by Ginger Scott
The first round post-beer is easy. I luck out by getting dealt a pair of aces, and I know from my understanding of odds, and the fact the third ace was flipped on the turn, that I am sitting in a pretty good position. Dale folds, which means he doesn’t have anything worth moving forward with, and I can take a pretty solid guess at what types of cards he had. Their friend Jimmy is a terrible bluffer, and I know he’s full of shit by the way he plays up his hand. Honestly, Jimmy’s the real gollumpus at this table.
I write his hand off and do my best to study my grandpa and Gary through the river, and force myself to remain calm when the other ace gets flipped over. Using my newbie status to my advantage, I let the two old men hike up the amount in the pot with their little game of one-on-one, and when it comes time to call, I don’t know if they actually realize I’m still in the game. They both flip over their three-of-a-kind hands, Grandpa’s higher than Gary’s. With his arm poised and ready to sweep the chips into his pile, he gives me a sideways glance and raises a brow.
“Go on, throw down your cards,” he says. The simmer of laughter at the table, ready for me to lose again, bolsters my confidence. My face as guarded as it was when this hand started, I toss down my two aces on top of the other two and flit my gaze to meet my grandpa’s stare.
“Son of a bitch, would ya look at that!” he barks out.
He leans back in his chair, his hand falling away from the chips that are, in fact, now mine, and I swivel my head to look at Gary, who is as shocked as my grandpa.
“You little shit!”
Somehow, the trash talk comes out more like a huge compliment, and just like that, I’m ushered into their club—no longer the punk kid who was sulking over an unrequited crush, but an honorary senior citizen and gambling degenerate who fills the voids in his life one dollar at a time.
The game went on for three hours—and two beers. I could have pushed it and had a third, but I like being relaxed while still having my wits about me.
I help Grandpa clean up the garage, plugging in the box fan to air out the space so my mom doesn’t lose her ever-loving-mind over the cigar smell. He heads in first, and before I close up the garage, I stand at the entrance with the light off and give one final, hopeful look at Eleanor’s window.
Her house has been quiet all night. Both the van and her sister’s SUV were missing for most of the afternoon, and they still haven’t returned. Maybe her family decided to stay somewhere else after all, like with her grandparents. I’m not even sure where they live. I didn’t ask because asking Eleanor questions about her family feels too invasive. All roads lead back to Addy.
I finally shut the door and give up for the night, doing my best to find my way back into the house and through the downstairs without making too much noise. I grab my backpack from the kitchen table because I have some reading to finish before my first hour. The glow of the television gets my attention before I make it to the stairs, so I pause and back up toward Grandpa’s easy chair where the remote rests on the arm. I didn’t see my mom curled up in the chair from the back, and I startle at coming upon her when I grab the buttons.
“Jonah?” She stretches out sideways on the chair, her legs unfurling over the arm.
I’m grabbing my chest, sweating from A: her scaring me, and B: I smell like beer.
“I thought you were upstairs,” I say. Please don’t sound buzzed.
“I must have fallen asleep watching the news. They might have a lead on the case. For Addy?” she explains.
That’s where the Trombleys are. I feel selfish somehow for feeling slighted by Eleanor not being home or answering my texts.
“Did they make an arrest?” I slip past Mom and move to the couch, noting that the only thing showing on the television now is a rerun of Friends.
“They haven’t said. Just that they would probably hold a press conference in the morning. They wouldn’t do that if there wasn’t something new to talk about.” My mom rubs her eyes and rights herself in the chair before leaning toward me and wrapping her hand around my arm affectionately.
“So tell me, did you clean them out in poker?”
I lean back and laugh.
“I didn’t do too bad. I think Gary might ban me from playing with them,” I say.
“Oooh.” Mom winces as if she feels bad for Gary. He’s her least favorite. He’s the one who brings the cigars.
“I’m pretty sure Grandpa knew I was counting cards, though.” I shrug and lean to the side, pulling out six twenty dollar bills. I did better than I thought, tripling my money.
