Time. The entire ball of wax. He sits playing pinochle, freshly showered and warmed and wearing more of Gary’s clothing, baggy flannel shirt. Partnered with his mother, who is debating a bid of twenty-nine.
“Jesus, Mom,” he says. “Just do it. Your whole life going too low on the bids, missing so many lead hands, and all for what? What was going to happen?”
No one is responding to him. A secret pact they’ve all made while he was away.
She looks so worried, afraid of the twelve cards fanned out in her hand, but the cards must be good. She never bids at all unless it’s the kind of hand that would cause no hesitation in anyone else. Sighing, actually sighing and shaking her head, as if terrible things are coming, impossible to avoid.
“I bid once,” he says. “That means I have either a lead hand or a helping hand. Either way you’re safe to bid again. You must have cards or you wouldn’t have bid at all. You never bid a helping hand, so usually I’m having to take the lead with no information. Whereas here all knowledge has been laid at your feet. And it’s only twenty-nine. No need for thought at all until you hit thirty-five.”
Still staring at her cards, mouth tight and worried, head shaking back and forth in recognition of certain doom.
“Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen?” he asks.
“Well I guess I’ll say twenty-nine,” she says in the most defeated voice, as if the wagon train has just been burned and she’s contemplating the far mountains, calculating the hundreds of miles of unknown territory still to cross.
“Thirty,” Gary says.
“Sure you don’t want to evaluate the risk first?” Jim asks. Gary with a sour face.
“And I shall pass, Mom, but in full support of your lead hand, as expressed already through my initial bid. All anxiety and uncertainty burned away in an instant.”
His dad folds his cards and drops them on the table, a silent pass developed years ago to match his personal flair. He rubs at one of his ears, other arm folded over whatever chest exists above that great mound of gut.
Back to his mother now, who looks even more worried.
“All pretty simple,” Jim says. “It’s the two of you bidding for the lead, and you can’t let him have it for thirty, so of course you’re going to say thirty-one now. Thirty-three will also be automatic. Thought doesn’t have to begin until thirty-five.”
“Thirty-one,” she says, but not as a bid, only as a contemplation, the enormity of it, whether it can be reached.
“I wonder if this is what got me,” Jim says. “This worry. Maybe this is the base on which all the rest has been built.”
“Just play the game,” Gary says. “No need for the comments. We’ve been playing since we were kids. Mom’s been playing even longer.”
“But she’s frozen with fear. Look at this. Frozen at the prospect of making a low bid with a good hand and a partner who has help. Doesn’t any of that strike you as strange?”
“Just let her decide. It’s her hand.”
“But it’s not. This is a partner game. What she does or doesn’t do is my score also.”
“Well be a good partner then and shut up.”
His mother still searching the cards as if they hold secret signs, indications of a larger and certainly malevolent universe, trying to avoid wrath and fury but unable to read.
He puts down his cards and lays his arms out on the card table toward her. “The world will not end,” he says. “Or at least not for this reason. Please just say thirty-one.”
“Oh,” she says. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-two,” Gary says.
“Now thirty-three, Mom. Just say thirty-three.”
Her mouth open slightly in the terror of it all. “Thirty-three,” she ponders again, in the voice they all know is not a bid but only for her own consideration, testing its weight. One hand up to her chest, comforting herself. The unhappiness on her face, unguarded. This is when she can be seen, the most unselfconscious moment he might witness.
“I guess I’ll have to pass,” she says.
“No,” he says.
“Diamonds,” Gary says, and his father picks up his hand, awaking from slumber to sort through what four cards to send.
“I was going in clubs,” his mother says to him, her eyes liquid. The beginning of the table talk. They always ask to find out what would have been. It drives more serious pinochle players crazy.
“No,” he says. “I’m not telling you what I have. No more of that. If you want to find out, you have to bid.”
“Jim,” she says.
“No. I’m tired of the second-guessed life and the regret if it turns out we had the double run or a double pinochle. It has poisoned everything. I’m always thinking about what if I had visited Rhoda that time and not worried what the ticket cost, or what if I had never returned Gloria’s interest, what if I still had my family, or what if I had let myself drink and relax in high school or decided not to follow Dad into dentistry. All the thousands of fucking pounds of regret I’m carrying around every day. So you don’t get to know whether I had any clubs.”
“I had eight clubs. I only needed a jack.”
“You had eight clubs!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Jesus, Mom.” He takes the jack of clubs from his hand and throws it into the middle of the table. “There. Happy? All that didn’t happen. Let’s cover ourselves in all that might have been. I’ve been smearing it over my face like shit for years now.”
“Jim,” Gary says.
“Yeah yeah.”
“Pick up your card.”
“What’s the point? I’m calling Rhoda.” Jim rises and leaves his cards faceup on the table, destroying the hand. “All the thousands of hands we’ve played over the years, what a monumental waste of time. And how pathetic, that we can relate to each other only in this way. Only killing or cards. Occasional waterskiing or bowling. It’s all we know.”
His mother looking aggrieved, and he hates hurting her. “Jesus, Mom,” he says. “Always hurt, but that’s the way you made it. Apparently you like it.”
Her mouth open as if she might say something, but of course she doesn’t, and he feels so guilty he has to turn away, lurches for the phone, a lifeline. Rhoda had better be there right now.
He turns the dial for each of her numbers, the most important code in his life, and luckily she answers. “I’m losing it,” he says. “Mom just passed at thirty-two with eight clubs in her hand. And terrified. As if the cards might come alive and kill us all.”
“It’s okay, Jim,” she says. “Your family will always have their problems, but you don’t have to fix them.”
“Hm,” he says. “I guess that does help. I don’t have to fix them.”
“Yeah, you don’t. You don’t have to do anything about them, nothing at all, no pressure. You don’t even have to visit them. You’re free to leave right now. Always free, not locked in. Remember that.”
“Okay. I want to see you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“You see me right now. And I mean right fucking now. I need more than just a chat on the phone. And when you think about all our years together, you’d think you could give me that. Just half an hour or something in person. Is it really too much to ask?”
No response from Rhoda, which gives him hope. She’s thinking. He can hear his breathing, and he holds back from saying anything more. He knows that even one more word will spoil it. Gary drifts toward him and Jim holds out a palm telling him to back off. Gary had better not fuck this up now.
“Okay, Jim,” she says finally. “This once. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’ll meet you and we can talk. But only this once.”
“Thank you.”
“No,” Gary says. “Don’t go. This is not a good idea.”
Jim turns away toward the wall. “Where?” he asks.
“At the diner.”
“I don’t want to see Donna. We’ll never be able to talk with her there. She won’t even let me inside probably.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“The little motel where we used to meet. Private. No one to overhear. I want to be able to talk freely. I don’t want some idiots listening in.”
“That’s not a good idea, being alone together in a motel room.”
“I need to be able to talk. Please.”
A long pause and he thinks he’s asked too much, pushed too far.
“Okay,” she says.