Somebody Else's Daughter (10 page)

The wind was picking up, a shower of yellow leaves. Ada gave Maggie a little insouciant wave and started down the hill with Monica, into town. “Be back at five for supper,” Maggie called, but Ada didn't turn around and the words stayed in the air like balloons at a party where nobody showed up.

The church bells were ringing. She felt a headache coming on. The air was damp, cold. She wanted to go home and make a fire and read the paper, but Jack wasn't ready to go. Across the lawn, he was talking to a couple from Pioneer—the Madisons. The wife had a compact, angular build like Gumby, with short legs and arms. Jack was his usual gregarious self. He wore his good nature like a well-tailored suit and people liked him, they liked his wavy brown hair, the way his mouth turned down at the corners with a self-deprecating frown, the way his blue eyes reeled in the impressionable eyes of the mothers, who hung on his every word in their Patagonia jackets and muck boots, and when Maggie was in a more suitable frame of mind, behaving herself like a good little wife, she was terribly proud of him.

Hunger churned in her belly and she felt herself weaving on her feet. She imagined dropping to her knees and pulling out the grass. She felt on a very precarious edge. She stood there, letting the feeling wash over her, taking comfort in her control over it, indulging, for a precious moment, in its vicious clarity.

9

Teddy Squire played cards. Poker. He had told Willa he was good at it. This one night he took her to the Men's Club in Lenox to show her how good he was. It was early in the semester and she didn't know him very well, but she had a feeling when she was with him, like she could trust him. He seemed different than the other boys; he didn't care what anyone thought.

The Men's Club was in a rambling, clapboard house down a long dirt drive overgrown with trees, and Teddy told her you could get whiskey for seventy-five cents a glass and they didn't card you. There were cars parked here and there and a small yellow light over the door, twitching with moths. He rode her there on his bicycle, letting her have the seat while he pedaled standing up. It was an old three-speed bike, with wobbly tires, and he was sweating in his leather jacket. The jacket had been his grandfather's and it had been worn in many different plays by various actors including a modern version of
Othello
and before that it had been worn by fighter pilots in World War II. The jacket looked good on him, she thought, it made him look tough. Teddy and his mother had moved back to Stockbridge that summer, into the grandfather's house—he had described their journey as a pilgrimage of debauchery, driving across the country from one seedy bar to another, like a game of connect-the-dots. Willa had seen his mother once from the school bus window, standing at the end of the driveway in her nightgown, an alpaca shawl around her shoulders, her long yellow hair spilling in all directions. When Teddy had stepped onto the bus, she'd raised her hand in a solemn wave. He'd told Willa that he didn't know his father. His mother didn't like talking about it. It was something they had in common, the mystery of their roots.

Teddy leaned the bike against a tree and took her hand. “Trust me, okay?”

From inside the dark foyer, she could see a large room that might have been the living room when this place was a real house. Two pool tables were set up, crowded with groups of men playing teams. There was a bar, but it wasn't crowded. Maybe one or two women in the whole place. Teddy led her over to the bar and asked her what she wanted. Willa stole a look at the bartender, who had the shifty indifference of a rat, and before she could answer, Teddy ordered her a beer. He drank whiskey and they stood there for a minute, drinking, and she watched his beautiful face. He had found someone across the room to look at. A man was sitting alone at a small table. He had on a lumberjack's coat and a blue skullcap. Even in the dim light she could make out a burn along the side of his face. The man turned slightly, as though he sensed their gaze, then he drank down his drink and walked out. “What happened to his face?” Teddy asked the bartender.

“Burned his mother's house down.”

“How come he's not in jail?”

The bartender shook his head. “The jury felt sorry for him. He's a freaking retard.”

Teddy asked the bartender if he knew where Rudy was and the bartender nodded toward a back room. Willa followed Teddy through a narrow, galley-style kitchen, the counters of which were cluttered with dirty plates smeared with cake frosting and stained teacups, into a dining room that had a single round table laid with a white cloth. Four men were sitting around the table playing cards. She recognized the one called Rudy because he worked for her father. He was the stable manager at their barn.

