Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

  Next we hike through a marshy pine woods, clouds of mosquitoes, gnats, those fat black flies that bite before a thunderstorm. A sultry wind is blowing up, yet the sun is still shining, rifts in black clouds hot and fiery so you think there might not be a storm, the clouds might be blown away. In the woods are scattered cottages linked by a rutted lane. Loud voices, kids shouting. Bathing suits and towels hanging on drooping clotheslines. Most of the cottages are small like my uncle Tyrone's, with shingleboard siding or fake pine or maple, crowded close together, but Deek's uncle's cottage is at the end of the lane with nothing beyond but trees, bushes grown close against the cottage so neighbors can't see into the windows. Deek tries the front door but it's locked, dumps his groceries on the porch and goes around to the back of the cottage to jimmy off a window screen, Heins is excited asking what the hell is Deek doing, doesn't he have a key for the cottage?—"This is 'breaking and entering,'" Heins says, but Deek only laughs, saying, "Din't I tell you this is my uncle's fuckin' place I'm welcome in, any fuckin' time."

  When Deek gets the screen off the window, he turns to me, grabs me around my middle and lifts me like you'd lift a small child not a girl weighing eighty pounds and five feet three which is tall for my age, saying for me to crawl inside, and open the door, I am a better fit through the window than he is. Deek's fingers on me are so hard almost I can't catch my breath, squirming to get free like a captured bird, but a bird so scared it isn't going to struggle much, and next thing I know Deek has shoved me through the window with a grunt, headfirst I'm falling, might've broken my neck except I'm able to grab hold of something, scrambling up on my hands and knees panting like a dog and my heart pounding fast as the guys are cheering behind me and the skin of my buttocks, inside the puckered fabric of my swimsuit bottom, is tingling from the palms of Deek's hard hands shoving me.

  It's no problem opening the front door of the cottage, just a Yale lock, the guys come whooping and laughing inside dropping six-packs and groceries on a dingy counter. Seems like more than four of them in this small room. It's one of those cottages that is mostly just a single room with two small rooms at the back for sleeping. In the main room are mismatched pieces of furniture, a rickety Formica-topped kitchen table, chairs with torn seats, against a wall a narrow kitchen counter, a tiny sink, and a tiny two-burner gas stove, cupboards and one of those half-sized refrigerators you have to stoop to reach into. Smells here of cooking, old grease, plain old grime. Looks like it hasn't been cleaned or even swept for months, there are cobwebs everywhere, dust-balls and husks of dead insects on the floorboards, ants on the sticky Formica-topped table on the counter, tiny black ants that move in columns like soldiers. Deek is looking through a stack of magazines on an end table, whistling through his teeth and laughing: "Oh, man. Sweet Jesus." The guys crowd around Deek looking at the magazine while I'm ignoring them, removing the groceries from the bags, wiping down the sticky Formica-topped table and counters with wetted paper towels, trying to get rid of the ants. Damn nasty ants! And the smell in here. The way the guys are carrying on over the magazines, crude things they are saying, I'm edgy, embarrassed. Deek sees me, the hot flush in my cheeks, laughs and says, "C'mere, Anns'lee. Look here."

  But Jax says quick and sharp, "This ain't for her, Deek. Fuck off."

  Deek is laughing at me, saying not to be looking so mean, but I'm turned away sullen and uneasy, not smiling back at him, saying maybe I don't want to play poker after all, my mother is probably wondering where I am, I can walk back to our cottage, I won't need a ride. Deek says, "Okay, li'l babe," dumping the magazines into a trash can and one of the guys has opened a Coors for me, icy-cold from Otto's Beer & Bait. They are trying to be nice now so I'm thinking maybe I will stay for a while, learn to play poker, it's nowhere near dark. Nothing waiting for me at the cottage except helping Momma and my aunt prepare supper and if it's raining just TV till we go to bed. Here I'm entrusted with setting out food for these big hulking hungry guys, there's a feeling like an indoor picnic, finding paper plates in the cupboard, a plastic bowl to empty chips into, unwrapping the mashed-looking ham sandwiches. The storm hasn't started yet, maybe there won't even be a storm, the thunder is still far away in the mountains. I'm thinking that Deek really likes me, the way he looks at me, smiles. It's a special smile like a wink, for me. Pushing me through the window He touched me! He touched me there—did he?

  I won't need many beers to become giddy-drunk.

  That buzzing sensation in the head when your thoughts come rushing past like crazed bats you can't be sure even you've seen, blink and they're gone.

  Deek says: Name of the game is five-card draw.

