The Middle of Somewhere

by J. B. Cheaney

  “The street is real,” Pop told me. “But the buildings come right out of Gunsmoke.”

  Gee hit the sidewalk and went straight to the fence. Pop pulled him down. “No more climbing. Remember yesterday?” At the admission gate, he got grouchy again. “Eight bucks apiece?!” he exclaimed. “Just to walk around a fake TV set?”

  My grandfather is maybe on the cheap side of thrifty.

  “I'm free,” Gee said, pointing to the sign.

  “No you're not,” I corrected him. “It says children under seven, not children seven and under. But there's a family rate, Pop—we're family.”

  “Twenty-five,” he grumbled. “That won't save us anything.”

  “Well, as long as we're here we could check out the gift shop. You said it was worth seeing.” Though I wasn't likely to find bedsheets, unless they had lassos and spurs on them.

  It's not true that if you've seen one gift shop you've seen them all. I can personally testify that if you're into Western, Front Street is the place for you: hats, boots, sheriff's badges, guns and holsters, cattle skulls, and kid versions of all that. Plus cowhide rugs, rawhide whips, ranch and farm sets, furniture and picture frames made out of cattle horns, leather everything. Plus posters, books, videos, and DVDs of every Western your grandfather grew up with, and tapes and CDs of every song they played onthose shows. There was even a song about Wyatt Earp— seriously.

  We were in luck at first, because Gee found another kid his age to play gunfight with, while I perused the postcards. There was one of the whirligigs—“wind sculptures,” according to the caption—and one of the gunfighters on Front Street. I snapped those up right away, but then something different caught my eye. It was a little girl standing before a field of sunflowers. If she were standing in the field, she would have been invisible, because their fat yellow faces towered over her. Monster flowers! They reminded me of the giant jackrabbit, except for being real.

  Gee's friend went out the side door with his family to visit Front Street, leaving Gee to me until Pop was ready to go and I could ask to stop at Wal-Mart. “How about a hat? Here's one that'll fit you.” I took a black hat with a snakeskin band from the display and plopped it on his head: too big, but that just made him look cute.

  He pouted under the wide brim. “I want a golden helmet. Like Cannonball Paul.”

  “For you, that might be more useful,” I agreed.

  “Why can't we go out on Front Street?”

  “You know why. We don't have tickets. How about a vest? Look—real leather, with fringe and silver studs. I'll bet all the cool kids at school will be wearing these next fall.”

  No use—he wasn't interested in clothes, unless they made him look like a gorilla or a superhero. For a while he amused himself by pressing his nose and lips against theglass door and blowing his cheeks out until one of the store clerks said, “Little boy, please stop that.”

  Meanwhile, some of those hats were starting to grow on me. I'm kind of an ordinary-looking person, with straight yellowish-brownish hair and blue eyes and “her father's nose,” as Mama says—which meant I could do with a little less nose. But a soft beige hat with a band of silver-and-turquoise medallions kind of puts a nose in perspective.

  Kent Clark says to choose clothes that build your confidence. Much as I wanted a car, it would almost be worth buying a horse to go with a hat like that. Besides, you didn't need a license for a horse, right?

  Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn't heard any of the store clerks say “Little boy please stop that” lately. I listened for falling merchandise or thumps on the floor, but what I heard, over the background of some guy singing “O bury me not on the lone pray-ree,” was Pop in conversation about the power source of the future.

  He was in the book section, discussing his new business with a man holding a book about windmills—the old-fashioned kind of windmill that used to pump water on the lone prairie. The fellow Pop was talking to seemed interested—at least he wasn't making excuses to get away. When I ran over, both men looked up. “Where's Gee?” I asked.

  My mother and I have this radar when we're all together: if either of us senses danger, we lift our heads like grazing deer and say together, “Where's Gee?” It's not areal question—it's a signal. Pop hadn't learned that yet, so he answered, “How should I know?”

  I started a quick search of the store, and after giving the other man his business card, Pop joined me. “I don't think he's in here,” I said.