Rudy appraised Teddy, his eyes glittering. Under the leather jacket, Teddy had on his school clothes, a blue oxford shirt and chinos, and Willa could see this information registering in Rudy's brain. Then he looked at her, taking his time about it, which was something he'd never dare to do on her father's property. She could feel her nipples go hard under her shirt and she crossed her arms over her chest. Rudy's smile was tainted with mockery, and he jerked up his chin like a horse shaking its withers. To Teddy, he said, “You in this round?”

“I'm in.”

“Pull up a chair.”

Teddy sat down at the table and Willa took a chair against the wall. The chair had a red vinyl seat that was ripped and you could see the stuffing coming out of it. Staring down at her from the wood paneling was a big, old moose head, its dead eyes gleaming. All over the walls were pictures of men at tables smoking cigars. It made her think of her father, who smoked cigars regularly. It was something men did together, she realized, and it was at once dirty and lovely. She couldn't compare it to anything women did when they were alone together, and in a strange way she envied the men with their dirty cigars. The air smelled of old cigars and dust, and now and then one of the men ground out a laugh. She watched Teddy with his pretty wolf eyes and felt her heart go tight. He took out some money and bought some chips and she could see the money piled up in a bucket at Rudy's feet. The chips made a thrilling sound as they clattered into a pile in the middle of the table. Rudy dealt out the cards and the room went quiet.

Teddy looked over his hand. He seemed confident, she thought. He wasn't a loser like her old boyfriend, Marco. Marco came from money and had good clothes, but he was a loser and she was exceptionally grateful she hadn't slept with him. Marco would be begging his rich daddy for money all of his life, whereas Teddy would make his own. There were things Willa knew about people. Once, a psychic had told her that she had a third eye. And she knew about Teddy. Life would be hard on him. People wouldn't understand him like she did. The teachers didn't. He was always in Mr. Heath's office for one thing or another. One time she walked by Heath's office and saw Teddy in the “disciplinary” chair and Mr. Heath offering him a piece of hard candy. Mr. Heath was like that. He would offer you hard candy instead of reprimanding you and give his sheep or shepherd speech, then you'd feel guilty and confess your sins. There was something about Teddy, she didn't know what it was, but it got to her. Something happened to her body when she thought about his hands or his beautiful shoulders or his crooked smile. Her body went damp like a wet leaf, her tongue prickled for the taste of him.

The men played a couple of games and most of the time it was Rudy who won, but Teddy didn't look worried even as he dug deep into the pockets of his jeans. One of the men—his name was Dale— frowned and shook his head and put more cash into the bucket.

“Don't you fret, Dale,” Rudy said cheerfully, helping himself to the chips in the middle.

Dale grunted.

“Money don't mean that much,” Rudy said. “You think it does, but it don't. Not really it don't.”

One of the other players snorted and tossed down his cards. “Who died and made you Oprah?” The man was in his work uniform, a gray shirt and trousers. Over his left shirt pocket were the words
State Line,
and under that his name,
Harv,
was stitched in blue thread. “You're full of shit, you know that, Rudy?”

“Let's say you win tonight. What you gonna do with that money? You gonna pay your bills with it? What about you, Dale? You gonna go pay the electric company and whoever the fuck else you owe?”

Dale's face turned a little yellow. One of his shoulders rose in a half-shrug. “I would, probably.”

But Willa could tell nobody believed him. She looked over at Teddy, who had taken out his package of Drum tobacco and was rolling a cigarette.

“Poker's like sex,” Harv said. “You gotta know when to pull out.”

Everyone laughed.

“And never overestimate the beauty of your hand.”

More laughter around the table.

“Money's just a souvenir of the game,” Rudy said. “It's not the reason you play, not really it ain't.”

Harv shook his head. “If it's not for the money, why do it?”

“For sport, my friend. Fun and Games.”

