The King of Spades

by Tatiana Pahlen

     On the plane carrying my daughter and me to Disneyland, a man is slumping in the adjacent seat as he's cuddling a bizarre package on his lap.
     "Excuse me for staring, but my eyes are drawn to the parcel you so fondly hold; looks like a vase."
     "You are right. It's very precious," the man mumbles.
     "Would it break if there's turbulence on the flight?" Prying, I lure him into a conversation.
     "I'm touched with your concern, madam. This dainty object contains a heart-wrenching tale. It's a long, dull story, and I don't want to trouble you with its details," he says, smiling at my five-year-old daughter, "Although, it would get her to sleep."
     "Now, you do whet my curiosity. I'd love to hear more; we have six hours from here to Los Angeles. I've already seen the movie they're showing!"
     So, Herman, as he introduces himself, says:
     "Well, you may find me rather awkward and not entirely accurate, but this is how I think it all began."
     Slowly, carefully, in graphic dissections, Herman paints a picture that glows before my eyes . . .

     "Her name was Joyce. I can still smell her cigarettes; she smoked quite a number of them with such a joy. My head is spinning when I think of that scent, Marlboro and Dior. A divine mixture!
     Joyce put her finished cigarette in the ashtray and reached for another.
     "I'm sorry," she said, the tears ran down her face.
     "Give me another chance, Greg, please." She paced erratically around their large loft, stumbling against the furniture.
     Greg sat in his favorite chair, rocking in silence.
     "Just one more chance." Joyce finally stopped pacing, sat beside him on top of the tea table, and tilted towards Greg's arms twining about his head.
     "I promise, I'll never play again. Never in my . . . "
     "You lied to me," he whispered. "You lied to me," he rose and roared.
     "God damn, Joyce. It was our mortgage money!"
     Joyce shrugged, but in her mind she was glad he broke this long two hours of silence. She feared his silence more than his outburst. Greg in his early thirties was three years younger than Joyce, but appeared even younger due to his childlike lips. She loved him to death and imagined having a blue-eyed baby boy, with the same fair curls and his pouting lips.
     Greg was not enthusiastic at his first thought of having a baby with Joyce, especially when he realized the full extent of her gambling problem, but she had sworn she would stop playing. Greg loved his wife. He fell for her large teal eyes and silky, always freshly lilac smelling chestnut hair.
     They were married for five years and remained childless. Joyce believed that Greg was to blame; a center for the 'Giants,' the New York football team, he was often away. However his dynamic life paid well and, as an athlete, he earned a hefty bundle. But lately money seemed vanishing quicker than the morning dew from thirsty leaves.
     While Greg was chasing the ball all over the states, Joyce was on the road too except in the opposite direction, Atlantic City. She was a helluva driver: Manhattan to "Mirage" in less than two hours.
     At times she would be stopped for speeding, but used a trick with a white lace hanky. When the inspection began, she would be rubbing the officer's face with it, as if his jowls were tainted with mud. The New Jersey State cops were known as the toughest police to deal with. But Joyce's trick worked like a charm: the cops would let her go with gratitude and green lights. It worked until she had an accident: she ran into the same fellow who happened to remember her and her handkerchief. Joyce blinked with her enigmatic eyes three times and the budding Romeo fell under her spell. In fact, instead of writing a ticket, he asked the girl out. Of course, she didn't meet him later as she promised, but sped away like a fugitive.
     "I can't take it anymore," Greg's voice sounded calmer, "I am out of this mess!" He glared at his chair and rocked it for the last time.
     "Fare-thee-well."
     From the walk-in closet he tossed out shirts and jackets into a large green Samsonite suitcase. Wide-open, it lay on Greg's side of their king-size bed.
     "No, Greg, please, don't," Joyce wept, "Don't leave me. We'll work it out. I'll get a job and get the money back." She jumped on top of his suitcase.
     "Too late! There is no trust left." Greg put on the coat, approaching the front door. "So long!" With eyes blurry from sobbing, Joyce noticed that his posture once straight is now stooped, making his six foot five frame shrink in size. He didn't slam the door, but left it open, leaving her and his packed luggage and bags behind.
     That night Joyce didn't go to Atlantic City as she usually would when left alone. She cried her eyes out, dusted the loft, did the laundry and babysat the phone, hoping that Greg would call. He didn't.
