by Kendric Neal
He'd never caught her looking at him with those probing, questioning eyes Jess had. She'd been on his side from the moment she appeared at the side of his hospital bed, not a shadow or flicker of doubt. Hell, even the good old State of North Carolina had absolved him completely. Everyone, it seemed, had looked to the lumber company and focused all their outrage there. Even the truck driver was held harmless, he was just a working man who'd tied the load the way he always had. The attorneys had run roughshod over every mouse hair they could find, Neely alone was interviewed at least a dozen times and deposed nine. Every side wanted to ask its questions and he'd known that, he'd practiced his story until he could recite it in his sleep. He'd then added nuances and slight changes to make it more believable. When people were telling the truth their story didn't change. Yet if it didn't change at all, it was a sign they were lying. “CSI”, was it? Or “Criminal Intent”?
Little details could be modified depending on his mood—sometimes he could launch into digressions about what he was thinking (quarterly reports due soon), the music he was listening to (Kevin Morby), Mae Stone's House of Buttermilk Biscuits (three exits up, he'd seen the billboard), and, oh yes, when the mood struck, when the time was right, if he felt their attention lapsing, he could always pull out The White Van That Passed Him …
All good stories needed a ghost, so he added one to his.
Everyone, the attorneys, the cops, the insurance investigators, without fail, got ridiculously turned on at this inclusion.
He had it memorized before the first tape recorder came out, as he was still under a Vicodin cloud which seemed to help. It was the Man in Black, the Woman in White, the Headless Horseman, the Great Pumpkin, the Loch Ness Monster, Bloody Mary, Bigfoot and the Mothman combined, and baby, it sure sold them.
Neely had been minding his own business tooling down the highway, listening to the cool sounds of Kevin Morby when this thing flew past, had to be going 90 at least, just flew right past like he'd been standing still. Sometimes it was a Dodge, sometimes a Ford, sometimes cream white, sometimes bone white, sometimes dirty white, and he never got a glimpse of the driver. No idea, taillight glare off the windshield, and once, (any more than that would have been a mistake), once he even said it didn't look like there was a driver…Cue the Scooby Doo instrumental on that one. Rut ro. Attorneys lead mundane lives, he figured he was doing them a service. To a lawyer or buttoned-down insurance adjuster or Statie, The White Van That Passed Him was the stuff of legend. It gave flight to the imagination, it was the joker in the pack that just might change everything. He was glad to give it to them, they seemed like they needed it.
The end result was that here he was now driving back from a sex-filled weekend with his beautiful, unsuspecting wife like nothing had happened, no innocents had been killed, no young Native American men had died because Neely couldn't wait one second more to know if the Pack was back. He was in the clear, that was for certain, as he was smart enough to know how to play it even if he was still in shock and flying on a double-Vike and Tylenol. He had a self-preservation instinct, after all, that didn't depend on full consciousness. It wasn't much different than being wounded in the wild and keeping your wits about you when the predators came sniffing, it was the same as being in the hospital after an accident you might have caused and feeling the cops, the investigators, the attorneys probing your tender spots for weaknesses. It was the modern survival instinct: Don't accept blame, don't admit anything.
He became aware she was looking at him. He had thought it often since the accident, but had gotten used to convincing himself he was imagining it. This time that reassurance flew out the window. She was scrutinizing him. He tried to cover quickly. “Need to stop?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Next rest area, or next exit?”
“Rest area.” Still there. He forced himself not to force it, to let it come out on its own. Finally, she spoke. “Aren't you going a little fast?”
He looked down and saw he was at 80. He knew that wasn't it, though—he'd put on speed when he'd felt her looking. “Yeah,” he said, slowing down. As they took the next bend, a Highway Patrol car came into view and its lights went on. “Oh, hell.” Blue lights flashed in their rearview and he slowed further, but the car passed them by and pulled over the SUV in front of them. “That was lucky,” Neely said.
“Sure was. He would have had us.”
One of those things he loved about her, truly loved, was she hadn't felt it necessary to add “if I hadn't told you to slow down”. But that word hung in the air, he'd said it without thinking…“Lucky”…and now it felt like a lump in his throat.
