"Mother, wait—" he calls after her. But she's gone.
"It just seems," I tearfully continue to Mr. Bernard, "that whenever I don't show up on time people immediately assume that I'm in reform school or a halfway house. You know, even after I solved the golf money mystery, if something is missing ..." But I start sobbing and can't finish.
"Oh, dear." Mr. Bernard hands me a tissue and puts his hand on my shoulder. "How can I put this, Hallie ..."
"Put what? That is what you think, isn't it? And Mr. Gil. And Ms. Olivia. That I'm destined to be a vagrant and a criminal!"
"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. Why would Mother spend all that time tutoring you if she thought you were going to end up behind bars?" Mr. Bernard says gently. "Hallie .. . you . .. how shall I say .. . you hold your cards awfully close to the vest. We don't always know what you're feeling or thinking or what it is that you wish to do."
"So you're suggesting that if I said more of the stuff that I'm thinking, people wouldn't always assume I'm going to end up in prison?"
"Try to look at it from my point of view. You receive a phone call and speak in hushed tones so that I don't even realize you're still on the phone. And then right after I arrive in the kitchen you hurriedly tell the caller you have to hang up and look as if you've been caught fixing the World Series."
"But I was just—"
"Wait a second. Now add to that how I've seen you shuffle cards while you're watching television, practically throwing them up over your shoulder and reeling them back in like a scene out of The Sting. When you and Gil are playing gin rummy you call the queen of spades 'dirty Dora' and refer to aces as 'oil wells.' And I've seen you tote up a pile of receipts or the columns in my ledgers, add the tax in your head, and then take a ten-percent discount off that before I've had time to enter the first number into a calculator. And your answer is always correct. If the calculator says something different, then it needs a new battery."
After some more snuffling I slump my head down onto the kitchen table. Mr. Bernard puts on the kettle, even though he drinks only brewed coffee. I attempt to suck up a string of snot that's escaping through my nose and then decide to come clean.
"This guy I know from the track is offering me a job for a hundred grand a year as a bookie. I mean, it's not really as a bookie. He's the bookmaker. My job would be more as a systems analyst to the bookie."
"Really?"
"A hundred G's is a lot of scratch," I add.
"It's more scratch than Gil and I make combined," says Mr. Bernard.
"I told him I'd think about it. You don't think I should take it, right?"
"I didn't say that."
"No, but I can see it in your face."
"That's not fair. Talking with you is like trying to pull one over on a mind reader." He sits down across from me at the table. "Of course, I'm not going to advise you to become a bookie or a gambler. But I know so little about that life. Maybe it's all very thrilling and glamorous, like in Guys and Dolls."
"Glamorous?" I laugh out loud. "A bunch of old guys smoking and crabbing about their wives and trying to catch one another bluffing. Yeah, it's trés glamorous."
And then it occurs to me: Why not show Mr. Bernard just how glamorous it really is? I look up at the cuckoo clock on the wall. It's a quarter to eight. "C'mon," I say and push my chair back from the table. "I'll show you."
"What do you mean you'll show me? It's Monday night. Are we going on a junket to Las Vegas?"
"No, to church."
"To church? Is there a high rollers' bingo game in progress?"
"Not bingo. Poker. Now go get a hundred dollars to bet with and meet me in the driveway, or we're going to be late. The guys hate that."
"What guys?"
"The guys I play poker with." At least I can play again now that I'm no longer banned from the game because of the golf money. "You already know Officer Rich."
"You play poker with Officer Rich?" he repeats with alarm.
"And Pastor Costello. And Al Santora and Herb Rowland."
But Mr. Bernard sits back down when he hears the name Herb Rowland.
"Uh, Hallie, it's a nice idea, but Herb Rowland and I don't exactly travel in the same circles," he says hesitantly.
"I don't get you," I say. "You're the one who's always saying that you and Mr. Gil have just as much right to live in this town as anyone else and blah, blah, blah, and people just have to accept that."
"That's correct. But I meant people in general. I never named Herb specifically."
