Lady Luck's Map of Vegas

by Barbara Samuel

  “Gypsy,” I say.

  She lifts her head and sees me and gives me a huge, toothless smile. “India!” she says. “You came.”

  “Of course.” I fall to my knees and take her into my arms, seeing that she's been sedated and is not particularly delusional.

  Her arms, solid and real, go around me, and now it's her turn to let the relief wash through her. She weeps onto my shoulder, her body shaking and shaking. “You found me,” she says. “You came.”

  “We did.” I pull back, brushing hair from her face. “Do you have your bag?”

  “Right here.” She pats it, the green backpack my mother and I pack with goods. “Can we go home?”

  “How about Las Vegas for tonight? Mama's there.”

  She nods, exhaustion plain in her every movement. I help her up gently. “This,” I say to her, “is Jack. You remember him?”

  Her expression clears. “Yes.”

  He offers his hand. “Shall I carry your bag?”

  “Here,” she says, patting the spot between her eyes. “I saw you here. They told me you were coming.”

  He smiles at her, very gently, and helps her to her feet. In his gray eyes I see compassion, love, pity, all the things that make him, in so many ways, like my mother. “Come, love,” he says. “Let's get you somewhere you can have a good sleep, eh?”

  Chapter Forty

  Getting Gypsy through the casino into the elevators proves a challenge—at first she won't go through it at all—but we both hold her hands and tell her to keep her eyes down to avoid the visual confusion, and we get her upstairs to my mother's waiting embrace. I know from experience that Eldora will take over now; she can't stand to let anyone else do this part: She gently brings Gypsy into her rooms, takes off the bandages on her feet.

  As if someone has pulled a plug on her energy, Gypsy falls sideways on the bed, touching my mother's shoulder. “Mom,” she says with a heavy, heartfelt sigh.

  My mother raises her eyes to me, nods. I take Jack's hand and lead him out to the hall, leaving my mother to her ritual of reclaiming. She'll skim away the old, malodorous clothes and put Gypsy in a hot bath, then tenderly wash her. “My baby,” she'll say. “My sweet girl. I'm so glad to have you back safe again. I missed you so much.” It's like an incantation she uses to bring Gypsy back into the fold.

  In the hallway, Jack says, “Let's find something to eat, shall we?” “Away from the casino, though. The noise is really bothering me.” “I could do with a walk,” he says. “Shall we get out and see what we find?”

  “Sounds good.”

  It's been a long day, so it's odd to get out into the day and realize it's only late afternoon, and it might as well be summer—the air is warm and dry the sunlight angling down in lemon meringue slices through the tall buildings. The sidewalks are busy with tourists; as we walk I see a crowd of Japanese young people mugging for each other's cameras in front of the Bellagio lake. “It really does look like Italy,” I comment.

  “About the way McDonald's looks like a hamburger. Everything is in the right places, and the ingredients sound right—bun, burger, pickles—but it somehow doesn't really taste like anything.”

  “It tastes like McDonald's,” I counter. We hold hands, two more tourists on the busy Las Vegas streets. “I'm unexpectedly charmed by this excess. It's so over the top, how can you help but love it?”

  He smiles ruefully. “I don't think I could stay more than two or three days. I'd be spitting and hostile with all the noise.”

  We walk for a long time, long enough that we're past the Riviera, out of the main crowds. We don't need to talk the whole way, but there are moments of sporadic conversation, triggered by the sights, the oddities, the amazements—a man with a true ten-gallon hat walking along with a woman whose breasts appear to each be about the same size as the hat; a pair of guys in showgirl drag, hobbling up the sidewalk in glossy high heels behind a family of rotund tourists from the Midwest. I don't know how I know they're Midwestern, anymore than I knew the girls were Irish, but they are.

  “You've said your sister has a normal life when she takes her medications. How normal?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Very. She responds well to drug therapy, and she's learned how to recognize the delusions, so she pretty much lives like anybody else. And as long as she's taking good care of herself, she can be like that all the time.”

  “How long does it take before she's stabilized again?”

  “The sedatives will help her pretty fast, but the antipsychotics take about four to six weeks, usually.”

  “Where will she go?”

  “She stays with my mother. Mostly, my mother is the one who steps in when Gypsy hits a rocky stretch; it's just that she was grieving this time and could barely take care of herself.”

  “I had the impression it was your father who offered care.”

  “He did, when Gypsy was younger. Once she had her first break, it was a lot more difficult for him. My mother is extremely good with her.” I pause. “I guess I know why now.”

  “She's had a challenging life, your mother.”

  “Mmm.”

  We finally stop at a seventies-style coffee shop. “This will do,” I say suddenly aware that I'm getting dangerously dizzy. “I need food right now.”

  “You should have said something sooner. Come on then, let's get you something to eat.”

  We order simple steaks and they come with a line-up I haven't had for a long time; bowl of soup—choice of chicken or minestrone; iceberg lettuce adorned with two cherry tomatoes, drowned in dressing; a baked potato with butter and sour cream; carrots; white rolls and butter; choice of iced tea or coffee for $9.99.