How big a part of his life had luck been? “Not big enough,” Groucho would have said, twaddling his cigar. Luck didn't figure into the kind of losing streak he'd had, determined as he was to reverse it through shear force of will. That approach worked for so many things in his life, but bad luck wasn't one of them. That was something he couldn't power through no matter how hard he tried. It only deepened his losses.
“You make your own luck, don't you?” she said with a suddenness that shocked him. He couldn't shake it, the feeling she was in his head sometimes. She crept around and flung open cabinets and brought out knick-knacks dripping in blood and asked innocently, Hey, honey, what's this?
He was suddenly flush with anger and didn't know why. He was a guy who'd been given an ultimatum by this woman and he'd violated it without hardly slowing down. His gambling had done just what she'd feared, it'd wrecked their nest egg, everything they'd worked so hard to put by, and he'd managed to do it without her even knowing. That made it worse, that he'd, what do the lawyers call it, constructively destroyed their lives. He'd lost her, only she didn't know it yet—she'd made it clear her ultimatum wasn't just for show and she'd take the kids and be gone, gone, gone. He'd be one of those sickening dads, living alone in an apartment, seeing them sporadically, trying to buy their love with presents, losing his hair, dating younger women… It had been on his mind for some time, only he'd been given a reprieve. Hope hadn't found out and he hadn't given himself away. He'd had time to recover, he'd had time to atone. It left him free to imagine he could somehow erase those losses and climb back out. And he was winning. He was up, for the first time in a long time, he was up.
“You seem far away,” Hope said, and he realized she was still looking at him.
“Oh, just dreading getting back to work, I guess.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. That one always worked. “You have Jepp now. Tomorrow might not be so bad.”
“True. Maybe I'll take a long lunch, sneak off to the gym.” He'd created that fiction, that the gym was his solace now in lieu of the casino. He told her how he liked to jump in a cold shower after a workout, then close his eyes and sit in the steam bath. She didn't just buy it, she jumped in feet first and enjoyed it vicariously through him. In truth, he hadn't been inside a gym in 13 years.
“You should. You earned them a lot of money,” she said.
$75, maybe $80 thou year-end bonus, possibly higher. If his mild winning streak held, and the partners were feeling enough holiday cheer, he could possibly have $150 or $160,000 back in those accounts by year's end. It made him happy to think about, but it also made him think how much time he'd spent knowing it was impossible, the chances of him making back what he'd lost were absurdly thin. He knew in fact it was positively delusional. Wasn't that one of the signs? Didn't the pamphlet tell him so? Addicts always thought they could make it back, that's what got them into trouble in the first place. Yet, $150… wow, that made it look like he could. Whenever he allowed himself to dream it was possible, really possible, it gave him heart palpitations.
At least she was no longer looking at him. She'd bought the gym line and was now looking out the window, barefeet up on the dash. Sunglasses on, music playing, twirling her hair in the wind… he'd seen more than one guy slow down to check out the hot chick in the passenger seat. He thought of that same hot chick,
butt bared to the clouds, straddling him on top of Mt. Issa less than 24 hours before and the thought gave him a rush. He had a life worth holding onto, a still-damned-pretty wife whom he loved like hell and who loved him back, two great kids who were just enough of a pain in the ass to have a real chance in life, a good job, a good house, a good family. So why screw it all up to begin with? Ah, well, that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? Out of his paygrade. The pamphlet didn't help with that one. It talked about the problem, not the source.
Everyone understood the allure of gambling, the excitement, the rush, what they didn't talk about was whatever made them do it. What was so wrong with real life? What was missing? Neely wasn't particularly introspective about these things, but he thought he knew the answer. He thought he knew what had started this whole cycle, in fact he knew he knew it. He'd missed it, that was all. He'd missed not knowing. Not knowing was magic. Not knowing was essential. He needed not to know, he'd had it in school. Would he get an A? Would the hot girl in Chem ever go out with him? Would he beat the high score? Would he get into a good school? Good job? Good wife? Good life? Was he good enough? Well, he was and he had. He'd clocked a winning time, impressed the crowd and crossed the finish line. Failure wasn't his problem, success was. He'd screwed his life up because he got bored. Ain't that a bitch?
