Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357)

by O'Nan, Stewart

  She knew she was ruining his plans. She protested that she hadn’t meant to. Wasn’t her nightgown proof of her good intentions? It was just bad luck, like the bus, and yet she couldn’t help but see it as a sign, her body betraying her true feelings, except, consciously at least, she’d hoped they would be tender toward each other this weekend, since it might be their last. Near the end of their rough patch, when she’d thought she’d lost him, they’d indulged in sad, often savage valedictory lovemaking, confusing yet unexpectedly right, as if, after so many years, they needed this intense physical closeness to properly say goodbye. Now she wanted to pay him the same tribute.

  She washed her hands well and ran a glass of water, took an exploratory sip and topped it off again. In her toiletry bag she unearthed a crumbling roll of Tums. She chewed two and tipped the glass back, doing her best to ignore the nauseating malty taste. As soon as she swallowed them, she felt a cramp, as if the broken bits were burning her stomach. She couldn’t imagine there was much left. She leaned over the sink, a hand cradling her gut, let out a sour bubble of a burp, and then, knowing it was pointless to resist, arranged the bath mat on the floor and folded herself down, the tiles cool against her skin, thinking she’d feel better once she got it all out of her.

  Odds of a married couple making love

  on a given night:

  1 in 5

  In the elevator, going down, he realized he was still buzzed from dinner, dully, and popped his eyes in an attempt to sober up. He needed to be careful. He believed from an ancient Dateline NBC that there were thieves who worked the casinos, pickpockets and teams of grifters that made off with slot players’ coin buckets, sleight‑of‑hand artists who lay in wait by the payout windows. He kept the bag tucked under one arm like an old woman with her purse, and as he slowly descended, standing still in a heavy metal box being lowered by a wire, the strangeness of the moment came over him. In the bag he had eight thousand dollars he was going to change into plastic chips he would put down on a table with the rest of their savings. It was like an errand in a dream, the motivations behind his actions lost in a convoluted backstory, his fate temporarily suspended, only the dread of the present fixing him there.

  Downstairs, though it was half past ten, the front desk was mobbed with an army of dark-haired women in white puffy coats and black tights, speaking what he guessed was Italian. The concierge was gone, and rather than linger about helplessly, he crossed the lobby with purpose, headed for the closest entrance to the casino, as if he knew where he was going.

  The slot machines were ranked in rows just tall enough so he couldn’t see over them. The lighting was as dark as it had been in the restaurant, the overheads turned low to set the mood. As he navigated the dim maze, all around him machines blinked and chimed like an arcade, breaking into impromptu electronic choruses of “Camptown Races” and “La Cucaracha” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” In contrast to the hectic technology, the players were mostly older women in visors and sweatshirts—a few on scooters—tethered to the machines by stretchy cords clipped to their fanny packs. He was surprised to find no buckets, no clinking half dollars or tokens, just plastic cards like his room key. Instead of showers of coins, the players won credits. They slouched in their padded swivel chairs, purses in their laps, tapping and tapping, mesmerized. He couldn’t imagine a less rewarding way of spending his retirement, but of course to retire one had to have a job.

  The first room of slots connected to a second, larger gallery, just as busy, angling off to the left. It was decorated in a palatial style, white with gold trim, all Doric columns, crown moldings and oversized chandeliers. Here the game was video poker, and there were more men. He saw no cages along the walls, just banks of ATMs and stations where players could replenish their cards. He followed the orange walkway on the carpet behind several Sikhs in turbans and a hugely fat woman in a Sidney Crosby jersey into a bright, high-ceilinged ballroom where servers in gold vests whisked trays of cocktails between tables crowded with people playing craps and blackjack and a dice game he’d never heard of called Pai Gow. The cashiers were all the way in the back, making him walk the gauntlet like a hayseed with his bag under one arm.

