The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club - Book One (2 page)

“About time for a story, isn’t it?” Myrtle
reached out plump hands to pull the latest pot to her side of the
table, leaving the rest of us with dribs and drabs.

I did a quick count. “Edna has the fewest
clips left, so she’s the one who has to tell a story.”

Edna sniffed. “If a person didn’t know
better, Josephine, they might suspect you kept folding just so you
wouldn’t have to tell a story.”

I have to admit, Edna in her own vague and
annoying way sometimes has a point.

“So. Okay. A story.” After sniping at me,
Edna appeared eager, which in my view, did not bode well. “Well,
then. When I was nine and my sister—Helen was her name—was ten,
she’s dead now, you know. Of the cancer, about fifteen years ago.”
She pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her nose. Finally.

I sighed, wondering if she would ever get to
the point.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Helen and I were
given a cocker spaniel puppy that Christmas. We were supposed to
share her. I named her Jonquil, and I loved her with all my heart.
She was my best friend. When we got home from school, she always
came to me first. And she slept on my bed and followed me
everywhere.”

Satisfaction made Edna’s voice even more
annoying than usual. Although I wouldn’t call the look on her face
a satisfied one. It changed as she spoke to something much more
complex.

“Then one day, Helen took Jonquil for a walk
into the woods next to our house. When I went looking for them, I
found them in the small clearing where we often played. Helen was
tying a rope around Jonquil’s neck, and when I asked her what she
was doing, she lifted the rope with Jonquil dangling on the end.”
Edna paused and blinked with a far away look in her eyes.

“There was a tussle. I ended up with
Jonquil, but Helen had a bad scratch on her cheek and bruises on
her arm and she’d ripped her dress. She ran away while I comforted
Jonquil.

“When I got home, Mother came rushing out.
She grabbed me by the arm, and before I could say a word, she
started thrashing me. You see, Helen told her that I’d attacked her
when she tried to pet Jonquil, and Mother believed her.” Edna
paused, and for an instant, seeing the expression on her face, I
could tell the story still pained her.

“After that, I wasn’t allowed to pet Jonquil
or take her for walks. And Helen…” She shook her head and sniffed.
“Helen always told Mother the instant I got near Jonquil. It went
on…” Once again she paused to compose herself. “For years. But I
finally got back at her.” A smile crept over Edna’s face, and it
wasn’t a nice smile.

“What did you do?” Myrtle said, sounding
breathless.

“I seduced her fiancé, then I told him I was
pregnant so he had to marry me.”

We all sat blinking at Edna. Her story was
more down and dirty than I, at least, was expecting.

“And then what?” Myrtle said. “What happened
after that?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” Myrtle said.
“Were you pregnant or not?”

“Of course I wasn’t.” Edna gave a
so,
there
huff.

“What happened when he found out you
weren’t?”

“I just told him I’d had a miscarriage. But
not until after we were married. He never knew it was a trick.”

Myrtle frowned. “How do you fake a
miscarriage?”

“Oh my, you do have a lot of questions. But
I only owed one story, isn’t that right, Josephine?”

Mesmerized, I nodded, and Edna closed her
mouth and made the sign for zipping her lips.

I might just have to revise my opinion of
Edna. It appears she’s a pistol, as we used to say. None of the
young people today know what that means. To them a pistol is just
something they use to shoot someone.

As we gathered up cards and clips, one of
the staff stopped by our table and reminded us there would be a
concert beginning in fifteen minutes. Edna’s story had so
preoccupied me, I hadn’t even noticed the slow shuffle of other
residents taking the seats nearby. But now I did.

The perverse mood that had led to my
suggestion we play strip poker dissipated, leaving behind a bad
taste in my mouth. Unfortunately, the next time we played cards, it
was Edna’s turn to choose what we’d play, and she chose the Naked
Poker Game, as she called it.

“After all,” she said, “I shouldn’t be the
only one who has to tell a story.”

So that’s how it started, and I have no one
to blame but myself.