  Deek says: Poker isn't hard, is it? Not for a smart girl like you.

  Hard to tell if Deek is teasing or serious. These first few games, I seem to be doing well. Deek's chair is close beside mine so that he can oversee my cards as well as his own. Like we're a "team," Deek says. Telling me the values of the cards which isn't so different from gin rummy, euchre, and Truth (which is the card game my friends and I play). "Royal flush"—"straight flush"—"flush"—"five-of-a-kind hand" (when the joker is wild) and it is all logical to me, common sense I'm thinking, except maybe I'm not remembering, Deek talks so fast and there's so much happening each time cards are dealt. In the third game, Deek nudges me to "raise" with three eights, two kings, Deek whispers in my ear this is a "full house"—I think that's what he said, "full house"—and the cards are strong enough to win the pot: fifteen dollars! This is amazing to me, I'm laughing like a little kid being tickled and the guys are saying how fast I am catching on. Heins says, "Li'l dude is gonna pull in all our money, wait and see."

  Deek has been the one to "stake" me, these early games. Five one-dollar bills Deek has given me.

  In his chair close beside mine, Deek is looming over me twice my size breathing his hot beer-breath against the side of my face, hairs on his tattoo-arm making the hairs on my arm stir when his arm brushes near. Like we are young kids whispering and conspiring together. I am thinking that poker isn't so hard except you have to keep on betting and if you don't stay in the game you have to "fold" and if you "fold" you can't win no matter the cards in your hand and so you have to think really hard, try to figure out the cards the other players have, and if they are serious "raising" the bet, or only just bluffing. Deek says that's the point of poker, bluffing out the other guy, seeing can you bullshit him, or he's going to bullshit you.

  Doesn't it matter what your actual cards are, I ask Deek, if they are high or low? Deek says sort of scornfully like this is a damn dumb question he will answer because he likes me, "Sure it matters, but not so much's how you play what you're dealt. What you do with the fuckin' cards you are dealt, that's poker."

  Through the beer-buzz in my brain comes these words What you do with what you're dealt. That's poker.

  These first few games when good cards come to me, or Deek tells me how to play them, it's like riding in the speedboat across the choppy lake gripping my seat squealing and breathless and the boat thump-thump-thumping through the waves like nothing could stop it ever, such a good feeling, a sensation in my stomach that is almost unbearable, Deek casting his sidelong glance at me, stroking his whiskery jaws saying, "Okay Anns'lee-honey: you are on your own now." A flashing card-shuffle in Heins's fingers and the cards flicked out and I'm fumbling my cards blinking and trying to figure out what they mean, the guys keep opening cans of Coors for me, could be I am drunk and not knowing it, biting my lower lip and laughing, goddamn I am clumsy dropping a card (an ace!) that Croke can see, and the guys are waiting for me, seems like I've lost the thread of what is going on so Deek nudges me saying, "You have to bet, Anns'lee, or fold." I'm frowning and moving my lips like a first grader trying to read, what's it mean—ace of hearts and ace of spades and four of diamonds and four of clubs and a nine of clubs, should I get rid of the nine, I guess I should get rid of the nine, my thoughts seem to be coming in slow motion now as I toss down the four of clubs, no! take it
back it's the nine of clubs I don't want, Heins deals a replacement card to me and I fumble turning it over, my face falls it's a nine of spades, I'm disappointed, should I be disappointed? The guys are trying to be patient with me. I am itchy and sweaty inside the Cougars T-shirt, and my swimsuit beneath, halter-top with straps that tie around the neck and puckered-fabric bottom, still damp from the lake, and my ponytail straggling down my back still damp too, Momma says we should shower and shampoo our hair after swimming in that lake water there's "impurities" in it—sewage draining from some of the cottages—diesel fuel leaked into the lake from motorboats—some people, Uncle Tyrone says, no better than pigs. Must be, the guys are waiting for me to make a decision (but what decision should I be making? I've forgotten), Deek leans over to take hold of the nape of my neck gripping me the way you'd grip a dog to shake it a little, reprimand it, "C'mon babe, you in or out?" and I try to ease away from him, I think it's meant as a joke, and not some kind of threat, and Heins says, "She's just a kid, Deek. Why'd you want to play with a kid?" and Deek turns on him, "Fuck you, Heinie! Anns'lee and me, we're a team."

