It’s Only A Game

Mayelle’s women’s club offers a Welcome Wagon service for new people moving into the neighborhood. She is one of the welcoming volunteers. Oswald and Esther Benton, new to the neighborhood, are her first new welcomes, and Mayelle wants to do it right. We have had a few difficult years of late. Aging has taken its toll, and Mayelle and I don’t hold the same interests as we once did. But we have settled into living parallel lives. She has her women’s club. I have work and the Yankees. The women’s club’s demands take up a lot of her time. I don’t
mind eating alone.

Game five of the World Series with the Yanks battling the Braves is tonight and televised. Unfortunately, Mayelle has invited the Bentons to our home for a night of socializing and cards to welcome them to our neighborhood, the same neighborhood we don’t even like that much.

The doorbell rings, and when I answer it, Oswald lurches back from peeking in the sidelight. He grins, and his teeth are big and white. We shake hands. He has a firm grip but shakes my hand for too long. When he finally unleashes me, his wife Esther giggles. She’s overdressed for a night of cards and lays her limp hand in mine. Then she flashes a coy smile. Her lipstick is thick and red, and the smell of gardenias follows her. Her scent stays in my head, but she remains glued to her husband’s hip, looking anxious. Oswald’s haircut and stylish clothes are the newest look from the magazines. His “is that all you got” look as he sizes me up is a tad irritating. But Mayelle has issued orders to behave and spiff up. Pressed chinos, a wool cardigan, and a button-down JCPenney’s powder-blue dress shirt are spiffy, just not to men who wear wildly flowered untucked shirts and loose gabardines. Mayelle is wearing black slacks and a deep red cashmere pullover sweater. She said I looked nice. What do I care what this guy thinks?

Oswald wraps his arms around Mayelle in greeting. He holds her a long time, too long. His hand grazes her hip and rests at her waist. Mayelle doesn’t say a word. She pushes Oswald’s hand off her waist.

“What a lovely home,” Esther says. She breezes inside past me to our living room.

“Say, old buddy, what is it you do to afford such luxury?”

Esther picks up a glass vase from our coffee table and examines the manufacturer’s label on the bottom.

“I manage Girardi’s Home Furnishings Store downtown.”

Esther raises her eyebrows.

“Hmm, good job selling linens and towels, eh?” Oswald smirks.

“We sell furniture, not accessories.”

“Right, right.”

“I just love this upholstery,” Esther says. Mayelle smiles and thanks her.

“So, Harry, they hiring down at Gillespie’s? I might be interested.”

“Girardi’s. You know furniture?”

“I know selling. Anybody can sell a couple of couches.”

“We sell the finest furniture available to a discerning public.”

“Sure, sure. What’s the commission?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Mayelle’s telltale look of concern clouds her face.

I summon my most sincere welcoming smile and clap my hands.

“All right, enough small talk,” I say. “Let’s play cards.”

“I second that emotion,” Oswald says and laughs too loud at his own joke. “Say, Harry, what’s for refreshment?”

“Ginger ale, Pepsi, lemonade...” Mayelle says.

Oswald holds up his hand with mock authority.

“C’mon, May, I thought this was a card game, not a tea party.” Oswald pretends he’s drinking from a small cup. His pinkie sticks out like a flag in a brisk wind. Esther giggles.

I know how much Mayelle dislikes being called May.“I’m with Oswald on the refreshments,” I say. Brother, if I ever needed a drink, it was right now.

“Good man, Harry old boy, break ’em out. And by the way, call me Troy.”

Troy? I stifle a laugh. Oswald scratches his head. Mayelle crinkles her brow and sweeps her hand, ushering us onto the sun porch. A folding card table with four chairs awaits us. The overhead fan is turned to low, but there is no TV to check on the game.

As we pass the liquor cabinet we keep in the hall, Oswald says, “How’s about it, Harry old boy, do you feel refreshed?”

“Call me Harold, please.”

“C’mon, Harry, lighten up a bit, eh? Break out the liquor? Booze improves.”

Fine. Oswald wants to drink, let’s drink. I pause in front of the cabinet. What’s the worst that could happen?

“What’s your pleasure, Troy?”

“Three fingers of aged sour mash wet from a splash of water.”

Mayelle and Esther stroll into the sunroom shoulder to shoulder, like schoolgirls. Mayelle points around the corner where our powder room is, and Esther excuses herself, giggling. Oswald looks mesmerized by his wife’s hips twitching as she walks away. He grins and nods his head.

“Hey, Harry old buddy,” Oswald says. “Make that drink something to talk about, eh.”

“Harold, not Harry. Please.”

“You’re kidding, right? Harold is so stiff and formal.”

“Call me Harold. Please.”

“Whatever you say, Harry boy.”

Mayelle walks up to us carrying a tray of Ritz crackers topped with squirts of Cheez Whiz. She shoots me a please behave look. I wonder how the Yanks are doing.

