Hannah's Choice

A Novel

By

Scott Burkhead 

Chapter One - The News 

            Hannah Woodson sits on the examining table thinking she must have gotten it wrong.  She is tall, nearly six feet.  The gown, made for someone smaller, does not cover her backside and the steel table is cold.  Yes, she must have heard it wrong.  “There has to be a mistake,” she says.

            “We ran the test twice,” the doctor says, frowning.

            “But I’m on zero-birth regimen.”

            “You were injected?” 

            “No.  Patch-device.”

            The doctor looks at her watch. “I’ll refer you to a clinic.”

            “A clinic?”

            “You aren’t authorized.”  It is a declaration, but Hannah takes it as a question and shakes her head.  The doctor scribbles something Hannah cannot read on a white pad.  “This will get you in,” she says.

Hannah stares at the script as if the markings on the paper hurt her eyes.  Although she is tired from staring at her screen since early morning, editing new manuscripts and old books for a government agency, that is not why she stares.  It is because there are words which confuse and disturb.

“It’s the abortion order,” the doctor says impatiently.

            The examination had taken longer than expected.  Hannah misses her train and, instead of waiting, decides to walk home.  She is a slender woman, with good posture; when deep in thought, as now, she wears a stubborn expression and walks pitched forward as if fighting a headwind.

The empty street, sun-starved and silent, stretches before her, the late afternoon air cold and damp.  What Hannah has just learned clutters her mind, becomes clear, then vague again.  In the past when she thought about getting pregnant, those thoughts were joyful, not like this.

Her waist-length coat is lined, warming her upper body, but polyester slacks leave her hips and legs chilled.  Sturdy boots keep her toes and ankles warm though after several blocks they begin to rub.  Her feet hurt.  She regrets not waiting for the next train.  Her eyes are suddenly wet.  She wipes them quickly, looking around to be sure no one sees.  She’s pregnant.  This thought, in spite of the problems it portends, makes her smile.

After awhile, she doesn’t know how long, she realizes she has taken a wrong turn onto a street of starter box apartments, one room units, fifty floors high.  The walls of the towers close in.  For a moment she thinks a building is moving, falling towards her.  Each narrow alleyway holds potential danger.  The twilight gloom is eased by the dim glow of streetlights mounted high on poles at the end of each block.  Looking up, she sees the red sensor on the security eye a few feet above her head.  Usually she is annoyed by the intrusion, the thought of someone far away watching.  Today it implies safety.

Shaking her head to halt the internal chattering, she focuses on getting home.  It is hard, thinking about what the doctor said.  And hard contemplating an abortion and what it will mean to her husband and their relationship. 

A couple in their forties, both wearing expensive imitation fur, walk briskly toward her.  Curfew is in less than an hour but they walk with confidence, not at all like people who worry about curfews.  There is a moment of shared air as they pass, then they’re gone, their eyes fixed on the broken sidewalk.   Hannah shivers and buttons the top of her coat.  A familiar street appears.  Another ten minutes and she arrives at the shopping district near the apartment she shares with her husband.  Although eager to get home, she stops at the Swiss Miss store.  Chocolates are expensive, but she buys a box of four anyway.  The kind Noah, her husband, likes – ones with the soft center so the flavor explodes twice.

            “You’re late,” Noah says, the moment she enters the apartment.  “I was worried,” he adds, his tone softer.

Swiping her finger over the biometric sensor, she hears the soft click of the door locking.  “I missed my train – protestors blocking the streets.”  Hannah hates lying but Noah seems edgy. If she tells her news and how she has wandered around confused and scared, there will be a discussion – no, argument – and she is not ready for that.

“Who this time?” Noah asks.

“Christians, I guess.”

Noah is tall and serious; he believes in eating sensibly and keeping himself fit.  Nevertheless, his eyes light up when he sees her gift.  Candy is only part of the treat, Hannah knows.  Like a child, he is delighted to have a surprise.

After dinner Noah happily devours three of his chocolates.  Later, they pass the time with an internet backgammon match.  Not wanting to damage a peaceful evening, she still does not tell him.  Perhaps she’ll talk with her counselor first, or just go ahead to the clinic and not tell Noah at all.