  “Not out there, either.” We paused beside the glass door leading to Historic Front Street. In the dusty road outside the livery stable, a couple of dudes in Old West outfits were shouting at each other as a crowd of spectators gathered. Evidently they were gearing up for a gunfight, just like on the billboards.

  “He couldn't get out through this door,” Pop said. “It has an automatic lock.”

  Back to the parking lot, then. I wasn't in full panic mode yet. Gee had the sense by now not to run out into traffic, or any of the usual little-kid tricks. The problem was with unusual kid tricks. We searched the parking area and the RV while people lined up on the sidewalk to watch the shoot-out. I was starting to feel just a little edgy when—

  Pow! Pow!

  The gunfire was so loud it made me jump. But what followed was a shriek, all too familiar: “You got me! I'm a goner!”

  I ran to the fence, and sure enough Gee was staggering around, clutching his stomach and throwing in a few moves he'd picked up from the whirligigs. The gunman who was still standing looked clueless for a minute, then put one hand on his hip and shook his head. The dead man rolled over to find out who was stealing his scene. Then he sat up and said something that made the spectators laugh.

  Unfortunately, Gee doesn't know when to quit. He flopped on his back in the dust and jerked his legs like a frog, then rolled on his stomach and gouged the dirt with his toes. Finally, the dead guy stood and hauled him up by the shoulder.

  “Okay, folks—who's willin' to lay claim to this varmint?”

  Pop and I looked at each other. So much time went by I got a little nervous. I jerked my head in Gee's direction, as though to remind Pop: Hey! You're the adult here!

  Finally, he waved his hat over the fence and called, “That would be me.”

  Laughter is a great thing, but being laughed at is hard to take. Especially for Pop, I found. When the gunman opened the gate to hand over the offender, Pop grabbed Gee by the collar and pulled him to the RV, opened the coach door, and threw him in. Then he stepped up into the cab and started the engine.

  When we were on the highway again, I glanced back at Gee. He had buckled himself in and looked like a perfectly behaved seven-year-old who happened to be covered with a thick layer of road dust. And had a thumb stuck in his mouth. I turned back to Pop, who gripped the wheel with both hands like he was driving a tank. “I guess it was time to get out of Dodge, huh?” I remarked, trying to lighten the mood.

  When he didn't answer, I knew we were in trouble.

  I can expect the unexpected, but I don't have to like it.

  —Veronica Sparks,

  I Could Write a Book and Someday I Will

  It took a while to find a suitable campground not too close to town. Pop drove to it without saying a word, and Gee didn't say anything, either. Since I don't talk unless there's a good chance of getting an answer, it was a very quiet trip. And a very long one.

  To tell the truth, I was a little disappointed in my grandfather. Not for getting mad at Gee, which was perfectly understandable. But however difficult Gee was, we were still Pop's flesh and blood, and he shouldn't have been tempted to disown us, the way I was pretty sure he'd been tempted back at Front Street. It made me feel cold.

  On the upside, we were still headed west.

  The campground we finally stopped at had a total of two dozen sites, most of them empty, gathered around a little playground with squeaky swings and a rusty merry-go-round. After Pop had signed in, paid the fee, and parked at the farthest ca
mpsite, I opened the RV door and Gee shot out, headed for the playground. Pop spoke, for the first time since leaving Dodge City: “I think we could all use a little break from each other. So for tonight you two can sleep in the tent. A real camping experience—how about that?”

  This was the first I'd heard of a tent. It kind ofconfirmed his attitude toward us, but I had to admit a little space sounded good to me, too. And it would temporarily solve my problem—which I suddenly remembered—of the missing bedsheet. We got out of the cab and Pop opened up the storage garage at the back of the Coachman, where all kinds of stuff was stored on shelves or hung on Peg-Board hooks: tools, lawn chairs, spare tire, even a garden hose. He tossed a tent, sleeping bag, and cot on the ground.

  I helped spread the tent and thread the poles through the sleeves on top of the dome. My mood was going wobbly, so I tried to affirmatize my attitude.