“Why don’t you make a pitcher of drinks, Harold,” Mayelle says. She points her chin at the empty ice bucket and bumps her hip against mine. “There’s a large pitcher on the top shelf in the pantry.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Harry,” Oswald says. He lifts the unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red my brother gave me last Christmas and sighs. Esther joins us. Oswald grabs her closest buttock and squeezes. Esther giggles, shimmies, and swats his hand playfully. They have no shame. Wow.

“My favorite,” she says. She taps the bottle of Johnnie Red.

In the kitchen, I fill the ice bucket from icetrays in the freezer and retrieve the pitcher. A fine mist gasps from beneath the cap when I crack it open. Nothing smells like blended whiskey. I pour until half the bottle has flowed into the glass pitcher. Oswald moves close to me and tilts the bottle until it is empty.

“Gives the pop a little kick,” he says. He winks and tosses a couple of ice cubes in my glass. “Got any lemons?”

I shake my head no but don’t tell him lemons give me hives. I top off the pitcher with water.

“Humph,” Oswald says. He fills his glass from the pitcher, drinks it, and fills it again.

Esther plucks three ice cubes from the bucket with the ice tongs and drops them in her glass. She fills her glass from the pitcher.

“Got any lemons?” she says. I shake my head no. She stares at me in disbelief.

Mayelle hurries past. Oswald drains his glass and watches her closely. He refills his glass and examines the other bottles of liquor stored in our cabinet.

“Good stock,” he says. “We can switch if we have to...” He picks up the pitcher and heads toward the sunroom. I excuse myself and slip into the small bedroom to check the TV. The sound’s off. One to nothing Yanks, middle of the third. Mayelle calls my name, and I hurry tothe card table.

“Where were you, Harold?” Mayelle asks in a whisper. Blank-faced, I stare.

“Adjusting the thermostat. Little warm in here, don’t you think?”

Mayelle puffs a short breath of air meant only for me to hear. She sees right through me. Esther sits across from her husband, and it’s settled; the card game will be us versus them, which is fine by me. I played pinochle in the army all the time and got good at it. I set the ice bucket on the snack table and pop a Cheez Whiz Ritz into my mouth.

Esther rattles an ice cube in her empty glass. I drop two fresh cubes in the glass, and she blows me a kiss. Oswald fills her glass. Before I finish shuffling, both of them are tinkling their ice in empty glasses.

Over the next half hour, Oswald touches my wife twelve times. He touches her hands, her forearms, her shoulders. Son of a bitch can’t keep his hands off her. His own wife is oblivious. Mayelle is stuck in the middle.

Mayelle nurses her drink and scowls when I make a pitcher of vodka and lime juice.

“Fine job, Harry old boy,” Oswald says.

I don’t bother correcting him.

Esther excuses herself to the bathroom. Oswald ogles her sashaying down the hallway. His lips open slightly.

“A woman any man would die for,” he says. His words are slurry.

I look in his wife’s direction, and Mayelle kicks me under the table.

“Hors d’oeuvres, Troy?” she says. She glares at me and passes the tray of Cheez Whiz delights to Oswald.

“Marvelous,” Oswald says. He draws the word out, pops two crackers in his mouth, and swipes the rest onto his snack plate.

“Oh Troy,” Mayelle says. “You are funny. Let me get more.”

My wife stands and as she walks off toward the kitchen, Oswald’s head tilts side to side in rhythm with the roll of her hips.

“Whole lotta woman,” he whispers.

“What’s that?”

“Said I liked whole wheat crackers.” He raises his voice, as if I were deaf.

“That’s not what you said.”

“Really? Well, Harold. What is it you think I said?”

“You made a comment concerning my wife’s looks.”

“No, no, no. You misunderstood. I was asking about crackers.”

“Bullshit. You were talking about Mayelle.”

“Whoa, Harry, hold on. What if I was? Open your eyes, boyo; you got quite a prize on your hands.”

“Don’t talk about my wife like that.”

“Harry, buddy. I call ’em like I see ’em. Mayelle is a big prize, just like my girl Esther. Two big prizes. Maybe we should switch? Grand prize for grand prize. Whaddya think?” He sticks his chin out at me and smirks.

Esther bursts into the sunroom and arrives at the table about one second before I grab her husband’s throat. I take a deep breath. My eyes don’t leave Oswald’s. He busies himself inspecting a stain on his stupid-looking shirt.

“Am I interrupting something?” Esther says.

“Nah, sit down, baby. Just getting to know each other. Right, Harry old boy?”

Mayelle brings out a new snack tray filled with saltines slathered with pimento spread.

“Everything all right, Harold?” Mayelle says.

“Just tired, that’s all. Maybe we should call it a night.”

“Oh Harry, c’mon. We’re just getting started,” Esther says.

Mayelle steps behind me and places her hand on my shoulder. It’s a sign but I’ve forgotten what it means. I excuse myself to use the bathroom but go instead to the bedroom and check the score. Before I can discern what inning it is, Mayelle is calling me back to the table. I leave Bauer standing at the plate with two on and two out.

“Let’s play cards,” Esther says when I return. She reaches out and rubs Oswald’s forearm. “C’mon, everyone, let’s have another drink and have fun.”

