Читать книгу What To Keep - Mary Schramski - Страница 9

Las Vegas, NV

June 2000

Barbara, the only other female blackjack dealer on day shift, just tapped me on the shoulder for my break. I’ve been dealing blackjack to two deadbeat guys for the past forty minutes. Dealers deal for forty minutes, then break for twenty, over and over until their eight-hour shifts are finished, just like in a factory—in this case, a big, smoky money machine.

I clap my hands to show I’m not stealing chips, and I’m halfway down the middle of the pit when the pit boss motions me over to the center podium.

“Message for you,” Joe says. He adds, “Casino policy says no personal phone calls.” Even so, he hands me the yellow Post-it note he’s holding between his thumb and forefinger. Joe, as always, is wearing plenty of gold jewelry. And I just know his navy suit must have cost him at least a thousand. Joe makes two thousand a month before taxes watching people deal cards. Most pit bosses try to pretend they own the casino, probably just to make their lives bearable.

“Thanks,” I force myself to say. I’ve worked at the Golden Nugget for three years. Joe has only been here six months, and he’s been on my ass since the first day he walked into the pit. He’s asked me to go out and have a drink but of course he doesn’t talk about his wife when he suggests we walk across the street to the Horseshoe after work. He’s just trying to get laid. Casino bosses think they have a right to the help, but even if I found him attractive, I’m totally through with men, especially men like Joe who pretend they have more than they do, or that they’re single, or both.

I fold the Post-it note in half, smile and walk back to the break room. A moment later I unfold the yellow square. Joe printed “Ron Tanner,” a name I don’t recognize. And now I’m thinking Bill, my ex, might be in a jam. And this scares me, how easily he can pop into my mind. I’ve been working extra hard to forget. Guess I’ve got to try harder.

I walk over to the table by the pay phone, pick up the phone book and check the area code. Whoever Ron Tanner is, he’s calling from the western half of North Carolina. And he probably doesn’t have anything to do with Bill. That man, I am sure, has never been east of the Arizona border.

However, my father was born and buried in North Carolina, and he, my mother and I lived there for a brief time. I have one uncle who lives there, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken in thirty-five years. I ball up the tiny piece of paper and walk to the trash. Before I can pitch it, my curiosity gets the best of me. A moment later I dial the number using the last bit of credit on my phone card.

The voice on the other end announces law offices. I tell myself to hang up. With Bill, I found out law offices can only mean trouble with a capital pain in the ass, but instead I identify myself and ask to speak to Ron Tanner.

A minute later, in a strong Southern accent, Ron Tanner announces that he’s acting as the court-appointed executor for Grey Alexander’s estate. I hear him take a deep breath then, at a quick pace, he explains he’s sorry to have to tell me, but my uncle passed away three weeks ago, and I have inherited his estate because I’m his only living relative.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes. What happened to my uncle?” I ask, confused.

“He had cancer. From what I understand he fought it for quite a while. I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a long silence while my mind tries to wrap around what I’ve just been told.

“I’m sure you have a few questions,” Ron says.

A little sound like “oh” bounces out of my mouth.

“No?”

“Sorry. What exactly do you mean by estate?”

“It consists of your uncle’s house and his belongings, which aren’t much.”

My uncle. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and now all of a sudden I have his house.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his smooth, deep accent getting deeper.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just surprised.” I shake my head—feel dizzy. When was the last time I saw my uncle? Then I remember. My dad, mother and I were driving away from my uncle’s house. Grey Alexander, a tall man with blond hair, in a navy jacket and cream pants, was standing on the front porch of his large house, his arms crossed, staring at our car. I waved a five-year-old goodbye—he never lifted his hand.

“I certainly had difficulty locating you,” Ron Tanner breaks in. “Do you know your phone’s disconnected?”

Did I know? I’ve been without a phone for a month, hoofing it down to the 7-Eleven on Sunset and Green Valley Parkway to make calls in an attempt to straighten out the mess Bill left me in. But I don’t tell Ron Tanner this. He probably doesn’t want to hear my sad story.

“What exactly is in Grey Alexander’s estate?” I ask, and then remember I’ve already asked this.

“A house. A car. Not much else.”

“What’s the house like?” I wonder if it is the same one, the one I stared at through the back window of our family car, the same one where I ran down the hallway to a roomy kitchen.

Ron explains it’s very old and pretty run-down.

“How do I sell it?” I ask, thinking about the extra money I so desperately need.

“You might consider coming back to Greensville. The house has to be inspected. Then you could talk to a Realtor.”

I think about how Joe hates me ’cause I won’t go out with him; he would never let me off, even for a few days.

“I can’t. I have to work. No vacation left. Can I get in touch with a Realtor from here? Have her take care of the inspection?”

“You can,” Ron says. “I can get you a few names.”

