31

Denise’s father’s house was up on a hill, rubbled rocks forced out on the side, the front door unusable. You’d fall off the cliff if you walked straight out. Corner Brook houses went up and around one another, swirling in and out of hills. The people who had carved the place into a city had found places in valleys and up steep banks. Houses tilted out, as if they would fall and crumble. Large stair cases of concrete led up to back yards, people struggling up the steps with heavy loads, taking breaks against twisted iron handrails. 

Denise came in from the back door. Her mother was cooking cabbage rolls, steam coming up from the pot and covering the windows in a wet cloak. 

“Well look at herself there now.” Her father rose from his chair in the living room and shuffled towards her. His slippers made friction along the carpet. He barrelled her in a hug and slapped her back. He stepped back and looked her up and down, a slight smile. 

“My god look at ‘er, would ya. Muriel set her a plate. God bless her.”

Muriel’s head was tilted over the huge steaming bucket, one hand poked and turned the cabbage rolls with a fork, making sure not to unravel them, the other hand wafting the smell towards her face. She turned and looked at her husband, glasses cloudy. 

“Denise my love, come look. George my son, these won’t be ready just yet. Don’t you be worrying about when I’m plating.”

Muriel waved her daughter over to smell the rolls. Once Denise got closer, she put her arm around her mother and tapped her on the back. 

Denise’s face covered in dew, she nodded to her mother in approval. 

George took to the livingroom, turned his police radar on low. He kept the radio on nearly all day, except during the news and supper. Keeping a close ear to the action of the neighbourhood and the rest of Corner Brook. Might be someone he knows, could be someone he could help, could be a person he loves is lost and he has a clue where they could be. You never know, he’d say to Muriel. You never know. 

More people wandered in through the back door, screen door squawking then slamming, George scuffling over for a hearty hug, Muriel busy at the pot. Sharon, George and Murial’s youngest, came in with her mound of children and their friends. Roger, the neighbour from down the hill arrived. Denise’s husband, Eddie, coming in after work, still in his coveralls, the reflective lines gleaming in the light. He’d crack open a bottle of beer and ask Geroge how he’s getting on. People would wander outside for puffs of cigarettes, Muriel taking a break from the steam for a draw and back to the stove. 

The kids, if you could call them that, were nearly adults now, but the family’s vocabulary couldn’t catch up with their growth—they stayed in the yard, propped on lawn chairs. Vinyl backings coming apart, green and yellow plastic shredding under their weight. The aluminum folding chairs had been there since Sharon and Denise were youngsters. Flung in the back seat for soccer games, dragged to camp sites. Unclamped and reclamped, stuffed in the shed for the winter. A few of the legs were adjusted by George with duct tape or new screws. 

Sometimes the kids sat around a fire. One time a youngster brought sparklers, until one of the toddlers got hold of it and burnt her chubby little fingers, waddling and wailing into her mother’s arms. Even though most of the kids were grown, toddlers and babies found their way to the yard too. Someone’s grandchild, a neighbour babysitting. No one ever really asked how they got there, just said hello cheekily to the child, offered them too much sugar, gave them a nickname the youngster protested. 

Look at Mister Bojangles coming up there now. The child’s face would squish in displeasure. 

My name is LEO.

Mr Bojangles is some crooked there now. 

Muriel called them all in for supper. The small kitchen and living room filled quickly. An unorganized line to the stove, everyone with mismatched bowls and forks in their hands, mothers hushing children, telling them to get to the end of the line.

You can wait, my God, you won’t starve, have some respect. 

George waited at the table, head seat, a big wooden chair built differently from all the others. A plastic table cloth spread over the table, wiped and cleaned. It had a floral pattern of oranges and yellows. Another piece that has been in the family when there were only four of them. 

Muriel served her husband first then stepped back waiting for everyone to get themselves a bowl. Sharon and Denise protested.

Mom, sit down, let me get you a bowl. 

“No no no, I’m fine, all of ye fill up first,” waving her arms back and forth rejecting her daughters’ pleas. 

The adults gathered at the table while the kids took over the living room, piled on the couch, nearly on top of one another. Older sisters telling younger brothers to sit on the floor. The police radar was no longer mumbling in the background, just many young voices going in different directions. 

Muriel finally took a seat, satisfied everyone had enough. No one missed a drop, bowls were scraped clean, Eddie would take the bowl to his mouth, pouring the sauce and oils into it. Denise and Sharon stood quickly to gather bowls, before their mother could take over, telling kids to bring their dishes to the sink. Muriel’s head turned up from her bowl. 

“No no leave ’em, I can do them after. Just leave ‘em. Gives me something to do when you’re gone,” she said, waving at the girls to stop. Both her daughters ignored her, hot water running from the tap, a dishtowel ready in their hands. 

Muriel gathered George’s and her plate and brought them to the sink. “You girls can leave ‘em.”

George got up and started preparing for the big hurrah of the night: Scat. A card game of mostly chance. Each player got three cards, with the goal of reaching a total 31 with the same suit. If your hand was close to 31, you could knock and everyone had to lay out their cards. The person with the lowest score, had to toss one of their three quarters into the kitty. 

