Blizzard Ball

by Dennis Kelly

  The explosion had stunned Morty physically and mentally. The normally glib Lottery director pulled a note card from his coat pocket and set it on the podium. “I am saddened by these events and the loss of life. I was advised to leave the negotiations to professional law enforcement,” he read.

  A rapid-fire reporter jumped in. “What can you tell us about the unidentified lottery customer killed? Can we assume he possessed the winning $750 million jackpot ticket? Was the ticket destroyed in the blast? How will this be resolved with the public?”

  Morty had no answer to that. No answer as to what had possessed a disgruntled lottery player to blow the roof off the place. No answer in hell on how his plan got hijacked.

  Another reporter, sensing Morty’s paralysis, jumped in and launched a new barrage of questions. “It has been reported in the St. Paul Pioneer Press that the BCA is conducting an investigation into the sale of lottery tickets from the convenience store where the winning BlizzardBall jackpot ticket was sold, and the winner is considered to be a person of interest. What’s the nature of the inquiry? Was the deceased hostage attempting to claim the winning ticket a subject of your investigation?”

  Morty backed away from the podium and looked to the chief of police. Chief Renalo turned to Kirchner. The BCA, as a matter of course, did its best to stay out of the limelight and let local law enforcement be the face of the investigations. There was an awkward silence, with a sense of ineptitude fast filling the air.

  Kirchner stepped forward. He capped the microphone and turned to Morty. “Goddamn it, somebody’s going to pay for this leak.” Releasing the mike cap, he confronted the press. “We are in the early stages of collecting crime scene evidence and will provide appropriate comment at a future time. We do not comment on investigations, rumored or otherwise.”

  “Were you aware the hostage taker worked in an iron mine and had a blaster’s license?” a reporter asked.

  “Jesus Christ,” Kirchner muttered to himself. “We’re in the process of gathering pertinent background information. We’ll keep you updated. Thank you.” Kirchner walked out of the tent.

  Interruption

  After the lottery ticket transfer, Alita drove back to Brian’s farm in Albert Lea.

  “A bomb blast!” Brian said as he met her at the door. “Where in the hell did that come from?” He pointed to the TV.

  Alita stood with her coat on, watching the news coverage of the Lottery headquarter siege and the aftermath of the explosion. “Are we in trouble?”

  “I expected the Canadian to get busted with the tickets. They’re virtually untraceable. End of story. But . . .”

  “But what?” Alita could feel the stress behind her eyes threatening to erupt in a full-blown headache.

  “No way did I foresee the counterfeit tickets to be in the mix with a bomb blast that killed four people. This is bad,” he said, pacing in a tight circle with his hands on his head.

  “Bad?” Alita shouted. “This big plan with the counterfeits was supposed to stop the madness!” Her hands balled into fists. “These crazy people after the tickets will not stop.” She shuddered and looked out the window. “Now neither will the police. What have I gotten myself into?” She turned and stormed up the stairs, leaving the tension hanging in the air. She slammed a bedroom door and threw herself on the bed. Staring at the ceiling, she tried to find something to hang onto. It seemed like she was in a house of mirrors, with events coming at her from all angles, uncertain as to what was real and what was a reflection of her tangled nerves.

  Brian turned the TV off and went into the kitchen. He pulled one of his father’s hunting rifles from the back entry gun rack, a lever-action Winchester 30-30. He traced a finger along the cut checking on the walnut stock and felt the etching on the cold blue steel barrel. He loaded four rounds into the tube magazine and levered one into the chamber. He called Alita’s dog. They walked along the snow-rutted driveway leading to the main road. The only movement was a rabbit quivering under a conifer that the dog promptly took after. Brian reached the main road and stood for a long while with the rifle on his shoulder. He watched snow devils twist and taunt and skitter down the road. His shadow lengthened and faded into darkness without any sign that Alita had been followed. He gathered in the dog and trekked back to the farmhouse.

  “Alita, I’ve got some dinner on,” Brian yelled up to the second floor, interrupting the silent retreat. “Please eat something.”

  The Alita who earlier had her hair pulled back and wore a tight skirt, blouse, and high heels was not the woman who came down the stairs. She had on one of Brian’s old flannel shirts and woolen socks. Her long dark hair lay soft upon her shoulders.