     Instead, his mother's voice on the phone broke her heart a week later when she urged her to sign the divorce papers. Joyce couldn't believe how fast these papers were prepared.
     Rose, his mother, had a small flower shop, 'Rose's Roses,' near University Place. Years ago, on the way to school, Joyce looked at Rose's windows and waved to this tall smiling, woman. At the time, Joyce was a student at the Parson's School where she took a course as a floral designer; she felt a special connection with the flowers, since she had read this book, "The Little Prince." She used to love quoting this particular line. "We are all responsible for the seeds we are growing." Soon after she got her hands on the flowers at 'Rose's Roses' before she became a graduate. Rose liked Joyce's innovative mind and was delighted to see her working in her shop. The two women became fast friends, until the day Greg entered the shop.

Joyce was reshaping a mixed bouquet when Greg came in and introduced himself. Suddenly, thorns from the crimson rose pierced her skin making her fingers bleed. Helping with the bandages, Greg touched her palms, the electricity ran through his veins; he didn't want to let them go; he had this longing desire to hold her hands for the rest of his life.      Rose felt betrayed by her only son and the employee, turned best friend, Joyce. She warned to cut them both out of her life if they would continue spending time together. She was brutally hurt once before: her husband, a Greek shipping trader, Gregory, left her for a younger woman while she was expecting a child. Rose tried everything to bring her man back, but the fair blue-eyed toddler had none of the likeness of a dark-haired Greek. The child didn't inherit any of his Mediterranean ancestry. Gregory senior didn't acknowledge his son; instead he got out of his obligations with a single lump sum of money. Rose then, using his money bought the flower shop and had never remarried.

     When Joyce received the pink slip from 'Rose's Roses', Greg couldn't be happier: he didn't want her to work. He was making enough money for both of them and didn't fancy those bandages on her long, fair fingers. He worshipped her hands.
     With tears in his eyes, the down-to-earth athlete learned that Joyce's parents died young. This made his love for her even keener. Growing under a watchful eye of his mother, Greg was now pleased to display his own shield towards a loved one. He brought her to Atlantic City where she felt like a child in Disneyland: "I never saw so much glitter," said Joyce, "Not even in the grand hotels;" she was struck with awe.
     In the past, she and Rose had been arranging flowers for the banquets at the Waldorf Astoria and the Carlyle. Now she was spellbound amidst the much too elated atmosphere. She was ecstatic. The cheer of the blinking lights in the casino intoxicated her.
     Greg taught her to play Blackjack and Baccarat. She amazed him when she won nine times in a row, playing Blackjack.
     "I love you," he stated, "My beautiful Queen of Spades."
     "Queen of Spades?" Joyce repeated without zest. "Do you know how old this Dame was in the play?"
     Greg smiled: "Who cares?"
     The croupier praised her and noticed that the Queen of Spades always attached, as if by a magnet, to Joyce's hands. I chuckled at their remarks saying that someone certainly had known a secret code in numbers.
     "I surely do," said Joyce fixing her enigmatic eyes on my badge. "Is your name Her-man, really?"
     I felt my body was charged with power voltage when she split waggishly my name in two parts. She won another game and now gazed at her magic card, the Queen of Spades. The 'Queen' winked at her, and taking it as a mirage, she winked back. As Joyce kept on winning, the large crowd had gathered around, watching her luck; among them I spotted the mayor of Atlantic City, who had stopped to shake hands with his prospective voters.
     "Will you marry me?" Greg shocked everyone at the table.
     The players yelled, "Yes," dragging the mayor out of the throng to the center!
     "Yes," whispered Joyce laughing and brushing off tears at the same time.
     They kissed under the fanfare of applause. The nearby slot machine added bluntly to the noise of everyone's excitement. At this moment it hit the jackpot and rang of with a dashing sound.
     "Champagne for everyone!" cried a lucky winner.
    That day they tied the knot, chose the croupier as their best man and that man was I, Herman!
    Rose kept her word, staying away from the beaming couple. Throughout the years their cards and gifts has been returned unwrapped. Greg tried everything. He bought her a car, "Jeep", she had always wanted, but she sent it back with a note: "No thanks. Don't need it!" Greg realized his relationship with his mother was over; that had caused him constant guilt. Joyce was the only woman who had replaced his mother effectively and there was no way to re-establish the relationship between these two women he deeply loved.