“There's nothing fun about losing,” Harv said.

“You must like something about it,” Rudy said, “'cause you're doing an awful lot of it.”

A crescendo of laughter. Harv nodded deliberately, like he was used to being the butt of jokes, then folded his hand. “I see your point.”

“You're full of shit,” Teddy said. “Sorry boys: I got a pair of queens, ace high.”

Willa watched as he helped himself to the pot.

“You've just got a bad case of beginner's luck,” Rudy told him.

“Whatever you say,” Teddy muttered.

“We used to play a lot of poker in the joint.”

The information seemed to impress Teddy.

“It passed the time,” Rudy said. “But we weren't playing for money. We played just to get through the day. It's what kept us going. It was a reason to get up every morning.” He sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette and looked over at Teddy. “I guess you can't relate to that, can you, Junior? You rich kids just think you got it coming, don't you? The world owes you a fucking shoe shine.”

Teddy shrugged. “You don't know me.”

“Don't I?” Rudy looked right at him. A cold silence filled the room.

“Show him the teeth,” one of the men said in a ragged, smoker's voice. He was the oldest player at the table, wearing a brown suit and a bolo tie that he might have carved himself out of wood, in the shape of a horse. Willa noticed that he'd twisted the ends of his mustache like the cowboys in old movies.

“Prison wampum.” Rudy laughed knowingly.

“Tell the boy,” the old man said.

“We used to do some crazy shit in there,” Rudy said. “We didn't have any money, so we'd play for teeth. This here's the only game I ever lost.” Rudy grimaced, showing his teeth, and pointed definitively to an empty black space. Then he leaned back in his chair so he could get something out of one of his pockets. He pulled out a pill canister and shook it and everybody could see that it was full of teeth. “I won a lot of games in there.” He set the canister down on the table. “That's my good luck charm now.” He held it up again and shook it like a rattle then let out a whooping laugh. “You play a couple of rounds of prison poker and you understand what it really means to win.”

“Not a game for pussies,” the old man said.

“You gotta have some real fucking balls to play prison poker,” Rudy said, looking right at Teddy.

Willa shot Teddy a look that begged him to get up and leave, but he ignored her and lit his cigarette. Harv tapped a little bell on a side table and a few minutes later the bartender appeared with more whiskey. They played for another hour and Teddy started winning every hand. Every time he won, Rudy's face twisted up a little more, like a wrung-out rag. Then Dale backed out his chair and got up. “I'm all done here.”

“Whatsamatter, Dale, you broke already?”

“Junior here's cleaned me out.”

“He got lucky is all,” Rudy said. “That's poker, my friend.”

Dale shook his head. “I got to get home.”

“You gonna turn into a pumpkin?” Rudy barked a laugh. “Sit the fuck down.”

“Rudy, I got—”

But Rudy cut him off. “Sit.”

Dale sat back down, his face grim.

“Now what's Becky gonna say about this, you show up empty-handed? ”

Dale shrugged.

Rudy reached over in a fatherly way and put his arm around Dale. “You know she don't like you gambling. She don't want to see that. We've been over that ground before.”

Dale nodded his head. “I know it.”

“You want her to walk out on you again? That what you want?”

“No, Rudy.”

“I'm gonna give you a chance to turn things around.” Rudy looked over at Willa. “Shut that door for me, darlin'.”

“What?” she said, but she'd heard him perfectly.

Irritably, he slapped the air with his hand and she got up and shut the door, knowing instinctively that Rudy wasn't the sort of man you refused. Her legs felt rubbery as she returned to her seat.

“Let's play one last hand for Dale,” he said. “Winner takes all this.” He picked up the bucket of money and set it down on the table. Like a starved man, Dale licked his lips at the sight of it. “But let's turn it up a notch. Make it a little more interesting for our guest over here.” Rudy looked at Teddy. “You ready to be in our club, big shot?”

Teddy shrugged.

“You think you're man enough?”

“Try me.”