  Brian met her on the landing. “I’m sorry about all of this. Please have some dinner. You’ll feel better,” he said, directing her to the red oak dining room table. A tasseled lamp shade bathed the room in golden light. “It’s not much, crock-pot special, but it’s warm. And I’ve got wine.” Brian held the neck of the bottle between his fingers and swung it like a hypnotist’s pendulum.

  Alita froze at the sight of the wine bottle. She wanted to say, “No thanks, I don’t drink anymore,” but Brian’s gesture was an obvious attempt to patch things up. Before she could respond, Brian disappeared back into the kitchen.

  She sat rigid in the dining room chair. Her eyelids were heavy, but her nerves were too wired to relax. She ran a chipped red fingernail gently around the rim of the fine bone china soup bowl and looked at her tired reflection in the sterling silver spoon. Brian returned, the bottle uncorked, and poured her a glass of wine, but before stepping away, gently massaged the back of her neck. Her chin dropped and shoulders released. She let out an audible, “Mmmm.”

  “These dishes haven’t been out of the china hutch since Mom died. You’re the first person I’ve shared a meal with in this house since I left New York. I had to do something to offset my one-pot special.” Brian cocked his head, trying to coax a smile.

  “They’re beautiful. I would have liked to have met your mother. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten on such elegant dishes.” Alita spooned through a medley of vegetables: onion pearls, baby carrot bobbers, broccoli snowflakes, mushroom umbrellas, peapod canoes, tomato butterflies, and spinach lily pads.

  “If you’re looking for the meat, sorry. I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Look, I’m the one who should apologize—invading your home with my problems and bad manners.” Alita set down the spoon. “I just wish I had a clue about what’s happening. It’s maddening. I feel like I’m part of someone else’s script, along with Eduardo, Rafie, even the dead Pakistani. We’re all in it, being manipulated. I can feel it.”

  “Hopefully this is the end of it,” Brian said, dredging the bottom of his soup bowl.

  “I just pray Eduardo and Rafie are safe,” Alita sighed.

  “Those guys with their fistful of winning lottery tickets are probably living large in one of the border towns.”

  “They’re good men at heart. They just never had much opportunity.”

  “How about you? As I recall, you were a very bright student,” Brian said.

  “I blew it.” Alita pushed the half-finished bowl away and recounted her failed college experience. “I received a partial scholarship, and Carlos kicked in some. Then I got pregnant and dropped out.” Alita paused and tilted the glass, swished the red wine as if trying to float up the right words. “I was a big disappointment. To myself, and especially to Carlos. He never said so, but I could see it in his eyes. My failure extended out to every kid trying to get out of the fields and food-processing plants. An abortion was out of the question. Carlos and Chantico said they would help with the baby so I could continue with school.” Alita closed her eyes and folded her hands as if in prayer. Other than the tick-tock of the grandfather clock, there was silence.

  “I had a miscarriage,” she said. Brian reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “When I lost my baby,” she continued, dabbing the tears with a napkin, “I
lost my motivation for school and just about anything else except alcohol and drugs. I went to the Cities, worked as a waitress, assembler, manicurist, and a dozen other mindless jobs. Then I ran into Eduardo and Rafie. I know everyone thinks they’re deadbeats, but they looked after me, encouraged me to quit drinking, made me laugh, held me up to a higher standard than I deserved. I took a job at a bank. It pays one step ahead of McDonald’s, but after two years on the job they’ll help fund college expenses. All I want is to put myself in a position to give something back. Ha! Listen to me.” She lifted the glass, brought the wine to her nose and breathed in the perfume of dark berries with a peppery edge. “Always ahead of the game. I’ll be lucky if I get my shit together enough to help myself.” She brought the wineglass to her lips with only a slight hesitation.

  “Hey,” Brian blurted.

  Alita jerked and almost dropped the glass.

  “Sorry, just thought maybe you might want a glass of water or something.”

  Alita set the glass down and closed her eyes. “I’m so weak.”