 

 

 

 

 

(A short Story) Summer Solstice

On the longest day of the year I got up, made coffee, and shot the dog.

            The night before, I went to bed planning to make coffee as I do every morning.  I did not expect to shoot a dog.  What I did expect, since it is my routine, was to fill bins with food for the chickens and break a bail of hay and some grain for Horace, the chestnut horse.  Duties finished, I usually hurried back to the kitchen to feed Sarah, the Labrador Retriever, and myself.  Sarah is a great help, always close by while I do my chores.

            It is fortunate that I went off my plan, pausing to water the heat-stressed tomato plants located near the back porch, before going to the barn.  Otherwise the next few minutes would have been far worse.  But I jump ahead.  The first thing I did on that long hot day was make coffee.  Sarah watched patiently while I had my cup of extra strong, gained by removing the pot and inserting my cup under the drip.  Outside, while I watered the tomatoes, tall and heavy with green fruit, Sarah spread her water by an azalea bush and then over the extended roots of a sheltering dogwood tree.

          “You look like a statue,” said my wife, Jane, from behind me on the porch.

          “A statue?”

          “In profile.  Like that little boy peeing on the lily pad.   Only you’re using a bigger hose.”

          Just then we heard the commotion.  The chickens were making a racket, with Horace chiming in.  Chickens are easily disturbed, but the horse was hard to rile.  His loud, urgent neighing scared me.

“It’s that fox,” I said, mostly to reassure Jane.  I did not think a fox would upset Horace.  Maybe a snake, I thought, or even a prowler.

“Don’t kill it, Charlie,” she begged.

“Birdshot,” I said, “hand me the shotgun.”

          She disappeared and quickly returned with my little .410 and a couple of shells.  I took the gun and jogged toward the barn.  Sarah ran ahead.  Halfway there I saw him – a full grown German Shepherd rolling in the grass – not after the chickens, but after some kind of comfort.  Then he was up, and running towards us.  He ran straight for a few moments, suddenly sideways for a few steps, and then fell down.  He quickly struggled back to his feet.  A trail of spit flew from his big foaming mouth.

          “No!” I screamed, as Sarah, head level, tail down, probably thinking to protect me, ran hard for the rabid beast.  It was too late to shoot without hitting Sarah, and anyway I was too far from the intruder for the birdshot to have much effect.  Running hard towards the shepherd I closed the distance and almost had an angle from which to shoot when he lunged for Sarah.  She veered, bounced off the other dog, rolling over from the blow.  Still very much in harm’s way, she scrambled to her feet, moving towards the rabid dog, still determined to protect me.   Please don’t let him bite her, kept running through my head.  I was now only twenty feet from the animal, looking for my best shot.  Recovering his balance the shepherd turned from Sarah and spotted me.  He lurched my way, his eyes smoldering charcoal.  An arm’s length away, my shot caught him full in the face.  Tumbling over and over, kicking and crying, he spread foam and blood over the thick grass.  It was only after cocking the other barrel, gasping for breath, and finishing the job at close range that I felt sick and weak.  I remember thinking how god-awful hot the sun was just before I threw up.

Jane had stopped screaming.  She was kneeling, holding Sarah, her tears washing both their faces.  I knelt and cried with her.  We kept Sarah from sniffing the dead dog, all splattered with blood and foam.  The sooner we could get him buried the better.  He didn’t ask to be that way, to be sick, to be rabid.  No more suffering old dog; be with God. 

I wished it was night and we could huddle in bed.  Just me with Jane and Sarah in the dark until this day was over and a new season began.  But the shortest night of the year did not come for a very long time.

                                          #

 

The Man Who couldn't Lose (Short Story)

My name’s Benny Beaumont and I work the craps pit, early morning shift, at the Arabian Nights Hotel and Casino. For twelve years I’ve been in Las Vegas, same hotel. It’s my first and only real job, if you don’t count four years in the Marines.

It’s three in the morning on a winter Wednesday. No action. Not one customer in an hour. The pit boss, Carl Katz, walks by and tells the stickman to stop slouching. “Customers or not, you’re working so look sharp,” he says.

