DIED 2014
A CARD TABLE WITH a felted cloth; two brand-new, slippery decks; a long, skinny score pad divided into mysterious quadrants. Folding tables set catty-corner for the ashtrays and glasses, a dish of flavored almonds, a crystal bowl of shiny chocolate balls. These come from the candy store on Route 35 and are only for bridge, which is why they’re called bridge mix. North and South put their kids to bed; East and West ring the doorbell. Drinks are poured. The door to the kitchen is closed. Game on.
The fact that my parents’ best friends were less ferocious than they were doesn’t mean they couldn’t beat them. Two diamonds. Three hearts. Three no trump. Pass. Pass. Pass. Over the whole twenty-year rivalry, which ended only with my father’s early death, I bet they were even. When the game was at their house, I might be taken along: they had a brown-and-white dog named Clementine and a cute son my age. We had a very serious romance when we were eleven.
West was tall, with curly hair, kind eyes, and rectangular wire-rimmed glasses on his excellent nose. He was president of the JCC, had two businesses in Asbury: a carpet store and the U-pedal boats at the boardwalk. I worked at the boats one summer when I was a teenager, then later caused trouble by writing in my first book about how we workers embezzled money to buy beer. I did a lot of stupid things like this in the early days of my writing. That whole first book was what old Jews call a shonda for the goyim.
Poor East: West could not play cards, or drive, or even answer the phone in the very long confusion that was the end of his life, through which East stood unflinchingly by him. The last time I saw him we had to explain who I was. Hy and Jane’s daughter. You remember. The one who stole money from the boats.