In fact, I have two more, maybe three. Mayelle places her hand over her glass each time Oswald tries to fill it up.

We play a few hands. I have trouble concentrating. The Bentons beat us one hand, then another and still another after that. Oswald is a card counter. Esther’s like Mayelle, along for the ride. Me? The marks on the cards are too fuzzy to matter.

Esther spills her drink at the table, and Oswald laughs too loud. Mayelle jumps up to get paper towels, and Esther moves to assist.

Oswald slinks over to the liquor cabinet.

I duck into the bedroom and check the score. Bottom of the sixth, six to zip, Yanks. McDougald hits a ground rule double, and Berra and Howard score. I cut my watching short and hurry back to the liquor cabinet before Oswald pilfers it all.

He’s twisting the cap off a bottle of Kentucky bourbon when I walk up on him. He drops one ice cube in his glass and fills it with the bourbon, takes a sip, and smacks his lips.

“Nothing like naked and stiff. Eh, Harry?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“My drink,” he says. “A shot of whiskey, nothing but ice. You know, naked and stiff.”

“A connoisseur,” I say. Oswald sways like there’s a breeze in the hallway.

“About some things,” he says.

“Like?”

“Like whiskey...and women.”

“Women?”

“Oh yeah. I like women. What, you don’t?”

“Of course I like women.”

“But just Mayelle,” he says.

“Wait a second.”

“Look, Harry boy, just saying. If it wasn’t for Esther, I’d be chasing your girl around the house as we speak.”

“Look, Oswald...”

“Troy.”

“Whatever, just don’t talk about my wife anymore.”

“Relax, Harry old boy. It’s just talk. But I can tell by the looks on her face, you better up your game and start treating her as she deserves.”

I am within a breath of knocking out Oswald’s big white horse teeth.

He bows to me and holds his hands together. The ladies show up in time to save him.

“What is going on between you two?” Esther says.

“Nothing.” Oswald breaks out in a sly grin. “Guy stuff.” He winks at me.

Esther giggles and Oswald guides her past the card table and opens the sliding patio door. They step outside. The door thunks closed, and they light cigarettes and stare up at the night sky. Esther snuggles beneath his outstretched arm.

Mayelle’s touch makes me flinch.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she says.

I take a long drink from my glass and nod in the direction of the patio doors.

“They’re what’s the matter. Why are we doing this anyway?”

“You know why.”

“They are drinking our best liquor. His hands are all over you, and he’s rude as a wild boar to me.” The room starts to tilt. I feel my face flush.

“Why are you so upset? The evening will be over soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Harold, I believe you might be jealous.”

“No, I’m not, but a stranger putting his hands all over my wife is pretty damn upsetting.”

“He’s harmless and more than a little drunk.”

“But you’re allowing it.”

“Well...what’s accomplished in making a scene?”

“Scene? Christ, Mayelle, this is our house. He’s making the scene. I should toss his ass out on the street.”

“Shh, Harold, please. It’s only a game, a silly little card game.”

“Only a game? I don’t think so. Baseball’s a game; football’s a game. Basketball’s a game. Touching you is no game.”

“He’s drunk, and I don’t want to embarrass Esther. She is in my club. Besides, he’s her problem, not ours. And his antics don’t bother me.”

“Well, they bother me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Good. You know how I am. I don’t like guys like Oswald. They always get what they want.”

“What is it you think Troy wants, Harold?”

“He wants you.”

The light is not bright in our bedroom, but for a long moment, we stand staring at each
other. Her eyes are greener than I remember. My world is straightening. She smiles and looks at
me in that way of hers I’d let slip away.

“But I’m already taken,” she says. Then she presses close and curls her arms around my neck. Her head tilts to the side. “What is it you want, Harold?”

I stand before her searching for the exact right words, the words that sum up my fears, my needs, and all the crazy shit in my head. I want to watch the World Series. I want to punch Oswald. I want to squeeze Esther’s butt. I want to shine my shoes with Oswald’s shirt. But more than anything, I want to live the life we envisioned before we were married. I want us to be in love, and I want to stop selling fucking furniture. Before we’re too gray, before our skin sags. I want you to forgive me for never being quite good enough for you. I want you and need you. But instead, I say, “I want you to stop calling him Troy.” I choke on the words. She laughs and covers her mouth until she stops. Then a long silence stretches between us.

She reaches up to my face—her fingertip is warm to my lips—and I watch her worried expression melt. And in that instant, in the low luster of light from the kitchen, Mayelle’s hair is deep red again, like fresh apples, like our wedding day. Her scent of spring hyacinths makes me dizzy.

“C’mon, Harry boy,” she says. “Let’s play the game.”

Her hands fall from my chest. She kisses me and takes me by the hand into the sunroom. We stand together at the patio door watching the Bentons smoke. Mayelle squeezes my hand like she’ll never let go, then taps her fingernail against the glass and waves to Oswald and Esther. They stub their cigarettes, and I open the sliding glass patio doors to welcome them in, and the Yanks win game five 7-0.