The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club - Book One Read online

  That’s one thing I’ve noticed about Josephine. Nobody visits her. It surprised me when she said her son lives in the area, since I’ve sure never heard anyone say they’ve met him.

  The only reason she’s a member of our little group in the first place is because Edna and I needed to add people after our other two partners died within a week of each other. Edna suggested Lillian, and she, unfortunately, suggested Josephine, and now we’re stuck. And we don’t even play real cards anymore.

  If I could come up with a replacement, I’d surely vote to boot Josephine out. Too bad Bertie doesn’t play worth beans. If he were playing with us, I expect, now that we’re playing poker, we’d be treated to more Bertie stories than any of us would care to hear. I like the man, but I like to talk too.

  Actually, I’m rather enjoying the Naked Poker Game. I’m now old enough to tell my best stories without worrying what people think. But when I told the story about my missing out on being named Miss Ohio because Miss Congeniality sabotaged me, I could tell Josephine didn’t believe it.

  I suspect she’s jealous of that as well as Bertie. For sure, she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in a beauty pageant. For Pete’s sake, the woman wears jeans. What does she think she is, forty? And she doesn’t wear makeup or dye her hair.

  And I must say, Edna thoroughly annoyed me one day by saying Josephine’s hair didn’t need to be dyed, because the gray bits looked like highlights.

  Bullfeathers!

  Chapter Three

  Edna

  Josephine doesn’t like me much, but darned if I let it bother me. She thinks she’s so smart. So what am I, chopped liver? I taught school for twenty years, I’ll have you know. Geography, grammar, and social studies. And nobody could keep control of a classroom the way I did. Nobody. So, there.

  And I did it without any of those fancy degrees young people get these days. Not that I would have sneezed at the chance to go to a nice college. No, I would have jumped at it. But times were tough back then.

  Ah, well. Spilled milk, water under the bridge, and all that, and doggone it, I’m too old to still be grieving.

  I was a good teacher, though. And my students knew I wouldn’t put up with any shenanigans, just like I didn’t let Helen get away with what she did to me and Jonquil.

  I’ve had other chances in my life to right wrongs, and I took them. Never could abide a person who hurt someone else on purpose. That’s why I made sure that big kid who bullied the little kids had an accident. It was unfortunate that he ended up paralyzed, but what I did saved a lot of other children pain. That boy was not going to stop hurting the little kids until someone stopped him. That’s for sure.

  I’d be willing to bet Josephine hasn’t righted a single wrong in her entire life.

  Chapter Four

  Lillian

  I taught math in the Cincinnati public schools for thirty years, and when I retired, I needed a hobby. I chose Graphoanalysis because the idea of being able to evaluate someone based on their handwriting intrigued me. In the first workshop I took, when the instructor called handwriting a blueprint of the psyche providing insight into how the writer has responded to their life experiences, I was hooked.

  Usually, I don’t mention I’m a Graphoanalyst, though. It makes people nervous about writing me notes. They don’t realize it takes a great deal of effort and very careful measurement to know anything about them. Although they’re correct in thinking I could evaluate them, it’s not something I do for my own amusement.

  A valid analysis requires context. You see, the traits displayed in a sample can be either bad or good depending on what’s going on in the writer’s life. Aggression, for example, can be a negative in someone whose life has no direction, but a positive in someone trying to get ahead in their career.

  Once I got my Graphoanalyst certification, a cousin on my mama’s side put me in touch with the police. I helped in one serial murder case and two kidnappings. One of the kidnap victims was killed, though, and I was awful sad about that for a long time. Because of that, my Roger, he wanted me to stop, so I did give up working with the police.

  But when one of my former students recommended me to a large international corporation based in Cincinnati, Roger agreed that would be okay. They needed help to choose the right people for management positions, and I did analyses for that for several years. When I informed the CEO I was ready to retire for good, he took Roger and me to dinner at one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in Cincinnati.

