Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  "It's your bet, Padre," Herb reminds Father Costello.

  Father Costello bets five dollars, positively adventuresome for him. Officer Rich sighs and folds his hand and then turns back to me. "Hallie, do you mind me asking, just as a friend, why you don't want go to school? I mean, Jesus Christ—sorry, Father—did somebody there sexually abuse you?"

  I consider spilling the beans but subsequently decide he'll never understand. "No. It's nothing like that. You don't need to dust the girls' locker room for fingerprints."

  "They bandied about a trip to reform school today," he says. "All the windows there have bars on them."

  "My mother will never go for it." I don't look up.

  "No wonder you're such a good poker player. That's exactly what happened. She wouldn't even let us threaten you with reform school, even as a bluff. She really loves you, by the way. All joking aside, this thing is ripping her heart out."

  "I hardly ever saw her when I was at home. I mean, not that I wanted to. We don't have a lot in common, so she can't really miss me."

  "Well, we could just fill a snuffbox with what you know about raising kids," says Officer Rich.

  "Amen," calls out Herb.

  "I told them I'd visit," I say. "I mean, hell—whoops, sorry, Father—some kids leave for boarding school when they're twelve."

  "Hallie, your parents feel guilty that you're so unhappy," says Al. "Can't you see that?"

  "I'm not unhappy. I wish everyone would stop having my thoughts and feelings for me. They don't have to live my life." It's my deal, and so I riffle the cards. I'm a practiced shuffler and can even triple-cut the deck in the palm of one hand. "So give me the inside scoop," I say. "What's their next move?"

  "If you're so smart that you don't have to go to school, then figure it out for yourself," says Officer Rich.

  "Yeah, don't tell little Miss Hellfire," says Herb. "She's still young enough to know everything."

  I start dealing. Al looks pleased with his ace of hearts.

  "They mentioned the car again," Officer Rich says.

  "Bribery!"

  "Will you do a deal?" Officer Rich casually asks.

  "School for car?" I ask but don't wait for a response. "Not anymore. That was last week's pot."

  "Between you and me, Hallie ...," Officer Rich says slowly, "I just don't want you to freeze to death in the woods. Call me an old softie, but where in the name of God—sorry, Father—are you sleeping? I could lose my job for this, but if you really won't go home," he pauses as if he's seriously weighing up the risk of unemployment, "you can sleep down at the station. There's heat and vending machines."

  "That's okay. I've got a place. At least until the snow flies." But it was a big deal for Officer Rich to make the offer, and I appreciate it. He really could get into trouble. I catch his eye so he knows it. "But thanks."

  "Sure, no problem." He says this gruffly and looks away, like all big guys have to do so people won't assume they're turning into women.

  "Ohio law enforcement couldn't hold John Dillinger," says Herb, "so I don't know how you think they can hold Hellraiser Palmer."

  We all ignore Herb, which is easy to do. And now it's Al's deal.

  "I thought for sure they'd assume I was staying at the Stocktons'," I say.

  "Of course we did," says Officer Rich. "That's the first place we checked. But they swear you ride up at quarter past eight every morning, eat lunch, and then take off at around six. They said you had dinner there one night: ruby-glazed lamb with roasted red potatoes and cherry cheesecake for dessert. It sounded real good."

  "It was," I say. Mr. Bernard chose a French Huguenot theme and almost everything, including the bean salad, candles, tablecloth, and linen napkins, were red. But I don't bother telling the poker club this colorful detail.

  "I have a pretty good idea of when people are lying," says Officer Rich, "and I don't think that Bernard Stockton was trying to pull one over on me. He's a little eccentric, I'll grant you that, but he's got integrity, just like his old man."

  "So the Cosgrove County Inquisition is under way," I sneer. "What else did he say?"

  "That you're definitely not an alcoholic. Mr. Stockton made it quite clear that they've had experience with an intoxicated gardener and so they know all the signs. And by the way, how in the heck did you ever hook up with that family?"

  "I'll never forget the day that wedding was announced," recalls Al. "I was just a little boy, but my mother and her sister, my aunt May, they both needed smelling salts."

