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 Tales of Whisper Gap
Stories from the small
town of Whisper Gap where one
life, one tale invariably reaches out to touch the next.
by Jo Janoski.
Loser Takes All
 "I'll stay."
Clyde shot Jasper a look, one of those looks that cuts through
like a knife. Even softened by the shadow of his white fedora's
brim, the eyes shot bullets.
Jasper looked away. He didn't want to show how his heart was
thump-thumping like the vibration of a thousand horses galloping.
He dropped one hand over his chips and pushed the entire stack
into the pot. "I raise you, and I call," he murmured.
The boy shifted in his seat. His Sunday-go-to-meeting pants itched
his tiny behind, and the suspenders cut into his shoulders. He
longed for his everyday dungarees...and he dreamed of home. Swatting
a fly from his face, he hunkered down to watch the men. The round
table gave him a position of equal importance to them.
Clyde and Jasper were in a deadlock, eyes resting on each other,
each refusing to look away. Jasper's skinny frame held rigid
against the other man's stare. A man who threw all his chips
into the pot needed that. He had to look strong, unflappable...a
winner. His mustache under normal circumstances would twitter
when he felt nervous. But he had the presence of mind this time
to hold it steady, even though it itched to move. It was like
holding back a colony of ants on the run.
"Are you really going to bet all your chips at one time
when the prize is so important?" Clyde's expression of outrage
reached across the table like slaps to the face.
"I don't see where that's any of your business."
"I'm your brother, and it is our business."
The boy shifted in his seat. They were talking around him again,
like he wasn't there, or he had no vested interest in the poker
game. If he were older and understood more of what was going
on, he would feel outrage. But as it was, he was just a boy in
itchy pants who wished he could go home.
"Well, okay. It's "our business," but dammit,
I'll play the game any way I want to." That said, Jasper
leaned back and crossed his chest with his arms.
Clyde looked to the boy, then back to Jasper. With one hand he
pushed the fedora back on his head and with the other moved all
his chips to the center. The pot was now a beautiful concoction
of red, blue, and white chips, all tumbled and scattered, each
color holding its own and speaking its mind. These chips were
important. Whoever won them got the real prize, the prize no
one dared to name. The chips were merely tools to find an answer,
an answer when simple logic or compassion or intellect could
not find one, a roulette wheel poised to spin and make the decision
no one knew how to make.
"You're damn right it's our business!" Sweat formed
on Clyde's brow, a sure sign of a meltdown in progress.
Jasper looked back in disgust. "We agreed to do it this
way."
"Yeah, but Jesus! What kind of a way is this to decide?"
Clyde threw his cards face down on the table and bolted down
two steps off the tiny porch. "This is no way to decide!"
He made the declaration flailing his arms, then standing tall
to face Jasper and the boy in defiance.
"Decide what?" the boy asked.
Jasper's and Clyde's eyes met. What followed was one of those
silences that hangs around not knowing where to go, hovering
like a ghost in the air. Finally, Clyde spoke. "We're deciding
what to have for dinner," he said, smiling at the boy.
"Oh, okay." The boy was stacking chips, sorting them
by color in front of him. "I want chicken."
"And chicken you shall have," Jasper said, nodding
to Clyde to return to the table.
Clyde obliged, taking the steps slowly, next settling in with
his cards in a resigned fashion. He fanned them out in his hands,
then spread them on the table.
"Three of a kind," he said in
a hush not much louder than a whisper.
"Full house," Jasper returned, spreading his cards
as well.
"Okay. You lose. You have to take him," Jasper murmured
so the kid wouldn't hear. He got up and walked away. Their mother
had died and one of them needed to take the younger one and give
him a home, an unthinkable decision, who to take the boy. Only
fate could make such a choice, fate or a card game.
Clyde watched him go, then with a weighty sigh turned to the
boy. "Come on, you're coming home with me.
The boy glanced longingly at his carefully
stacked colored chips before rising to go. He followed, being
none the wiser.
Copyright 2009 JO Janoski
Jo Janoski is a poet, author,
and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA.
Send Jo a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Jo visit the
Word Catalyst archives or her online
home.
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From The Attic
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