  This is warming to me, to hear. Team we are a team. So I say, "I'm in," toss another bill onto the pile. Croke mulls over his cards, decides to fold, Jax folds, Heins raises like he means to provoke Deek. By now my bladder is pinching so hard, I have to pee again, itchy and nervous, uncertain what to do, guess I will "fold" now, should I "fold"?—a single dollar-bill left of all my winnings. The winning hand is Heins's though maybe in fact Heins's cards are weaker than my "two pair," but damn it's too late, I'm out. I folded, and I lost. Could cry, my winnings are gone so fast, it's like the dollar-bills Deek staked me were my own, now gone. A childish hurt opens in me like an old, soft wound.

  "Too bad, li'l dude. This is poker."

  The guys laugh at me, I'm wanting to think fondly. The way you'd laugh at a pouting child who doesn't have a clue what is going on around her.

  Outside, the sky is mostly clouds. But a hot steamy sun shining through. This smell in the air, it's like there is a lightning-storm somewhere else.

  Heins is dealing. Heins says, "Cut, babe." Somehow, I'm betting my last dollar-bill. Something tells me I am going to win this time—win all my money back!—but the cards are confusing to me, can't remember what Deek was telling me, "straight"—"flush"—"full house"—"two pair"—I'm staring at my cards, king of hearts, ten of hearts, eight of hearts, five of diamonds, and two of diamonds, get rid of the two of diamonds that's a low card—should I?—or is this a mistake?—the replacement card Heins deals me is a six of spades, I'm disappointed, Ohhh damn, in my confusion thinking that the black spade brings down the value of the red cards, that's how it looks to me, so my last dollar-bill is taken from me when I'm too scared to bet and say instead "fold"—laying down my cards, and Jax peers at them, saying, "Shit, babe, you coulda done better." Anyway I am relieved to be out of the game needing to use the bathroom bad, swaying on my feet (bare feet? where are my sandals?), the floor is sticky against the bottoms of my feet, feels like it's tilting, I'm losing my balance falling into somebody's lap but manage to get to the bathroom and shut the door behind me feeling so strange like on a roller coaster where I'd be frightened except everything seems funny to me, even losing my dollar-bills, my dollar-bills you'd think I had brought with me to the poker game, only just makes me laugh. In the murky mirror above the cruddy sink, there's my face dazed and sunburnt and my eyes (that Momma says are my father's eyes, hazel-dark-brown, beautiful eyes but you can't trust them) are threaded with blood, that's a little scary but still I can't stop laughing. These guys like me, the way Deek looks at me, pulls my ponytail, slaps at my rear, maybe I am a pretty girl after all. Giggling leaning to the mirror, pursing my lips so they get wrinkly kissing my mirror-lips whispering Anns'lee-honey! Li'l dude! nobody has ever called me before.

  "I will tell Gracie. Nobody else."

  Thinking how I loved it when Daddy tickled me, when I was a little girl. Daddy spreading his big fingers and "walking"—pretending they were "daddy longlegs"—come to tickle me, making me kick and squeal with laughter. I was seven, in second grade, when Daddy went away up to Follette, and the woman from Herkimer County Family Services asked did your father ever hurt you, Annislee?—and I said No! He did not. Daddy did not. You would think that when you answered such a question that would be the end of it but repeatedly the question would be asked as if to trick you. Asking did your daddy hurt you or your brother or your mother, try to remember, Annislee, and I was angry saying in a sharp voice like a fingernail scraped on a blackboard No Daddy did not.

  "Hey, Anns'lee: din't fall in, did you?"

  One of the guys rapping on the door, making the latchkey rattle.

  At the table the guys are devouring ham sandwiches in two-three bites. Big fistfuls of chips. Cans of Black Horse Ale opened and the ale-smell is sharp and acrid. Heins is shuffling cards, pushes them across the table for me to cut. Am I still in this game? With no dollar-bill to toss into the pot? They're asking where am I staying at the lake and I tell them. Where do I live and I tell them: Strykersville, which is about twelve miles to the south. Is your family with you at Wolf's Head, Deek asks me, and I tell him yes: except for my father who isn't there. Deek asks where is my father, and I hesitate, not wanting to tell him that I am not sure. Last I knew, Daddy was living in Sparta, but he's one to move around some. Not liking to be tied down, Momma says.

  Croke asks do I have any brothers?—his greeny-gray eyes on me in a way that's kindly, I think. I say yes, Jacky who's nine years old and a damn pain in the neck.

  (Why'd I say this? To make the guys laugh? You'd think that I don't love my little brother, but truly I do.)

  Seems like the guys want me back in their game, Deek is allowing me to put up my Cougars T-shirt "for collateral." Since washing my face, I'm feeling more clearheaded—I think!—wanting to win back the dollar-bills I've lost. Maybe this is how gamblers get started, you are desperate to win back what you've lost, for there is a kind of shame in losing.