    On the contrary, over the years Joyce became an obsessive gambler: her mind was fixed in the casinos. Two months after her first triumph, she pleaded with Greg to go to Atlantic City and visit 'Mirage.' Joyce spent hours playing Blackjack and to my amazement, once again, she didn't lose a game. Greg barely was able to pull her from the table, saying: "Enough is enough!"
    Certainly, it wasn't enough for Joyce. Knowing Greg's schedules better than his coach, she was ready to sneak away in her Cherokee jeep and drive to the casino, as soon as he was out the door.
    One day Greg found that his bank account had been slimming down. Joyce confessed her addiction and swore she wouldn't play cards again.
    She lied. As soon as the money was back in the account, she returned to the casino. I watched her wild spree and pleaded with her to quit playing. But she couldn't, as she couldn't quit smoking. She lost a fortune, hitting the limit on her credit cards. She knew she needed help at that point.
    Joyce prayed desperately to become pregnant; she believed it would solve all of her problems. In fact, she vowed she would give up smoking and gambling at once, except the fertility drugs she was taking regularly were showing no effects. Her doctor advised to cut down on cigarettes, but Joyce continued to smoke two packs a day, leaving herself in the hands of divine providence.
    Greg was enraged when he found out his money had been blown away again.
    Threatening divorce, he urged her to see a psychiatrist. Joyce agreed and, surprisingly, it seemed to work. After a few months of sessions, Greg acknowledged that Joyce had finally lost her interest in cards and smoked less; a pack of cigarettes now lasted for days.
    "What would you say if we buy a house?" Greg approached Joyce.
    "A house?" she cried happily. "Where?"
    "I don't know. Westchester? Montauk? Jersey?" He embraced his wife and gazed into her bottomless eyes: "Wherever you want, baby!"
    This thought of buying a new property came from the therapist, a fifty-year-old dumpy woman. Beth handled all types of addicts with effective results. She assured Greg that Joyce's mind would be preoccupied entirely with the shopping for and adorning of their new nest. She also pointed out another direction: designing the flowerbeds would return Joyce to her creative skills. She hinted at a flower farm in the future.
    Joyce was ecstatic when Greg had thrown this idea of planting the seeds and growing her much-loved flowers. She chose an area in Westchester County. Picking a location was a part of the doctor's test.
    Her decision implied she was cured. Or was she?
    For days Joyce's heart was overwhelmed with joy: she sang and wondered like a child.
    "I'll build a castle out my flowerbeds," she chanted.
    All to herself, Joyce couldn't hold this excitement any longer. Greg left for LA; her sessions with Beth were over. She called me to share this news, except I wasn't there for her. Thinking of it, I'm still plucking out the last strands of my hair: I let her down that day. I should admit: I was selfish! It was simply unbearable, not seeing her. I had to find the way to handle it; I chose to vanish from her life entirely, on my own terms. But Joyce was determined to get in touch with me. After a few desperate phone calls, she had found herself on the road to Atlantic City. The rest has been the foggy bits of her bad dream: she played for two straight days; then she fainted.
    Later, Beth explained to a defeated Greg why Joyce had snapped. Her wild excitement provoked this appalling passage. If only her confidant, who was I, had been home at that time and chatted with her, it might have never happened. I agreed with Beth putting all the blame on myself, except Greg refused to accept this statement.
    Joyce said good-bye to her dream palace. She lost everything and most of all her beloved husband; he had considered leaving her for good this time.
    Their marriage was terminated as soon as Greg joined his mother, Rose.
    Now the 'floral designer' was circling all these 'Help Wanted' sections in the 'Sunday Times.' A snap of the lighter broke the silence. Before Joyce inhaled for the second time, she felt dizzy and ran to the bathroom. Nausea repeated every time she tried a cigarette. She grinned.
    "It can't be true. It's insane."
    Distraught, she went to a doctor only to confirm she was eleven weeks pregnant. The sonogram revealed she's was expecting a boy. Joyce was stunned. Now, being divorced, she wasn't sure if she should handle it all by herself:
    "Me a single mother?"
    She dialed Greg's number, but Rose answered the phone and she hung up. Then she called me, her born again friend. I insisted she relocate to Atlantic City and take one of my rooms.
    I was a widower. My growing daughter moved to Kansas City with a new family, a female lover.