My mom chuckles, then reaches toward the coffee table where her coffee has gone cold.
“I can warm that up or make you a new one,” I say, taking it from her. Partly it’s an excuse to get out of close quarters before she really starts to study my red eyes and sniff my breath. I’ve already decided to lie and blame Gary for spilling a beer on my shoes.
“Maybe tea instead?” She leans her head back and watches me round her chair.
“Sure,” I say, carrying the mug into the kitchen and giving it a quick rinse.
“Your dad used to do that, you know. Count cards.”
I smile behind her while I heat some water and fish out a tea bag from the cabinet.
“He did?” I mean, I would guess if he was ever in a gambling situation, he deployed his skills. I would think pit bosses wouldn’t be too keen on him at blackjack tables, but I don’t recall a time he and my mom ever went to a casino.
“Uh huh,” she confirms. “So I’m sure your grandpa noticed you counting cards. How do you think he gets so lucky?”
I pause my dunking of her tea bag at that realization. Grandpa’s been holding out his math skills on me. Either that or he decided as a young lad that he would follow the dark side of math. Can’t say I blame him. A guy gets more chicks on the dark side for sure.
“I found a picture in Dad’s notebook.” I’m not sure whether it’s the beer buzz or the moment, but I decide it’s time to share the photo with my mom.
“Oh yeah?” She hangs an arm over the back of the chair.
I snag my backpack from the floor and reach inside, feeling between the pages for the photo. I hand it to her and her face instantly lights up with recognition.
“My God, do I remember that day.” One hand rests on her chest as she stares at her younger self in the small photo in her palm. “We were so young and so in love. You know, your dad wasn’t just numbers and formulas. That man, he could be downright romantic.”
I twist my lips, playing grossed out. Oddly, I’m really not. I’m curious. I want to know about these other sides he had.
“Did he ever write you poetry?” I’m assuming so given the short stanzas I found in his book.
“He did,” she says through smirking lips. “But those are for me and me alone.”
My mouth sours again, and this time I’m not quite kidding.
“Okay, fair enough.” I hold up a palm.
My pocket buzzes as I stand, and I pull my phone out to see a message notification from Eleanor.
“You should keep that,” I say to my mom, knowing full well I’m not prying that picture out of her hands tonight.
I retrieve her tea from the kitchen and set it on the table for her. She’s already lost to memories of my dad, though. Happy ones that press a smile into her face.
I read the message from Eleanor on my way toward the stairs, but before I climb, her words hit me hard.
ELEANOR: Jonah, I need you. Can you come outside? Please.
And here is the difference between me and those other guys who won’t even bother to walk her to the door after taking her out. One word, and I drop everything. I leave my bag at the bottom of the steps, ignore my mom’s worried questions over what has me in the sudden hurry, and bust through our front door. I leave it wide open behind me and rush toward Eleanor as her legs try to carry her weary body my direction. When we meet in the center of the road, her weight collapses against my chest as she throws her
arms around my neck and climbs into my embrace, giving me all of her to care for and hold.
I don’t understand, yet despite that I lift and cradle her while she buries her face and lets go of suffocating tears. Her hair is a tangled mess, covering her face and eyes and sticking to her arms that are too bare for how cold it is outside.
“Eleanor, what’s wrong?” She shakes her head and cries harder.
I look over her shoulder as I hold her, toward her open garage. Morgan stands in the open doorway at the back, a dim light showing her form. This is a deflated version of her sister, different from the one who marched into my world a week ago and tore Eleanor away from my company.
“Elle, you need a jacket or a sweater. It’s too cold out here.” I can already see the bumps forming on her arms.
She adjusts her grip around me, holding tighter. She isn’t heavy, and even if she were, I could hold her like this forever if I had to, if that’s what she needs.
I look to her sister again, waiting for a command or advice. An explanation at the very least. But instead, she backs away and lets the door slam closed, leaving the garage wide open for the world to see and steal from.