  But the cards don't come now. Or anyway, I can't make sense of them. Like adding up a column of numbers in math class, you lose your way and have to begin again. Like multiplying numbers, you can do it without thinking, but if you stop to think, you can't. Staring at these new cards, nine of hearts, nine of clubs, king of spades, queen of spades, four of diamonds. I get rid of the four of diamonds and I'm excited, my replacement card is a jack of spades, but my eyes are playing tricks on me, what looks like spades is actually clubs, after raising my bet I see that it's clubs and I've made a mistake staring and blinking at the cards in my hands that are kind of shaky like I have never seen a poker hand before. Around the table the guys are playing like before, loud, funny-rude, maybe there's some tension among them, I can't figure because I am too distracted by the cards and how I am losing now, nothing I do is right now, but why? When Croke wins the hand, Deek mutters, "Shi-it, you goddamn fuckin' asshole," but smiling like this is a joke, a kindly intended remark like between brothers. I'm trying to make sense of the hand: why'd Croke win? why's this a "winning" hand? what's a "full house"? wondering if the guys are cheating on me, how'd I know? The guys are laughing at me, saying, "Hey, babe, be a good sport, this is poker."

  Croke says, "My T-shirt, now!" Pulls the Cougars T-shirt off over my head, impatient with how slow I am trying to pull it off, there's a panicked moment when I feel the guys' eyes swerve onto me, my halter top, my small breasts the size of plums, anxious now like undressing in front of strangers, but I am trying to laugh it's okay—isn't it?—just a game. "This is poker," Deek says. This is Wolf's Head Lake in August, the kinds of wild things you hear about back at school, wish you'd been part of. And now I am.

  In just my swimsuit now, and barefoot. Feeling kind of shivery, dizzy. Picked out the swimsuit myself at Sears, so can't blame Momma. It's like a kid's sunsuit, too young for me: bright yellow puckered material, a halter top that ties around my neck and a matching bottom and both of them
kind of tight and itchy and damp-smelling from the lake. Croke is clowning with the T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban, saying that li'l babe owes him one more thing: "This is strip poker, honey. You raised that bet, din't you? There's two damn bets here. My T-shirt, and now something else."

  Croke is teasing, isn't he? All the guys are teasing? The way they are looking at me, at my halter top, I'm starting to giggle, can't stop giggling, like being examined by the doctor, icy-cold stethoscope against my chest, and I'm half-naked trembling on the edge of an examination table, so scared my teeth start chattering and the doctor gives up disgusted, calls for Momma to come in. Jax is saying, "She's drunk, we better sober her up and get her out of here."

  Right away I mumble I am not drunk! which makes the guys laugh.

  Deek says, leaning over me, brushing my arm with his to make the hairs stir, "Thass a cute li'l swimsuit, Anns'lee. You're a hot li'l babe, eh?"

  Jax says, disgusted, "She's just a kid. Ain't even in high school, I bet."

  Deek says, "Shit she ain't. How old're you, Anns'lee?"

  Eighteen, I tell him. Can't stop laughing, wanting to hide my face in my hands. Thirty-eight! (Thirty-eight is Momma's age, so old.)

  Jax says, "I told you: she's wasted. No way she's more'n fifteen."

  Deek says, "Fifteen is hot. This is a hot li'l babe."

  Heins says, "Want the cops to bust us? Asshole."

  Deek says, "How's that gonna happen? This li'l honey is my girl."

  My girl is such a warm thing to say. My girl my girl nobody has ever said to me except my daddy till now.

  "Strip, li'l dude! C'mon."

  "Got to be a good sport, Anns'lee. That's poker."

  Deek is teasing me but he's serious, too. And Croke.

  "I'll strip. Lookitme."

  Deek yanks off his T-shirt that's grimy at the neck, suddenly he's bare-chested, coarse black hairs like a pelt over his chest that is hard-muscled but at the waistband of his swim trunks his flesh is bunchy and flabby. "Shi-it," Croke says, loud like a cross between yawning and yodeling, with a flourish yanking off his T-shirt baring his heavy, beefy, pimple-pocked chest like a TV wrestler, Croke's chest is covered with hairs like slick seaweed, and oily with sweat. There's a strong smell of underarms. Jax and Heins make crude comments. I'm saying that I don't want to play poker anymore, I guess, I want to go home now, need to get home where my mother is waiting for me, and Croke says, bringing his fist down hard on the table like he's drunk, "Not a chance, babe. Ain't goin' anywhere till you pay up."