“Morning, Mr. Katz,” I say. He gives me a little nod as he walks by. Powerful, that Carl Katz. Never mind he’s morning pit boss – right there is power – but he’s also physically powerful. Two hundred solid pounds and a face that looks like it’s chipped out of rock. I’ve known Carl since I started here, spinning the Wheel of Fortune and collecting quarters. He likes me. I work hard and it was Carl got the blackjack boss to hire me. Then it was Carl who pulled me out of blackjack and got me trained as a craps dealer.

Mornings like this, my feet start hurting early from just standing around. It is so damn slow. I’ve got a dry throat and my shirt clings to my armpits. The low humidity does that, static, I guess. My mind drifts. I think about the lady I’ve been seeing. Then I get to wondering how mama’s doing since papa died. While I’m thinking, I’m watching the night crowd schooling like minnows in the big room. The few customers that come near the table float nearby but don’t stop. Nobody wants to be the only player on a craps table. The other dealers have gone back to flipping chips and telling jokes now that Carl’s out of sight.

A few more minutes pass when I notice this guy, tan, nice gray around the ears, tall like me, walking towards us. Seems to be mid fifties, rumpled and shabby, with wrinkled khaki’s and a blue jacket with shiny elbows, looking like he just blew in off the desert. But how he looks is not the main thing that catches my eye. It’s the way he moves, smooth and confident, not cocky like some of the assholes you get, mostly from California and New Jersey. Something about the way this guy moves makes you think there’s some style riding under those old clothes. I watch out of the corner of my eye until he's in front of the table. He looks directly at me, and I figure he must be on something. I’ve never seen eyes like that. They’re gray as a thundercloud and seem to thrust out of his face when he looks at me. They’re restless eyes, hungry eyes looking for a place to feed. After that one quick look he moves on.

"Pick up the phone, Benny." The stickman is grinning at me. And giving a nervous little laugh. Everything he says ends with a little laugh. “Yeah?" I say. “The question you didn't hear because you were dreaming about doing sweet Erica (little laugh) was, do they really pump oxygen into the ventilation system after midnight?"

"If they do, it ain't working tonight," I tell him. The few customers I see look like they could use a shot of oxygen, or just a good night’s sleep. The Erica he refers to is Erica Valdez. She's the lady I've been taking out. Erica's ambitious, a singer working cocktails until a spot opens up in the Bring Back Hollywood show over to the MGM. I could get serious about Erica. “We did it in the Bahamas," the other dealer says. "Every night about one o'clock I'd feel this rush. The customers would start betting their asses off."

I listen. I’ve been around awhile and I figure it’s just another Vegas story. The shot of oxygen ain’t necessary. Greed and loneliness provide the motivation and the players bring their own. It's all hope and desperation, getting something for nothing. I've thought about talking to my cousin Tony about going partners in a little bar and cafe in St. Louis. Mama would like that. She’d be able to tell her friends, “You know my son, owns Benny’s Place over to King's Highway." Mama's wanted somebody in the family she could talk proud about ever since poppa died.
Tony and I go way back to St. Louie, growing up on the southwest side. His mama and my mama are sisters. A couple of good-looking wop kids; me tall and thin and cousin Tony round and brown, just the two of us chasing pussy and staying alive.

So I think about St. Louis but I stay here. I stand behind this long table under the plastic chandeliers for eight hours and stare at velvet-textured wallpaper until I’m in a calm, comfortable zone. I watch the bosses, the girls, the money, the crazies. Someday I'll go back east, but not today.

Those goddamn eyes are back. One minute there isn't anybody for fifty feet in any direction, then here’s this guy holding a fist full of worn twenties and staring at me. You ever been outside just before a storm hits and everything is quiet, and the air is so charged that the hair on your neck stands up? Well, that's exactly how I feel the minute he drops his money on the table.

"Yes, sir?" I say, itching my neck against my shirt collar.

"Quarters," he tells me in a woolly voice.