  The casino floor was like a raucous party, each table cheering and groaning over the action. A surprising number were ringed by young African couples in formal eveningwear, as if they’d just come from a wedding. There were sizable Chinese and Indian contingents, less well-dressed, and a flock of tall blondes who looked like models, tended by a security detail in ill-fitting suits. The sheer variety of people—from the homely to the freakishly glamorous—reminded him of flying through Heathrow in the eighties. These jet-setters had traveled thousands of miles to be here on a Friday night, and they weren’t going to bed early. They raised their glasses to the winners, laughed at the mock-agony of the losers, then bet again. For them gambling was fun, a decadent pleasure—the same it should have been for him, since he was playing with house money, except that before he’d wagered a penny he was already a quarter million in the hole.

  He wasn’t a gambler. He’d never been. While walking through the pit was exciting, like being right on the sideline for a big game, he was mostly intimidated, reminded of how little experience he had. Their one time in Vegas, they’d confined themselves to the simplest games, blackjack and roulette, quitting after they’d each lost their agreed-upon stake of five hundred dollars. Craps was a complete mystery, as was baccarat. Likewise, the intricacies of the seniors’ slot machines with their specials and progressive jackpots were beyond him. At this point he was the exact opposite of a gambler, interested only in what gave him the best chance to win. He’d already taken the greatest risk in his life and lost. The best he could hope for was to break even.

  The few roulette wheels he passed were American—a green double zero glowed atop one pylon showing the recent winners. They also had a $5,000 limit, and so were useless to him. At each he noted how many people were playing straight black, how many red. It didn’t matter, the odds were even, but he was pleased to see they were equally piled with chips, as if that made his plan more credible.

  In keeping with the illusion of fiscal respectability, scrolled Beaux Arts grillwork fronted the cashiers’ windows, backed by two-inch-thick plexiglas. Only a few were open. As at a bank, a short line of players, all men, waited between gold velvet ropes. He joined them, alert for anyone lurking. Above, protruding from the ceiling like spiders’ eyes, a half dozen black globes kept watch, yet didn’t make him feel any safer. The man in front of him dipped into his jacket and pulled out a wallet, and Art remembered the voucher for their Lucky Bucks tucked in his.

  “Next in line,” a woman cashier beckoned, and the man stepped forward.

  “Next,” another called, and Art went, setting the bag on the marble counter, glancing around casually before unzipping it.

  The cashier was Emma’s age, red-haired and fresh-faced, her fingers ringless. “Good evening, sir. What may I help you with?”

  “I’d like to change my American dollars for chips?”

  “I can help you with that. Are you a guest at the hotel?”

  “I am.”

  “Room number?”

  “Twenty-one‑oh‑eight.” So now they would have a record. They would know they’d brought too much cash—unless they went somewhere else and traded for Canadian, easy enough.

  “Thank you. And how much will you be changing with us this evening?”

  He thought the amount would surprise her, but she just punched it into her computer. How often did this happen? She must have known this wasn’t normal for him, with his cheap stadium giveaway bag, but she was a professional and gave no sign. He wanted to explain, but knew that would probably be worse for her. She was young and free, she didn’t need to hear his middle-aged excuses.

  She had him slide the stacks sideways one at a time through the brushed steel trough, laying them out, then breaking the paper seals and fitting the loose bills into a digital counter
.

  The readout reminded him and he grabbed for his wallet. “Plus my Lucky Bucks.”

  “Thank you.” She printed out a slip and turned it toward him, pointing to the total. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He signed the slip with an old-fashioned pen on a chain, plagued by the same unease he felt when taking out a loan. Like interest, the exchange rate would kill them on both ends—if they won.

  “And how would you like that, sir?”

  “In thousands, please. Then a five hundred, and the rest in fifties.” It sounded ridiculous, and then when she slid the chips through to him, though they added up, they seemed not nearly enough. He pushed the meager fistful deep into his pocket, plugging it with his wallet, and walked off with the empty bag, wondering at the transaction, as if she’d cheated him.

