Water from My Heart (2 page)

I laughed. “Yes, we are.”

Cradling the popcorn bowl, she sat cross-legged on the couch, stuffed her mouth, and then rubbed her greasy hands on my shirtsleeve.

I scooted closer to offer some of my signature comedic attempts, which once elicited bladder-busting belly laughter and tears, but now at the knowing age of almost-a-teenager, she would have none of it. She raised her maturing, stop sign hand and spoke without ever taking her eyes off her phone. “Talk to the hand.”

I laughed, kissed her forehead, and turned toward the kitchen, but not before dumping the remains of the half-eaten bucket of popcorn on her head.

“Uncle Charlie!” She jumped up, stamping a foot. A vision in pink. “I cannot believe you just did that!” Eyes wide, she protested with a rather exasperated level of drama. “I just had my hair colored…”

I love that girl.

“Then I guess that proves what we already know…,” I said, laughing and walking backward toward the kitchen.

She looked at me confused. “What?”

I offered a fist bump to Colin, who knew what was coming next. “That you do, in fact, have a problem.”

“Uncle Charlie!”

I escaped into the kitchen beneath a barrage of raining popcorn. I raided the fridge, ate some leftovers—which as godfather to both Maria and her older brother, Zaul, was my pseudo-parental right. Not one to stew long, Maria soon appeared, offering me a glance of—and the chance to admire—her bedazzled book bag, which I appropriately praised. From there, she held my hand and led me around the corner to the door of the laundry room where, on a hanger, she had displayed a new bathing suit her mom had bought her. Hand on her hip, eyelids blinking in rhythm with her foot. “Dad says I have to take it back.”

It was about the size of a napkin—more string than fabric. I turned to Colin and nodded. “Good call.”

She gently slapped me on the shoulder. “You are not helping me.”

I held it in my hand. “It doesn't cover anything. Besides, it's white.” I stretched the fabric in front of my eyes. “Like almost see-through.”

More eyelid batting. “That's the point. Have you seen my competition?”

I lifted her chin. “Honey, you have no competition. There's not another twelve-year-old on the planet that can hold a candle to you. Besides, you don't want the guys who only want you for how you look in this thing.”

“It worked with Mom and Dad.”

Marguerite laughed. “She's got a point.”

Colin's voice again. “That is so untrue. I deny that completely. You hooked me with the way you play piano. I never even saw you in that white-and-blue-striped bikini with the little strings on the side.”

Marguerite, over my shoulder. “Colin Specter, you wouldn't know middle C if it hit you in the face.”

Maria did not look convinced and stood waiting for me to join her side. I tried a second time. “Look at it this way: Skin cancer is a big problem these days and your dad and I are helping you with that.”

She tugged on my hand, leading me toward her newest painting. “Yeah, you're helping me all right. Helping me become the biggest”—she formed an “L” with her hand and pressed it flat against her forehead—“loser on the beach.”

Growing up in my family, life had been rather dysfunctional. In fact, I didn't have much family life. Walking through Colin's house, listening to the voices and the laughter, being accepted as one of the family, holding Maria's hand, and being asked by her parents to raise and take responsibility for her and her brother in the event of their death—these were the richest moments of my life. And every time I walked in here and ate the popcorn and kissed Maria's forehead and laughed with Marguerite at Colin and helped myself to any and everything in the fridge and propped my feet up on the coffee table and washed the dishes and took out the trash—I lingered and sucked the marrow out of it.

Colin and I seldom exited the same door, so when they left through the front, I slipped out the back hall, where I bumped into Zaul in the mudroom taking out the trash. “Hey, big guy.”

I hugged him, or tried to. He was stiff. Distant. Thick with muscle and steroids and the stench of stale cigarette smoke. Just shy of eighteen, gone was the affable, curious kid. He was wearing a flat-billed ball cap cocked to one side. He raised his head in a half nod. “Charlie.” Noticeably absent was the word “Uncle.”

It'd been a while and I was genuinely glad to see him. “Your dad said you were hanging out with your sis tonight.”

Zaul held the overfilled trash bag with one arm, and I realized just how muscled he'd become. A nod. “Thought maybe we'd go for a moonlight stroll or something in the Yellowfin.”

The Yellowfin was Colin's twenty-four-foot flatboat powered by a three-hundred-horsepower Yamaha. Perfect for a glassy night like tonight. It also had state-of-the-art electronics so they'd have a difficult time getting lost. “Good choice. Love that ride. Especially this time of night.”

