She’d always believed that the ones you loved had a reflection that resided in yourself, and that this kept you safe from losing track of the way they would change. And yet she knew this was not true anymore with Andy; that mirror had bent away from a real reflection some time ago, and what she had of him was not who he was. Trying to love him with the information she had was like trying to grasp something underwater without correcting for the refraction. These days, her hand was closing on nothing.
And how far off true was she with Daniel? She realized her own parents had never been aware that they’d strayed from her as the years went on, the angle of their error increasing the distance between them as time passed. To go back to the time when Andy was kissing her against that wall! What of being in her childhood hallways, gripping as if a steel bar the trajectory of her parents’ lives and her own, bending it back to stay in line with the way things really were in that house?
A lost cause. She despaired of ever having the chance to change their courses. She looked up again at Daniel. “I’m so sorry,” she said now. “I did a terrible thing.”
He brought his eyes around to hers in the mirror and shrugged mildly. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” she said. “I broke trust with you. A parent shouldn’t do that.”
“I was telling you the truth.”
“I know.” She was coming up to their street, and she turned onto it. “You were telling the truth, and yet when I said I was going to ask Mr. Melvin, you cried. I guess that confused me.”
He was looking back out the window, the connection broken once again. This was one of the immutable laws of attachment: inadmissibility. If she could know his thoughts . . . such a thing to be wished for. It was the kind of wish a child would make, but she was someone’s mother now, someone’s partner, and she was alone with the ones she loved. She asked, “So then why did you cry, Daniel?” and—knowing even if he could tell her, she would not really know—asked again, “Why did you cry?”
Split
THE CASINO WAS ON A RESERVATION—A LOT OF THEM ARE now, all lit up, with valet parking and girls selling cigars. I’d crossed the border fairly groggy from the drive and sick of my CDs and I needed a break. Linda was probably asleep by now, and I’d made a little extra this trip, selling a few more portrait packages in the towns between Trumansburg and West Convex. I figured she wouldn’t want me driving in the rain as tired as I was. I went in and washed my face, ran a comb through my wet hair, tried to make myself look presentable. Out on the floor, I started looking around for the five-dollar tables. One of the pit bosses told me to head upstairs where all the smoking rooms were and I might find something to my liking there.
The lowest table I found was a ten-dollar minimum, and as soon as I sat down the fat college student who was dealing warned me the minimums were going up. I told him, I only have a hundred bucks anyway, I’ll be gone before then. I was surprised they weren’t running any five-dollar tables. It was a Monday and the parking garage was half-empty, despite the fact that it’d been raining, and the rain usually brought people in. I guessed it was just that they had to set some standards and if you let people play for five bucks a hand then maybe the riff-raff will start coming.
The table had some quality people around it. The lady at first base chain-smoked and kept losing like she was perfecting it. There was a young couple beside her, then me, then an old Vietnamese man with stubble, and, at the end of the table, two guys who had to be regulars and played everything by the book. The guy right at third base—the last seat—had a pillar of black chips in front of him. He kept talking to the lady at first base, saying things like, “You should hit a soft seventeen against a three,” and “Usually you don’t double down ten against a ten.” Stuff like that. Whether she played a hand the way you’re supposed to, or she went with her intuition, she lost, so I don’t know why Third Base was talking to her.
I knew the guy beside me was Vietnamese, because anytime you looked at him he’d nod quickly and say, “Viet Nam,” and then you’d have to say, “Good,” and he’d nod again and go back to his cards. I imagine he was trying to start a conversation, but no one was talking to him because he was queering the deal, hitting every hand to seventeen, regardless what the dealer had. So the two guys after him kept doing the math on his cards, figuring out what hands he was wrecking for them. It’s a simple game, blackjack, you just try to beat the dealer without going over twenty-one, but for a lot of people there’s more than that involved. For instance, you don’t hit a total of fourteen against a dealer’s two because chances are he’s got a ten under and he’ll bust his twelve just as quick as you’ll bust your fourteen. Except he has to draw, and you don’t. This was the very situation that was riling the guys at the end of the table.