  “My father would have loved this place,” I say with a chuckle, digging into the salad.

  “Mine, too,” Jack says. “Wonder how often they can burn the fireplace, though, don't you?”

  I chuckle. “I feel like I'm time traveling. We should be able to turn on the television and see The Partridge Family singing.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, David Cassidy, Shirley Jones—they were a singing TV family.”

  He looks blank. Shrugs. “Sorry. That one must not have made it across.”

  “Probably just as well.”

  We never mention the baby, or Gypsy, or even my mother. It's peaceful. A reminder of how it is to be with him, just to be at peace. Would it always be that way? Would we get on each other's nerves? Grouse about trivialities?

  There is chocolate cake for dessert. Just plain old chocolate cake with frosting. I haven't had any in years and years. I lick the fork with satisfaction. “My mother used to bake cakes for my father.”

  “She loved him.”

  I look at the shiny tines of my fork. “What's sad is that I'm not sure she knew it until he died.”

  “That's the way of it, isn't it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He bends his head over the cake and his hair falls forward on his brow. Light shines along the crown. I think, if I never looked at his nose again, it will be something I miss the rest of my life. “You think you've got it all figured out at fifteen. You'll study this, follow that, marry well and wisely, have children and whatever.” He raises his eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Life comes along and changes the script, doesn't it?”

  I think, with a pain, of my mother deciding, so coldly, to go out and find a man to fall in love with her and marry her so she could pass off her baby as his. It's both practical and horrible, and how can I condemn her? The man she picked so very well was my father for forty years. “My father's first wife committed suicide. Did I tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. I feel terrible for her, but it's impossible to imagine my life without my dad. So was it fate and she just wouldn't accept it? Or was it some evil that my mother put into play? Or is life just some stupid, random spin of the dice?”

  Jack takes my hand. “I don't know.”

  “I wa
s supposed to be the one who grew up and became a mommy,” I say. “Gypsy was going to be the world traveler, the famous artist, and I was going to hold the fort and keep her children when she had to go somewhere.”

  He holds my gaze steadily until a girl in a wedding dress comes in, followed by a small knot of well wishers. The groom is painfully thin, with an Adam's apple like a pyramid. “They're babies,” I say softly. “So brave.”

  “It used to be easier,” Jack says, “to imagine doing something foolish and wild for love, wasn't it?”

  “Is that what you did?”

  “Not really. I wanted to, when I was seventeen.”

  “I haven't heard this story. Who did you want to run away with?”

  “Fiona Fallon. She had the most beautiful hair, all the way down her back, and the sweetest heart in all of Ireland.”

  “So why didn't you?”

  “She wanted a ring, which I couldn't afford, but I think that was only an excuse, since she married another lad not six months after.”

  “Oh, poor you!”

  “I was afraid to take chances. Always have been.” His eyes held something strong and bright. “So then I picked a sure bet of a woman, who cheated on me and made my life a living hell until I finally got rid of her. And now, here I am, and you're more frightened than I am.”

  “Jack …”

  He takes my hand across the table, and presses something cold into it. “I'm not so poor I can't afford a ring nowadays. Will you wear it for me, India?”

  I open my hand. It's not a diamond or anything elaborate or fancy. It's just a simple gold band. Tears well in my eyes so suddenly and sharply—damn this emotional state!—that I have to lower my lids. “Oh, Jack, I'm so afraid.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” He holds my hand fiercely, a great deal of public display for him. “But it's right between us. It is, India, you know it.”

  Frozen in my wanting, I whisper, “Jack, you saw my sister.”

  “I did.” He takes money out of his wallet and tosses it on top of the bill. “Come outside. I can't talk here.”

  I follow him out. The sun is beginning to set, making the sky a rosy gold, with blue mountains cutting across the horizon. The sight makes me homesick for Pikes Peak. “Where will we live, Jack?”

  “One question at a time.” Taking my hands, he says earnestly, “If our child becomes ill, we'll care for him, India. That's all. Some things are simple.”

  I look at him, the ring clasped in my palm. “What if you break my heart?”

  “What if you break mine?”

  “What if you die?”

  “I'm going to eventually.”

  “Me, too.” It's hard to breathe. I have never wanted anything so much in my life as I want to marry this man and have him with me every night when I go to sleep. “What about your work? And where we live? And—”

  He grins down at me. “Will you marry me, India?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Forever and ever?”

  “And ever and ever.”

  He looks over his shoulder. “Now?”

  I see the Eternal Love Wedding Chapel, flashing in pale blue and pink neon. “You can't be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you afraid I'll back out?”

  “Maybe.” He takes my hand. “Maybe it's just time for both of us to do something impulsive.”

  I can tell that I'm really going to do it. I raise my eyebrows and smile. “Okay.”

  “What about your mother? Shall we call her?”

  “She won't leave Gypsy. And I wouldn't want her to.” An idea comes to me. “Do you have your cell phone?”

