Do the impossible!
Down the hall, my mother and father began to speak quietly. It wasn’t long before their talk turned to harsh whispers and then to arguing. All I knew about the nature of their argument was that it wouldn’t end soon.
I opened the pack of cards. I played Crazy Eights with my mother sometimes, but I had never taken the time to inspect the intricate strangeness of the designs, nor had I paid attention to the feel of the cards’ crisp edges against my fingertips.
When something downstairs smashed—a glass? a dish?—I gasped, because that was something new.
The world is full of endless possibilities, I whispered to myself, touching the cards, laying them on the carpet, turning them upside down, noticing they looked the same no matter which way they faced.
The world is full of endless possibilities. I said the words as if they were magic. I was desperate to believe, and so I did. The world was full of endless possibilities, and I vowed to be the one who did the impossible.
7
As I got out of my car with a sack of groceries and lightbulbs, Harley was leaving the apartment building in her green scrubs and white canvas sneakers.
“It’s freezing outside,” I said. It was still technically the afternoon but the sun had already dipped below the apartment building across the street. “You want a ride to work?”
“I’m never cold,” she said. “Thanks, though. Hey, guess what? I found a forever home for Mustard.”
I assumed forever meant until the new owner realized the dog was a ruthless killer. But I didn’t want to ruin Harley’s good mood.
“That’s great,” I said.
“It is.” Her smile faded. “Let’s hope it goes as easy for Jasmine.”
“Who?”
“Someone found her wandering on Route 1.”
A new dog already? “Does she eat people, too?”
“What? No, Jasmine’s sweet. She’s great about letting me change her bandages.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just some pus-filled—”
“Never mind. Forget I asked.”
Her face brightened again. “So how’s magic these days? December must be a busy month.”
I had a few shows lined up. I didn’t care about any of them.
“I’m mostly thinking about the new year,” I told her, and Harley went off to the bus stop and I went inside, where the birds seemed disconcerted, jumping off their perch to the cage floor and then jumping up again, over and over. I took them out and set them on top of the cage, changed their newspaper, and vacuumed up the birdseed that was always spilling onto the carpet. In the kitchen I downed a tall glass of water. Then I got to work, scrubbing the bathroom and kitchen. I dusted all the surfaces and ran a wet paper towel along the floorboards. I replaced some of the blown-out bulbs. I walked from room to room, frowning at the shabby carpet, the dusty curtains, the yard-sale furniture, the upside-down milk crates on which the TV still sat after all these years. Everything came up pathetically short. Money was always tight, but that was no excuse for refusing year after year to create a home rather than a way station.
Not sure what to do with myself, I went into the kitchen, shoved aside old mail and bills, and did some food prep. I sliced an onion and a green pepper to add to the canned sauce. I remembered that I ought to wash my hands so they wouldn’t stink from the onions. Other people! They made you change your game.
At a little before five I returned the birds to their cage. No sooner had I shut the cage when there was a knock on my door. Ellen stood on my stoop in a beige wool trench coat, her breath visible in the cold.
“We barely know each other,” she said, “but I need you to understand this is the most important thing I’ll ever do. And your yes came on the heels of some pretty strong nos. I have to know you’re really up for this.”
As I often did, I thought about my father hobbled and demeaned, standing beside me at the Showboat’s roulette table. Except that now, for the first time, I saw the hint of nobility and resoluteness in what I had always assumed was simply the impulsive, self-destructive act of a broken man.
“I’m all in,” I told her.
“And you aren’t gonna get cold feet in a week? Because that’ll be too late for me to find somebody else.”
Red or black.
I held her gaze. “I told you, I’m all in.”
I wasn’t used to cooking and talking. Wasn’t used to making enough food for two. Wasn’t used to the larger pots. I overcooked the garlic bread. I undercooked the spaghetti. At least I knew the pinot noir would be fine. I really knew my mid-priced wines.
I served the meal, and as we ate at my small bistro table Ellen told me about Victor Flowers: former musician turned record-business guy turned financial manager and real estate developer. I didn’t tell her I already knew this. I let her talk. “He believes in the American dream,” she said, “because he’s the product of it. Self-made and all that. What else … he collects musical instruments. And art. He’ll bore you to tears explaining the historical significance of every little thing in his house. He lives alone. Never married, no kids, no romantic relationships that I can tell. Evidently a guy who values making money over dating. He’s private but sociable. Charming. Even at our poker games.”
I had decided not to mention Victor Flowers’s role in my family’s past. That was my business, and it wasn’t relevant. And it wasn’t as if he would recognize me. I’d met him only that one time, and I had been a child.
“How long has he been a gambler?” I asked.
“Forever, I think, but he’s very private about it. Which makes sense. His reputation was built on being smart with money—valuing a dollar and all that. Same with his foundation. It looks bad to donors if