I take his two hundred and give him eight twenty-five dollar chips. He puts two on the pass line and the stickman pushes the dice down to our end of the table. The shooter picks two he likes and squeezes them in his fist like he's milking a cow.
In case you’re not a crapshooter, you need to know that the pass line is your first and best bet. How it works is on the first roll the pass line bet wins and pays even money for the seven and the eleven. The two, three, or twelve loses. Any other number becomes your point and you don’t make money until you roll your point again. If you roll a seven before you make your point, you lose.

"What's your name?" the shooter asks.

"Benny."

“What's the house record for consecutive passes, Benny?"

"Who knows?" I say, sloughing the question off, giving the stickman a look. I mean, that's the kind of bullshit I'd expect from a Shriner. Right then I peg this character as a loser. When I don't answer his question he just stands there, milking the dice, staring inside me. Loudermilk, the table boss who looks like Winston Churchill, tells him he's got to shoot or give the dice back. But the customer just keeps milking and staring and smiling at me until I start to get embarrassed. So I say, “I heard some guy made thirty-two one night. I didn't see it." Then I add, smart-ass like, “You out to set a record?" This loser’s going to drop his stake and be outta here faster than I can say ten Mississippis, I figure.
Just for a joke I ask, real politely, “What’s your name, sir?" playing up to him like I would some high roller.

"David Albertson," he answers and gallops the dice across the felt. They bounce smartly off the far end of the table and come up three. "Craps," the stickman sings, “pass line loses."

I take Albertson's money and he puts another fifty on the line. I wonder if the two hundred he bought in with is all he has. If so he’s a gutsy bettor, putting up a quarter of his stake like that. He shoots again and they come up four, the hard way, a pair of twos. He puts fifty in odds behind his pass line bet and shoots again.

"Seven, loser," cries the stickman, a little too happily, I think. They come and they go. I’m about sick of Las Vegas. Too many distractions: women, money, food, celebrities. Too many nights being polite to people like David Albertson. Lately I’ve been thinking about finding myself a piece of ground out in the county and building a little house. Maybe keep a couple of horses. A place like that’d make waiting to swing a deal in St. Louie a little easier. Erica’s eyes lit up when I talked about the little house. It wouldn’t take much, and I’ve saved some. Another ten thousand or so and I could manage it.

His last fifty on the line, Albertson closes his eyes while he milks the dice in his fist a few times for the feel. Just like all the other losers, I figure, praying for God to kiss the cubes and save his ass. His arm uncoils and his fingers move like he’s working a puppet. I watch the dice bounce off the end of the table and come back halfway. The first one comes up four. The second one quits spinning and shows three. Seven, winner. I pay him off and watch his face. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking his little prayer worked and the table is gonna get hot. How many times have I seen this play out?

Albertson leaves the hundred on the pass line and rolls another seven. He lets the two hundred ride and now comes the seven again. Then he does it two more times.
Five damn sevens in a row! I look at Loudermilk and raise my eyebrows. He just shrugs his shoulders. I have to give Albertson credit – when you're down to your last fifty dollar bet and let the money ride for five passes, well, that takes some guts. Most ain't got that kind of faith. "That's the way to do it, Mr. A,” I tell him. He gives me that same little smile as before. "You're thinking this old guy might have something after all. Is that right, Benny?"

How weird is this? I feel a hot flash run right down my neck. I got no apologies for what I thought but I feel like I’m caught talking behind his back. I grin like a silly bastard and all I can think of to say, is “You’re not old, Mr. A.” He doesn’t look at me, just pulls eight hundred, half his winnings, back to his tray. There’s a tap on my back and I move out to let the rotation crew take over. "Good luck," I tell Albertson. We're supposed to say that. I head to the coffee shop for a sandwich. Halfway there Carl Katz stops me.

"Rotate back to the same table," he says.

"Okay," I say, “why?" Normal shift rotation calls for dealers to work their way around the open tables after each break.

"It's a little bonus for you."

Puzzled, I look the question at him.