  He pulls it out of his jacket pocket and I dial the Flamingo, ask for my mother's room. Cars whiz by on Las Vegas Boulevard. In the distance, the lights of the Strip seem to be growing brighter. “Mom,” I say when she answers, “where did you marry my dad?”

  “Oh, India, I'm so happy for you!”

  “Me, too, Mom. Now where?”

  “The Eternal Love Wedding Chapel.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “I wouldn't joke about that.”

  “I'm standing right in front of it.” There's a sign that says, Established 1959.

  Eldora gives her throaty, husky laugh. “Some things are just fated to be, sweetheart.”

  I look at Jack, at his gentle, steady gray eyes, and touch my belly. “I love you, Mom,” I say.

  “I love you, too, baby. More than you'll ever know.”

  Hanging up the phone, I look at Jack. “The minute I saw you, I fell head over heels in love. It's been killing me ever since.”

  He grins, slowly. “I've had the same trouble.”

  “Could we have a cottage on the west coast of Ireland? Not to live there all the time, just sometimes?”

  He steps close, puts his arms around me. “That could be done.”

  “Let's marry then.”

  He bends his head to my neck. “This means I can sleep with you many nights, instead of just one or two a month, doesn't it?”

  I laugh. “Many.”

  “You have no idea how I've prayed for blizzards.”

  “Me, too.”

  He raises his head, puts his hand on my face, and kisses me right in public, on the street in Las Vegas. “I love you, India.”

  “Let's get married.”

  So we do.

  Epilogue

  Eldora

  It's a sunny August morning and I've got a box sitting on the passenger seat as I drive out to Evergreen Cemetery. India lets me drive as long as I don't drink. First I stop by Don's grave to inspect the headstone, which is a big cross, Celtic in design, and it looks beautiful—his birth and death, and “Beloved Husband, Beloved Father.” When I go, I'll have the plot next to his. We picked them out a long time ago, two gravesites high on a hill, overlooking the sky and the mountains. It's a beautiful view and I think he must like it here. I've brought some fresh carnations for the vase, and I stick them in to show he's well-loved, this man.

  I know India will come here, too, on her daddy's birthday, which is in a couple of weeks. She and Jack have been splitting their time between New York and Colorado. Jack is arranging to have a second office of his magazine opened in Colorado Springs, and they're buying a house with a guest cottage in back. It's empty at the moment, but it has two bedrooms.

  In the graveyard, I wander toward another section, to another grave. It's a fair hike to the south, over an up-and-down road that loops around a section of ex-soldiers and a section of children's graves from long ago, which always makes me sad. I think of the graveyard in Truchas and wish there was some of that life and color here. That sense of celebration, even in death.

  Sometimes there isn't a lot you can do to put right what you've done wrong. I should have picked a man who wasn't married.

  But I didn't. There is nothing I can do to make it up to Bea Redding, to make her life better, but ever since our trip to Las Vegas, I've been working on a way to a least tell her I'm sorry without making it a big production that's all about me. It anonymous, but it's beautiful and I've worked real hard on it.

  It's a descanso. I didn't think it would be okay to put one up for a suicide in a house where people might or might not know anything about it, but there's nothing wrong with a good cross in a graveyard. I collected about a hundred little things about Bea—pictures from Don's scrapbooks, and things clipped out of the newspaper, and bits and pieces from her church newsletter—I was so proud of myself for thinking of that!—and glued them all onto a sturdy wooden cross I made from cedar because the man at the hardware store said it lasted longest. In the middle of the cross, I put a picture of Bea and Don when they were happy, and I put it beneath glass so it would always be beautiful. The girls and I used to do decoupage and that's the technique I used, a good shellac over the top so it'll last longer.

  It's not that much, you know, to make up for stealing her life. I know that. I know it's only a gesture, but it felt li
ke I needed to do it anyway, to know her and show her—just her—that I really was sorry. The only thing I could do was take the time to know what her life was about and how much she loved Don and her church and even my little girls.

  I planted it on the ground of her grave, face up to the world, a thing of color and beauty to mark the fact that she lived in this world and she loved and she was loved in return.

  When you get right down to it, that's all there is. Love. Not the neat kind you put in a card and spritz with cologne, but all of it, the big messy mucky kinds and the imperfect kinds and the improper kinds.

  That'd make a good neon sign, wouldn't it?

  All love. All the time.

  In the bright day, I admire the photo of Bea, and I hope people will stop sometimes to admire her, the cross, think about her, and how beautiful she once was. “I'm sorry, Bea,” I say.

  Then I put on my sunglasses and head back to my car. It's a beautiful day, and they're expecting me at the homeless shelter, which is one place nobody cares if you smoke or have a checkered past. All they need is the simple stuff—a good coat, some cigarettes, a bed with a pillow, a smile on a bad day. That's what I'm there for.

  All love, all the time. Easy enough.

  BARBARA SAMUEL is the author of several novels, including The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue, A Piece of Heaven, and No Place Like Home. She lives in Pueblo, Colorado, with her two sons, where she is currently writing her next novel.

  Visit the author's website at

  www.barbarasamuel.com

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