  “You’re not alone in that department.” Brian delicately picked up her glass and set it down on a sideboard under a framed photo of his parents hanging against rose-colored damask wallpaper. “I should never have let you make the ticket drop alone. I feel so selfish now. I’m all about boundaries. I was raised on them. Acres, sections, fence posts, barbed wire, plats, metes and bounds. Don’t stick your nose into other people’s business any further than you have to.” Brian shook a mocking finger at his parents and turned back to Alita. “I create passports, green cards, drivers’ licenses, medical IDs, whatever’s needed, but I never get to the front line. Never put myself in the position of actually having to endure the pressure of presenting a false document at the border or to an employer with my heart beating so loud I can’t think straight. I sensed the ticket handoff could have been trouble, but I did what I always do—fenced it off. The moment you drove back into the yard, seeing you distressed, knowing the danger you’d been in, I felt ashamed, responsible. Forgive me.”

  Alita rose from her chair like iron being drawn to a magnet. “Hold me.” Brian brought his sensitive artist’s fingers to her face. As if reading Braille, he traced the top of her ear, the line of her jaw, and gently lifted her chin. Their lips tasted, then lingered. He picked her up. Alita curled her arms around his neck as he carried her up the stairs.

  “Please don’t drop me,” she whispered.

  “Scoot, Poochy,” Brian said to the dog as he set Alita down on the edge of the bed. The dog, more curious than disciplined, needed a little more persuading. Brian collared it, led it down the hallway, and shut the bedroom door. Alita slipped off to the bathroom.

  Brian paced next to the bed. He had been with only one woman and that was a long time ago, before his New York nervous breakdown. The immediate aftermath of that episode was a regime of anti-depression medication that torpedoed his sex drive. He had ditched the drugs and was well past the side effects. The pressure in his trousers was building to an embarrassing presence. He turned off the overhead light and touched a match to a candle on the nightstand. He unbuttoned his shirt, raised his arm overhead, and sniffed at his armpit. Alita walked in. His hand dropped sharply into a salute position.

  “At ease, soldier,” Alita laughed. She pushed him backwards on the bed. She kissed his eyelids, nibbled at his ears, and licked his lips like a mother monkey cleaning her baby.

  Brian pulled her shirt over her head, freeing her dark-nippled breasts. She unbuckled his pants. Her hands closed around him, sending a charge through his body that arched his back. He eased her over, stripped off her panties, and began to devour her at the triangle of her legs.

  Brian felt his fuse burning short. He jumped out of bed, shook his shorts off and tore into a dresser drawer in a frantic rummage. He ripped open the condom with his teeth and rolled it on backwards. “Goddamn it.” Frustrated, he reversed the installation.

  The four-poster bed took off and lurched across the wood plank floor. The dog scratched and whined at the door. Alita fought like a drowning victim: clutched, gasped, and tore at Brian’s back. Brian’s whole body shuddered, releasing the tension of a thousand lonely nights. He opened his mouth to speak. His face and chest glistened with sweat. Alita put a finger to his lips, pulled him toward her, and buried his head in her shoulder. They lay quiet for a long time, their skin moist and tacky, and listened to the old house creaking under its snow-laden roof.

  “Guess what?” Brian whispered in her ear. “I’ve just won the lottery.”

  His cell phone rang. He reached into his trouser pocket on the floor and fished it out, then got out of bed to take the call into the hallway. “Where? When?” He hung up and hesitated before coming back into the bedroom.

  “That was Carlos.” Brian sat on the bed next to Alita. “Eduardo and Rafie were in a car accident.”

  “What?”

  “They’re gone,” Brian said, and reached for her. “I’m sorry— they both died.” He tried to hold Alita through the screaming, but she fought him off.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “If it wasn’t for my big mouth and the fucking lottery, they would have been safe instead of tired and homeless.” Alita bolted from the bed, snatched her clothes out of the closet, and rushed into the bathroom.

  She emerged fully dressed. “I don’t want anything to do with this bullshit lottery,” she said. “Where are the damn tickets?”

  “Be cool, I’ll get them, okay?”