  Herb takes up the town history from there. "The Judge was a lawyer back then, a prominent young man from a local blue blood family, and he went to Paris on a Farmers' Union case—onions, I think. Anyway, that's where he met the redoubtable Olivia Newton."

  "She's French?" I ask. "I thought she was from Bohemia, somewhere near Yugoslavia."

  Al and Officer Rich both laugh.

  "Yugoslavia?" says Herb sarcastically. "Try Yugocrazia!"

  Pastor Costello looks at me quizzically. "Olivia is originally from Cambridge, Massachusetts," he says. "She was studying in Paris."

  "Studying, huh?" Herb scowls at his hand. "The way I heard it, she chased some artist guy from Boston to Paris, he promptly disappeared the day after she arrived, and the Judge rescued her from humiliation."

  "My mother insisted the marriage to Stockton would never last," says Al.

  "It's probably a good thing that the Judge developed Alzheimer's before discovering that his only son and heir is gay," comments Herb.

  Pastor Costello peers at Herb in a strange way after that remark, as if he's hoping that someone else will say something so he doesn't feel morally obligated to do so.

  "Hey, Herb, just play cards, okay?" Officer Rich admonishes him. Pastor Costello appears slightly relieved.

  Herb rises to his own defense. "Oh, hell—excuse me, Father—I don't mean that it's a good thing the old man lost his marbles. Please. And I don't necessarily mean there's anything wrong with, you know . .."

  "Let's just forget it," says Officer Rich.

  But Herb isn't finished. "I just meant that I don't know how well the Judge would have handled that information."

  Al deals Herb a three of clubs that I know he doesn't want. Pastor Costello looks mournfully at the card and it's obvious that it blew his hopes for a basement straight.

  "Okay," Officer Rich says, gathering up the cards. "Deuces wild, last hand."

  "No way," says Herb. "I need a chance to win back some of the dough I lost."

  "So play better next time and you won't lose so much," retorts Al. "Or bet less."

  "It's her!" says Herb. "I know you memorize all the cards played, Hallie, but I've been watching you and there's something else. I just can't figure out what it is."

  "Hey, Herb!" says Officer Rich. "Watch what you're saying there. . .."

  "Thank you, Constable," I reply.

  "Hallie is just very blessed when it comes to playing cards," says Pastor Costello.

  "Thank you, Father," I say appreciatively.

  What I don't bother to tell these guys is that I don't play cards so much as I play them. Christ, they should look in a mirror sometime. When Herb is bluffing, he drums the fingers of his left hand on the table. If Father Costello needs a card, he moves his lips in prayer and then either thanks God when he gets it or grimaces if he doesn't. When Al has a good hand, he speeds everyone along and tosses his money into the pot real fast, so it practically rolls off the other end of the table. But when he's bluffing, he moves real slow and pauses to fire up a cigarette. I eventually fold. The chances of getting the spade I need to fill out my flush aren't so hot, and I'm ahead for the night. Herb wins the last hand and he's pleased about that and the game breaks up.

  "You know," Al says to me, "when my kids told me what was going on with you, I felt bad and I was going to offer you some money if I saw you here tonight."

  "Yeah, and ...," I respond.

  "And now I'm not. You must've taken seventy
-five bucks off me."

  Herb and Al depart. I know it's a setup, but I don't care. Pastor Costello and Officer Rich are pretty cool.

  "Listen, kiddo," Officer Rich begins, "even though this Collier guy can't nail you on legal grounds, he's not going to give up so easily. And I truly wish it was because he's so desperately concerned about your education and well-being. But I'm afraid he views this situation as some sort of a contest between you and him. He doesn't want to lose and he doesn't want to be made to look like a fool. Do you get my drift? The assistant principal is retiring in June, and Collier has his eye on that plum position."

  Officer Rich is leaving, and I know that I'd better exit with him or Friar Tuck is going to angle for one of his pew-side chats. Surely my mother's been in touch. However, I figure he can get my parents off my back some if I let him ply his trade. Officer Rich says good night and then looks at me and lets out a gruff chuckle.

  "And just what's so funny, Smokey the Bear?" I ask.

  "Collier calls you the Artful Dodger." He pauses. "At least that's what he calls you when he's not in a bad mood."

