Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357)

by O'Nan, Stewart

  “Ow ow ow,” she said, hobbling over and leaning against his shoulder.

  “Are you going to make it?”

  “I’m going to have to.”

  “This’ll take five seconds,” he promised.

  He programmed the camera, set it on the counter and dashed back, draping his arm around her waist.

  They waited, holding their poses. She felt her smile weakening, turning thin and insipid, and was just putting on another when the flash blinded her.

  “Let me check it real quick,” he said, and left her standing there.

  “Well?”

  He nodded, impressed. “It’s a really nice picture.”

  “Can I sit down now?”

  He came over to the sofa and showed her.

  “Wow,” she said, because he was right. Her smile was genuine, and the dress flattered her. The flash and her makeup subtracted a decade, and for once her hair did what it was supposed to do. He was handsome and trim in his suit, his shoulders back, the gray at his temples giving him the air of a judge or ambassador. They might be broke and unhappy but even she had to admit they made a good-looking couple.

  Odds of a couple fighting on Valentine’s Day:

  1 in 5

  The mall was long and busy with window shoppers, and several times they had to stop to let her feet rest, making them late, and then when they finally arrived, they discovered there must have been some miscommunication, because the restaurant had given away their window table. She could see him struggling with the injustice of it. He had the printout from home in his jacket and unfolded it like a deed. The maître d’ apologized, nodding and calling him sir, but there was nothing he could do.

  The room was curved and stepped like an amphitheater facing the Falls. A server ushered them through the other diners and sat them in the very center of the second tier, where they had a perfect view.

  “Well that sucked,” he said.

  “This is nice.”

  “Why did I even bother asking then? It makes no sense.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “I don’t care if it was on purpose or not, it’s not right.”

  “If you’re that upset about it, we can leave.”

  “No,” he muttered.

  “Then stop bitching.”

  “I’m just saying it’s not right.”

  “It’s not helping—that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Move forward.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Suck it up.”

  As if prearranged, a different server brought a bottle of champagne, presenting the label for inspection.

  “We didn’t order that.”

  “Compliments of the house, with our apologies.”

  “Well, that’s very nice. Thank you.”

  “Just what we need,” she said, but it was true. After the first glass, the problem with the table was forgotten. While she was glad to have it behind them, it also bothered her how easily they could be bought off.

  The room was dark to highlight the view. They strained to read the menu by the lone votive burning between them, tilting the pages sideways. She had to admit, he knew her tastes. It was her kind of place, the dishes rich and finicky. The black truffle beet salad appealed to her, and the scallop sashimi, and the pork cheek, and the lobster risotto with Pernod and fennel. She scrutinized the prices, knowing they couldn’t afford it.

  “Emma’s getting married,” he said.

  “I still have to call Celia. I wonder if she’s told Jeremy.”

  “I’m sure she has. What are you thinking of getting?”

  “The risotto’s speaking to me.”

  “I looked at that. I’m leaning toward the scallops.”

  “Yes—I wanted that too. Get it and we’ll share.”

  “Remember the place on Captiva that made those scallops—”

  “With the plantains. Oh my God that was good. What was the name of the place?”

  “Sweet Melissa’s.”

  “How do you remember that?”

  Of all their trips, it was his favorite, a reminder of how they could be. “That was the night the rental car had a flat and we had to fix it in the dark.”

  “I remember.”

  The next morning they’d taken the ferry over to Cabbage Key to have a Cheeseburger in Paradise. He was about to recall for her the pod of dolphins that raced alongside the rail, surging ahead to leap the bow wave like teenagers playing chicken, when the server intruded, asking if they’d like something from the bar.

  “We’re fine with the champagne, thanks.”

  “Will you be having wine with dinner?”

  “We will,” Marion volunteered.

  “I’ll need a few minutes,” he said, because he hadn’t looked.

  The list had the heft of a bestseller. As he leafed through it, following down the columns, the prices grew more and more ridiculous. He was tempted to order their most expensive vintage but wasn’t sure his card could handle it. He chose a high-end Puligny-Montrachet, only to be told they were out of it at the moment, the same for a Meursault. His struggles attracted the sommelier, who pointed out the surprisingly few white Burgundies they had on hand. Art went with his recommendation, a lesser Meursault, more than he’d ever paid for a bottle of wine, yet somehow a letdown.

  “That was difficult,” she said.

  “Nothing’s easy today.” It was a slip, which he quickly covered, saying the champagne was very good, hoping she didn’t notice the non sequitur.

  She did, but let it pass, agreeing with him, content to sip and watch the Falls and the couples around them, each, like themselves, in their own small circle of light. Several of the women had roses, and she wished she’d thought to bring hers. She was more comfortable with the rose as the badge of their love, being both natural and ephemeral, than the ring, which seemed binding and permanent, a claim on her. She could leave the rose behind and still recall its beauty fondly. She’d apply the same philosophy to tonight, taking in its pleasures, knowing they were fleeting. When was the next time she’d eat at a place like this?