  Brian pulled on his pants, retrieved a box from the linen cabinet, and set it on the bed. Alita lifted the box lid and looked at the contents. The winning tickets had been sorted and banded by prize value. “Nothing but bad luck,” she said, and dumped the tickets into an oversized tote purse. With the purse on her shoulder, she padded down the stairs, her heels in hand. She collected her coat, stuffed her feet into her shoes, and headed for the door.

  “Wait! Where ya going?” Brian said, following Alita out into the snow-covered yard in a tee shirt. “Carlos said the plan was to get the Canadians busted with the counterfeits and off your back.

  Then sit tight.”

  “Screw the plan. I am going to get rid of this curse.”

  “Don’t leave. It’s too dangerous.” Brian tried to block her path. “Who knows how many more ticket scalpers are out there, plus the cops. This is crazy.”

  “Move,” Alita said, pushing past him as she got into her car.

  Alita drove through Albert Lea toward the interstate. The flat gray cloud ceiling, threatening snow, added to her already dark mood. She mindlessly blew through a stop sign. Startled by a horn blast, screech of brakes, and near collision, she tried to collect herself. Trauma from the news about her cousins had shattered her ability to focus. She pulled into an Amoco station with an adjoining diner near the entrance ramp to 35W.

  Darting into the Amoco ladies’ room, she stood in front of the mirror, took a deep breath and splashed cold water on her face. The fog in her brain was clearing, but it only served to amplify the feeling of responsibility for the loss of her cousins. Then too, her reckless temper and flight had probably sunk her relationship with Brian. Her stomach rolled and twisted at the thought. She tried to rub away smudges of mascara but discovered stress had painted dark shadows beneath her eyes. She had no makeup with her, but couldn’t care less at this point. Before leaving the station she collected a bottle of water and a package of Excedrin and brought them to the checkout counter.

  The customer in front of her was a tall thin woman wearing a woven Peruvian-style stocking cap. Straggly ginger-colored hair, graying at the edges, peeked out from underneath. A small backpack hung loosely from a single strap on her shoulder. She smelled of sage—an old hippie, Alita surmised . The woman held in her nail-bitten hands a stack of lottery tickets. She was dealing them out one at a time to the heavyset, ruddy-faced clerk who was scanning them for winners.

  “Never seen that many winners at one time. It looks like
you hit on a pretty good system,” the clerk said, slapping cash on the counter. “This one here,” he said, holding a ticket up between tobacco-stained fingers, “is too big for my britches. You’ve got to go to a lottery office to cash it in. Closest one’s in Owatonna, up the road a piece. Also recommend you sign it.”

  Alita watched as the woman turned the ticket over and signed Joanne Finstedt in the signature block. She then collected her cash, stuffed the money and unfulfilled lottery ticket in her pack, and walked into the adjoining diner.

  Alita paid for her items and quickly followed. There were only a few customers, mostly truckers deep into their coffee. She spotted the woman in a booth, alone, near the window.

  “Excuse me, can I ask where you got those lottery tickets?”

  “Is there something wrong?” the woman asked, focusing beyond Alita, to a highway patrolman who had just entered the restaurant and was standing at the entrance surveying the patrons.

  Alita took advantage of the woman’s distraction and slipped discreetly into the booth. Both women watched the patrolman take a seat, remove his Smokey the Bear type hat, and light a smile for the waitress. The women looked at each other, sharing a moment of relief.

  “Sorry to barge in. It’s just that I was curious about the source of your lottery tickets.”

  A waitress in a black tank top and white apron dropped menus on the table. “Coffee?”

  “Black for me,” Alita said.

  “Leave room for cream,” the woman added and waited for the waitress to trail off. Then to Alita, “I don’t recall extending you an invitation.” Her face screwed into annoyance.

  “This will just take a minute. I’m Alita.”

  “So, I’m Joanne. What do you want?”

  “You probably think I’m bat-shit crazy, and you’d be right, but . . .” her chin quivered. “My cousins are dead because of the fucking lottery.” Her voice was a strained whisper, the words tasting like copper pennies, metallic and acrid. She took a breath and continued, “I noticed each of your lottery tickets had the number 21 as the BlizzardBall pick.” Alita fumbled through her purse and extracted a bundle of lottery tickets. “What’s a little puzzling is, so do these.” She laid the tickets on the table. “I was considering there might be a connection.”