“That would have been eighteen for me against his two, Viet Nam,” said the guy between Viet Nam and Third Base, “except now you’re bust hitting your fourteen to twenty-three and I have to take Jonas’s card and he’s got to take the dealer’s. You see a two or three and you’ve got at least a twelve? Sit tight, okay?”
“Okay,” said Viet Nam, but he’d been watching the guy talk and he only spoke when he stopped.
“He’s okay, Mike,” said Jonas. Jonas had a pale yellow scar right straight along the base of his throat. “Everyone’s playing for pennies.”
First Base laughed at that. I’d only been sitting for ten minutes, but I’d seen her lose more than two hundred dollars. The dealer dealt out the end of the shoe, then started shuffling. The young couple left, and an eyeline opened up between me and First Base.
“Your hair’s wet,” she said.
“See, I’ve got some sense.”
She smiled and lit a cigarette. “I’ve lost fifteen hundred dollars tonight. This guy deals me a hard thirteen every chance he gets.”
The dealer laughed. His name was Jimmy. I’d noticed a few dealers at the tables I’d scoped out with nametags that said Jimmy. No doubt this was some kind of cheap dealer insurance, insurance that you didn’t turn around in the street when someone you’d dealt out of a few thousand dollars called “Hey, Jimmy!”
“What are you laughing at?” she said.
“You want to lose, Arlene. You must have some kind of inheritance or something.”
“Is that any of your business, Jim?” He shook his head no. “Then shuffle the fucking cards and let’s get on with this.”
“If you’re looking to lose it, you’d do better at one of the higher stake tables,” I said.
“Do you crunch your hard candy, or do you suck it, mister?”
I blinked a couple times at her.
“I like mine to last,” she said.
Jimmy dealt. The space between me and Arlene stayed open. Jim dealt her a hard fifteen, me two face cards, Viet Nam a twelve, Mike a blackjack (Jim had been really nice when he laid the ace, saying, “Good luck on your ace, Mike”), and he dealt Jonas a pair of threes. Jim showed a four. The play against a four is stand on anything higher than eleven. Everyone knows that.
“Hard call on those threes,” said Arlene.
“It is,” said Jonas. Arlene hit and bust her fifteen. “There you go,” said Jonas. “He’s like a sixty-five-percent chance to bust and you hit a fifteen.” She smiled angelically at him.
“There’re still twenty-four cards in each deck that could’ve made my hand, J. So shut the fuck up.”
I stuck. Viet Nam took an eight to make twenty, and Mike and Jonas shook their heads.
“Let’s see,” said Jonas. “Arlene’s ten gives me thirteen on my first three, so I stand on that, and your eight, which you shouldn’t have taken, gives me eleven on my second three, a perfect double-down against a four. But am I bitter? No. Hit me, Jim.” Jim laid Jonas a nine. “Nice, a twelve,” said Jonas. “Don’t I feel safe. Stand,” he told Jim, and Jim moved to the second three and dealt him a queen. “Twelve and thirteen,” said Jonas. “Two losing hands to one, and no double to cover my ass should Jimmy her
e fail to bust. Go on, Jim.”
Jim revealed a nine for thirteen. “Aw, this is a sure bust hand,” he said. He dealt himself an ace and then a three. Then shook his head. He collected both of Jonas’s bets, and paid me and Viet Nam. Viet Nam gave Jonas a thumbs-up.
“You see, man?” said Jonas. “I’m glad you won. But that was your hand to lose and mine to make a little. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Viet Nam,” said Viet Nam.
“I know.” Jonas looked down at his chips. “I know, man, Viet fucking Nam. You’re breaking my heart here.”
We kept on playing down the shoe. Eventually a guy with a face like a whippet came and sat between me and Arlene. I would have loved to photograph that face of his—just point him at the camera and focus on the tip of his nose. It’s an amazing effect you can get with these deep faces, the eyes all set back and fading.