  “This'll be fun!” I set one end of the pole into the foot pocket and held it steady as he raised the tent. “We used to go camping all the time with Daddy. Gee wouldn't remember. We had one of those ridgepole tents with a divider. Mama called one side the living room and the other side the bedroom. On our last trip it rained for two days straight. We sat in the living room and played dominos, and then Daddy put on some music and we all danced. Only Daddy was way too tall to stand up in the tent, so we danced on our knees! I remember him doing all these disco moves, and it was so funny. …”

  My point was to show Pop we were gung ho for anything he cared to dish out, but talking about Daddy for any length of time always made me suddenly want to stop talking. About anything. In a voice meant to sound chipper, I changed the subject. “So, what do you want for dinner— hot dogs or mac and cheese?”

  Pop snapped the rain-fly poles in place and tied the lastcorner down. He seemed to be going out of his way not to look at me. “Tell you what. I'll fend for myself tonight and you just fix something for you and Gee.”

  “Well, can I come in long enough to use the stove, at least?” The question came out a little sarcastic, I'll have to admit.

  “Sure. Sure. Whatever you need.” He unzipped the tent door and threw the sleeping bag inside. “Sorry I don't have two bags, but the cot's not bad to sleep on. I'll show you how to set it up.”

  “That's okay. I can figure it out.” All of a sudden I needed a break from him as much as he did from us. With my chin up, I marched down to the seedy-looking playground. Gee was playing king-of-the-hill on the merry-go-round with two other boys as wired as he was. It looked to me like somebody was sure to be killed. But I just sat on one of the two swings—the kind with the butt-squeezing rubber seat—and pushed myself back and forth while the chain squeaked and grumbled overhead. There was a pay phone at the end of the drive, and this would have been a good time to call home, except that I couldn't trust my voice just then.

  Note to me: there are some things I should never, ever talk about. Especially when my mood is wobbly.

  By the time Gee's new friends went home to their campsite, and I dragged him back to ours, the sun was swinging low and we could tell Pop had been busy. The fire he'd started on the grate had burned down to coals, the sleeping bag was rolled out on one side of the tent, and the cot was set up on the other, with pillows and blankets, anda lantern hanging from the center hook. The cooler was stocked with cans of Dr Pepper, bunches of grapes, and a package of hot dogs. Hot dog buns and a bag of marshmal-lows were stacked on the cooler so we could have our own wiener roast. Pop must have walked to the campground store, because the marshmallows and soda weren't part of our stock.

  I would have thought it was really nice of him, except for the fact that he'd kicked us out like cats.

  “Oh boy!” Gee yelled. “This'll be fun!”

  He wanted to invite his other-side-of-the-campground friends, but that sounded like more fun than I could stand. I talked him into a nice quiet dinner for two, and it stayed mostly quiet until he caught his hair on fire with a flaming marshmallow. Just a little fire—half a can of Dr Pepper put it right out.

  The sun set while all this was going on, but Gee didn't notice until it was time to walk to the showers. Once there, I had to send him back in twice before he got all the Front Street washed off. On the walk back to our campsite, he dropped our flashlight and the batteries fell out. I caught one, but the other rolled into a ditch. We went on in the dark, with security lights every fifty feet to show us the road. Clouds rolled spookily across the moon.

  Our little tent looked sad and abandoned when we finally reached the campsite. One light glowed in the bunk window of the RV, where Pop must have been reading in bed. That made me think of reading a bedtime story to Gee, as Mama sometimes did to settle him down after awild day. But Pop hadn't thought to leave us any books, and I sure wasn't going to knock on his door and ask for one.

  The wind was picking up, blowing fluffy white cotton-wood seeds off the trees. A gusty ghost-shape swirled by.

  “I've changed my mind,” Gee announced. “I want to sleep inside after all.”

  No point in reminding him of the cold hard facts. “No, this'll be fun.” I unzipped the tent door and crawled in. “Come on—you take the cot. It'll be like sleeping on a trampoline.”