Myrtle

It’s clear as a sunny day that Josephine doesn’t think I’m very
bright. And compared to her, I’m not, I suppose. I can’t use a
computer or a cell phone, and I’m much more interested in spending
time with friends and family than doing all the reading Josephine
seems to do.

The woman comes up with the oddest things.
Like saying that hummingbirds deliberately build their nests near
hawks so the hawks can chase off blue jays, which like to eat
hummingbird eggs. Hummingbird Home Security, she called it.

I doubt that; I really do. After all, what’s
to stop the hawk from making a quick snack out of nearby
hummingbirds.

Another time she talked about feral pigs
being killed with sodium something or other. It makes them go to
sleep and never wake up, but animal rights activists say it’s
cruel. Personally, I would think not waking up would be vastly
preferable to being shot.

But while Josephine might be smarter than I
am, I’m the one Bertie likes. Josephine keeps making snarky
comments that I find upsetting until I remind myself she only does
it because she’s jealous.

Bertie told me he likes me the best because
I’m so restful to be around—unlike Josephine—and I agree. Sometimes
Josephine is as sharp and uncomfortable as a tack poking through a
seat cushion.

Bertie also said he just knows I was a
wonderful mother because I’m so nice. And of course I am. Was. Am.
A wonderful mother, that is. My five children and fourteen
grandchildren are constantly in touch. And the ones living close by
visit me all the time.

That’s one thing I’ve noticed about
Josephine. Nobody visits her. It surprised me when she said her son
lives in the area, since I’ve sure never heard anyone say they’ve
met him.

The only reason she’s a member of our little
group in the first place is because Edna and I needed to add people
after our other two partners died within a week of each other. Edna
suggested Lillian, and she, unfortunately, suggested Josephine, and
now we’re stuck. And we don’t even play real cards anymore.

If I could come up with a replacement, I’d
surely vote to boot Josephine out. Too bad Bertie doesn’t play
worth beans. If he were playing with us, I expect, now that we’re
playing poker, we’d be treated to more Bertie stories than any of
us would care to hear. I like the man, but I like to talk too.

Actually, I’m rather enjoying the Naked
Poker Game. I’m now old enough to tell my best stories without
worrying what people think. But when I told the story about my
missing out on being named Miss Ohio because Miss Congeniality
sabotaged me, I could tell Josephine didn’t believe it.

I suspect she’s jealous of that as well as
Bertie. For sure, she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in a beauty
pageant. For Pete’s sake, the woman wears jeans. What does she
think she is, forty? And she doesn’t wear makeup or dye her
hair.

And I must say, Edna thoroughly annoyed me
one day by saying Josephine’s hair didn’t need to be dyed, because
the gray bits looked like highlights.

Bullfeathers!

Edna

Josephine doesn’t like me much, but darned if I let it bother me.
She thinks she’s so smart. So what am I, chopped liver? I taught
school for twenty years, I’ll have you know. Geography, grammar,
and social studies. And nobody could keep control of a classroom
the way I did. Nobody. So, there.

And I did it without any of those fancy
degrees young people get these days. Not that I would have sneezed
at the chance to go to a nice college. No, I would have jumped at
it. But times were tough back then.

Ah, well. Spilled milk, water under the
bridge, and all that, and doggone it, I’m too old to still be
grieving.

I was a good teacher, though. And my
students knew I wouldn’t put up with any shenanigans, just like I
didn’t let Helen get away with what she did to me and Jonquil.

I’ve had other chances in my life to right
wrongs, and I took them. Never could abide a person who hurt
someone else on purpose. That’s why I made sure that big kid who
bullied the little kids had an accident. It was unfortunate that he
ended up paralyzed, but what I did saved a lot of other children
pain. That boy was not going to stop hurting the little kids until
someone stopped him. That’s for sure.

I’d be willing to bet Josephine hasn’t
righted a single wrong in her entire life.

Lillian

I taught math in the Cincinnati public schools for thirty years,
and when I retired, I needed a hobby. I chose Graphoanalysis
because the idea of being able to evaluate someone based on their
handwriting intrigued me. In the first workshop I took, when the
instructor called handwriting a blueprint of the psyche providing
insight into how the writer has responded to their life
experiences, I was hooked.

