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Chapter Eleven
Gina
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Daddy says. “I mean, I just can’t wrap my head around it.”
I look down at the pork chops frying in the pan. The sound of the grease popping and sizzling is the only noise in the room. “What's wrong?” I ask.
My father is at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. His hands are shaking, and the potato peeler is making a soft screeching sound as it moves back and forth across the potato. I try not to pay too much attention. He was supposed to be done an hour ago, and I know we won't be having potatoes with this meal. But I let it be, because it makes him feel helpful. “Martha Walton dying,” he says. “Some people, you just think they’re gonna live forever.”
“I know,” I tell him, scanning the calendar. I’m still thinking about Sharon. She’d be devastated to learn that someone else had the untimely fortune of dying. She’d be furious that anyone else could take an ounce of the spotlight off her departure. “It’ll be a lot of funerals in a short time,” I say.
“Maybe they’ll need help down at Harold’s…”
“The funeral home?”
“I’ve known Harry a long time. Maybe I could put in a good word—”
“What would I do there?” I ask. I know my father is kidding. He has to be. We do this sometimes. Come up with outrageous stories. Especially on cold winter nights. It gets quiet out here. Only this time he's not laughing.
“I don’t know. Maybe dress the bodies. Get ‘em ready for showtime.”
“What? Like do their makeup?”
“Sure,” he says. “Whatever it is people do. How should I know?”
“God, could you imagine?”
“There are worse jobs.”
I fish a pork chop from the pan and slide it onto a plate, concerned that his illness has gotten to his brain. “Like what?”
“I pray you never find out.”
I glance at the calendar again and then back at Daddy. Suddenly, I’m not convinced he’s joking about working at Harold’s Funeral Home. Suddenly, I get the sense that he’s got something else on his mind, like pushing me out of the nest. “Can’t do hair and makeup,” I tell him. “I’ve got plans.”
This isn’t a lie. In two days’ time, I would need to win a game of poker, which wasn’t the issue. The issue was that these men didn’t believe that I could play. This town isn't big on allowing women in on their games. When I was younger, it was easier to convince them otherwise. It wasn't difficult to charm them into a seat at the table. Even when I was winning, they didn’t see me as a threat. Just a silly girl with big dreams and a big ego to match.
Now that I’m grown, they’re sure to put me in my place. Sort of with that “who do you think you are” expression. I understand why. I serve as a constant reminder of their deepest fears. I am not what a lady should be. I am a threat to their way of life. The men in this town all have the same way of thinking when it comes to women: “Give ‘em an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
And, well, nobody really wants to piss off my father.
“It’ll be a busy few days, to be sure,” Daddy agrees. “But then life will go on ‘round here as it always does.”
I hope he’s right. I’m going to need a stack of chips— money so high it could block someone’s view of Marilyn Monroe. But I know I can win. Ihaveto win.
The housealwayswins.Except with poker, you’re not playing against the house. You’re playing against the other people at the table. They may not let me partake as often now, but they have no qualms about paying me to serve their drinks. Oddly enough, every couple of weeks or so, one of the men ends up piss drunk—that or too sick to play. And then, voila! Like magic, a seat at the table opens up.
I’ve learned to be a formidable player over the years. Most people who play poker seriously know it is one hundred percent a game of skill in the long run. However, there is a large element of luck in the short term.
I keep my focus on the long game. I’ve learned to dance their dance, and I've always been good at it. It helps when you can see into their souls, when you can read them like a book. Daddy says this is my gift. He says Mama had it too, but I’m not so sure that’s how I’d describe it.
“I still can’t believe that son of a bitch fired you,” my father repeats.
“Life is too short to worry over such things,” I say, placing his plate in front of him. He smiles because I’ve just fed his words back to him. It works because I mean them: lifeisshort.
It eats at me most days. The best years of my life are passing me by. My dreams feel elusive, like they’re slipping away. I need to get out of this town and fast. The west is calling, and I’m standing still.
Mona says it’s morbid to think like this. But I’ve always sort of had the sense that time is running out, like a battery being drained. I’ve always been afraid of things ending suddenly and abruptly, before I finished doing all the things I wanted to do. I think of Sharon.So young.I wonder if she ever had that feeling?