He played progressive, which is to say he doubled his bet every time he lost. As long as you don’t lose your whole bankroll, it’s a sure way to double your original ten bucks every time you finally win a hand. But every progressive bettor is a cheap amateur and they all come to a point where they can’t risk the hundred and sixty bucks they’ll have to lay to stay the course, so they go back down to ten and kiss half their stake goodbye. The Nose was gone in fifteen minutes, right at the end of the shoe. Jonas watched him go off.
“You note how not one of us gave that schmuck a hand, hey? At least Viet Nam’s playing to a strategy, no matter how it sucks. I hate fucking progressives.”
Jimmy tapped the table. “Well, that’s it for me.” He swept his arms open over the baize, back and forth, showing everyone (and the cameras) his hands were empty. Mike, Jonas, Arlene, and I each tossed him a chip. Viet Nam looked around like we were all crazy. “Thank you all,” Jimmy said, and then he was replaced by a woman who looked like she was some country singer’s mom.
“Bets back,” she said, and started shuffling.
“How you doing?” Arlene asked me.
“I’m keeping up. You?”
“Almost done.”
“Almost done?”
“Yeah.” She took a long draw on her cigarette and then, squinting through the smoke, gestured with it at Jonas. “You see that man over there? See that scar on his neck? I paid someone to do that.”
I tried to sneak a look at Jonas’s neck again. He was staring, bored, at Arlene, shaking his head ever so slightly.
“Me and J. used to be married. But then one day I thought, I’ve had enough of that sonbitch.”
Neither Mike nor Jonas seemed to be paying much attention to what Arlene was saying, but I looked to them for a signal on how I was supposed to take it. Jonas flicked his eyes over at me, his expression utterly flat, then slid them back over to Arlene.
“What’re you looking at him for?” said Arlene.
“I’m not,” I said.
“You turned your pretty head and pointed it right at him. Were your eyes closed?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. So you had someone kill him.”
“That’s right. We were living in New Mexico at the time, and this guy cut J. ear to ear and threw him in a tailings pit out by one of the copper mines and there he lay, dead as a dormouse. Except then he woke up and caught a ride to Varadero and they sewed him up. He couldn’t remember his name or anything.” She took another heavy drag on her cigarette. “I collected the insurance. He may have been worthless in life, but whooooo, J. was worth something dead. One million. Beautiful.”
“Doornail,” said Jonas, bored.
Arlene sneered at him. “Shut up, honey.”
“Bets up, please,” said the dealer. She was a lot less friendly than Jimmy had been. She dealt Arlene and Viet Nam aces off the top of the shoe, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t wish them luck. Gave herself a ten.
“So, what happened,” I said.
“Play,” said Arlene. The dealer laid both Arlene and Viet Nam blackjacks, but her down card was an ace and she took everyone’s money. “When’s Jimmy coming back?” Arlene asked her.
“Who?”
“The fat guy who knew how to deal.”
“What’re you complaining for?” said Jonas. “You lost.”
“But on a blackjack? That’s the wrath of God, J. I don’t need that.”
Viet Nam was arguing with the dealer. “Blackjack!” he was saying.
“Not if the dealer has blackjack, too, sir. You don’t knock on blackjack, house wins.”
“No,” said the old man. “Blackjack. Twenty-one.”
The dealer tightened her yellow hair on the back of her head and started dealing another hand, but Viet Nam spread his arms over the table and wouldn’t let her. This is one of those things you don’t do at a blackjack table, and there were three guys on him instantly.
“Hey! Don’t fucking touch him,” Jonas said, trying to pull the security guards off the old man. “He doesn’t understand.”
“Well then, he shouldn’t be playing.”
I stood up and acted rational. “Is there someone here who can maybe explain to him in his own language? Do you maybe have someone here who can talk to him?”
Viet Nam was very upset. The security had him so his arms were pinned to the sides of his head, and his long pink arms stuck out of the sleeves of his jacket a couple feet above his hair. Anyone looking our way (and there were plenty of people looking) would have understood right away that the old man had been nabbed for cheating.
