Solitaire

by Kathleen Ann Goonan

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Jeff had a hard time giving up a game. He must have played solitaire all night, because he seemed able to see many moves ahead. But he took it for granted that there was only one outcome. The first time, he was right. "No," Jeff said, a few plays into the first hand. "Won't work." He shoved all the cards together angrily, and SB saw that tears had gathered in his strange round eyes. "Hey man," SB said, which he had picked up from one of his dad's favorite shows, Dobie Gillis, "it's all right. We just deal another hand, all right?" He knew how Jeff felt. The frustration of it. "There's another game, see?" He didn't yet know how to put into words the things he'd long come to terms with. Each game was death or life, light or dark; but then there was another one after it and that was the fun of it. It wasn't failure. It was . . . opportunity. With each deal he learned something new about the cards, about what could happen, about what to expect. It wasn't each single game that mattered. Sometimes the game turned into a cul-de-sac quickly. He could see it a long way off, or maybe there wasn't even a first move. But usually if he was canny, if he spotted every opportunity to make a move and could decide whether or not to make that move, the game opened up like the long valley he'd seen one night when his dad was watching The World At War, his favorite show, puffing away on Chesterfields, tense on the edge of his seat as on the screen puffs of smoke issued from black and white mountain valleys like the puffs from his dad's mouth. SB had never seen a valley before, even though the weatherman insisted that they lived in the Ohio Valley. It seemed flat as a pancake to him and colored his ideas of mountains and valleys until he saw real valleys. He tried to tell Jeff. "I saw a movie one night about a horse . . ." he dealt a few more cards . . . "it wasn't just any horse, it was a smart horse, and he loved his master, and even though it was war and the horse might be killed he went back and found his master . . ." he stopped, wondering how indeed the horse had picked up his master so that the man, wounded, lay across the saddle, but decided it didn't matter . . . "and he saved him from dying. Well, see, any one of these cards coming up could save you, you just don't know . . ." but Jeff frowned, his eyes stormy, and swept the cards up. "No," he said, "No," and dealt again, oddly ferocious, and bent over the table, tossing cards down so fast that they began flying off the table. SB watched for a moment, amazed, then gently pried the dirty cards from Jeff's hand, picked the cards off the floor, reshuffled, and calmly dealt. He straightened them out where Jeff had bent them. "There's always another game," he said. SB left well before dark that day, because he was hungry, but after that he came back just about every day. His mom seemed pleased, and more gentle, and didn't ask where he was all day. He knew she wouldn't be real happy if she knew he wasn't climbing trees or playing Cowboys and Indians, but teaching someone else to play solitaire. After the first week SB started wondering about Jeff's mom, but figured that maybe she had decided not to be tied down. Then he wondered why he never saw Jeff's dad, but decided that it was just as well. But one day even he got tired of cards. "Look," he said, "Let's go out and do something. The big kids are playing baseball in the field across from my house. Want to go?" To his surprise, Jeff nodded. But when they went outside, instead of going up the road, Jeff took off past the south edge of the cornfield, where SB had never been before. SB hesitated, then followed. Jeff could run real fast. SB could hardly keep up. But after ten minutes Jeff stumbled to a stop, SB on his heels, and crouched on the edge of the woods as SB looked over his shoulder, surprised. They had come by another route to the ball field, and were well back from the third baseline, hidden by leaves. Across the field he saw bleachers which he knew needed paint and were full of splinters. Spread out across them were the usual assortment of boys like himself who came on dull afternoons to watch the big kids play and hope the team would be short and one of them would be asked to fill in. There were only about five or six of them, hanging between bleachers by knees and back. SB recognized most of them. Not far from him and Jeff a big kid was inching away from second base. SB felt weird, like he was spying on his own life, like he was watching himself over there on the bleachers. "Out," hissed Jeff, and SB was startled when the pitcher suddenly turned and burned a fast ball to the second baseman who caught it with a loud thump in his lovely big glove and tagged the big kid out. SB looked over at Jeff, wanting to say how did you know but said nothing when he saw the rapt look on the eyebrowless face, the breathless, panting look of him. He looked steadily back at SB, at first helplessly. Then his eyes changed to fierce. "Home run" he whispered, defiance in his voice, and it was. They walked back, and on the way, SB saw something strange in the woods, through the sunset. He pushed his way through the brush, while Jeff pulled at him. "Come on," he kept saying, but SB shrugged him off. SB saw, bent in the woods, crumpled metal. It was not like a car. It had a shape he had never really seen before. Light shone from it but it was just sunset, he told himself, standing in the small clearing which looked blackened as if by fire. "Let's go," said Jeff, pulling at him, but when SB looked over at him his eyes were changed, so deep and sad, like when his mom said she was tied down, like when his dad said I'm a slave to the goddamned GE plant before piercing another beer. SB stood for a moment looking at Jeff, at his queer face, so like his father's which SB remembered perfectly. Jeff looked at him helplessly, his eyes filled with tears which overflowed. "Like cards," he said then, over and over and over, and ran to hug the metal. "Can't win." SB left him there, running through the woods for his Huffy. But he was back the next day, and they didn't talk about it. They just played cards. [next]