"Listen, Mr. Bernard, he likes to give everybody a lot of shit, but he's okay once you get to know about him."
"I don't think I want to get to know him any more than I did back in high school," says Mr. Bernard. "He was a year ahead of me."
"I didn't say know him. I said know about him."
"I don't see what the difference is. He's still a closed-minded brute."
"The difference is that, yeah, he can be a pig-headed bully. But his wife makes him sleep on the porch, his daughter was picked up for shoplifting over in Timpany last year, and he's having an affair with Jemma, the cashier who works for him at the drugstore. You know, Jemma, the young woman who was here that night to pick up her medicine.”
"Really?" Mr. Bernard brightens. "How .. . how do you know all this?"
"Same way you get gossip from all your little old ladies down at the shop. With guys you just have to watch more than listen. Now, come on. We're going to play a little five-card stud."
Mr. Bernard looks down at his blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt and gray flannel slacks. "All right, but what should I wear?"
I grab the keys off the counter and move toward the archway. "What are you talking about? Wear what you have on. We're not playing strip poker. The only thing that matters is putting your money on the table. It's a card game, not a fashion show."
We pass Mr. Gil in the living room. He's sitting in the big armchair next to the fireplace and sorting through a pile of paperwork.
Mr. Bernard clears his throat. "Hallie and I are going to a poker contest."
Mr. Gil glances up as if to make sure the body matches the announcement. Then he matter-of-factly replies, "Yes, of course. It's your poker night. Just remember to remove your reading glasses if you're going to smash beer cans against your forehead."
"Of course," says Mr. Bernard. "We'll be back... I don't know." He turns to me. "How long do these matches last?"
"It's a game, not a match or a contest. A couple hours, until Herb wins and wants to quit or until Herb loses and gets cranky and makes everyone else want to quit." If you ever walk in on the middle of a poker game, it's easy to tell who's ahead. The winners lean back and tell funny stories, while the losers shout, "Deal the damn cards already!"
Mr. Bernard shoots me another worried look about the dreaded Herb encounter as we head toward the front hall.
"Oh, Bernard," Mr. Gil calls after us. "Is that what you're wearing?" He furrows his brow while giving Mr. Bernard a sartorial once-over.
Mr. Bernard frantically looks down at his slacks and shoes as if he's checking for stains, tears, and iron-on patches. "Yes, why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Mr. Gil says and returns to his work.
"C'mon!" I say. "Any faster and we're going to catch up with yesterday."
"What?" Mr. Bernard pleads with Mr. Gil, panic edging his voice. "Should I put on khakis?"
"I was just joking!" says Mr. Gil and laughs.
"But how do I look?" Mr. Bernard says.
"You look like you're about to meet your parole officer," replies Mr. Gil. "Now will you go already."
Chapter 53
Knights of the Card Table ♥
Outside dusk is falling, gentle and cool. On the way over to the church I can tell that Mr. Bernard is nervous, not just about encountering Herb but also because I only recently taught him the game. Still, the Herb factor is powerful.
"So that's why you won't go into the drugstore," I say. "Yo
u're afraid of running into Herb. I was wondering what you were doing driving practically to the next town for Band-Aids."
"That's not true. That drugstore was built in the fifties. The ceiling is probably dripping with asbestos. I'm surprised the EPA hasn't closed it down by now."
I begin to feel guilty for torturing Mr. Bernard like this. Thank God I never got bullied in school, at least not by the students. Though I sure knew how it felt to have my parents and teachers all come down on me.
We pull into the driveway of the church. All the guys' cars are there, including Officer Rich's squad car. He must have come directly from the station.
"Okay," I say. "Do you have your strategy down?"
"Yes," he replies. "I'm supposed to concentrate on getting three of a kind. And if I don't make it, then I relinquish. Unless I have a pair of aces, right?"
"Right," I say. "And definitely don't do that thing where you hold your breath while you're being dealt your cards and then sigh or smile depending on what you get. That's a dead giveaway. Do it like the time I watched you buy that jeweled cigarette case at the garage sale, you know, where you appeared totally disinterested even though you knew it was worth a lot more money than they were asking."