Moments later, still dazed and wondering if this is all a big joke, I cradle the phone and lean against the wall. Leanne, the break-room waitress, walks up to me, glances at her watch and asks if I want anything to eat. I look up.

“Are you okay?”

I shake my head, blurt out I’ve just inherited a house in North Carolina.

“You’re lying!”

“No, it’s true, or at least I think it is. I just spoke with the attorney.”

“I’m so sorry about your loss.”

“I really didn’t know the person.”

Leanne pats my shoulder then steps back a little. “Well, now there’s no excuse not to get out of this hellhole.”

My mother, when I’d talked about moving away from Vegas, always placed her hand on her chest, right in the middle and whispered how alone she was in the world, how she needed me. Which now, years later, I know was total bullshit. But her drama gave me a good excuse for not moving—this glittering desert town sucks people into its dreams.

Leanne’s brown eyes grow larger. “When are you going to see your house?”

I shake my head. “I’m not. I’ve got to work, and I don’t have any extra money.”

She stuffs her hands in her pockets and looks hard at me. “Are you kidding? Someone loves you enough to leave you a house, all their things, and you aren’t going to go and look at them? You’re crazy.”

I think about telling her that my getting the house doesn’t have anything to do with love, but what’s the point? Grey Alexander didn’t leave me his house; some probate judge flung it to me because I’m from a small family.

“I don’t have the money to go,” I say again, and this is so true. Bill left me in debt, took almost everything good we owned. “Besides, Joe isn’t going to let me off for a week. The lawyer said he’d give me the name of a Realtor who would handle everything.”

Leanne sighs. “What’s a Supersaver cost? I never saw a house sell for anything without the owner being there. We sold our house up in Salt Lake after we moved down here and got screwed. You’d better get back there and take care of business.”

I stand, wish I hadn’t told her about the call. “I’d better get back to the pit before I get the ax.”

Leanne shakes her head, clucks her tongue and heads toward the kitchen.

I slip my time card in the clock, and the deep thunk clocks me out at 8:01 p.m. The Golden Nugget time office pulses with boredom, greasy concrete floors, and bright fluorescent lighting that shows too much reality. Up front the casino, restaurant, and lounge are all gold, red and satin under soft lighting. Back here, this is the truth. The timekeeper nods and I walk down the stairs into the parking lot. Furnacelike air engulfs me. Eight o’clock at night and it is still eighty-five degrees. For the next three months the desert heat will cook everyone slowly, in our own sweaty skins, like poached eggs. I open my car, go around and roll down all four windows, curse the air conditioner that gave out two months ago.

Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on the garage-sale couch I bought a week ago to replace the Ethan Allen one my ex-husband stole, along with all my underwear that he forgot to take out of the top dresser drawer and put on the floor when he was cleaning out our house.

Just for the hell of it, I remind myself I own a house in North Carolina. Christ, life can turn on a dime! On the drive home, I tried not to think about the house, the extra money, but I couldn’t help myself and decided as soon as I can sell the house, I’m going to move to a better apartment, or maybe even buy another home and get my car air-conditioning fixed.

I dig in my purse and find the orange tip envelope I picked up right before I left work. It feels fatter than normal and for one brief moment I feel joy. A big tip day, the phone call to Ron Tanner. What more could a girl want?

A twenty, a ten and two ones are wrapped around a pink paper. I unfold it. It’s one of those weak-ass carbon copies of a layoff notice—Reduction In Staff—signed by Joe Gamino, the dickhead.

Great! Stunned, yet not surprised since I’ve known he’s been after me for months, I go to the fridge and grab a Coors Light, twist off the top, listen to it sigh then take a big swig.

Over at the window, I pull back the thin drapes and rest the cool amber beer bottle against my cheek. Fired! Crap.

To make myself feel better, I think about the house in Greensville, how maybe it will sell quickly. It’s just got to.

When I was five my parents moved back to Greensville for two weeks, and we stayed at Magnolia Hall until our apartment was ready. I remember the house was white with bricks, really big and filled with antiques. At night my mother, father and I, along with my uncle, would sit on the porch that wrapped around the front. I played on the steps with my doll or ran out into the grass, trying to catch fireflies while the grown-ups’ whispers floated through the air.

After we moved into an apartment, and as my mother was unpacking the last box, she started crying and couldn’t seem to stop. Two days later my father announced we were going back to California, where it was cool in the summer, warm in winter, and maybe it would be a place where my mother might get her sanity back.

I never understood this two-week, six-thousand-mile trek; it is one of those mythical family stories that children aren’t allowed to enter, just watch from the outside and wonder about.

Most of all I remember the cool morning air feathering my face, touching the trees as the three of us walked to our car, me in between my mother, who was crying softly, and Dad, his hand wrapped around mine. I felt wounded for them that day, like now, aching and not knowing why, afraid of the unknown.

I let the drape fall, take another sip of beer and, for the first time in many months, I admit my life has turned to pure crap.