"This guy Albertson is dangerous. If he's still there when you get back that means he'll hit the house hard, but you'll see some real action." I laugh. “He’ll be gone by the time I get back." Carl folds his hands behind his back and studies his lizardskin shoes. The creases in his tanned face crawl up his forehead into wavy, silver hair. His suit has no wrinkles. When Carl stands like that it makes a dealer like me nervous. Like I’d questioned Donald Rumsfield or somebody. "You know this guy?" I finally ask, a humble tone replacing my former cockiness. Carl sighs. I guess it takes a lot of patience dealing with dumbasses like me. “You ever hear about an episode over to the Sands about twenty years ago?” he says. “A big win that got out of hand? A killing?”

I shake my head. That was before my time. Hell, I was in high school. “Albertson was holding the dice. The table was full and behind his shooting they were hitting us upward of two hundred thousand. The pit boss got his orders and tried to break up the game. Some tough from Jersey took it personally and shot the pit boss.” Carl looks away and his face softens. He looks sad. “That pit boss was a good man. A very good man,” he says, “and Albertson is the reason he’s dead.” I take all this in. While I don’t want to seem skeptical, I’ve heard a million Vegas stories, and this sounds like just one more. "Even if it's the same guy, Carl, that kind of run don't happen twice."

“Hear what I’m saying, Benny,” he takes a deep breath, “the time of that killing wasn't his only win. Albertson started out as a craps dealer a few years before, then one day he up and quits. He disappears for six months, then he's back throwing dice at the Sands. He either lost in the first five minutes or he held the dice for hours and won big. The bosses figured he was cheating somehow and there was talk of freezing him out of Vegas, but he left town after the shooting – just disappeared.” Carl shifted from parade rest, folded his arms. “Anyway, Albertson told me once that he took a month between games to gather his strength, his 'psychic energy' is the way he put it. I think the son-of-a-bitch would go to the desert and pray – then come back and win at craps.” Carl shakes his head, his jaws hard, "Being serious with God Almighty about gambling, that ain’t right."

Carl moves on and I head for the coffee shop. What he said about the pit boss trying to break up the game was not what you might figure. The big casinos are honest as far as stuff like loaded dice and rigged roulette goes. However, they ain't in business to lose money. So when some customer gets hot there are little ways, legal ways, to screw the game up: by counting the payoffs slowly; interrupting the game to count the bank; holding the dice from the shooter longer than necessary. Stuff like that’s all that's needed to rattle most guys, make them do dumb things. When a shooter loses his cool, right then is when Lady Luck takes a walk. Never seen it fail.

Coming back from breakfast I can see the tables cooking from halfway across the casino. Taking my spot across and to the right of the stickman, I think about how there must be some kind of mental telegraph system in this town, else how can a table get full all of a sudden when the casino was empty minutes earlier? Where there was only one, there are now ten players with their money down and more elbowing in.

Sometimes you get to thinking you can pick the winners, but when I first met David Albertson I figured no way. He seemed a little down, but he was loose and confident like it didn’t matter. So I figured here was a guy who didn't know how to hurt. Plus, he’s white and educated. That's a problem because I think the Lord Jesus figures somebody like that has everything he needs to start with and if he fucks it up, too bad. Always when I think of a big win, a monster roll, I think of your black or your oriental. Those people can be flat-on-their-ass broke and all of a sudden they're in the money and betting like there ain't no tomorrow. Take China Seas down to the far side of the table: born Shanghai, when Mao took over his folks slipped over to Hong Kong and then to the States. He's short, fat and ain't got no right arm. I've seen that China Seas down so far he was driving a taxi –then, one day he walks in looking like a new man, cash, cars, clothes, women. Makes me wonder if Buddha ain't a better bet than Jesus Christ.

"Watch the spade," Carl whispers over my shoulder.

The customer in question stands across the table from me and is named Washington – I know that because the stickman called him by name when he bought in. He looks familiar but I can't quite make him. A small man, he wears his hair in braids, has what you might call a pretty face and looks real girl-like except for his big shoulders and hands like rockcrushers. It's getting busy so I shift Washington to the edge of my mind and concentrate on the game.