He nodded and attempted a smile. He pointed above himself. “She likes to stand up in the casting tower and…” He shrugged. “Be Maria.”

His shoulders were angling downward under the weight of something unseen. His eyes were dark circles and his voice raspy and tired. The trash was dripping on the floor. “I'd better get this cleaned up.”

He disappeared into the garage while I exited out the back beneath the shadows. I stood long enough to let my ears and eyes adjust to the night and then crept down to the dock with the picture of Zaul weighing heavy on me.

I made the forty-four-mile crossing in
Storied Career
in a little less than an hour, slept fitfully, and as the sun rose over the Atlantic, I found myself on the porch, hovering over my coffee and staring both my fortieth bithday and my wedding in the face. While those were cause for celebration, a wrinkle had formed between my eyes as I stared at my left wrist. My naked left wrist. The watch Shelly had given me was gone. I'd lost it somewhere in the last twenty-four hours and I had no idea where.

And that was bad.

I
grew up with one single, overriding emotion. It drowned out all others. And it was this: that I was dirty. No matter what I did, how I tried to scrub it off, I was not clean and couldn't get clean. My mom seldom paid the utility bill so hot water was a scarce commodity. That meant on the rare occasion I hugged my mom, her hair smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. My clothes were constantly sour and soiled, and I was embarrassed at school. Our kitchen was piled high in weeks-old dishes, and the house was infested with roaches that used to crawl out of the woodwork and fall on me at night. I didn't have too many sleepovers as a kid. To mask my discomfort, I walked around in the shadows where the light didn't shine and people didn't pay too much attention. The last thing I wanted was attention. Doing so meant I got comfortable with the darkness.

And that's probably why I got away with so much.

I grew up combing the beach in Jacksonville, Florida. A barefoot, blond-haired beach bum without a curfew and with a disdain for shouldering responsibility. I had a bit of a Huck Finn childhood, and while that had nothing to do with my last name, I used to claim the connection. My mom and I lived across the street from the oceanfront property that blocked our view, so I watched a thousand sunrises from our second-story crow's nest.

I have no memory of my dad, a cabdriver, who died in an early-morning wreck when I was three. If Mom had a failing it was twofold: men and money. She knew this, so in a wise moment of self-awareness, she took Dad's life insurance policy and paid off the house. At heart, she was a gambler and a risk taker, which, she later told me, explained her affection for my father because he was a high-risk proposition given his love of gin. Paying off the house meant no one could take it from her—or me—and though we might not always have had food, we had a roof, albeit a leaky one. When the bank sent the deed to the house, she lifted my chin and said, “Never risk what you can't afford to lose.” For my eleventh birthday, I got a job down the street at a restaurant, working for cash tips to help her pay the utilities. I think paying off the house allowed Mom to justify her other decisions, like stopping off in the slots room at the dog track after work or playing the lottery every week to the tune of fifty bucks. It took me a long time to realize that while it looked irresponsible on the surface, and we sometimes went a day or two without food in the fridge, Mom was searching for a way to give us the one thing our life lacked. The one thing that had been taken. The one thing we were chronically short on.

Hope.

I wouldn't say she succeeded, but she spent her life trying, and I loved her for that. With no dad and a mom who worked all the time, or was at least gone all the time, I was responsible for myself at an early age. While most kids' lives revolved around the requirements of school, mine revolved around the tides, swells, and direction of the wind—all of which determined the size and frequency of incoming waves.

In eighth grade, for every day I spent at school, I spent four at the beach. I didn't care. I hated school. Given my attendance, or lack thereof, the principal called my mother in for a conference and sat us down. He looked at a sheet of paper recounting my sins. “Ma'am, do you realize how many days of school your son has missed this year?” He chuckled. “It would be easier to tell you the number of days that he actually attended.”

Mom raised an eyebrow at me and asked for the sheet. “May I?” He passed it to her, and her foot started tapping while she read it. Finally, she brushed her hair back and said, “So?”

“What do you mean, ‘So?'” He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. “He'll repeat the eighth grade.”

Mom dabbed the corners of her lips with a napkin. “Are we done?”

His face turned red. “‘Done?' Lady, your son is behind. Aren't you worried about his future?”

Mom stood and grabbed my hand, leading me to the door, which was strange 'cause I was almost as big as she was. Reaching the door, she turned. “Sir, we're going to go eat a cheeseburger, and then I'm going to buy him a new surfboard because he evidently enjoys that a whole heckuva lot more than whatever you're doing here.”

