Middle of Nowhere by Caroline Adderson

cabin the next day that her gas got really bad. Artie sat behind her on the bed pounding his fists between her shoulder blades so hard I thought she would be all bruised. Now and then a tiny burp escaped and Artie would yell, “Good job, Mrs. Burt! There’s another one!”
    I told them about that kid in my class, Mickey Roach, who could burp the alphabet.
    â€œHow?” Artie asked.
    â€œHe just says it in burps. I don’t know how.”
    â€œTry it, Mrs. Burt!” Artie said as he pounded.
    â€œI got my pride!” she said.
    â€œNobody can hear you,” I said.
    She turned all serious and her glasses slipped down her nose. We could tell she was about to burp again because she always puffed her cheeks out just before.
    â€œA,” she said. It sounded deep and hollow, like she’d burped in a cave. Artie and I burst out laughing and she did, too, her shoulders shaking. Then another burp escaped all on its own, sounding like “B.” We screamed. When she burped C, we screamed louder. She had to get a tissue from the bathroom to wipe her eyes, we were laughing so hard.
    â€œDo you understand now, boys, why I can’t ever go into an old folks’ home? Who would help me with my gas?”
    â€œThe nurses,” I said.
    â€œHa. They won’t. They’ll put me in diapers and leave me in the corner.”
    â€œYou’re too old for diapers, Mrs. Burt,” Artie said.
    â€œDarn right I am.”
    â€œWho patted your back before we came along?” I asked her.
    â€œNobody,” Mrs. Burt said. “It was very painful.”
    We got quiet after she said that. Even Artie understood how sad it was that Mrs. Burt lived all alone, far from her daughter the Big Shot who just wanted to put her in a home for old people and not help her with her gas. He wrapped his skinny arms around her and Mrs. Burt squeezed him back.
    In a quavery voice, she told us, “But I got you now, don’t I? We’re helping each other out.”
    8
    THAT NIGHT I called Mom again from the motel pay phone before I went to bed. I also bought a postcard from the front desk that showed a picture of the town. It didn’t have much writing space, so I stuck to the important stuff. That we loved her, that we were fine, that we’d left with Mrs. Burt so we wouldn’t be separated by Social Services.
    They didn’t have stamps at the front desk so I gave the card to Mrs. Burt to mail.
    I called the next day, too, from the mall before we left. When I got no answer, I asked Mrs. Burt if there was a phone at the cabin.
    She said, “I, for one, will be glad to get somewhere where there isn’t a phone ringing all the time.”
    â€œDid you mail my postcard?”
    â€œYes, I did.”
    We bought so much stuff, or Mrs. Burt did. Food, towels, life jackets, sleeping bags. A mop, a broom, a bucket. Rolls of screening. Mosquito coils. Toilet paper. A kettle, not the plug-in kind. An ax.
    But the best thing she bought were two fishing rods, which she just handed to Artie and me.
    â€œHere you go, boys. I hope you catch something.” The Bel Air was stuffed to the ceiling — really — when we drove away. By then we were as excited as she was.
    On the highway out of town, huge trucks rumbled past us, stacked with logs. Mrs. Burt stuck out her tongue at them. She said they were ruining the forests the way they logged today. They mowed down every tree but only hauled away the big ones, leaving the rest to rot. Later somebody would come by and supposedly plant new trees, but that was no replacement, she said, for Mother Nature.
    â€œIn my day they only cut the best logs. That gave the smaller trees a chance to grow. Now they’re so greedy they just chop, chop, chop.”
    To find the turn-off she asked for our sharp eyes. There would be two big boulders on either side of the road — one with a rusty old-fashioned saw blade propped against it.
    We