The Year the Old Man Lost the Card Game War by Caroljean Gavin

            jimmy brown CC


The Year the Old Man Lost the Card Game War
 
    Yarn over, hook, and through. Whirring rattle of the swamp cooler. Red’s out with the strawberries. He just tends ‘em, doesn’t pick them. Time clicks in a circle. Red comes in, eats, a sandwich, watches the game with his eyes closed, disappears down the back of the house, where he’ll clean himself up quietly, like a man. The “boys” show up at the sliding glass door. It’s time. Their baseball caps are drawn over their eyes. Three triple crochets. Chain three. Three triple crochets. Round and round the square. Lavender 100 percent acrylic sliding through my fingers. Adele pulls out Red’s bolo tie. The one with a turquoise phoenix. Bud stutters open the sliding door, still in his undershirt. “Heard you fell off the roof. You up for this?” Red is ready. Church ready. Pinochle ready. Aftershaved. He takes a shot of Irish whiskey from the glass Adele hands him like a prayer. Red steps out into the blaze of sun and is gone walking down the asphalt to the clubhouse behind the pool.
 
    Yarn over, hook, and through. Pull tight but not too tight. Adele pulls out a bowl of apples. There is no reason for the afghan I am making. There is a boy I like back home. He has dark skin and a weightless smile. Now the yarn is cream colored. Baby Jesus stares at me, all halo’d in his Mama’s arm on the wood paneled wall. Must have been nice. The ancestors and far-flung relatives are on the opposite wall. Adele’s shaving the apples with wrist flicks of her peeler. Red’s recliner is empty. Still the game is on. Men running into each other. Men knocking themselves down. Slapping cards. Shaking tables. Hollering. Red’s aftershave is hanging around. I slip off the kitchen chair. Lie on my belly, taking my work to the floor. I don’t know how something with so many holes can keep you warm.
 
    Whirring rattle of the swamp cooler. Red isn’t supposed to have sweets because of the diabetes. Pie is cooling on the sill. Afternoon grinds its teeth against the mountains. Adele puts in a roast, carrots and potatoes. She stands in front of the oven holding a murder mystery novel. She buys them in boxes. Gives them away in boxes. They smell of boxes. My square is growing. Yarn over, hook, and through. Granny’s square round and around. Now chestnut brown. Adele pulls the blinds aside. The hills stare down at us raging. Tiny helicopters fly over, drop red plumes down over the trees, the brush. Red was a longshoreman. Red was a handyman. Red ran the charcoal grill on barbeque nights. Red was an outside man. Flipping cards through his fingers. Drinking stale coffee with the boys. Adele taps on the digital clock. It might be broken. Now I’m crocheting upside down hanging off a rocking chair. Red was a warrior. He slips in through the door, slumping, and worn, pockets hanging inside out. It’s dinnertime. A poster of The Last Supper watches ours. 
 
    Red’s out with the strawberries. The bird feeders have all been taken down. Adele’s washing the plates. I spread my yarn square on the round table under the swap cooler. My fingertips are red. I leave the aluminum hook stabbed up through the hank of yarn to get back to later. Crunching out over the lava rocks in my flip-flops. Red’s hunched over. Smoke fills the sky. Mosquitos whine past my ear. Red’s hunched over staring at his hands. They used to be good luck hands. He pushes through the metal nutting, pushes through the cover of leaves, plucks out a plump bright berry, pecked from, half swallowed. Red curses and limps down the driveway until he’s gone, taking Adele with him, and the pie, and the flaming hills, and all of the respite of summer.

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Caroljean Gavin’s work has appeared in places such as Barrelhouse, Bending Genres, Queen Mob’s Teahouse and is forthcoming from The Conium Review. Currently she is raising two rambunctious sons, writing one rambunctious novel, and looking for a home for her restless story collection.