MAUREEN
Zeke’s got another white suit on, maybe he has a whole closet full of them. He’s handsome in a villainous sort of way. In my white dress I bought for four bucks at the Beach Town Thrift Store I feel like we are going to the Mad Hatter’s tea party. He whistles low, looks me up and down. “Hot stuff, Destiny.”
The evening’s got a pulse about it. Like something magic’s going to happen. I’m all about business, though. Zeke is the gateway to my new plan. If I can win enough money, I can find a place of my own. Maybe here in Opal Beach. Maybe somewhere with Clay. It won’t matter, as long as I don’t have to rely on anyone else. I’ll take care of myself—take charge of my own destiny. And then I can save my mom, too. Go back, get her out of there, take care of her. If Tammy can do it, so can I. All I need is a little magic and a little luck.
We drive away from the coast. Zeke’s very quiet, contemplative. I wonder if he’s nervous, wonder if this is how he always gets before games or if this night is different because I’m with him.
“So how many people usually play at these things?” I, too, am nervous. I keep rubbing my palms against my dress to dry them.
“Don’t worry yourself about the details. Your job is to be pretty.” He looks over and smirks at me. “Which you’ve already succeeded at, so it’s all a wash from here.”
“Just wait,” I say. “I’m going to wipe the table with these guys.”
The group is smaller than I expected. Just five guys, including Zeke, and a ferrety-looking airhead who’s throwing me daggers as she wraps herself around one of them like a pretzel. Her boy is eating from a bowl of peanuts. He’s younger, probably only a few years older than me, and he’s got his serious face on, a Slim Jim fuzz stripe of a mustache and glowering eyes. Boy thinks he’s a gangster in a black button-down shirt and tight black jeans. His gaze settles on me, and I feel a pinprick of unpleasantness behind my neck.
They’re all smoking the room into a haze that makes my head light. Someone adjusts the record player and we get treated to the Rolling Stones. The edge of the table is padded in black leather and has occasional holes for drinks and ashtrays. I notice the numbers: five guys, five seats.
“This here is Destiny,” Zeke says finally, patting my shoulder and pulling me close. “And this is Bob and Doug.” They nod at me distractedly. “And Jake the Snake.” Dark-haired, mustache the size of a giant caterpillar.
“Your good luck charms are getting bigger and bigger,” Jake says. I watch his mustache wiggle as he speaks.
“He needs it,” says Doug, rubbing his finger along the edge of the table. When he catches my eye, he looks away.
Jake angles his head toward the bar, at the younger guy eating peanuts. “That’s my cousin Benny.”
“Is he a troublemaker?” I ask.
Jake laughs. “I don’t know. Are you a troublemaker, Benny?”
Benny looks like he’s not happy about being talked to. He takes his time, cracking open a shell and digging out the nut with his teeth. The woman gives me her best pouty glare, and I want to tell her I have no designs on her Scarface-wannabe boy, who stands a little too straight, arms across his chest. I begin to think he’s just not going to answer. Then he wipes his hands together and says, “Let’s play some poker.”
I start to pull out a chair, but Zeke grabs my arm. “Destiny’s going to watch and learn tonight, boys. Watch how I take all your money and run.”
“Yeah, like last time.” A chorus of snickers.
“Actually,” I say, hoisting a hand on my hip to feel more confident than I am, “I was thinking I could play with you all.”
Zeke flashes me a nervous, irritated look. “Oh, Destiny, my dear. Maybe another time. Not tonight.”
“Why not?” I ask.
There’s an uncomfortable silence. Zeke says, “We need a bartender, baby. Remember?” He pulls my arm and drags me outside the room into the stairwell. He’s mad, and in his anger he looks like a little boy, a toddler. “What are you playing at, Maureen?” It’s the first time he’s used my name—I am surprised he even knows it. “I thought I told you—”
“You told me shit,” I say. “You know why I came tonight.”
“It’s not like that,” he hisses. He straightens his collar. “You can’t just waltz into these games. Do you even have any money?”
“Fifty dollars,” I lie.
He shakes his head. “Minimum bet to even start these games is ten dollars. You’d be cleaned out after the first round. Leave the games to the adults. Watch and learn. You be a good bartender, they’ll tip you. If they’re winning, they’ll tip you good.”
“I’m not a goddamn bartender,” I hiss.
“They’ll love you. All your ‘hold the garden’ talk. The boys will eat that up. This is the big leagues, baby.”
