It was a try, bless her heart, but Dylan was not to be dissuaded.
“Mona,” he said. “I don’t have a gift for you. The least I can do for you on this special night is sing Happy Birthday to you.”
I closed my eyes and braced myself. Not with my hands on the table, not my feet on the floor, but kind of with my head cocked to the side while every muscle in my body tensed. Every hair stood on end.
Oh Jesus it was bad. Every frigging ‘yo-ooo’ was a like a pin sticking into my ears. Every off key syllable he belted out made me cringe all the harder.
And God help him, Dylan had no idea.
None whatsoever.
I opened my eyes on the last yo-ooo, only to witness half the staff, customers and two seeing-eye dogs beneath the corner table (they’d not been beneath it when he’d started singing) cringing just as I had.
Mother’s eyes were wide and shocked. Noel Almond looked as if he were considering whether an arrest was in order. Mona’s mouth dropped open in what could only be described as … well, horror. A waiter dropped a silver serving tray on to the floor — and just left it there. Somewhere I heard the click of a cell phone closing (damn, I hoped it wasn’t a camera phone).
And nobody moved.
Not a muscle.
Dylan leaned in toward me. “Look, Dix,” he said. “They’re speechless.”
“They are that,” I said with a shaky voice.
Slowly, normal restaurant sounds returned as people got over their shock (how could a man who looks so damned good sound so damned bad?) and resumed eating their meals.
“Does he have a clue?” It was Noel Almond whispering in my ear. “Does that young fellow have any idea how bad he is?”
Young fellow?
It was the way Noel said it. Not in a derogatory way, necessarily, but pointed. And whilst he was settling his hand on my knee under the table.
Yeah, that surprised me. Not Noel’s question; hell, anyone who’s ever heard Dylan sing wonders the same thing. And certainly not the hand on my knee. No, the surprise was how little I felt as Noel Almond squeezed.
Also a surprise was the strong inclination I felt to pull towards Dylan.
I shifted away from Noel’s hand.
“Ready to go everyone?” Mrs. P was getting anxious. Bingo was a calling.
“Would you like this bill added to the previous night’s?” It was our waiter.
Oh shit. I’d assumed they’d already processed a credit card payment for last night’s meal. If the waiter added this night’s hefty, soup-sucking tab to last night’s and handed Noel the bill….
“Yes, Mrs. P,” I said. “Let’s go. Don’t want to keep those balls waiting!”
“What balls do you mean this time, Dix?”
Jesus, Dylan, wipe that grin off your face.
Mona laughed. “Got to be the bingo balls, Dylan.”
Just as the waiter was making a beeline for the table, we were waving goodbye and making a bee line for the door.
“There … there must be some mistake,” I heard Noel say as he looked at the bill. As the door swung slowly closed.
“Yeah, there was a mistake,” I mumbled as I walked to the waiting Lexus. “You pissed off Dix Dodd.”
But that wasn’t the only mistake made that evening. The second I can claim as my own. All my own. Yep. When I decided that surely I could play as many bingo cards as Mrs. P. After all, she was just a little old lady, right? So when I stood in line behind her, watched her buy her sheets of cards, handful of specials, breakopens, bonanzas and tickets for the various draws (including wild card, fifty-fifty, door prizes and a chance to spin the great big wheel), I said “I’ll have the same.”
No wonder Mrs. P had giggled.
By the time she’d set up her row of troll dolls and dabbers, I suspected I was dealing with a professional here. By the time the first game was in play, I knew it. I could barely keep up.
Thankfully by the time the big game — the one that everyone had come for — where ten bingo halls were linked via satellite with a grand prize of two hundred and fifty thousand for a full card in 45 numbers, I was ready. (Ready in that I knew enough to buy only one card for the special game when the floor seller came around.)
Mrs. P had her usual six in front of her. Dylan dared two. Mother and Mona (apparently old bingo pros themselves) each had six cards in front of them. Mrs. P had already bagged five hundred dollars on a sputnik game, Mom had won the chance to spin the big wheel (she’d won a free night of bingo, taken a deep bow and high-fived most everyone along the aisle on her way back to the seat). But, okay, these are long bingo nights.
Mona stifled a yawn.
I leaned over to mom just before the big game was to start. “Poor Mona. Of all the people who should win, she deserves it.”
“Night’s not over yet, Dix.”
“Close enough.”
Mother didn’t answer. The caller had begun with B4 and heads were down and dabbers were dabbing. This was it — the last game. And truthfully, I was glad the night was ending. It did kind of hit me how tired I was as I sat there dabbing. Number after number. B after I after N … you get the picture. Yep, dabbing away. Then … holy shit!
I looked up at the board and gave a gentle kick to Dylan under the table.
“Ouch!”
Okay, my gentle sucks.
I gave a don’t-look-now, tipped-eyed look to my cards. I was set.
Freakin’ set for a quarter of a million dollars!
I 18 was all I needed.
Dylan’s eyes grew round. His mouth dropped down.
We were at the 40th number. I had five numbers to get that I 18. The big screens not only displayed the number up and the one after it, but if a person looked really, really closely, you could see the next color up.
“I 17,” the caller called.
Oh boy. Oh boy! OHFREAKINBOY! There were three I s in a row coming up after that one. Three freakin’ I numbers. One of them had to be mine. My heart was pounding. Dylan was completely ignoring his own cards now and staring into mine.
“You’re going to win, Dix,” he murmured. We didn’t want to break the luck and let everyone know.
“As long as no one else calls in the meantime I—”
“BINGO!”
On I 17.
Everyone in the hall jumped amid the chorus of ‘oh shit’. Jumped up to see who’d won. Looked around in disbelief to see who was looking down at her cards in disbelief.
And that was Mona Roberts.
Mona held her breath as the floor worker called the card in to the caller.
The place erupted in applause as the caller announced. “That’s a good bingo. Pay that lucky lady one quarter of a million dollars.”
Mona was crying. Mother was crying. Mrs. Presley was clapping and laughing out loud. Hell, I might have had a tear in my eyes too.
“I won’t have to move now, Katt,” Mona said. “I won’t have to sell out to Tish. Oh, my God, I can tell her to pack up her ugly ass and get out of my condo! I … I’m going to be all right. I really am!”
I grabbed my mother’s arm as we headed out of the bingo hall. Not that she needed the help, but because, well, I wanted to. And no, I’m not going soft. I’m still a million miles away from being a touchy-feely person. But it was somehow okay to do right then. I stopped her by the exit, and looked out at Mona in the parking lot, clutching her huge check in her hands, hugging strangers, smiling for all she was worth, and even laughing out loud in her joy as Dylan opened the door of the rented Lexus for her.
“Pretty lucky, huh, Mom?”
Mother smiled at me through her Pinch-Me Pink lipstick. “You know better than that, Dix Dodd. Luck had nothing to do with it.” She took my arm again and we started walking around the car. “That was pure and simple magic. Now do you finally believe?”