The Bear He Won Twice

“For the young man,” he said, and stepped back like it was nothing at all.

I opened my mouth to tell him he did not have to, and he shook his head once before I could get the words out. So I closed my mouth.

Then a woman from the 4-H barn put down another five. She had a little goat halter still hooked on her belt.

She did not say anything either. She just set it down and squeezed my arm.

Then a teenage boy from the FFA barn, holding a corn dog in one hand, dug a crumpled five out of his pocket with the other and smoothed it out on the counter next to the others.

Nobody made a speech. Nobody filmed it, as far as I know. They just kept quietly setting fives on that counter, one after another, and the man with the mustache kept quietly handing Mack rings.

I took out my phone and texted Malcolm one line. “Come to the ring toss. Don’t bring a lecture.”

He came fast. He must have handed off his tongs to somebody, because he showed up straight from the smoker, smelling like hickory, with grease on his forearms and his firefighter’s T-shirt dark with sweat.

He looked at Mack throwing. He looked at the empty top hook where the white bear had been. Then he looked at me.

“Viv?” he said. Just that.

I nodded. Malcolm has known his sister for thirty-six years. He did not need the rest of it.

His jaw worked for a minute. I could see him wanting to march off to the parking field and say something he could not take back.

Then he looked at his son, and all he said was, “Okay.”

He stepped up behind Mack and put one hand on his shoulder, just for a second. “Breathe out first, bud,” he said quietly. “Like on the porch.”

Mack breathed out. He threw. Clink, off.

“Twenty-six,” said the little girl.

I want to tell you how long it took, because people never believe me.

It was nearly dark by the end. The Ferris wheel was lit up blue and white against a pink and gray sky, and the funnel cake trailer had sold out twice.

“Thirty-one,” said the little girl. “Thirty-two.”

Ring thirty-three left Mack’s hand soft and low, with that little bit of wrist.

It hit the neck of a green bottle in the second row, spun around once, and dropped flat, and it stayed.

The cowbell went off. The man with the mustache rang it so hard the nail came out of the post.

The little girl screamed Mack’s name like he had won the World Series, and the whole line was cheering.