  He told me at dinner I’d been a wonderful asset to the company, and that in his opinion, the increased stock price over the years was partly my doing. He had a twinkle in his eye when he said all that. I expect because he knew, although we’d not met before, that I’d recommended him for advancement early on.

  But I digress. As I was saying, give me a paragraph or two of handwriting and I can tell a lot about the person who wrote it. Can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman, their age, or whether they’re left- or right-handed. But I can tell if that person is creative or conventional, fearful or egotistical.

  I can also tell if two people are a good match, although my own children chose not to listen to me. Both my daughters are now divorced, which was no surprise. Oh well. Guess we all have to make our own mistakes.

  Lately, I’ve begun collecting writing by the staff here at Brookside. I’ve become quite adept at finding crumpled papers in wastebaskets. I’m putting all the bits I find into a file folder for a rainy day. My plan is to write an article for a Graphoanalysis journal entitled: “Personality Characteristics to Be on the Lookout for in Retirement Home Staff.” With the number of us old folks just going up and up, it should be most helpful.

  Although it takes effort to do an in-depth analysis, I do quickie ones all the time. All I need is a person’s signature, and I can tell you if that person is open or is hiding something.

  It’s simple, really. The more illegible the signature, the deeper the secret. Now, Edna and Myrtle both have perfectly legible signatures. Which I admit is odd in Edna’s case, given what she did to her sister. But then, she was open about what she’d done. Her husband, poor man, would likely disagree about Edna’s openness and honesty, although maybe he never knew the truth. I confess, I would find it most interesting to take a look at her writing.

  I’d also like to take a peek at Josephine’s. She’s such an enigma, or a ’nigma, as my momma would say. A signature that’s mostly easy to read, with only a couple of minor flourishes, and yet she’s never invited any of us to her apartment. In fact, the woman who cleans my place told me Josephine is so set on her privacy, she doesn’t even let a housekeeper in the door. It’s certainly mystifying.

  Despite those oddities, I like Josephine. Tart as lemon juice, but not a prejudiced bone in her body, something I’m quite certain about since I’ve had years of practice recognizing prejudiced bones.

  It’s a wonder, really, I ended up in a lily-white place like Brookside. But Roger and me, we worked real hard and saved our pennies. Before he died, he said he wanted me to live in a nice place, and he thought Brookside sounded real pleasant. Still miss that man. Oh my, I do.

  It did take a while for me to feel at home here since I’m the only black person living at Brookside. I have noticed something real interesting, though. Seems the more wrinkled the skin, the less the color matters.

  What’s helped take my mind off things, like missing Roger, is playing cards. It makes for a more interesting day, even when Josephine is tormenting Myrtle about Bertie.

  Have to confess, I don’t disagree with Josephine. For me, it’s much better living with memories of my Roger than it would be with the reality of a Bertie, but I suspect for Myrtle, any man is better than no man. For sure, that woman’s not giving up her belle-of-the-ball status without a fight.

  We’ve heard all the stories about how she was the pumpkin queen three years in a row in the small town where she grew up, and I don’t believe I’d admit to something
like that. I could see Josephine was thinking the same thing, and I nudged her with my foot. Didn’t want her and Myrtle falling out. I quite enjoy our little poker games.

  Myrtle also told us she made the finals in the Miss Ohio contest, which was clearly the highlight of her entire life. She’s convinced that if she’d been Miss Ohio, she would have ended up as Miss America.

  Personally, I think the judges might have balked at having a Miss America named Myrtle Grabinowitz.

  Chapter Five

  Josephine

  Two weeks into our poker sessions, the other three, or at least two of the three, colluded to take me down. I’d been careful up to then, playing conservatively, bluffing only occasionally, and continuing to fold early when I had a terrible hand, especially if Edna stifled a smile at the sight of her cards or Myrtle’s finger landed near the top of her list.