“Big leagues? Really, Zeke? It’s five guys in a basement.”
“Don’t embarrass me, Maureen. I mean it. I’m doing you a favor here.” He puts his palm on my cheek, caresses it. I can see the flecks of anger in those blue eyes of his. He and I are alike that way. Always a live wire underneath us, snapping, threatening to strike. “It’s an easy gig. Trust me, okay?”
When he’s gone, I sulk in the dark hall by myself. Was this my plan? The reality of it hits me—how stupid I am to think I’d be able to get rich quick in this damn town. To save anyone, when I can’t even help myself. Across from me on the wall is a framed portrait of a family—a mom, dad with bad toupee, and a girl who’s not smiling. I wonder where the girl is now, if she’s still that age or long grown up and fighting off her own group of assholes. I hope you keep on not smiling, I say in my head to her, and bite my lip real hard.
I consider my options. Leave now, find my way home somehow. Keep trying to get some shitty job in Opal Beach that won’t get me somewhere fast enough. Or stay, eat crow, walk back in there with all those dickweeds waiting to pat my ass and look down my dress. And hope that maybe they’ll get sick of each other and let me play.
When I go back in, they’re all at the table, smokes in hand. The girl who was fusing herself into Benny’s side has disappeared. I size them up. They’ve all got their tics. Bob flips his chips through his fingers. Jake’s all talk, trying to distract the crew with bad jokes. Doug constantly smooths out his plaid jacket and blows smoke into the air with a hissing sound. Benny, who brought his peanuts with him to the table, makes a steady, neat pile of dusty shells next to him, careful to keep them in line with the side of his pinkie. He’s at least a decade younger than these jokers, but he seems older. Meticulous. He’s the one to watch.
Zeke looks up and winks at me. He’s a showman, and I suspect there’s not much substance under it. I can already tell he’s bad at poker. Everything’s written all over his face. It’s only luck on his side, and you can’t win poker based only on luck.
I take a deep breath and play their game. “You boys need something to drink?”
When he starts losing, Zeke gets mean.
“Come here, Destiny,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist. I see Benny watching us.
“Not now, Zeke,” I say, trying to spin away.
“No, come here. I’m going to show you how to really play poker.” His breath is hot on my cheek.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, so now you’re going to start playing well?”
Jake snorts at that, which doesn’t make Zeke happy. He reaches for my purse on the side table. “Where’s that money you say you brought? Want to loan old Uncle Joe some funds?”
Before I can grab it from him, he opens it, dumps it out on the table. My lipstick, Zeke’s car keys, the mermaid statue I’d swiped from the party house, and my three ten-dollar bills fall out pathetically.
“Thirty dollars? Thirty dollars?” He holds up the statue. “And what’s this? Aren’t you too old for dolls?”
I grab it all, press it back into my purse. He’s doubled over laughing, and I want to slam my fist into the back of his neck.
“You think it’s funny?” I say. I get up, but Zeke grabs at my hand. I try to pull away and my wrist twists. The pain is sudden, fierce, and I fight the tears back. “You’re a bastard.”
“Let her play,” Benny says.
We all stop. Look at him. It’s the first words he’s spoken that confirm he’s actually noticed my presence in the room.
Zeke’s eyes narrow. “What?”
“I said give her your chair. You’re out of money anyway. Go home and sleep it off.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Zeke’s met with silence. “This is a goddamn joke.” He gets up, knocking his chair over, and stomps off.
Benny leans over and rights the chair, motions for me to sit. “Dealer’s choice,” he says. “I’ll cover you. Fifty-fifty split on whatever you win, though.”
“That’s—” I begin.
He holds up a hand. “Fifty-fifty, or nothing.”
It’s like I’ve slipped into the devil’s embrace. But I go willingly.
While the boys take a piss break, Benny offers me a highball, but I ask for a can of soda. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. I don’t want to drink tonight. I need my head.
Then everyone shuffles back in. “Okay, boys, let’s do this,” I say, smiling, willing my hands not to shake as I deal out the cards. I rub Clay’s promise ring for good luck and here we go.
I deal myself a low pair. Stay in, but decide to play conservative. Jack and Bob fold on the first go. I get a king and realize I’ve got four spades. Benny raises, and I meet it, staying in. When I get my fifth spade, I do a small raise. Doug raises me again. My heart’s racing but I can’t show it. I meet his bet. Flip my cards over. He’s got a pair of sevens.
