Sam's Legacy (57 page)

“Did you win?” Ben stood at the end of the hallway, a shadow, his bathrobe on, his hands in his bathrobe pockets.

“I won,” Sam said when he reached his father. “Sure.”

Ben looked at his son, the line between his small eyes creasing. “Enough?”

“Enough,” Sam said.

“I'm glad, Sam,” Ben said. “I really am.” Ben turned and walked in front of Sam, into the dining room. Sam followed, tried to draw deep breaths, to stop shivering, but he couldn't. Ben sat down in the seat Sol had used. “Were they good players?” Ben asked. “What I mean is—did you enjoy the game?”

Sam shrugged, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and grabbed cloth with his fists. “Look,” Ben said, his voice smooth and deep. “You must be tired—you must want to sleep, working a night like this. We retired citizens, you see, we have the easy life. Here in—” He stopped. “Go—go to sleep. I'll put things away.” His eye fell on the envelope; some bills were sticking out—the last ones Norman had put in. “My two thousand?” Ben asked.

“I can give it back to you,” Sam said, and to himself he thought: let Andy swallow his damned pride and ask for it directly—without having to have them lose any of it to a middleman. Sure. He forgave Andy for having tried, because if he hadn't, he himself would not have been able to get as much as he had, the way he had. Sometimes things worked out—as, he thought, they had with Stella—and you couldn't always figure all the reasons. In the end, he saw, Tidewater had been the one who'd played only what was there.

“Good. It's better that way.” Ben picked up the deck of cards. “I didn't say anything before, but I didn't like the looks of them—”

“I'll tell you all about it someday.”

“You don't have to.”

“You want to play me for the two thousand?” Sam asked.

Ben laughed. “Do I want to play my only son for my retirement money?—of course not. You're too good for me, Sam Junior.”

“Not poker,” Sam said, and sat down, put his hands on the table, palms down. He felt calmer. “We split the deck, high card wins. Start with any amount you want.”

Ben cocked his head to one side. “You don't fool me, sonny boy. With your luck, I—”

“Just for fun then,” Sam said. “Go on. Split the deck.”

Ben shrugged. “Sure—you're all excited, from the game. Well. I suppose I would be too.” He cut the deck: a six of clubs. “See?” he said. “If you had my luck…”

Sam cut the deck, his heart pounding, but making him feel warm now: king of hearts.

“See—” Ben said.

“Again,” Sam said. “Shuffle first.”

Ben shuffled, cut, showed a jack of spades this time. “I'm improving, yes?”

Sam cut the deck: king of hearts, a third time.

Ben looked at Sam, cut quickly, showed him a nine of hearts. Sam shuffled, put the deck down, broke it in half, and again showed Ben the king of hearts. Sure, Sam thought to himself. Christ may have loved losers, as his Bible Man had said, but Dutch and the Rabbi were right: the Jews—and Sam, unlike Tidewater, was one—believed in this world.

Ben's small eyes, looking at the king, bulged, and then he sat back, sighed, and broke into the most beautiful yellow smile Sam had ever seen. Ben's eyes closed. “My son,” he said, his head bobbing up and down. “But—” He looked at Sam, worried, “but why a king—why not—” Then he stopped and nodded to himself again, tried to hold his mouth straight, but could not stop himself from smiling. “Well,” he said. “Well—you're a sport, Sam Junior. Nobody could deny it.”

He stood, came around the table, let one hand fall on Sam's shoulder. Sam did not look up. “I'll tell you the whole story someday.”

“I don't want to hear,” Ben said, and his voice shifted. “The important thing, from this man's point of view, is that you're finally starting to listen to your father.” He paused—two, perhaps three seconds. “Take, Sam. Take.”

Sam wanted to protest: that wasn't all there was to it, he could have said. But if he began to explain… He saw the ball drop from the sky, landing a few feet in front of Johnson, and he felt what he thought Tidewater must have felt—not when it had happened, but, looking back, when he'd written about it happening. He ached for the man, but there was nothing he could do or say that would change anything. He had the money for Sabatini, and Stella would be waiting—that was all he knew. “I'm Sam's son,” he said to his father's words, wanting to please him, but Ben did not pick up his cue. He left Sam, without saying good night, and Sam listened to his father's bedroom door close.

Sam stayed in the dining room, sitting at the table, trying to think of nothing, but finding that he could imagine more things than he believed possible. Before morning, while it was still black outside, he went into the bedroom and packed his suitcase. Ben was curled up on his side, his mouth open, his arms hugging the pillow. Sam sat down next to him, looking into his face, then shook him.

“I don't want any,” Ben mumbled.

“I'm leaving,” Sam said.

“What time is it?”

“A few minutes before five. I wanted to get out before breakfast—to get a good start.”

“Sure,” Ben said. “But why don't you wait, have some breakfast with me. Come—” He started to get out of bed, but Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

“It's okay,” Sam said. “We'd only get into a conversation and then Andy would come in, and—”

“Whatever you say,” Ben said. “It's all the same to me.”

“Here,” Sam said, and left the bed. “I'm putting your envelope on the dresser—nineteen hundred. I'm borrowing a hundred, okay? I'll send it back when—”

“Take what you need,” Ben said. Sam sat on the bed again, next to his father. “And give me my robe—on the chair. I don't want to catch a chill.” Sam handed his father his bathrobe and Ben slid his arms into the sleeves. “You can stay if you want, you know.”

“No,” Sam said.

“Whatever you want,” Ben said. “Last night—it's why I have confidence in you, Sam. I always said that. You're the only one—I'll tell you the truth—you're the only one who hasn't disappointed me, did you know that?” In the darkness he leaned closer, and his eyes seemed to glow. “But do you know what else?” He paused for effect. “I have a feeling that you will.” He slid under the covers, onto his back, so that only his head showed. He talked to himself. “Everybody does, don't you know that?”

“They had me down last night,” Sam was saying. “They had the noose around my neck, nice and tight.”

“Well, you know what I've always said,” Ben paused. “No noose is good noose.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I set you up.”

“Our accounts are even. Go. I want to get back to sleep before I wake up. Say hello to people for me. To Flo, to Mason if…”

Ben turned away. Sam reached across the bed, put a hand on his father's shoulder, then stretched his body across, lowered his face, and kissed his father on the cheek. He moved away then, picked up his suitcase, and, since he had nothing to say, left. From the living room he could see the lights on, along the streets of the senior citizen village. Sure. He'd be better off walking through the place when there were no people out. He left the apartment, his coat over one arm, his suitcase in his other hand, and took the elevator to the lobby. He stepped from the lobby into the street, and could see the outline of the row of hedges which surrounded the swimming pool. He remembered how Flo had scolded him when he had tried to hang up the dresses and blouses which were mixed together on one of the tables. She had explained to him that people preferred it that way: that the same items which had stayed unsold for months on hangers would, when rumpled in a pile on a table, be sold in a day or two. Sure. That told you something.

Sam had never, really, while he was in the bedroom, thought of telling Ben what it was that he had imagined, but he wondered nonetheless what Ben would have thought of it. He had not known that he was capable of having that kind of thing in his head, and it made him feel good to realize that he was. He figured that he wasn't obliged to make too much of it, of course, but once he had imagined it, he had not, in truth, seen any reason why what he had imagined could not happen. When the idea had come to him a few hours before, he had, at first, seen it as part of Flo's letter. One day, he imagined her writing, a week or so after Tidewater had vanished, a group of elderly black men had appeared at the door to the rummage shop; she had invited them in and they had told her that, for some time, they had been looking for a man whom they believed had once been their teammate.

Old Westbury, Spéracèdes, North Hadley: 1969–1973