  But as the others improved their play, strategic folding was no longer the given it once was. Myrtle sucked me in by acting unhappy with her cards and sliding her finger way down the list, even as she continued to push more clips into the center of the table. I thought she was having a senior moment.

  I had a pair of jacks so I thought I was safe, but Myrtle laid out a straight. “Bet you didn’t expect this,” she said, collecting the pile of clips with a triumphant grin.

  Edna also wore a satisfied look along with the ugliest of her pantsuits, the beige one that makes her and her pearls look jaundiced. Lill glanced at me and shrugged.

  I was annoyed, but mostly with myself for letting down my guard. On the other hand, as they learned to play the game, I’d also accepted as inevitable the fact that eventually I’d have to tell a story. Although, now that the moment had arrived, I still felt unready.

  Maybe I could distract them, and I had just the right bit of trivia for that.

  I took a breath. “Do any of you know what a nifkin is?”

  “A what?” Edna said. “Spell it.”

  “N-i-f-k-i-n.”

  “Haven’t the slightest,” Myrtle said, collecting the paper clips and putting them in the box for the next time.

  “It sounds like the name of a dog,” Edna said. “Is this a story about a dog?”

  “No, you told the dog story.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “It’s the bit of anatomy between a man’s testicles and his rectum.”

  Myrtle and Edna both clapped their hands over their mouths with looks of horror that delighted me. Lill chortled.

  Myrtle’s bosom heaved. “Leave it to you, Josephine Bartlett, to say testicles and rectum.”

  I shrugged. “I was trying to be genteel.”

  “And how do you know this bit of esoterica,” Lill asked.

  “Humph. Leave it to you to call it esoterica,” Edna said.

  “I read it in a book. It’s slang.”

  “Are you sure the author didn’t just make it up?”

  “Nope. Googled it.”

  “Why do you always have to show off, Josephine? Didn’t your husband love you?”

  My chest tightened because without realizing it, Edna had hit on a truth, something I never said out loud and only rarely acknowledged in the privacy of my thoughts.

  But, after all, I hadn’t loved Thomas either. Oh, maybe in the beginning, when I was young and naive, but that ended quickly. Thomas saw to that. And although I subsequently lived with that reality for nearly half a century, it still pains me when it catches me unaware.

  “While the vocabulary lesson was enlightening, it wasn’t a story, and you owe us a story.” Myrtle folded her hands and rested them on the table like a couple of lumps of dough.

  Darn. Well, I could always tell them a fabrication, of course, but what the heck. Why not give them the real deal? I wasn’t going to wimp out and cede the award for candor to Edna, was I? Still, I had a moment of indecision, and I needed to take a deep breath to steady my voice.

  “All right. If you insist.”

  “We do,” Edna said with a sniff.

  Nodding, Myrtle sat back, her bracelets jangling.

  I sighed. “Oh, all right. I graduated from Wellesley College in Boston in 1961 with a degree in economics and a plan to go to graduate school so I could become a professor. But then I met Thomas Bartlett, and he convinced me to marry him instead.”

  The sudden memory of that dreadful scene with Thomas, when he informed me that no wife of his was going to graduate school or to work, made my voice hitch in a disturbing way. Perhaps the truth wasn’t such a good idea after all. I glanced up to see they were all staring at me.

  Clearing my throat, I tried to make the next bit sound casual. “But I, ah . . . I got pregnant right away, and that meant I wasn’t able to continue my studies.”

  I stopped speaking, trying to come up with a way to end the story in a coherent fashion. But I could no longer remember the fake story I’d thought about telling. It was as if my brain had moved it to an inactive file labeled No Admittance.

  As they continued to stare at me, I struggled to pull myself together. “Thomas was very strict about money; I expect because he was a banker. He did, however, insist upon a gracious home, and he gave me a generous household allowance. It became my goal to provide what he expected, but for a fraction of what he thought it cost. I pinched and scraped and stretched that money ten ways to Sunday. Thomas thought he was paying for me to go to Filene’s for my clothes. Instead I went to Filene’s Basement. He thought the maid worked four days. She worked one. And so on. The excess went into an account I opened at another bank. When I accumulated enough, I began to invest.”