CHAPTER 6
His teams won. Third, fourth quarter, each one of them turned it around. It hit his brain like a Red Bull cocktail, it colored the whole weekend in beautiful pastels and eased his feverish thoughts. Hope had seen the difference after the rest stop as he sang along with Alicia Keys and Erykah Badu. They had a light supper of artichokes, crackers and Brie, and a cucumber salad. They separated then, she with her Sauvignon Blanc to the den to watch that doctor show she liked, he with his New Belgium to the basement bigscreen. The half-full container of French Onion dip in the fridge, a leftover of the last time he'd done this, was only a week past its expiration (it's sour cream, what's to go bad?), so that had been an unexpected bonus. Chips and dip as the Steelers ran roughshod over the Colts, leaving the line in the dust before the first half was over. He'd fallen asleep in the fourth, something he never remembered doing. Hard to get sleepy when he had $6500 riding on the loser, and he always seemed to be riding on the loser. Until now. Until now.
There hadn't been this much peace in his house for over a year. There had been arguments every other night as Hope scrutinized everything, which was doubly troublesome any night he came home after losing. The last thing he wanted to hear when he'd dropped a couple grand was nagging, so he'd stop for a drink or two or he'd try to come home late so she was in bed or too tired to argue. Even that stopped working—that damned light would be on and she'd be sitting in her chair with that miserable expression and he'd know sleep would be shot, they'd be at it for hours and he'd be dragging through work the next day.
Those had been terrible times, it had been worth anything to put a stop to them finally. She'd forced it, as wives so often did, by packing her stuff and filling one of those PODS in the driveway. He came home from work and she had all her stuff in that damn thing and the car packed with their suitcases. She'd rented an apartment near the kids' school, she had it all lined up. There, for the neighbors to see, there for everyone to know, they were having trouble and she was leaving him. It was so unnecessary, women always made such a big play of things, they were all drama queens underneath, Jesus, look at the shows she watched. He'd had to wrest her hands off the wheel finally, Mrs. Klingman staring at them, walking that damned dog of hers, not bothering to look like she was trying not to listen, no, in fact hanging on every damn word.
The kids were at her sister's lakehouse. She was going to pick them up and take them to their new lives. It was a done deal, ink dried, fait accompli, and she looked ready to stick to it. Of course, he knew otherwise. He knew when you really had to be scared with a woman like Hope was when she was quiet, not showy, when her voice betrayed only calm considered reason. That's when things were hopeless, not when they were playing out a soap opera on the front lawn so Mrs. Klingman and her obnoxious Maltypoo could bear witness. He later found out she'd only put about a dozen boxes in the POD and the suitcases didn't even have their toiletries, but by then she'd gotten what she'd wanted. He'd made his promise, yes, dear, help, yes, I'll go to GA, yes, I'll go to those asinine meetings, yes, I'll be the boy scout you always wanted. He promised his soul, that's what it felt like that night, like he'd promised his soul, it wasn't his anymore to put on an Ace-high flush when he knew he'd win. It'd been repo'ed and it was time to kiss it goodbye. He might get visitation rights, but it wasn't his anymore. Not even for an occasional friendly damned poker game. Small price to pay for peace and tranquility, right? A Faustian deal if ever he'd seen one—she'd taken control and held all the strings now. He was no longer Neely, he was just Dad. Yes Honey, Yes Dear. He lived in a damned sitcom.
He hadn't realized any of this at first, no, he'd just gone along with the program, so happy not to be losing them, willing to do whatever it took to get that POD off the driveway and keep his wife from leaving. And they'd been happy for a while, it had worked. Sure, he missed his soul now and again, but she wasn't too stingy with it, letting him go to the sports bar on weekends and tip a few with Sean and Riley and the guys. She'd even let him participate in the office betting pool and said nothing, not a peep, at the Superbowl party when he and Riley shook hands on a hundred buck side bet. She'd given him some room to breathe, but it had backfired, hadn't it? It had only made him hungrier for more. (No, that's not right, he'd already fallen off the wagon by then, and it wasn't because of any rope she'd given him.)