    "You can stay as long as you desire," I assured Joyce, "At least till the baby arrives, then we'll see."
    Joyce asked if I would call Greg. I couldn't explain why I suddenly felt jealous. Of course, I promised to call Greg after the birth of his son and bring this headstrong ex-husband of hers to the delivery room and back into her arms. Still concerned, she had pursued me about the job. I assured her I'll get her a job in the floral boutique.
    Joyce liked this arrangement. Thinking of Atlantic City as a new home, instilled her comfort, instead of the alarming tingle she felt before. Her old gambling past had been fading away. With a new life in her womb, Joyce hoped that the baby would bring her back to Greg and Rose.
    Joyce pondered: Rose was a single mom herself; she wouldn't let this happened to me. She is not a monster. Yes, she is a possessive mother, but I am no judge! Who knows how possessive I could be? Wait till she sees a newborn mirroring her blue eyes and fair locks. Would she turn away from her own grandson? Joyce felt feverish longing for her lost friendship with Rose. Why can't we be a family? With this thought, she looked at the open pack of Marlboros and almost vomited. One by one she cast her cigarettes in the toilet. Flushing the last one away, she liberated herself with joy from a hardened habit.
    "I'll raise you as a healthy boy," she petted her yet flat tummy. "A very, very healthy boy! What should I do with this place?" Joyce frowned.
    In their agreement Greg was willing to pay for their loft in Tribeca till the end of the lease, which would expire in ten months.
    "I'll decide it tomorrow," concluded Joyce, imagining Scarlet O'Hara, her beloved heroine.
    A loud ring made her jump. Every time she heard the phone ringing, she prayed it would be Greg. She reached for the receiver. That was I, Herman, on the other side, warning that the snowstorm was not a joke and wanted her to wait till the weather cleared up.
    "Don't you worry," she said, "I'll be all right."
    I argued to stop her, but Joyce hung up saying: "See you in two hours," and now was rolling the two roomy bags outside.
    The cherry Cherokee, her proven pal, was a part of the settlement with generous Greg. After the third try, the car cleared its cough and began breathing heavily, like a downtrodden deer. Shivering on the cold seat, Joyce was warming up her hands by blowing hot air from her frozen mouth. Eventually, the wheel was heated and the 'Queen of Spades' had began her march, moving justly to the card's realm, where was based my modest residence.
    Thereupon I was busy clearing my daughter's room.
    Every year Louise visited me on Thanksgiving, bringing along her soft-speaking lover, Roberta, a vegetarian who stuffed our turkey with dry prunes and rice. Good thing, last Monday they left for home, so I had a place for Joyce, to whom for the past few weeks I'd been growing closer.
    Joyce had lost her parents at a young age. So had I. Recognizing her gambling problems before anyone else did, I urged Greg to seek a psychiatrist's help for his wife. A former addict myself, I was treated successfully; and here's the proof: for the last fifteen years I worked as a card dealer at the Mirage. Since then I had never ended up on the other side of the table or had a glass of scotch in my hand.
    My only courtesy was to help her, as I loved her as my own child, or more?
    Growing up in the orphanage, I clearly understood Joyce's problem. It all has been locking in balancing emotions. She didn't learn it gradually as the other children did, growing up with parents. She never had enough of it. She strove to fulfill the voids, catching excitement in the gaudy spots like casinos, where the highest voltage of energy influenced her fascination to the maximum as much as she could take it. I wondered if Disneyland would have such an impact on her. I promised Joyce to bring her there one day and she was very exited about it.
    In my heart I knew that Greg had not stopped loving his beautiful wife. Honestly, I tried whatever was left in my authority, to talk him out of divorcing his wife. But this headstrong football player remained stubborn in his decision. In our last conversation Greg displayed a fear of living in bankruptcy.
    "What'd happen if I broke my leg and lose my job? There's no money left on my accounts. Enough is enough!" These were his final words. I wonder if Greg ever felt guilty over bringing Joyce to the casino in the first place and introducing her to the game.
    However the scenario changed. Like Joyce, I hoped that the baby would reunite her with the athlete and his mama. I guess I was honored of being part of it again, as once before, when I was honored to be a best man at her wedding. But at times I nurtured darker thoughts, which made me feel ashamed; I wished nothing would change at all, really.