George had a whole set up, it was a serious event. He had a bowl with water and a sponge, to dab his fingers from drying out and catching on the cards. He had a stack of cards, a Cape Spear light house on the backs of them, again a piece that had been in the house for some time. Corners worn, the lighthouses on some faded. He had a cookie jar, filled with quarters, ready to hand out to each player. Each time he handed someone their coins he’d wink and say “Now you’ll have to pay me back if ye wins….or if ye loses” followed by a wink. 

The table cloth was wiped down, removed and the leaf of the table was put in. Eddie and Roger yanked on both ends of the table to open it up, then jangled together til the whole piece snapped. The vinyl chairs were brought inside, and all the older kids gathered round. Some were given an opened bottle of beer from George, also followed by a wink. 

Denise and Sharon heading out for a quick draw, came in and turned the police radar on low before they took a seat. 

“Let the games begin.” said George, dabbing his fingers in the wet sponge. He started shuffling the cards professionally. Starting with a pharaoh shuffle, followed by a riffle shuffle, followed by a double bridge, a quick up and down, finishing with a waterfall.  Then he hands the cards out quickly. 

“Now if I sees ya cheating, you’re out.” His hand raised up behind him, with his thumb out gesturing to the door. “Remember if you get a Scat, that’s a true 31, slam it on the table, no warning knock needed and everyone has to pay in on of their quarters. Don’t wait too long, if ye got a good hand, close to 31, cause the longer ye waits, the higher everyone’s hands goes up. Your cards have to be of the same suit. If you lose all three of your quarters, you tinks you’re out, but wait…..” He pauses from dealing, holds his hands up. “After you lose your three quarters, you have one chance left,  we calls it being on yer face, you can play until ye loses, but wait….” his hand rises again. “If you’re out and someone deals ya back in by accident, you’re back in the game. I guarantee ya, I won’t be making that mistake, but some people do. Hey Muriel?” He winks at his wife with a chuckle. 

The game gets started. Beers were cracked, children scurried to the living room or the back yard. The older kids joined the game, taking it seriously, stacking and unstacking their three quarters, and then laying them flat, lining them up perfectly. 

George kept his three quarters, while everyone else slowly played into the kitty. A few got dealt back in, as the beers made minds milky, it was hard to remember who was in or out. There were ooooos and hey hos yelled when a knock came, the alluding bang implying the end of someone’s quarter. Every once and awhile, George tapped the tips of his fingers into his sponge, and then reshuffled the cards in his hands. He was the only one keeping a close eye on everyone’s moves. Taking notes of which suits people were after. In one round, he noticed four people were after spades, which meant neither of them would round up a high enough number. This information gave him a slight side smile. Sharon caught a glance of him.

“Dad what you cracking at? What did you see that none of us have?”

“Never you mind. If you had your head in the game, you’d know what I know.”

The grandchildren’s hands went over their smiling mouths, and George tossed them a wink. 

It was down to two, a youngster Sharon had brought along, one of her children’s friends and George. He had three quarters shining in front of him, the youngster was on her face. 

“Tell ya what, I’ll deal, then you get first stab at the deck.”

“Can I trust you to not shag up the cards?” the teen said taking a jab at George, which made him crack a smile. 

“You never know, I’m too quick to catch, hey Muriel? Slick as a honeyed ham.”

The cards were dealt. People who had left the table for dessert or a walk outside to check on kids, now gathered around the table, standing instead of sitting to watch the final hand. 

It was George’s turn to pick a card, he tipped his fingers into the sponge and instead of taking a new card, he wrapped his big hand up into a gentle fist, and slowly knocked three times on the table. The audience gasped. 

Yer in for it now.

Oh lord, time to pray my love.

Eddie handed the youngster an open beer. “That’s alright b’y none of us have beat George.”

The kid had one shot to change the total of her hand, and she picked up a Jack of hearts, which she actually needed. Her total was Twenty-six. She laid her hand down. 

The crowd changed their tone. The kid had a chance. Everyone turned to George. He looked a bit miffed, but it was hard to tell. 

“Well bucko, look at that. Twenty-six! Well….” George slowly laid down his hand, his face an expression of defeat. His card now laid out on the table, he pushed back on his chair, using his two hands against the lip of the table. Everyone leaned over, doing the math in their heads. King of Spades, Eight of Spades, Nine of Spades. George waited for everyone to realize what happened. 

“Oh man. Go on, you never, Sure I thought she had ya,” Denise said, Muriel shook her head in disappointment. 

“That’s right. Twenty-seven misses.” George put his two fists in the air and shook them in celebration. “You can’t beat a legend, I appreciate you trying.”

He put his hand out to his opponent for a shake. She smiled and gave him her hand. He pulled her in for a hug, slap on the back. 

“Good job hey, well done. Further than Muriel ever got.” He turned to look for his wife’s reaction but she wasn’t in sight. 

People moved away from the table, gathering dessert dishes from the living, out in the yard for a smoke and gathering up kids. 

George approached his defendant, cupped her hands in his and put the winning quarters in her hand. The jangle falling into her palms. 

“No Pop, you don’t have to,” she said to him. 

“Sure I do,” he said and winked. Once the quarters were in her possession, he tapped her back again. 

People gathered up coats, argued with children to put on boots, gave Muriel hugs and passed leftovers in a tupperwares, a couple of couldnts for the next day. 

Once the house was cleared out, people walking down the twisted driveway and driving off, the living room window lit with a flash of head lights. George settled into his living room recliner and turned up the police radar, took his crossword book, pulled his glasses down from his on top of head and started filling out the grid.