“Let’s get you inside,” I say at Eleanor’s ear.
My mom has made her way to our door, prompted by my abrupt exit. I carry Eleanor to my house and my mom opens our door wide as I enter. We make eye contact and do our best to communicate without words. This is a gift you’re left with when you lose someone you love; you can say volumes to those who understand just by the shape of your eyes. Mom’s are heavy, sloped down with concern and panic of what to do and how to fix this. Mine are probably the same.
“You want to go to my room?” I ask.
Eleanor is wordless and too distraught to even bother to nod. Her entire body is quaking and the tremors get stronger with every ragged breath she sucks in.
“Can you bring up some water, or tea maybe?” I hold my mom’s gaze for a few seconds as she looks to Eleanor then back to me. I can tell that Mom is trying to piece together the cause of this and drawing tragic conclusions. Her eyes start to water, and I don’t think I can handle her falling apart now.
“Mom?” I snap her to attention and she runs her sleeve over her eyes as she swallows down her worst thoughts.
“Tea, yes. I can do that.” Mom nods toward the stairs and I take her direction, climbing them slowly so I don’t drop Eleanor. I am not Jake, and this is not a position I have ever been in before, except maybe the time I gave Tabitha Worley a piggyback ride in fourth grade because she dared me to. I dropped Tabitha.
I kick my door open and carry Eleanor to my bed, sitting on the edge, unsure of where she wants to be and whether she wants me to stay here or leave her alone. Like the melting of wax, her arms unwind from my neck and her legs fold together as she moves to the space at my side, her entire body leaning into me until I scoot back enough to turn myself into a pillow for her to cry into and be held.
Hot tears roll from her cheeks onto my thighs, soaking through my jeans. Her chest is in a constant struggle for air, her mouth gasping between quivered lips. She is desperate to breathe.
“Shh,” I hum as I untangle wet strands of hair from her reddened cheeks with one hand while rubbing the other in circles on her back. This is what my mom used to do when I was sick to my stomach, and I don’t know . . . it just feels like the right thing to do.
Eleanor turns closer to me, her knees curling up and her balled fists tucked under her chin while she shakes. My mom walks in with the tea and I meet her gaze with my own, picking up in the exact same place we left off downstairs. Mom sets the tea on my night table and crouches down so she’s on Eleanor’s level at my other side. I’ve only seen this helpless look on my mom’s face once before, when she was told to come to the hospital where my dad had been taken. He was gone—gone—before she got there.
“Honey, would you like me to tell your parents you’re here?” My mom’s voice is gentle and measured. This territory is both new and familiar. Things are . . . fragile. For all of us.
Nearly a minute passes and my mom asks again.
“Eleanor?” she says, finally drawing a slight head shake from the broken girl glued to my lap.
“It’s fine. It’s okay. They’re doing the same thing, over there. All of them, it’s . . . it’s fine.” It’s clearly not, despite what Eleanor says. She rubs her clasped hands under her nose, then brings them to her forehead, shutting her eyes and shaking with a new round of sobs.
“I’ll make sure it’s okay that you’re here. You can stay as long as you want,” my mom says, meeting my eyes again as she stands. I give her a tiny nod and continue the pattern of circles on Eleanor’s back after she leaves.
“She wasn’t there, Jonah. They went to get her, but she wasn’t . . . she wasn’t there.” Quaking in my lap, Eleanor peels her eyes open and stares forward to the open door and dark hallway where my mom disappeared. Her words are a partial puzzle. This must have to do with the news my mom mentioned.
“I’m so sorry, Elle.”
My hand changes patterns, circling counter-clockwise now, as if that’s what will make all of this better for her.
“Elle,” she whispers, her eyes still fixed on the nothing in the darkness.
I breathe in slowly through my nose, and I’m sure she can feel my chest and diaphragm expand. I called her Elle. I’ve done it twice now. It seems right, as though we’re close enough for such things. I’m not quite sure why it’s the way her name came out, honestly. It just is.