  Pastor Costello steers me back to the card table with the gentle we care ministerial hold on my elbow. "Hallie, I'm concerned about you. You don't have to bear this burden alone. Now, please tell me if someone has hurt you or is causing you pain in any way—physically, emotionally ..."

  "No, Father. Absolutely not."

  He appears as if he'd like to believe me and yet can't quite bring himself to do so. "Would you rather speak with a woman about this?"

  "No, Father. I'm not being sexually abused and I'm not pregnant."

  He appears rather relieved that I don't start sobbing about missed periods. "Then will you please confide in me why you won't go to school and why you've moved out of your family home if I promise that it won't leave these church walls? I've known you since you were a baby, Hallie. You were christened at this altar. I've always realized that you were a different sort of girl— you're very astute and independent and you do things in your own way."

  All this concern is suddenly making me want to cry. I think ministers are like TV interviewers in that they don't feel as if they're doing their job or will get that wink from the Big Guy unless a lot of people are reduced to weeping and thrashing about.

  "Hallie," he continues, "your mother says you're upset about the new baby. Should we temporarily place you with another church family while you get some counseling?"

  Ugh. Family and counseling are two words I've heard just about enough of.

  "Father, if they're happy to have another baby, then that's just fine with me. I stand only to gain another potential bone marrow donor. I just can't live with them anymore, okay?"

  I feel a burning sensation on my neck and face as tears spring to the bottom of my eyes. Shit. "Pom-poms and football games and the ten o'clock news," I stammer between sniffles.

  Father Costello looks perplexed, as if he's trying to download this eclectic list into his secret Christian clergy decoder ring and come up with a prayer and a self-help group to fix everything.

  "Thanks, Father, but there's nothing you can do. I have to figure it out for myself." I blow my nose on the inside of my sweatshirt and rise to leave.

  He walks me to the door. "Is there anything you need? Do you have a warm place to stay?"

  I don't say that the summerhouse is not going to be so warm in another week or so, since the air goes right through all that glass. "Yes, I'm fine."

  "All right, then. I'll pray for you."

  "Thank you," I answer sincerely. Although I don't really buy that old-man-in-the-sky God stuff, I find the trees and the flowers are all pretty cool and so a few prayers launched into the universe under my social security number can't exactly hurt anything.

  While mounting my bike I notice Father Costello standing in the doorway, a dark shadow outlined by a pale yellow glow. "Hallie ... if you don't mind my asking ..." he says haltingly, "how did you know when I didn't get that other king? There weren't any kings showing ... and you didn't have any.

  "Now, if I told you that I would have to come here asking for handouts instead of winning your money fair and square."

  "I just thought I'd inquire, that's all...." He brightens up and then tosses off that old chestnut, "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

  "Let's hope so," I say before rocketing off into the night.

  Chapter 21

  Gods and Odds ♦

  Working as a full-time yard person is not for slouches. Shoulder and back muscles that might eventually qualify me for a women's wrestling team are beginning to fill out my shirts. And by the end of each day I'm physically exhausted. It'll be a relief when all the gardens are pulled up.

  Late Saturday afternoon I finish pruning and go inside to take a shower. Downstairs at the dining room table the Judge is about to have his dinner, looking very much the retired Civil War general in starched gray pajamas with navy blue trim. Once inside Ms. Olivia's bathroom I have to move aside this special metal chair with a white plastic seat that they use to sit the Judge under the shower. There are also grab bars along the walls so he doesn't slip and fall.

  Even though Mr. Bernard cooks the Judge's meals and helps him up to bed, Ms. Olivia almost always feeds him and sits with him until he falls asleep. She told me he'd been ill for six years. Wow. That means she's fed him 1,095 meals a year, a total of 6,570 to date. I picture my mom always perched next to a high chair and spooning gruel down the throat of the latest addition—but at least she knows they'll outgrow it.