I smiled and waved at him.

He was dumbfounded. “And his future?”

She brushed the sun-bleached hair out of my face. “It'll be waiting on him when he gets there.”

Mom died my junior year. I was sixteen. Heart disease aided by chain-smoking—a habit she adopted after Dad died. Alone and nauseated at the thought of answering to anyone else, I finished out high school working nights waiting tables, delivering pizza, and doing what I could. That “doing what I could” included selling as much marijuana as I could get my hands on to the surf junkies who were craving pizza. A convenient built-in audience.

Sam, my boss, used his pizza parlor as a front for his drug dealing and he dealt a lot. He brought it in on the shrimp boats out of Mayport and made me an independent contractor. He sold it to me at his cost, and I split all the profit with him. We made a good bit of money. I later learned that he knew the junkies and the amounts they were buying, so he knew exactly how much I was bringing home. When I presented him with exactly that amount, he learned he could trust me. I told him, “I'm not greedy. I just don't want somebody to kick me out of my house or ship me off to a state-run place.” Every night when I handed him the money, he'd shake his head and mutter, “What is the world coming to? An honest drug runner.” In a world devoid of meaning, I took what identity I could get.

In between deliveries, Sam taught me to play poker and soon discovered I was good at it. It doesn't take an education in Freud to understand this. I was attracted to risk and not attracted to anything resembling hard work that benefited someone other than me. If you were going to be dumb enough to risk your money in a card game, then I was going to be smart enough to take it from you. The same could have been said for me except that I won far more than I lost so—I argued—I was playing with other people's money. This would come in handy in the years ahead.

Team sports were contrary to my independence. Signing up for team sports meant that I was willingly joining arms with another group of people and stating that not only could they depend on me, but also that I would depend on them. Statements like “I'll show up for practice,” “I'll be at the games,” “I'll work hard” stood in stark contrast to my how're-the-waves-looking disposition. That said, I was rather competitive and competition did not scare me. In fact, I rather liked it. Solo feats like wrestling and running. Activities where the outcome resulted from me depending on me. This does not mean that I hunkered down and for the first time in my life learned to apply myself under the whistle-and-clipboard instruction of some guy in shorts pulled up to his armpits. Not at all. I rarely practiced, which drove them nuts, but I hated losing and seldom lost, so my coaches kept me on the team—which was interesting because I didn't really care whether they did or not.

Same was true for school. Homework seemed like a waste of time. My thinking was,
You've told me what you want me to know, now give me the test and let me regurgitate it.
I could remember most anything I saw or heard and scored well on tests so most of my progress reports read, “Charlie lacks work ethic but possesses great potential.” I can't tell you how many times I've been called “exceedingly bright,” “lacking drive,” or my favorite, “bubbling with potential.”

Whether it was two state wrestling championships, a sub four-minute, thirty-second mile, the death of both my parents before I was seventeen, or the fact that I was three questions shy of acing the SAT and had a guidance counselor who seemed rather keen on my actually attending college, I ended high school with excellent grades, multiple scholarships, and several higher learning options.

My senior English teacher told me I should consider the Marine Corps. I chose Harvard.

My graduating high school class voted me “Most Likely to Be Elected the First President with a Felony Record.” My English teacher was big on knowing where you're going, what you're doing, “Have a plan!” Our final senior project was just that. Our plan A followed by plans B and C. I always thought he needed to let his hair down. Loosen his tie. Stop drinking so much prune juice. The paper was supposed to be eight to twelve pages with multiple supporting points. My paper consisted of one very short paragraph: “My plan A is to not have one. Which, by logical deduction, means there can be no possible plans B and C. My future will be there waiting on me when I get there.” I failed that essay and he was incredulous at my choice of college—no, he was downright angry, saying I didn't deserve such an opportunity. He grew even angrier when he found out I'd be attending for free.

When I walked across the stage and he handed me my diploma, “With Superior Achievement,” he mumbled something under his breath. I shook his hand, smiled widely, and said, “Does that toupee itch as much as it looks like it does?” His eyes darted left and right, and he smoothed his hair with his right hand. “It looks itchy.”

My college decision process was simple. Harvard was expensive and an education there was “worth” a good bit. Again, if they were going to be stupid enough to give it to me, then I was going to be smart enough to take it. And I was smart enough to know that I'd never make it in the Marines with people blowing whistles in my face and screaming at me. Leavenworth did not appeal to me.