"Don't make me wait, make that eight!" cries Chiquita, the old Mexican broad with the blue hair standing near the other end of the table. We're hot. Albertson's arm is a blur, pumping green money out of red dice and the tension is popping like champagne bubbles. I have to focus all my attention on the game and getting the payoffs right. Albertson bounces the dice down the table and makes an eleven and I notice he has the same smile on his face as before. Even though he’s printing money he doesn’t seem excited. When there’s a little delay to give the dealers time to make the payoffs he ain’t impatient like most people; just watches the waiting dice and now and then nods at the other players when they compliment him or yell encouragement. He manages money well. Aggressive and smart on a hot table.

"Keeping moving! Keeping moving!" China Seas yells like some goddamn Comanche. Everybody’s happy, happy as gamblers can get, yelling to Albertson, telling him what a fine human being he is, and throwing dealer tips. Carl walks by about this time, with a quick look calculating the money on the table, and moves on. He’s busy now, supervising four working tables. Word has gotten out and the multitudes are gathering to find the action at the Arabian Nights.

“These guys gonna run you for president,” I tell Albertson, looking at the rogues whooping it up around the table. He grins, a nice warm smile. “Sweet, isn’t it?” he says. He shoots again and makes his point – a ten – the hard way. People go crazy. Everybody's bouncing up and down and pounding the rail and the back of whoever is next to him and yelling kudos to Albertson. "Pay me six hundred," Chiquita screams in her diamond-­cracking voice. "Fast as I can," the dealer at the other end tells her. The table is heavy with chips and it's while I'm counting Albertson’s money that I catch Washington out of the corner of my eye. He has a hundred on the pass line backed up with a stack of fives and quarters for odds – a hundred total behind the line, I count with a quick look. When he thinks I don’t see he pumps two more black chips under his odds pile. "Two hundred behind the line," I say, paying the two to one odds bet for his hundred and looking him right in the eye. Well, Washington screams like I stuck a knife in his ribs.

"I laid three hundred odds," he screams in my face, braids dancing all around. "Pay me six hundred!"

"What is it?" Loudermilk, the table boss, asks.

"The man put two hundred extra under his odds after the point was made," I tell him.
"Bull . . . shit!" yells Washington.

Now everybody's watching, holding their breath, scared this is gonna fuck up the roll. "Don't break rhythm," China Seas whispers desperately. “Don't, don't, don't."

"Hold the dice," Loudermilk tells the stickman. Poof. The happiness of moments before disappears. Everybody's pissed, including us dealers. Just when the tips are rolling in, this has to happen. Carl comes over, slow and easy, nodding his big gray head like he's the goddamn pope and talking to me and Loudermilk and Washington.
"The motherfucker's cross-eyed," Washington screams, pointing to me. "Throw his ass out," yells Chiquita. "Rhythm, rhythm, don't break rhythm," chants China Seas.

I tell Carl what I saw and he motions for Washington to come around to the end of the table. Suddenly, Albertson moves between Carl and Washington. "You're looking well, Carl," he says. Carl’s eyes are cold but he makes a smile. "So are you, David."

“I'm a little surprised at all this, Carl, a big house like the Arabian Nights – and so early in the game."

"We run a clean game," Carl snaps, the smile gone. Me, I don't know what the hell's going on, why Carl gets so defensive. Carl steps away from Albertson, back to Washington, who is dancing up and down, lying and denying, appealing for help from somebody – anybody – for this wrong he claims is being committed. The yelling and threatening goes on for another couple of minutes. Albertson smiles at me. We both know Carl is in no hurry to settle this – the longer he delays, the cooler the table gets. Finally, after what seems an hour but is really only three or four minutes, long enough to deflate the happiness that once reigned, Carl points to Washington, warns him to watch his step, tells me to pay him, and lets the game continue.
I’m paying Washington his rip-off while the stickman pushes the dice to Albertson. He's just standing there, flipping a chip, a little smile on his face, watching Carl. I’m wanting to ask Carl how it is they know each other a whole lot better than Carl has let on to me, but Albertson speaks first.