"Got it. That's my dealer face."
"And don't raise more than five bucks no matter what you have."
"Right, five dollars is the limit."
"And the word is fold, not relinquish"
I walk down the stairs ahead of Mr. Bernard.
"Look what the raccoons dragged in," Al says sarcastically.
"Good to see you, Hallie," Pastor Costello says sincerely. "It was a shame about all that missing-money business."
"Well, if it isn't Dirty Hallie," Herb says as he opens a bag of pretzels and proceeds to help himself, his way of welcoming me back into high-stakes society.
"Yeah, thanks, Herbicide," I shoot back. "And I guess you look okay for someone who hasn't slept in his own bed for over a year."
Herb has a face full of chewed pretzels but manages to give me a nasty scowl just the same. He knows that his kids tell stories about him in school. I usually don't lay into Herb for the little stuff, but I figure I'd better get the upper hand right away before introducing Mr. Bernard, whose feet are now coming into view as he slowly descends the narrow stairwell. The dim lighting is made worse by large silver foil-covered pipes suspended from the ceiling that serve to layer the room in a web of confusing shadows. And the fact that Al's already got his Marlboros fired up, sending a steady stream of smoke heavenward, doesn't exactly help to improve visibility.
"I brought a friend along," I announce.
They all look toward the tasseled loafers on the stairs as if we might be getting busted by the Feds, or worse, their wives. The voices of the men fall silent, like birds at sunset.
"Don't let him take all your money," I say.
Officer Rich takes in the scene with a glance, like a lasso. "Ahoy there, Bernard." He stands and shakes hands with Mr. Bernard as if he's welcoming him to a business meeting. It must take a minute for Mr. Bernard's eyes to adjust to the smoke and mottled illumination because he squints and looks around as if he's accidentally stumbled onto a subterranean city.
"Nice to see you, Mr. Stockton," says Pastor Costello. He also rises and offers his hand. For a second I can tell he's concerned that Mr. Bernard may snitch to certain townspeople, specifically the kind of ladies who would frequent Mr. Bernard's shop, about his hosting a game of chance on sacred ground.
"Don't worry," I say, not just for Pastor Costello's sake but also for the benefit of Al and Herb. "He's cool."
"Yes, yes, of course," says Pastor Costello apologetically, as if he's just been caught having impure thoughts. "Have a sandwich. I apologize that we've already taken our repast. However, I believe there's some tuna left."
"Thank you, but we had dinner," says Mr. Bernard as he eyes the crumpled deli wrappers oozing mayonnaise and wilted lettuce. "And please call me Bernard."
Of course, Pastor Costello doesn't say, "Please call me Pastor Costello" to Mr. Bernard, because he just is Pastor Costello. "You've been so kind to offer our Hallie food and shelter during these past months."
"Yes, well, it's included in her employment contract," says Mr. Bernard. "But she's a free agent, of course."
"Yes, of course," agrees Pastor Costello.
"This is Bernard Stockton," I say to Al and then to Herb.
Fortunately for Herb, Al is busily shuffling the cards and organizing the poker chips, and so Al just smiles his hello and that gets Herb out of offering a handshake. If Al had stood and extended an arm, then Herb would have been forced to follow.
Officer Rich pulls another brown metal folding chair from the stack against the far wall and sets it up for Mr. Bernard. "I wasn't aware that you were a poker player."
"Actually I just recently learned the game," says Mr. Bernard. He sits down next to Officer Rich. "Hallie taught me over the winter. After she got bored beating us all at gin."
"If you learned from Hallie, then we'd better be careful," says Pastor Costello proudly, as if I'd won awards in the Sunday school for memorizing the most psalms.
"The lessons certainly weren't cheap," he says with a laugh. .
This actually makes Al chuckle, and Herb relaxes enough to unfold his crossed arms. "I'll bet," says Al. "But she's right about that. You can't learn real poker with paper money. Playing for matchsticks and pennies is for girls." Then he apparently realizes that he's talking about a girl, and so he corrects himself. "I mean sissies." But then he must realize that Mr. Bernard may construe this as an insult because he's gay and so he starts mopping up after himself once again. "I mean—"
"Just deal the cards," Officer Rich interjects to everyone's great relief.