“Yeah. I’m here, Elle,” I say, my voice nervous and tender.
Her tears slow, but the stroke of my hand continues. Eventually, her eyelids grow so heavy they can no longer fight the will to look out into the blank space in front of her. She’s asleep enough for me to move without waking her, letting me support her head and guide her closer to the center of my bed. I pull my old quilt from my closet and spread it over her body to keep her warm, staying by her side long enough to tuck her hair behind her ear. No matter how hard I try, though, I just can’t erase the divot permanently centered between her brows.
Thirteen
It takes me a few minutes to wrap my brain around where I actually am. Our sofa has never been the greatest place to nap, let alone attempt a full night’s sleep. I gave up my bed willingly last night, though, to someone who needed it a whole lot more than I did.
Mom helped me bring down some extra blankets when she got back from the Trombleys’ house. It was Morgan who came to the door, her torn-up eyes and defeated posture reminiscent of her sister’s. The entire family spent the day with a victim’s advocate, sitting in a board room at the Oak Forest police station while investigators descended on the first solid lead in Addy’s case.
Someone’s security camera picked up a white car driving down a nearby street around the right time. They were looking for vehicles that didn’t live in our area, and this particular license plate fit the profile. Police tracked it to a home owned by a single woman in her late forties who lived near the Missouri state line, almost four hundred miles away. When they got to her home, it was filled with cats, animal feces, stacks of old magazines and newspapers, and trash. The white car and the woman were gone, but they found one of Addy’s skates in the garage among a pile of random objects like tools and old children’s toys. According to neighbors, the woman hasn’t been home in more than a week.
Nobody saw a little girl.
The smell of coffee lifts me out of my haze and I turn to find my mom working in the kitchen.
“How was your sleep?” she asks.
I grunt through a stretch and get to my feet.
“Eh,” I say, shrugging a shoulder.
“Rough morning I guess, huh?” She pours me the first cup from the fresh brew and I take it from her.
“Yeah, pretty rough,” I say, running my hand along my side where the uneven couch cushions jacked up my sleeping position.
“Because of the couch or the beer Grandpa ga
ve you last night?” she deadpans with pursed lips, then blows the steam from the top of her coffee cup.
I’m not a good liar. I’ve never had much reason to lie, so after a few seconds of stammering through false starts of an excuse, I give up.
“How’d you know?” In my head, I’m already blaming Gramps.
“Jonah, hon. Your grandpa buys the cheapest beer on the planet. I could smell it on you the moment you walked in from the garage.” She laughs at my expense.
I should have gone with the ‘Gary spilled a beer’ story. I probably wouldn’t have been able to pull the lie off longer than a minute anyhow.
“Sorry,” I say, bowing my head and staring at the brew in my cup. The weight of shame pushes down my shoulders.
Mom steps in close to me and kisses the top of my head.
“Don’t be. Your grandpa gave me my first beer, too.”
I breathe out a short laugh and look up at her.
“Really,” she continues, joining me at the table. “I bet if he had the means, he would have let your dad and me smoke weed with him also.”
My eyes grow wide.
“Mom!”
“You’re damn right I would have.” I turn at the sound of Grandpa’s voice as he coughs his way through a rough good morning.
“I hear your grandson cleaned everyone out last night.” My mom’s scornful expression has shifted into a smug one as she flits her gaze from me to Grandpa and back again.
“Ha! Little shit’s a card counter just like his dad,” Grandpa says on his way to the fridge.
“Just like you, you mean,” my mom teases, swatting at him gently.
Grandpa laughs in agreement and goes to work pulling out the eggs and butter. While he gets started on breakfast, Mom finishes up her cup and gathers her things for work, leaving me and Gramps with a semi-serious warning not to cause any trouble.
There’s a lot to catch my grandpa up on, but before I can share the difficult details of why Eleanor is sleeping in my room, the sound of her feet hitting the wood stairs draws my grandpa’s eyes over his shoulder.