“You ever worked with Washington before?" he asks quietly. He sees I don’t understand and says, "Guess not." Then zing – I remember the Golden Garter downtown two winters ago. I dropped in on a craps game and some guy was on a roll and they broke up the game because some black guy got caught with funny dice in his pocket. I stare at Washington and realize I didn’t recognize him tonight because he didn’t have the cornrows back then. Shit. Carl brought this guy in to screw the roll; slow it down; break the rhythm. Washington is a shill for the dark side; a maven for the Don’t Pass. This sucked. Guys tell me they pull this stuff downtown all the time but I honest to God never knew they did it at the Arabian Nights. I guess I’m still green as a cactus about some things.

I focus on the table. Everybody’s afraid the run is over. Some bets come down. One guy puts money on the Don’t Pass. We’re all puckered up, not breathing, waiting, wondering. In the quiet I can hear Chiquita whispering to herself, praying.
Albertson milks the dice real slow. "To luck, to magic, to God, to . . . what?" he asks and winks at me. Watching him pull his fist close to his chest and uncoil for the shot, it's like I'm standing on the next table watching. It all seems to roll out in slow motion – like one of those TV commercials where people are running down the beach – proud of their deodorant or whatever. Albertson is loose and fluid and his fingers move like he has strings attached to the dice. It is silent, even Chiquita is quiet. We are frozen things. Then there's a crack like something breaking and everybody is cheering. I’m grinning inside and out because it’s an eleven – winner, eleven.

I can’t help smiling evilly at the Don’t Pass player as I collect his money.
I’m still pissed about Washington. "I never seen them pull that stuff here before," I whisper to Albertson as I count out his winnings. “Don't blame Carl,” Albertson says. “He's scared." That stops me. Just when I’m thinking this Albertson is okay he says something like that. I’ve known Carl Katz for a dozen years. He’s survived the gambling business since 1960. I’ve seen him handle big shots, drunks, and men gone crazy from losing their money. He might be cautious, but not scared. “Carl's kind say they only believe in the percentages; in truth they believe in magic,” Albertson says, like he's reading my mind and ready to overcome my argument point by point. “They build their lives on the percentages. When somebody like me comes around they get scared."

"You think you're magic?" I whisper, then laugh. It’s a forced laugh like a frog’s croak. I look around to see if Loudermilk is overhearing any of this. He isn’t. The old table boss is watching the play with bulldog concentration. Albertson talking like this embarrasses me. Why can’t he just whoop it up like anybody else, happy he got lucky and lay off that kind of talk? “Things happen every day that people can't explain so they call them magic, psychic, paranormal." He speaks calmly but when I look into his eyes there’s something there, something I don’t know how to explain. Something that confuses me. If anybody but Albertson was saying this stuff, I’d just nod and hope they got home without hurting themselves.
As for me I know there are powers around that come and go and do whatever they want; but I don't like thinking about that stuff and I don't like the idea that some people can tap into them. I wish I were home with Erica, rubbing her legs, which are always tired after her shift, and watching the morning news.

While I'm churning inside, Albertson doesn’t miss a shot. In quick order he makes his point with the four, six and ten – all the hard way. Every point he makes, when you add the hard-way bets, is now paying Albertson more than six thousand dollars. I see Carl lurking around the back of the table and I know more trouble's coming.

Albertson says to me – maybe to me – I’m beginning to think he’s having a discussion with himself or with somebody I can’t see, "To the outsider this game must seem like a dim purpose for dull spirits. Bleary-eyed people concentrating on the movements of two small plastic cubes; dealers mechanically passing chips to and fro; dense smoke hovering. . . ” I lean over close, “What are you saying there, Mr. A?
He goes on like there’s nobody else in the room, more of that mystic bullshit.
"It's a good roll, all right," I say, not knowing what else to say. He looks sharply at me when I say that and his face suddenly loses its sparkle. "That's not enough for me anymore," he says, and his whole body shudders – just for a couple of seconds – then he smiles and the magic – I don’t mean magic like Albertson means it –is back like nothing ever happened. I take a deep breath; it calms me. Hell, he can believe in the Easter Bunny as long as he’s making numbers. I look at the chips stacked in his tray and figure what he’s got there would be more than enough for me. Man, if I could hit a streak like this dude I’d have Erica and me on a first class flight to St. Louis by morning. We’d open that little restaurant and piano bar and life would be good.