Usually, I don’t mention I’m a
Graphoanalyst, though. It makes people nervous about writing me
notes. They don’t realize it takes a great deal of effort and very
careful measurement to know anything about them. Although they’re
correct in thinking I could evaluate them, it’s not something I do
for my own amusement.

A valid analysis requires context. You see,
the traits displayed in a sample can be either bad or good
depending on what’s going on in the writer’s life. Aggression, for
example, can be a negative in someone whose life has no direction,
but a positive in someone trying to get ahead in their career.

Once I got my Graphoanalyst certification, a
cousin on my mama’s side put me in touch with the police. I helped
in one serial murder case and two kidnappings. One of the kidnap
victims was killed, though, and I was awful sad about that for a
long time. Because of that, my Roger, he wanted me to stop, so I
did give up working with the police.

But when one of my former students
recommended me to a large international corporation based in
Cincinnati, Roger agreed that would be okay. They needed help to
choose the right people for management positions, and I did
analyses for that for several years. When I informed the CEO I was
ready to retire for good, he took Roger and me to dinner at one of
the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in Cincinnati.

He told me at dinner I’d been a wonderful
asset to the company, and that in his opinion, the increased stock
price over the years was partly my doing. He had a twinkle in his
eye when he said all that. I expect because he knew, although we’d
not met before, that I’d recommended him for advancement early
on.

But I digress. As I was saying, give me a
paragraph or two of handwriting and I can tell a lot about the
person who wrote it. Can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman,
their age, or whether they’re left- or right-handed. But I can tell
if that person is creative or conventional, fearful or
egotistical.

I can also tell if two people are a good
match, although my own children chose not to listen to me. Both my
daughters are now divorced, which was no surprise. Oh well. Guess
we all have to make our own mistakes.

Lately, I’ve begun collecting writing by the
staff here at Brookside. I’ve become quite adept at finding
crumpled papers in wastebaskets. I’m putting all the bits I find
into a file folder for a rainy day. My plan is to write an article
for a Graphoanalysis journal entitled: “Personality Characteristics
to Be on the Lookout for in Retirement Home Staff.” With the number
of us old folks just going up and up, it should be most
helpful.

Although it takes effort to do an in-depth
analysis, I do quickie ones all the time. All I need is a person’s
signature, and I can tell you if that person is open or is hiding
something.

It’s simple, really. The more illegible the
signature, the deeper the secret. Now, Edna and Myrtle both have
perfectly legible signatures. Which I admit is odd in Edna’s case,
given what she did to her sister. But then, she was open about what
she’d done. Her husband, poor man, would likely disagree about
Edna’s openness and honesty, although maybe he never knew the
truth. I confess, I would find it most interesting to take a look
at her writing.

I’d also like to take a peek at Josephine’s.
She’s such an enigma, or a ’nigma, as my momma would say. A
signature that’s mostly easy to read, with only a couple of minor
flourishes, and yet she’s never invited any of us to her apartment.
In fact, the woman who cleans my place told me Josephine is so set
on her privacy, she doesn’t even let a housekeeper in the door.
It’s certainly mystifying.

Despite those oddities, I like Josephine.
Tart as lemon juice, but not a prejudiced bone in her body,
something I’m quite certain about since I’ve had years of practice
recognizing prejudiced bones.

It’s a wonder, really, I ended up in a
lily-white place like Brookside. But Roger and me, we worked real
hard and saved our pennies. Before he died, he said he wanted me to
live in a nice place, and he thought Brookside sounded real
pleasant. Still miss that man. Oh my, I do.

It did take a while for me to feel at home
here since I’m the only black person living at Brookside. I have
noticed something real interesting, though. Seems the more wrinkled
the skin, the less the color matters.

What’s helped take my mind off things, like
missing Roger, is playing cards. It makes for a more interesting
day, even when Josephine is tormenting Myrtle about Bertie.