“I win!” he said to a pit boss when one appeared.
“I know,” said the boss. “Hold on.” A young man came and started talking Vietnamese. The security guys backed away. Viet Nam argued with him, but the young man went over the finer points of house rules with him and then must have asked him if he was ready to keep playing, because the old man sat down again.
“His name is Hao,” said the young guy. “He understands now and he says he is sorry, he would like to continue playing.”
“Can you tell him he doesn’t have to hit to seventeen every hand?” asked Jonas. “He’s queering the deal.”
The young man talked some more to Hao. Then he turned to Jonas. “A man does not stand on twelve. A man plays to seventeen.”
“What the fuck,” said Mike. “He’s losing more than he has to and he’s making it hard for the rest of us. Just tell him: if I do this”—and here Mike chopped the air with his hand—“it means don’t take any more cards.”
The young man passed this on, and Hao chopped the air back at Mike and smiled.
“Good,” said Mike.
The lady dealer had been taken off the table because of the ruckus. I imagine if something goes wrong at your table they take you into a back room and ask you to watch the videotapes with them. They can tell if you’re in on something based on what you say about the tape, I guess. Some guy named Earl was supposed to deal now.
“Hey, Jim,” I said.
Earl looked up sharply at me. “What?”
“Never mind,” I said, and Arlene laughed. Earl started shuffling.
“That was super sweet of you, mister,” she said. “Stepping in and solving the situation. Can I give you a kiss?”
“I’m married,” I said.
“I don’t want to blow you. I just want to give you a prize for using your brains.”
“I want to hear the rest of this story. About you and Jonas.”
She leaned across the two empty seats and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Jonas? Who’s that?” Jonas smiled sarcastically at her. “Oh, him. My dead husband. Well, this is what happened. I figured he was gone for good and I got the money and I started living the high life. I bought the best beers, I got a satellite dish—the only one in the park, I’ll let you know. I bought myself a hundred pairs of shoes, just about. But fuck I was lonely. And to be honest with you, I felt like I was no better than a murderer.”
“That sure is interesting,” I said.
“Bets up,” said Earl, and he started dealing. Two
businessmen came and sat in the empty seats between me and Arlene. The first couple hands went well for everyone. Earl bust off a sixteen, then stood on an eighteen, but he was facing nineteens and twenties across the board, including Arlene, who tossed him a five chip on the second hand.
“You’re winning now and you’re throwing tips?” I asked her.
“Just shut up.”
The shoe was hot for most of us. I started doubling my bets and then cashed in some of my fives. “Color coming in,” Earl said, and he counted out my chips in sharp, swift hand movements. I’d always liked the ritual of chip counting. Most dealers know the distance from their fingertips on the table to the arched underside of their palm in chip-widths and they can grab a pile of chips, chunk them on the table, and know exactly how many are there. These guys never make a mistake. Earl tossed me two blacks. Then he dealt another round. This time, Hao came up with nine against Earl’s three. Arlene stood on her twelve, and Hao hit to fifteen. Mike chopped the air with his hand. Hao chopped back and busted his fifteen with an eight.
“Jesus! What is wrong with you?”
“He doesn’t understand what you’re doing,” I said.
“The hell he doesn’t. The little guy explained everything to him. Hey, Hao? We won’t think any less of you if you don’t play like a man. Jesus.”
Mike busted after that and so did Jonas.
“Let’s get something to eat,” said Jonas. “Hold our spots?”
Earl tossed down two blanks and kept dealing.
The businessmen were doing fine, but they didn’t seem to realize they were in a public place with mixed company. They were talking about some strippers they’d seen that afternoon. It was bothering me on Arlene’s behalf, but she wasn’t noticing. A little time passed and everyone played silently. With the chemistry of the table different, no one but the businessmen felt like talking.
One of them said, “You ever had a shit that hurt?”
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