win the lottery,” Sanders said. “Not to judge, but there’s a reason it’s called a self-imposed tax on poverty.”
“Well,” said Craig, “There’s one person here who’s obviously not in that category.” He nodded to a man in a power suit with a leather attaché, a newspaper in his lap, and an expensive phone in his hand. He stood and approached Craig.
“He’s coming over here,” Craig whispered to Sanders.
The man was tall and trim with close-cropped coal-black hair. He had a military bearing that vanished when he spoke.
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