  The temptation was to sit down at the nearest wheel and blow the Lucky Bucks, but because the name was a joke between them Marion would want to be there, and he made his way back through the tables, retracing his steps, except instead of taking a right into the video poker room he went straight, thinking it would take him back to the lobby faster, or at least the mall, and after passing through another dark room of slots and then a bright, deserted one of empty poker tables, certain he’d gone too far, he took the next right and found himself alone in a glass-walled solarium with a view of the Falls, along the wall beside him, incongruously, a line of potted trees strung with white Christmas lights. High-backed Adirondack benches faced the view, flanked by tall catch-all ashtrays. It was a smoking lounge, safely hidden in a cul‑de‑sac. The passage straight ahead led to a restaurant that had closed, the one on the right dead-ended at a service elevator. Here was the ideal place to rob someone, and naturally he’d found it.

  He heard voices in the hall behind him and pictured using the bag as a weapon, flailing away at an attacker’s head. The smart thing was to just give them the money, he’d always subscribed to that advice, passing it on to Emma and Jeremy, but he was too old for this bullshit, he had too little left to lose. This was his life and he would fight for it. There were at least two of them, and he could see one stabbing him, could see himself crumpling to the floor, bleeding out under the Christmas lights as the Falls silently thundered across the gorge. He thought of sitting on a bench and pretending he was just resting, but immediately vetoed the idea as stupid and cowardly. Going back was the only way out, and having no other plan, hoping to take them by surprise, he strode toward the corner, both handles gripped in his fist, ready to defend himself.

  There was only one of them. In the middle of the hall, in his orange bandanna and embroidered Harley vest, hunched and talking on his cellphone, was the biker from the bus. “Baby, what do you want me to do?” he asked. “I can’t be two places at once.” He saw Art and nodded, pointed to the bag and gave him a thumbs‑up, then turned away, covering his ear.

  Feeling silly—did he think he was a secret agent?—he doubled back, finding the ballroom easily, and the video poker, though he still didn’t understand how everything fit together. The layout was purposely disorienting, the honeycombed rooms skewed, connecting at odd angles, drawing the visitor deeper and deeper into the casino, in his case against his will. He’d have to get a map.

  He would turn it into a joke for her, his ineptitude and panic, but first he needed to get her something for her stomach. In the lobby the Italian women were gone. The receptionist referred him to the gift shop, where a travel-sized bottle of Pepto-Bismol cost six dollars Canadian.

  The elevator that finally came disgorged what appeared to be a bachelorette party wearing tiaras and drinking beer from brandy snifters. The bride‑to‑be, a squat blonde in a rhinestone halter top and miniskirt, was blindfolded, with a sign around her neck that read KISS ME, I’M STILL SINGLE. He was more relieved than offended when they breezed past him, laughing, but then, riding up by himself, picturing the money being lost and won downstairs, and the exotic mix of players, he felt he was missing something, as if he were leaving a party that had just started.

  In the hall he swiped his key and waited for the green, shouldered the door open and locked it behind him. All the lights were on, but she was in bed, asleep. He watched her a moment as he would a child, listening, checking for any sign of breath. There, yes.

  He turned off the lights, set the bag on top of the dresser and took the Pepto-Bismol into the bathroom. The toilet seat was up. On the floor lay the rumpled nest of the bath mat.

  It was best to let her sleep. He went into the sitting room to turn off the lights. The panorama was just as impressive, the Falls tireless. He was glad he’d asked for the top floor. He dipped a finger in the champagne bucket—the water was tepid. He’d have to grab some ice tomorrow, try again. At their age, maybe romance was patient instead of frenzied, but just the idea made him think of Wendy urging him on, pleading with him to fuck her harder, and he turned his head as if to look away.

  How much of his life did he need to forget? He was too used to going to bed unhappy with himself, vowing to do better. He hadn’t expected it tonight, but here he was again, frowning in the mirror as he brushed his teeth.

  Marion had taken the same side she slept on at home. He climbed in his side, and she stirred, murmured something, then rolled over so he could spoon her. As he fitted his knees behind hers, pressing against her back, his front made contact with the slippery, satiny fabric of the nightgown he liked.