    The ancient clock on the wall awoke the solemn silence. For decades it had been broken and now, arduously, it was beating nine times.
    "How strange!" I thought, raising my eyebrows and inspecting the watch.
    "Where is she?" I worried. "She left at four. Was the traffic congested?"
    The wind piteously had been begging to sift in, banging on each window and howling like a wounded wolf. I looked outside, as the tempest was fading away and dialed Joyce's number, hoping she had postponed her trip. There was no answer. Fuming, I punched the numbers for her cell phone. An unknown female voice responded eagerly.
    "This is Clara Maas Hospital. Are you a relative to Joyce Lucas?"
    "Ah! Yes! Yes," I exhaled with a shortness of breath.
    "I'm Mrs. Darcy, a nurse. Hurry, come here to the emergency room, immediately."
    I stormed outside. The fluffy white dust was biting my face like a swarm of wasps. Realizing that I forgot to put on my overcoat, I drove to the hospital like a drunken teen, running all the red lights.
    In no time I arrived there, but the surgeon warned me that Joyce wouldn't make it. I felt the weight of my body had increased in proportions; my legs became useless. The nurse caught me before I collapsed, telling me the two cars smashed into Joyce Jeep from both sides, leaving her with broken spinal cord and damaged lungs.
    Semi-conscious, Joyce lay on the bed, surrounded by tubes.
    She recognized me; her pale face was contoured as she had a faint effort to smile.
    "I tried . . . " She licked her parched lips struggling with words. "Tell him . . . I tried . . . " She didn't finish her sentence; her large teal eyes stared at me vacantly. The enigma slipped out from her frosted eyeballs.
    Sobbingly, I was shaking her lifeless body, pleading.
    "Don't die, angel, hold on." I wept and wept over Joyce's corpse; a desperate, scared little boy came out of me, an aging man, as once before, when I was exposed as an orphan to the cruelty of this world.
    The nurse brought me a glass of water, saying that it was no use to stay longer, but I didn't want to leave Joyce's bedside and asked the nurse if I could spend some time alone. Now when Joyce has gone, I had realized that all this time I was hopelessly in love with her. It was no solace to lie to myself, or going on with my life by denying it. If only she could hear it now!
    In private I touched her silky hair, still smelling like a lilac and brushed it on the left side, the only way she wore it, and then closed her eyelids; the curtains of the empty stage went down.
    I kissed her beautiful fingers one by one.
    "Good-bye, my Queen of Spades. Reign with the angels . . .

    I never told Greg, madam, that Joyce had carried his child," Herman says, ending his story, and after a short pause adds with sorrow, "He wouldn't let me otherwise to retain this." He looks lovingly at his package. "I have to keep it to myself. Would you believe, I can hear her heartbeats?"
    "What are you doing in Disneyland?" I asked just to change this dreadful subject.
    He points to the urn, "I promised to bring my Queen there."
    "So, you are staying for a short time?"
    "Actually we are relocating."
    "We?" I stop for a moment, staring dully at his package in search for words. He continued.
    "I'm thinking of opening a small business over there for people like me with broken dreams."
    "In Disneyland?"
    "Absolutely! A matrimony bureau! There is a name for it 'Weddings in Heaven.' What do you think, catchy?"
    "Weddings in Heaven? Don't you need a license for this type of business?"
    "Probably! I saved enough money in the casinos."
    "But why?"
    "I'm an old man, madam; my days are numbered and then I go; I want my bride to wait at the gates for me to cheer our marriage. I want her in my arms for all eternity. I'm 'Her-man!' That's what she said to me the moment we met."
    I start feeling an enormous sympathy for this man. As he speaks, I see his eyes, jaded and teary, exuding luster.
    "I will be the first to marry," he says. "I'm sure there are some people with the same longing desire."
    "Despite the rising chill up my spine, I keep on asking questions due to my journalistic profession."
    "You mean, you are going in actual fact to register live people with the dead? Is that possible?"
    "I'll make it possible, madam. In Disneyland everything is possible." I shrug my shoulders, as he smiles at my daughter, waiting for her response.
    "Right?"
    My daughter, who just woke up after three hours of a sound sleep, nods her head with a heavy yawn. Herman too, nods his head, clenching to his precious possession.
    My eyes are closed. I'm enjoying the sudden silence, and so is Herman, the crownless 'King of Spades'.

November 22, 2000