  They did their best not to fill up on bread, though the focaccia was delicious, still warm, with a hint of rosemary. Before their appetizers arrived, they drained the champagne and started on the white. She wondered if he should be drinking so much, but didn’t want to ruin the mood by casting ahead. Instead, she matched him glass for glass, and found it made conversation easier. When there was a lag, the Falls provided a reliable diversion. The nightly light show had begun, the colors changing, lurid purples and sulfurous yellows tinting the mist. The food was brilliant. When they switched plates, they each said the other’s was better. If it were a first date, she would have said it was a great success.

  After their dishes had been cleared, as they were examining the spots on the tablecloth to determine who’d spilled more, a smattering of applause from above caught their attention—another proposal. They joined the tail end, clapping politely for the lucky couple.

  “They’re everywhere,” she said.

  “They certainly are.” He didn’t say that was exactly what he’d been planning to do, or ask what she thought he was doing last night. Nothing could be less romantic than that discussion, or more fraught, and they were having a nice time. Likewise, he set aside the apology he was going to offer for having to resort to the divorce. None of it was as important as being here, sharing this occasion with her, and, emboldened by the wine and his own sentimentality, he reached across the table and took her hand.

  “You know I love you.”

  “I know,” she said, then looked up, because the server had returned.

  They broke, sat back to let him comb the crumbs from the table with a straightedge.

  Were they interested in dessert?

  “It won’t hurt to look.” From her smirk he knew he’d read her correctly.

  “I’d like some coffee,” she said, prompting a back-and-forth about how she wanted it, and did
he want some as well, and by the time the server left them alone again, the moment had gone cold.

  “You were saying,” she said, and reached out her hand for him to take.

  “I was saying I love you.”

  “And you know I love you. Whatever happens.”

  This last phrase was so important for her to communicate to him that she never suspected he might misinterpret it.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” they toasted, and, believing at heart they’d been heard and understood, they were both happy.

  Odds of the Cleveland Indians winning the World Series:

  1 in 25,000

  “I apologize in advance for the smell,” she said in the elevator, steadying herself against him to take her shoes off.

  “I don’t smell anything,” he said, but he always said that. His idea of gallantry was ignoring her shortcomings, which only drew more attention to them.

  Luckily the hall was empty, the carpet cool and yielding beneath her feet. He had to swipe the key twice. When they were inside, she sat on the sofa and kneaded her toes. She was tired and wanted the day to be over.

  “Call your sister,” he called from the bathroom.

  “Thank you.” She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, but later would be even worse, and dutifully she fished her phone from her purse and pulled up the number. She half hoped she’d be out, but the last time they spoke Celia had made a big deal about not having any Valentine’s plans, and before the third ring she picked up.

  “What’s up? I didn’t expect to hear from you. How’s the big romantic weekend going?”

  “Good—actually very good on that front. Are you sitting down?”

  “What?”

  “Emma’s getting married.”

  The silence was gratifying. “I knew it.”

  “You did not.”

  “Are you kidding? It was obvious at Christmas.”

  As Celia laid out her evidence, Art came in with his Indians bag and gently set it on the coffee table. Deliberate as a magician, he unzipped the zipper, removed two banded packets of bills and stacked them facing her. He tipped the bag on end, dredging up handfuls of chips, the plastic clattering, making her wave at him to stop. He continued gingerly, trying to be quiet, and she stood and padded to the window, listening to Celia reel off the clues she’d missed.

  “Diamond earrings? Hello?”

  “I knew they were serious. I’m just worried they’re skipping some important steps. How do you know someone if you haven’t lived with them?” After everything—and Celia knew almost everything—Marion understood how absurd it sounded, coming from her.

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” Celia said.

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter.” A figure flitted across the window, and she turned to see Art taking the bag back to the bedroom. He was ready, his nerves making him impatient. On the table sat four neat stacks of ten and a shorter stack she recognized as her winnings from last night. If they were going to risk everything, then these were hers to lose. She’d earned them. She bent down, making a claw of one hand, plucked up her stack and slipped the chips into her purse.

  “How are you doing?” Celia asked.

  “Okay,” she said, as he returned to his place at the table. “I won seven thousand at roulette last night.”

  “What? How?”

  “I’m a natural. Who knew? Listen, I have to run. We have to go break the bank.” She promised she’d talk to her later in the week, when they could actually talk.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked, but only as a preface. He pointed to the empty spot in front of him. “I thought we’d add your seven to what we’ve already got.”

  “That wasn’t part of the original plan.”

  “It’s an opportunity. If everything goes well at the beginning, we can use it to do something big later on.”

  “And if everything goes wrong?”

  “If everything goes wrong at the beginning, nothing’s going to help us.”

  “So you only need it later, if everything’s going okay.”

  “Right,” he said, but hedging, as if it were a question.

  “Do you mind if I hang on to it? I’ll have it right here. It’ll make me feel better to have something to hold on to.”

  “That’s fine. You know you’re going to be betting too. I’m not doing this all by myself. Besides, you’ve got the hot hand.”