  I wonder if Ms. Olivia ever gets depressed by the whole situation. If she does, it's impossible to tell from her behavior. Ms. Olivia is wonderful with the Judge and always speaks to him as if he's a competent adult. When I used to visit my father's aunt Clara in the retirement home, I noticed that some of the nurses addressed the old people as if they were preschoolers. But Aunt Clara died of heart failure last summer and so now I don't know anyone in a nursing home. Though I think about death a lot—that I don't know if I'm going to die when I'm sixteen or when I'm ninety-six. And if I did know, would I be doing anything differently?

  At that moment I hear the front door open, followed by Mr. Bernard's cheerful proclamation that he's arrived home. When I greet him at the bottom of the stairs he hands me an envelope containing three hundred dollars, all in twenties. He must assume that I don't have a bank account since I'm living a drifterlike existence.

  "If it's easier to write a check, it's no problem. I have an account at the bank."

  Mr. Gil nudges the door open with some overstuffed grocery bags just as I say this.

  "Bertie, a check?" he chimes in. "Never. The IRS is under the impression that he runs a small hobby shop down on Swan Street. Through some astounding feat of bookkeeping legerdemain he's managed to show a loss for the past ten years. Going by his tax returns we're eligible for food stamps and two bricks of Welfare Cheese. Ever wonder why the name of the store changes every few years?"

  But Mr. Bernard just chuckles. "Always remember that cash is king in a depression. And I don't see anyone complaining about my monetary contribution to this household—what with Mother sending all her earnings for the upkeep of retired racing greyhounds down in Sarasota. I've a hunch those pampered canines are taking luxury cruises to Caracas and learning the cha-cha."

  They must be laundering money, I think. First drug dealing, then fencing stolen art, and now tax evasion! How can such nice people be such hardened criminals? And who ever said that crime doesn't pay?

  Mr. Gil waves a blue-and-yellow Blockbuster plastic bag like a flag on the Fourth of July. "Movie night! Can you believe our movies were still there at five o'clock?" Then he does a few dance steps back and forth and chants, "One-two, cha-cha-cha. Three, four, cha-cha-cha."

  "Our choices are always there," Mr. Bernard says to me. "When it comes to film appreciation, we're slightly ahead of the town."

  "Or behind," says Mr. Gil. "Depending on how you choose to look at it."
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  Mr. Gil is in a good mood. He takes my hands and starts showing me the cha-cha. "One-two, cha-cha-cha." Only I'm not much of a dancer.

  "Hallie, I'm running late," Mr. Bernard interrupts, "and I need you to help in the kitchen, if you don't mind." This is more of an order than a request.

  "But it's just that... I, uh, I don't know how to cook anything."

  "Well, come along, then," he continues in a Scottish brogue. "Give me a girl at an impressionable age, and she is mine for life. At least according to Miss Jean Brodie."

  Miss Jean Brodie must have been his home ec teacher or else the author of a popular cookbook. I follow Mr. Bernard into the kitchen and stand there like a scarecrow while he preheats the oven and fills pots with water.

  "We're making Rock Cornish game hen with Israeli couscous, hearts of palm salad, and artichokes stuffed with zucchini, bread crumbs, and Parmesan. Mother, of course, won't consume ornithologia, so I always prepare a vegetable, starch, and salad that can serve as her meal. And I make some extra for the rum bum."

  "I like Rocky. Sometimes he gathers the plants after I dig them up and bags them for me. Though I think he eats a couple."

  Mr. Bernard rolls his eyes whenever anyone mentions the R word. He pulls a carton of cream out of a grocery bag and places it in the refrigerator. "Oh, and I bought some vanilla Yoo-Hoo on the assumption that it's like wine, and that if strawberry goes with meat then perhaps it's culinarily correct that vanilla accompany fish and fowl." Mr. Bernard always pronounces culinary to sound as if it begins with a q rather than cull, like most people.

  Unpacking the bags of groceries on the countertop, I don't recognize half of the ingredients. It seems impossible that we're actually going to make dinner out of all these piles of green stuff, onions, cloves of garlic, tins of anchovy paste, croutons, and cans of beef stock.

  "Now take a cup of flour from the canister on the counter and combine it with some rosemary—first chop it into one-inch sprigs."

  Rosemary, rosemary, what the hell is rosemary? I know as much about cooking as a lemur at the Columbus Zoo. I pick up a plastic bag with green stalks in it.