Besides, I'd never been to Boston.

I survived college in the same way I survived high school. I did just enough to get by without getting too caught up in any one thing. I'd always been good with numbers so when I declared a major, something in the world of finance sounded like a good idea.

By the middle of my sophomore year, I had grown tired of the track coach and his incessant need for me to train on his schedule, so following my four-minute, seven-second mile, I told him to take his clipboard and shove it in the same place I told him to put his stopwatch.

While my scholarship at Harvard paid for my tuition, room, and board, my stipend didn't go very far. Add to that the fact that I had never really enjoyed studying, and it's not too difficult to understand how many of my nights were taken up with poker.

I was a fair player, but I learned quickly that poker loves no man and good luck can turn to bad with no warning. Further, I detested losing. So I began looking for a way to tilt the odds in my favor. One obvious way was to cheat, which I wasn't opposed to, but that style of play has a limited shelf life, as does your career once you get caught. Then one night I was invited to a game where I discovered what I soon dubbed the “silver spooners.” Trust fund kids who looked at poker as entertainment. They didn't really care if they won or lost. They liked the reputation and action either way. Given their reckless behavior, I seized the opportunity and provided a service. By the end of my sophomore year, I had money in the bank and was making a name for myself.

As a player, I had two abilities that set me apart from most everyone else: First, risk didn't bother me and never had. I valued nothing, including money, so losing it didn't ding me like it did others. Second, I could read body language. Like Braille. Neither trait can be coached. You're either born with them or you're not. The higher stakes games were invite only and run by the son of a Silicon Valley tycoon. One night I cleaned up and ran the table. Took everyone's money. And it was a good night. Several thousand. One of my sore loser competitors suggested I cheated and manufactured evidence to support his claim. The invites quickly stopped. As a rising junior with few options, I was in a bit of a bind until he—a fifth-year senior—started running his mouth, so I challenged him to a public winner-take-all. Given his trust fund, he'd spent considerable time in both Vegas and Atlantic City trying to make others think he knew what he was doing. He liked to tell people he was a “professional cardplayer,” but I had my doubts. Nobody as good as he said he was ran his mouth that much. Or if they did, they didn't run it very long. Sooner or later, poker humbles every man. His would be sooner.

Winning at poker is easy provided you know which hands to bet on and which hands not. Simple, right? Wrong. Wanting to rattle his saber and set me on my heels, he went all in on the third hand, but his bluff was ill-timed. I matched him, doubled up, and called. When the dealer laid down the river and he realized that a full house always beats three of a kind, the color drained out of his face. The pot sat at $17,000. Half of it was his. The girl propped beneath his arm all of a sudden found an excuse to visit the ladies' room. As his “friends” pulled away, not wanting to be associated with a loser, I saw the look in his eye and—so help me—I almost told him not to do it. But again, if he was going to be stupid enough…

He smiled around the room, trying to save face. “Double or nothing.”

I scraped the money across the table. “What have you got?”

He dropped the keys to his Audi on the table. The “oohs” and “aahs” rose around the table. His friends patted him on the back, and his girl returned from her potty break to slide in alongside him. I didn't own a car and the thought of having one appealed to me. I nodded to the dealer, who dealt the cards, and the cards were not kind to him.

I walked out with not only his $8,500, but also the keys to his car and the beginnings of a storied reputation. Given that the car was his father's, his father quietly called the following day and offered me a check for the value, which I accepted. Sixty-four thousand dollars. A good night. Then and now, it wasn't about the money. It was about being told I couldn't do what I wanted.

Word spread and I got invites from all over to play. Problem was, I was getting invited by guys who'd done what I'd done—preyed on somebody with money. I could hear it in their voices and read it across their bodies. I played a few games and won a good bit, but they were marinating me. Slow roasting to tenderize and fillet me so they could take my last penny. I knew they were working me into a lather, waiting for their moment to pounce, but I never gave them the satisfaction. To their abject surprise, on a high-stakes Thursday night, I ran the table, cleaned up, and made enough to live on for a year. Collecting my chips, I kept my mouth shut but when I glanced at their eyes, I knew two things: that I'd stung them and that it would never happen again. Babysitting hour was over. Next week would start the reckoning. Having read the writing on the wall, I did what they never suspected. To everyone's disbelief, just when it was starting to get good and I was beginning to make a name for myself, I cashed in and walked away.