  Even sick, she had worn it for him. He was at once grateful and ashamed. In an attempt to express this, he embraced her gently, resting his chin on her shoulder. He didn’t mean to wake her.

  “Okay,” she said, “we’re sleeping.”

  “We’re sleeping,” he echoed, and soon it was true, they were.

  Odds of seeing a shooting star:

  1 in 5,800

  Later, in the middle of the night, she got up to use the bathroom. She felt better, but still wasn’t quite right. Sitting there with her eyes closed, she could just hear, through the window by the tub, the rushing of the Falls. When she was done, she held the blind aside.

  The spotlights were off. Instead of red, the Falls fell a ghostly white. The clouds were gone, and moonlight lay bright on the snow. She turned the bathroom light off and picked her way through the foreign darkness to the sitting room windows overlooking the gorge and stood there watching the Falls and the stars, sharp and twinkling in the cold, silvering her arms.

  If he comes to me now, she thought. If I don’t turn around but just think of him, and he comes to me.

  That terrible summer she’d wished on a falling star for him to come back to her, and he had, though it hadn’t made either of them happy. Maybe this wasn’t any different, and yet she was ready, if he would come to her, unbidden, to try again. The longer she stood there, the more she questioned whether she truly meant it or just wanted to prove that connection between them still existed—or didn’t. That was possible too, that she was looking for confirmation she was doing the right thing.

  It was a childish wish, unrealistic. The cold from the window made her shiver, and after rubbing her arms to smooth her goosebumps, she relented, turning to find the room empty, only the alien furniture attending her. She went back to bed and lay next to him, wide awake now. She recalled that summer, the stars over the lake, all of his sorry promises. She could have said no then and thrown him out, as Celia had counseled. Beside her, he slept peacefully, which she thought was wrong. When he reached for her, she fended off his hand and rolled away, punching her pillows as if he were bothering her.

  Odds of the sun coming up:

  1 in 1

  The next morning, as if to erase the night before, they made love. He was tentative yet pesky, rubbing against her. She was barely awake.

  “Seriously?” she said, since his excitement had nothing to do with her, but gave in, sleepily hiking up her nightgown. “Try not to press too hard on my stomach.”

  “I won’t,” he promised, and then paid too much
attention to honoring the request, locking his elbows so he hovered above her. The bed was less giving than their pillowtop at home, and his wrists hurt. It had been so long he was afraid he would explode, and proceeded slowly. The heat of her always astonished him, as if deep inside, like the earth, she possessed a fiery core. He was quiet, deliberate, focused on her forehead, her eyebrows, the hollows of her collarbone. She tipped her chin up, and he descended to kiss her throat.

  His breath was sour and she turned her head to one side, closed her eyes as if to steal a few more minutes of sleep, murmuring with pleasure to encourage him. His lips on her neck stirred ticklish beginnings. Too soon he pulled away from her throat, but she wasn’t invested enough to correct him. She peeked and found him working intently, his face slightly pained, as if he had a toothache. As he quickened, she arched, squeezing her arms against her ribs to push her breasts together, a trick that never failed. He seized, clenched, then exhaled, let his head drop.

  They chastely kissed, politely traded their most solemn pledge—perilous any other time, yet exempt here, as if this space were sacred—staying together until she patted his side to let him know he could roll off.

  Their room faced east, and the curtains were edged with bright sunlight.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day,” he said.

  “I thought it already was,” she said, and excused herself to use the bathroom.

  He lay back in the pillows, dazed and emptied from his efforts, limbs splayed, contemplating the rough popcorn ceiling, his mind wiped clean. Right up until she lifted her nightgown, he hadn’t been sure she would have him. After thirty years she was still inscrutable, and while normally that was frustrating, it produced in moments like this an abject gratitude, a feeling of having been rewarded spectacularly for enduring those long, brittle stretches of indifference. He was pleased enough with his performance—she’d seemed happy with it—and congratulated himself on his persistence. He was convinced there was a lesson in it. No matter what happened, all he needed to do was keep trying.