"Yeah, okay. Five-card stud to begin with, deuces wild." Al passes the deck left for Herb to cut. "Cut 'em thin and win. Cut 'em deep and weep."
"Cut the crap," says Herb. "I hate that damn dealer patter of yours."
But Herb cuts thin anyway.
After an uncomfortable silence during the first few rounds, with everyone appearing to concentrate extra hard on scrutinizing their cards and stacking their chips, the guys eventually fall into their usual routines.
Officer Rich tells about a four-foot alligator that some kids found in the creek and how he had to strap its jaw together with his belt until he could get some duct tape and then drive it to an exotic-pets expert in Cleveland.
Al rants about the cost of graduation—yearbooks, proms, cap and gown, photographs, trips to look at colleges, application fees. Herb complains about how the new variety store at the edge of town is taking away his business and insists they should revitalize the downtown area while they still can, before all the new strip malls and outlet centers kill off Main Street. Mr. Bernard jumps right in on that one. I'd heard him grumbling about that at dinner just the other night. It turns out to be something that Herb and Mr. Bernard have in common. Possibly the only thing, at least as far as I can figure it.
I can also tell that Officer Rich and Pastor Costello are concerned about taking Mr. Bernard's money, he being a newcomer and all. But after Mr. Bernard wins a pot with three threes they don't seem to worry anymore. Herb, on the other hand, seems to be extra careful not to lose to Mr. Bernard. He bets more aggressively when it gets down to just the two of them. Meantime good old Al doesn't give a damn whose money he takes, or, though he doesn't necessarily like it, who takes his.
We end the night with me winning about thirty dollars and Mr. Bernard up by ten. I didn't have good cards and couldn't have done much better. On the other hand, I didn't want to piss off Al and Herb by making a killing, because I was afraid they'd blame me for altering the deal. And they'd have a valid point. Bringing in a new person changes the way the cards fall, though theoretically it doesn't raise or lower any individual's probability of getting any one card. But they would have been looking at all the hands where the guy next to them got the card they'd
needed and then blamed me.
Herb wins fifty bucks or so, which is actually good, because it makes him friendly. By the end of the evening he's calling Mr. Bernard "Bernie" (and Mr. Bernard isn't correcting him the way he does everyone else) and the two of them are talking about getting a petition together to protest the proposed Grocery Depot, which will divert traffic from both their businesses in town. And though Mr. Bernard doesn't say it, I know that he'll make a point of patronizing Herb's drugstore in the future.
Al drops ninety bucks, but he doesn't bitch about losing or me having shifted the deal by bringing a guest. Because Al knows the truth, as Herb does, that I brought them some easy money in the form of a newcomer, basically a sucker delivered right to their doorstep. I mean, it didn't take long for them to figure out that Mr. Bernard was hunting for tripods and closing up without them. So they should have been able to do something with that knowledge. But at the end of the day you still need the cards.
"See you guys next week," Officer Rich calls to Mr. Bernard and me as we leave. From the look on Mr. Bernard's face I decide that hearing this pleases him more than the ten bucks he managed to win.
On the way home Mr. Bernard insists that we stop at the convenience store for creamsicles in order to celebrate his initiation into the Buildings and Grounds Committee. The last time I saw him this excited was when he found the original papers in the back of a Solomon Stowe mantel clock.
"You know," he says confidently, "with a little practice I could really excel at this pastime. For instance, there were a few hands when I knew that if I'd tried for a straight rather than just three of a kind, I would have made it."
I just nod my head like, Oh really?
"And why did you kick me after I played those two pair? If Herb hadn't gotten that spade for his flush I would have won. And what were the chances of that happening?"
"The chances of that happening were real good, since all that was left in the deck were seven spades and one heart."
"Oh, well—"
"It's a good thing you didn't win any more money, that's all I have to say. Because you'd be impossible to live with."
Beginner's Luck Page 30