  It was the first she’d heard of this, and she wondered if he was trying to placate or to implicate her. Changing the money was bad enough. She’d just assumed she’d stand there and watch him, free of any responsibility. She assumed he’d lose, and while that complicity made her uneasy, she accepted it, as she accepted her part in their marriage being a failure. Actively helping him would be a kind of sabotage, a self-admission that this was what she’d wanted all along. A better person would have never let it get this far. A better person would have been honest with him. A better person wouldn’t have put on her comfy shoes before grabbing the cash and heading downstairs.

  Odds of a divorced couple remarrying:

  1 in 20,480

  They waited for the elevator, but it refused to come, as if giving them a chance to reconsider. Though they both saw it as an omen, neither commented on it, not wanting to upset the other. The light was stuck on 3. He pushed the button again, as if that might do something.

  When it finally moved, it went down to 2, then M, then L.

  “All righty then,” he said, and spun away.

  “Here it comes.”

  Behind the doors, the cables whirred. The light blinked under the numbers.

  “Are you ready to play the feud?” he asked.

  “Are you?”

  “Survey says: I am.”

  The car was empty. They dropped two floors before stopping, then just one, more people piling on, forcing them to the rear. The chips made the front of his suit lumpy, resting against his ribs. He felt like a terrorist carrying a bomb. She was his accomplice, their shared secret connecting them with every glance.

  She thought he was making eyes at her because somebody farted. Because somebody had. She touched the tip of her nose to show it wasn’t her, a game Jeremy had brought back from college.

  He did the same and made a face.

  The Lord Stanley Club was on the mezzanine, but from habit he’d pushed L. They were trapped in the back, and rode down to the lobby, staying on when everyone else got off.

  While they knew what was waiting for them, going from the artificial silence to the artificial din of the casino was like walking onto a factory floor. In vast, windowless rooms, row upon row of players sat tethered to plinking, flashing machines, impervious to the outside world. It might have been day or night, summer or winter. They might have been on Mars. All that mattered was the next bet, the next spin. The solitary ones haunted her, the older women, obvious regulars with their fanny packs and ashtrays. What kind of lives did they lead? Weren’t there people who needed them? She imagined them going home to dark, empty apartments, something she secretly feared, the quiet evenings and weekends alone, hoping for a phone call from one of the children. Maybe that was why they came, for the life of the place, even if it was all a show.

  “There’s one,” Art said, spotting a wall of cashiers’ windows at the back of a gallery.

  There was no line. She’d thought this moment would never come, as if his plan were a bluff, yet here she was, pulling the money out of her purse. It felt wrong, as if he’d tricked her, the whole scheme an elaborate con. Again, as she had since he’d hit on the plan, she thought it was her job to stop him, her evasion a betrayal, handing him—them—over to fate. Why hadn’t she fought harder?

  The banded bills were stiff. He stood aside like a bodyguard as she pushed the packets into the trough, accepted the handful of chips in return and signed the receipt.

  “Feels weird, doesn’t it?” he asked, adding the chips to the stash in his jacket.

  She agreed mildly, mystified by his exci
tement. How could she tell him? It had felt like she was signing her life away.

  They headed straight for the Lord Stanley Club, sweeping down the hall as if they were late for a dinner reservation. Her composure stirred him, and he was grateful. Now that they’d changed the last of the money, the hard part was over. He’d done the legwork and provided them with the best odds he could find. The rest was up to luck.

  He’d start. Then if things went well, she’d spell him after a while.

  “Remind me again,” she said, “what’s our strategy?”

  “When you lose, you double the bet.”

  “What about when we win?”

  “The bet stays the same. Just watch me.”

  “I will.”

  “The thing you have to watch out for is forgetting to double it, or doubling it too much.” He’d had that problem when he was testing the system online, the repetition hypnotizing him. “You just have to keep track of your last bet. When I’m betting, you keep track, and vice versa. That way we’ve got a backup.”

  She didn’t ask what she should do if she lost and kept on losing. She’d watch him. If they still had any money left after that, she’d figure it out.

  The club was a haven of taste after the slot parlors.

  “Welcome back,” the ponytailed hostess at the black marble desk greeted them.

  “Thank you,” they said, as if they were members.

  Something about the fire cheered him, and the oil portrait, the patrician air of privilege and ease, possibly, corny as it was. Who aspired to that hoary ideal anymore? He’d be happy enough paying his bills.

  The place was just as busy as last night. Both roulette wheels were full. He marked the numbers that came up, but neither table went on a long streak. It was a shame: they’d be winning if he could only get a seat.

  The ball stopped on 18 red.

  “So now you double,” she said, leaning in.

  “Yup.”

  The ceremony of paying the winners took longer than she remembered. Finally the croupier lifted his plug and the players laid down their bets.

  8 black hit.

  “So we win four thousand,” he whispered. “That covers the thousand we lost, the two we just bet, plus a thousand profit. That’s how it works. No matter what we bet, every time we win, we make a thousand.”