No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt Page A

people are going to like his music, not only because it’s good, but because they like to see a kid doing this sort of thing. Not many kids his age play like that....”
    â€œIf times were good, I’d take him in a minute,” Harris said, “but they ain’t good. Fact is, they’re rotten.” He looked at Joey again. “They’ve been rotten for you, too, haven’t they, sport?”
    â€œYes, pretty rotten up until we met Lonnie.” Joey was standing with both hands in his pockets, his thin face very sober. “But we can’t expect Lonnie to take care of us any longer. We’re not his kids.”
    Nobody said anything for a long time, and during that silence I felt as heavy as lead inside. Joey was right. We were not Lonnie’s kids; we couldn’t go on eating food that he paid for, promoting him to the job of being our dad when he hadn’t asked for the honor. I had to face it: If there was no job for me at the carnival, Joey and I would have to start moving along on our own again. I wondered how begging would be around Baton Rouge.
    Then to my amazement Pete Harris gave me a job. He had the look of a man who was doing a thing against his better judgment and finding it more than a little painful. He said, “I’m goin’ to take you on, kid. You’re pretty good. If you can learn to ballyhoo as well as you play, you just might be a good attraction.” He paused and turned toward Joey. “I’ll give your brother five dollars a week with grub and sleepin’ space for the two of you. That okay with you boys?”
    It was more than okay. It was wonderful, an offer to make the likes of us delirious. Our faces must have shown our joy, but Pete Harris didn’t look joyful. He glanced at Lonnie, and I saw him shake his head slightly with a smile that looked grim rather than happy. Then he told us to come on outside and he’d show us where we could bunk for the night. He said he’d get me ready for work the next morning.
    We followed him out to a tent on the edge of the meadow where there were dozens of cots lined up in long rows. “Men and boys sleep here,” Harris told us. “A few have their families in boxcars out on the sidings—most don’t have families at all—at least not here. I’ll put you boys together down here at the end. The two dwarf men will be your neighbors. Edward C. is a fine little guy; Blegan is rattlebrained and gossipy as an old woman, but you don’t need to pay any attention to him. They’ll show you where the grub tent is in the morning. You come where you found me tonight, and I’ll get you ready for work.” He sighed as if he were tired and extended his hand to Lonnie. “Glad to have made your acquaintance. I’ll do right by the kids—long as I can. Like I told you, I just don’t know ...”
    Lonnie had to leave us. He would drive most of the night to make up the time he’d lost in finding the carnival and Pete Harris for us. I was sorry for the delay and told him so, but he insisted that it didn’t matter. “I wanted to see you with a job before I left you,” he said as we walked back to the truck with him. “This is not exactly great, but it’s a job. Maybe it will lead to something better—a guy can never tell.”
    We stood leaning against the big wheels of the truck. That truck had come to seem like home. I hated to give it up.
    Lonnie handed me a scrap of paper with the name Lon Bromer written on it. I hadn’t known his full name before. Underneath was a street address in Omaha, Nebraska. “This is where I live when I’m home,” he told me. “I’ll be back down here in a couple of weeks if I’m not laid off. If I make it back, I’ll look you up. If not, let me hear how you’re getting along.”
    â€œI’ll do that, Lonnie; I sure will,” I answered.
    He stood looking