He slipped back into the life in full force, only to begin the World's Most Epic Losing Streak, like some sort of sick joke from God. Here he had the most pleasant home life he'd had for years, and had to conceal the fact that he'd run through their net worth in a matter of months. God was funny that way. For a while it made him think he really was done gambling, he really had learned his lesson. But he'd lost too much by then to quit, she'd have found out eventually and left him regardless. No, the only way out of his predicament was to put the money back and the only chance he had of doing that was by gambling.
After twenty years of playing for fun, he'd had to get serious. He'd read some things, applied some self-discipline, this wasn't about enjoyment anymore, this was about saving his life. He had to win, in increments if need be, as a job, not a hobby. He whittled away, read books by pros, pushed away at the right time and gained some of it back. It was slow, it was agonizing, but he could do it if he knew the odds and didn't screw with them too much. He was a numbers guy, wasn't he? It took out a lot of the fun, but he had something to shoot for, he had his family to save, and what he lost in fun he gained in purpose. Things might have been okay if the accident had never happened, he'd made headway on the $300K, he only bet sure things and steadily won more than he lost.
When it had finally really come down to it, he knew he didn't want to lose them. Knew it with a clarity he hadn't before. He wondered if it was something men had to do, some final push towards freedom, independence and self-destruction, the three things that made men men to begin with. Wasn't that what a midlife crisis was all about? The three phases of a man's life… Pawn to Knight was a blast, Knight to Prince wasn't so bad, but Prince to King? That was permanence, no going back, heaviness descending. Maybe Kings always dreamed of being Knights again, no matter what they said. Maybe they missed those heady days when they could gamble with their lives just for the sport of it. Or maybe they just needed it for a couple of weeks to realize their bones weren't up to it anymore and they didn't really want to die with a lance through the heart after all.
That was the conclusion he'd come to shortly before the tree knocked it loose. Family was worth it. It wasn't always easy, but family was worth it. The thrills he got from gambling grew briefer and briefer and were tinged with the fear that they were going to cost him too much in the end, just
like that lance. He wanted the $300K back and he wanted his family back, the two things he'd had when he started. And he was on the road, he was making progress, but he'd had to be on that stretch of highway that night in that lane at that time. He had to see that tree.
He reached for the remote and caught the final tally on ESPN. The Colts had come back but not enough, good sleep indeed, good day, good weekend, hope sprung eternal. He went to turn the TV off but hit the Channel button by mistake. It flashed, as though drawn there, on a movie full of Indians. Native Americans. Alright, already. Okay, that wasn't lucky. That wasn't lucky at all. He would have gone to bed in a good mood, fallen straight off, but this…he made no move to turn it off. He didn't know what he was watching, but it was a scene of destitution. He was well aware of the plight of the Ind—Native Americans, his nearest casino was owned by them. Somehow, though, the Native Americans had learned our ways only too well as the millions the casinos made sure as hell weren't alleviating the poverty of some of those dirty-lined reservation streets.
He'd gotten to know a few of the dealers and chatted with them when things were slow or no game was to be had, as he didn't like to play against the dealer alone, that was bad luck. He'd wondered why so few of them were tribemembers when he'd always heard unemployment among them was so high. One of them told him tribemembers did indeed get first dibs, it was perfectly legal to discriminate, the problem was they didn't want them. Free money, why give it up? Anybody with at least 1/8th blood got a share, and the purebloods did very well indeed. The ones that didn't get enough to live on either couldn't pass the medical, couldn't pass the drug test, couldn't add or subtract, or couldn't give a damn. 83% of the ones they did hire were fired within a year, usually for unexcused absences. The dealer then said a series of increasingly disparaging things about Naccahaws, all the more shocking because she was a Naccahaw. The way she put it, the plight of her people, her tribemembers, her family, was desperate, self-caused, inevitable and deserved. They had never adjusted to the new world and were locked in a spiral of dissipation. The ones who adapted were no longer Naccahaw, and the ones who hadn't were unrepentant alcoholics. She didn't seem too broken up about it, either, and Neely asked her which category she fit into. She smiled for a moment and said, “Neither”. She was still proud of her heritage, she just hated to see it disappearing.