  Again, memory stilled my tongue. I struggled to swallow before I could go on. “Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me until too late that making a lot of money meant Thomas would inevitably discover what I was doing.”

  Myrtle leaned toward me, her mouth hanging open. “What did he do?”

  I pushed that memory away as well. Thomas, his face purple, accusing me of stealing from him. Claiming that all the stocks I’d bought belonged to him. Insisting I sign over everything immediately. Giving me no choice.

  It was those stocks that formed the basis for Thomas’s personal wealth that he’d made sure I had no access to even after he died. And now Jeff has taken over where his father left off. Doling out pittances.

  “He took all the stocks away from me,” I said in response to Myrtle’s question.

  What I didn’t say was he took everything except what I’d had left in that hidden savings account. I’d then done what I should have done from the beginning—I formed a corporation. I called it Aardvark Holdings because I thought that was a sufficiently obscure name. Then I invested the small amount I’d managed to keep hidden, using the Aardvark name. Gradually, it built up over the years.

  “When we moved to Cincinnati in 1980, Thomas arranged for an accountant to pay the household bills. And that was the end of that. My short, shining career as an investor.” The end as well of any affection I’d had for the man who was my husband.

  “Why on earth didn’t you divorce him?” Edna said.

  “That’s a story for another day.”

  I was tempted to use the sign for zipping my lips, like Edna had when she’d told her first story, but I resisted. It looks so juvenile. Instead, I pushed my chair back and stood, picked up the box of clips, and placed it in my tote.

  I am, you see, quite appropriately, the keeper of the treasury for our little group.

  ~ ~ ~

  The day after I told my poker story, there was a knock on my door. I ignored it. From the beginning, I’ve made it clear to everyone I’m not to be disturbed. Ever. I believe the woman assigned to clean once a week was very pleased.

  Turning my attention back to my computer screen, I continued to check the latest stock reports. With Thomas gone, I no longer have to worry about confiscation.

  Another rap sounded, followed by, “Mrs. Bartlett, if you don’t open the door, I’ll have to use my key.”

  “You will not.
”

  “I need to make sure you’re okay.”

  “You have my assurance I’m fine. Go away, whoever you are.”

  “Please, Mrs. Bartlett. I need to see you.” The card clicked into the slot, the door opened, and a young woman stood there. An Indian, although she doesn’t have any lilt to her speech, so perhaps she was born here. Glossy hair pulled back in a French braid. Arresting gray-green eyes.

  “You have no right—”

  “I do. When family expresses a concern, we’re obliged to follow up.”

  “And what concern is that?”

  “Your son says you aren’t answering your phone, nor are you returning his calls.”

  Of course I wasn’t answering my phone; at least, not when Jeff called. I consider caller ID one of the more civilized achievements of modern technology.

  The young woman continued to stand in the doorway, gazing around my living room. “I like this. It’s so uncluttered and lovely. Scandinavian, isn’t it? And is that a Laristan rug?”

  Before I could answer, she shifted her gaze to the wall and her eyes widened. “Is that . . . Oh, wow! It is, isn’t it? An Edward Hopper.” Her tone was both reverent and shocked, but her words made my stomach cramp with fear.

  “Of course not.” This was precisely the reason I didn’t want people coming in here, although I doubted anyone else would recognize the worth of either my rug or my painting.

  She stepped closer to the painting. I forced myself to stand, although that made me almost double over with another cramp.

  “It’s merely an excellent copy,” I said, improvising. “Who are you, anyway?” I knew who she was, but it’s always better, in my mind, to be underestimated rather than overestimated.

  “I’m Devi Subramanian, the associate activities director.” She spoke without taking her eyes off the painting, and that did my stomach no good whatsoever.