Benny pats me on the shoulder. I jump. I’m wound tight. “Sure you don’t need something, princess?” Princess? I raise one eyebrow at him, but he’s too busy gesturing at the side table, where, I realize with a start, he’s put out an impressive array of drugs. Jack is snorting coke through a cocktail straw. Benny gives me that curled smile. “Go ahead. Take the edge off.”
The image comes quickly, before I can bat it away. My mother’s hand, limp across the couch in a darkened room. The smell of stale beer, rotten food. The endless looping flashes of television light casting everything in a greenish hue. The hand, waving a one-dollar bill. Go get yourself some dinner, baby.
“No, thanks,” I say, turning back to the table. “I don’t touch that stuff.”
I hear Benny chuckle. He leans in as the next guy deals, and I smell cigarette smoke and something sharp and medicinal on his neck. “Never say never,” he says.
Someone is pulling at me, calling my name. I lift my head. It’s dark. “Come on, Maureen. Get up.”
It’s Clay. Why is he here? He wasn’t at the game—the game, oh Christ, the game. I hadn’t even lasted an hour. I look up at him. I’m sitting on a curb somewhere in beach town suburbia. Clay’s car is parked in the middle of the street, his headlights like a knife twisting in my head. “Why are you here?” He’s hauled me to my feet now, but I’m so tired. I just want to sag against him.
“Here,” he says, and shoves a cup under my nose. The steam feels good and the smell—coffee. “Drink it,” he says. “We gotta get out of here.”
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask again, in the car. Clay’s driving too fast, but I ignore it, trying to piece together the evening, cringing with each memory like a blow to my chin. It started out great. I was up, I was doing well. Could feel the respect of the guys in the room. And then luck took a turn, not a big deal. I went under. But got too confident. I always get too confident. I was sure my straight had it, had all of them—
“You called me, Maureen. Do you not remember? Jesus Christ. I just can’t believe you would do this. Didn’t I tell you not to get involved with my uncle?”
“Well, you were right,” I say. My head is roaring. Each bump in the road jostles my brain, sending shoots of pain behind my eyes. “He’s a dick.”
Clay takes me to his house. I consider asking him to drop me off at Tammy’s, but she’s been gone a lot of nights lately and the last thing I want is to bump into Mabel when I’m feeling like this. We go up to his bedroom, where his suitcase is packed and ready to go by the door. Of course: he’s leaving for his tournament tomorrow. No wonder he’s mad. I take off my dress, pull on one of his T-shirts and crawl into his bed. He shuts off the light and lies next to me, not touching me.
“Clay? I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” My brain feels like it wants to pulse out of my head. I want an aspirin, but I’m afraid to ask for any more favors.
For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Then I hear him talk into his pillow. “You lied to me. Straight to my face.”
I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath. “I had to try. Don’t you understand? And it wasn’t my fault. I was winning. I think they drugged me.”
He rolls over, and I can see his face dimly in the moonlight. “Yeah, sure they did. Do you ever take responsibility for yourself, Maureen? For your bad choices?”
I feel his words go through me like a sword. I sit up, even though it makes the room spin. “My bad choices? What is this, a lecture?”
“I can see what’s in front of me, Maureen.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that? A carnival girl?”
Heavy sigh. “You have a chip on your shoulder, Maureen. You’re afraid of letting anyone get too close and slip past the bitchy I-don’t-care attitude.”
I laugh bitterly. “So you think because we’ve slept together a few times, went out to some dinners, hung out with your friends, that you know me? You don’t know shit, Clay.”
“Maureen—just come back to bed. I need to get up early.” Clay’s voice is tired, resigned, like he doesn’t have the energy for me anymore.
I get up, looking for my dress. I can’t bear to put it back on, it reminds me of everything that’s gone wrong. I pull on a pair of Clay’s boxers instead. So this is how it ends. I bite my lip to keep from crying.
Clay mutters from the bed, “You just need to sleep it off.”
“No, I don’t. What I need is someone who’s not always trying to tell me what to do and what not to do.” I’m hysterical, but I can’t stop. I’m so mad—at him, but mostly at myself. I want to tear it all down, burn it, but I don’t know how, and he’s my closest target. “What I need, Clay, is someone besides you.”
“Fine. Go. You don’t listen to me anyway. I don’t know why I bother.” He waves an arm in the air and then pulls his covers over his head. I consider for a moment jumping back on the bed, ripping them off him, but my body feels too weak, too tired. So I listen to him, one last time.
I go.