  Not a smart thing to say, because of course he wanted to bounce on the cot. After he flipped it over on himself, he settled down long enough to dictate a postcard to me— the “wind sculpture” one—and stayed mostly on topic. Then we played a few rounds of Go Fish with the cards Pop had thoughtfully packed in our overnight supplies. Poker would have been my choice, but Gee had trouble remembering whether a straight beat a flush or vice versa.

  Once he was tucked in bed, I started the good-night song Mama used to sing to him, but he cut me off: “Hey! I'm not a baby.”

  “Okay. Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.”

  “ 'Night, Ronnie.”

  I turned the lantern out and wiggled down into the sleeping bag. After a minute, he said, “Ronnie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you think there's any bedbugs in here?”

  “Nope. The door zips up, remember? Nothing can getin here. Besides, if they do they'll get me first. You're the one that's off the ground.”

  “Okay.” A few minutes crawled by, bedbug-like, while the wind sucked the tent walls in and out, in and out. “I don't want anything to get you, Ronnie.”

  I sighed. “Won't happen. It was a joke, all right?”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He was quiet for a while. Everything was so quiet, I could hear our eyelids blinking. After a while, I must have dozed off, but it didn't feel like I'd been asleep any time at all when Gee said, “We're blowing away.”

  The wind had kicked up. In fact, several winds had kicked up, and they were all playing tag around the tent. Our tent didn't want to play. Its sides drew in and puffed out with every shift in wind direction, and I could feel the forces of nature tugging at the stakes that Pop had pounded in just a few hours ago. They were holding on by their slender aluminum fingernails. “We're not going to blow away,” I said.

  “How do you know? We're gonna be picked up and spinned around and around and set down in some place we've never seen before.”

  “You've watched The Wizard of Oz too many times. Things like that don't really happen.”

  “They do too! Ever heard of a tornado? One time I saw a picture of a whole tree picked up and stuck in a house like a toothpick!”

  “This isn't a tornado. It's just wind.” The wind poofed and the tent shuddered as the rain fly slid all the way back: scriiiiiitch. I could see it hovering over the back windowlike a droopy eyelid, and next minute felt rain splashing in from the front. “Shoot! That's all we need.” I got up to zip both windows shut, then crawled back into the sleeping bag. Rain pelted down in big fat drops, first like bullets from a single-shot .22 rifle: ping! ping! ping!Then rat-tat-tat-tat-tat, like a machine gun.

  “What's that noise?” Gee whispered.

  “It's raining
, dummy!” Usually I don't call him names, since he gets enough of that at school, but my nerves were pretty strained by then. Pop could have at least come out to see if we were okay. The stupid zipper pull on the rear window rattled in the wind, and it sounded like a mocking laugh: huh-huh-huh.

  “No,” Gee said, still whispering. “It's not the rain, it's … a creature. It's right outside. And it's … snortling. Can you hear?”

  I listened closer but wasn't sure if I heard what he was talking about. “It's probably just the rain fly. It slipped over where it's not supposed to be.”

  “Oh,” he said. A minute later, he said, “It's still where it's not supposed to be. Maybe you ought to go fix it.”

  “Oh, right—in the dark, in the rain. No, thanks. Just go to sleep.”

  Splatter-patter. Huh-huh-huh. Snort-snortle. Just go to sleep, I told myself.

  Then Gee yelped and turned the cot over. Next minute he was burrowed up against me, clutching his blanket and shaking so hard his teeth rattled. “It moved!”

  “What moved?”

  “That thing that's outside the tent! I felt it, and it's big!”

  Nothing like a night in the great outdoors!

  Gee whimpered, “I want to go inside.”

  Me too—but that would be caving, saying we couldn't take it and giving Pop an excuse to cart us back to Missouri. “You probably felt the wind pushing in.”

  “No! There's a creature out there!”

  “Listen, do you want to go home and tell Casey you were too scared to spend a whole night in a tent? Or would you rather tell him that you spent all night outside in an almost-tornado? I'll bet he's never done that.”