XIII

Nothing to Worry About

THAT night Alan asked his father to show him fifty dollars.

After that, he couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in his rumpled bed. Suppose he lost? He could just see himself asking his father for fifty dollars—begging for it, on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks; and then, at Thanksgiving dinner, cringing while all his aunts and uncles and cousins roared over his father’s story of “Alan’s bet.”

He slid out of bed and snuck down the carpeted hall to his parents’ bedroom.

“You got to wake him, Mrs. O’Hara, you got to,” he whispered into the phone. “It’s an emergency. I got to speak to him.” Pause. “I got a hoarse throat, Mrs. O’Hara, that’s why I’m whispering. Please.” Pause. “Gee, thanks, Mrs. O’Hara. No, I won’t ever call this late again, it’s just it’s—”

He waited, gnawing at his thumbnail. A board creaked on the stairs. He stiffened. Silence.

“What d’ya want?” said Joe suddenly over the telephone. “Geez, I was sleeping. You woke me up.”

“Joe, suppose I lose? My father’ll never let me take the money out of my savings account. I know he won’t. You think I’ll lose, Joe? Huh? Huh? Joe, tell me. Give it to me straight. Joe, I got to know. I can’t sleep.”

Joe sighed. “Look. I told you this afternoon. You got nothing to worry about. He’s cracking. Sure, he ate that one today. Sure, he might—”