Who knows? Mr. Albertson likes me and I’ve heard stories about high rollers that caught a big hand and slipped their favorite dealer five grand or so afterwards. That won’t get me the restaurant but it’ll get me closer. Albertson’s smile is still warming me when Carl comes over to examine the dice, then orders them changed. Everybody but Albertson yells and stamps their feet and there are unflattering comments about Carl’s parentage. Five minutes later Carl is back with the cashier guards: now they’ve decided they want to count chips and pick up the cash in the table safe. Chiquita gets a laugh when she cracks, "There ain't no money been deposited, we're only making withdrawals." The tension eases a bit. The players' faith in Albertson's ability has reached religious intensity.

Before another hour passes, Carl has changed the dice two more times and stopped the game for bank count three times. Also – and I’ve never seen this pulled before – he accuses Albertson of holding funny dice and says it's a body search or the game is over. Albertson doesn’t protest the search and we all wait silently, uncomfortably, looking down at the table, some players counting their chips, nobody looking at anybody else, until the security guy brings him back. I guess they weren’t prepared to plant crooked dice on him, probably figured stalling the game would be enough.
None of it makes any difference. Albertson just keeps making money. A few minutes after six Loudermilk whispers that the house is out well over five hundred thousand dollars. A couple of players are up thirty thousand or better. I figure Albertson is up three times that. "I'm glad he’s whipping the bastards," Loudermilk whispers to me. I look at the old man, surprised that a casino executive with thirty years on the job would speak such sacrilege, then I nod. I’m glad as hell.

It’s not long after Loudermilk’s comment, a little past six, when Albertson starts to throw the dice and stops, his arm halfway through the arc. He turns to me and his eyes are suddenly flat and lifeless. "You okay, Mr. A?" I say. He smiles, a weak little thing that trembles, “I’m tired, Benny. It’s over." He turns to the other players. "Enjoy your good fortune, my friends." He throws the dice to make a six. They come up seven. Seven out.

You could hear the moans and groans clear to the other end of the casino. Greedy bastards, you might be thinking. After all, they’ve been winning for more than three hours straight. But, listen, I’ve been on both sides of the table and there's more to it. Nothing transports a gambler to the promised land as fast as a hot craps table. It’s the money, and it ain’t the money. When the dice purr we know that God or the Lady or fate has finally recognized our worth. We're all gamblers at something. And loneliness – loneliness goes away when the table cooks. And whatever home means to us, a nice house in Kansas City with a lady and a couple kids, or an apartment in LA with one old dog, it doesn’t matter anymore. When you’re winning you’ve got a new home, just for that slice of time. You feel accepted and loved in your new home just as long as the dice are rolling. And when you win and the hand is over, you walk away from the table and you might act happy and talk loud, or maybe you just get away to some corner where you can count your chips again, make sure it isn’t a dream. At that moment there’s something inside you wanting to be satisfied and free. But the chips just weigh there in your pocket and no matter how hard you try to get excited about buying something or going somewhere, you can't think of anything you want to buy or anywhere to go because what you really want is to find another game, another home.

When David Albertson crapped out, everybody abandoned their freshly made hopes and dreams and came back down to the red-flocked walls, black and red carpets, icy chandeliers. Outside the big front doors, dawn is coming gray and desert damp, and it will be cold out there, cold and stinking from last night’s exhaust fumes. Cold and stinking from all those exhaust fumes from all those cars filled with all those people looking for a home.

China Seas pushes his way through the crowd and shakes Albert­son's hand. It is awkward, what with using his left hand, and it isn’t like a man shakes at all, more like he wants to touch something holy. Old Chiquita, glowing like a child, timidly kisses him on the cheek. And everybody claps and cheers for Albertson, who made them whole one morning in the Arabian Nights Casino.

He cashed in $89,456. In a voice that seems to have trouble getting past his lips, Carl Katz offers him the Harlow Suite – compliments of the casino.

At nine a.m. I’m changing clothes in the dealer’s locker room when a bellman hands me a message. Mr. Albertson is inviting me to breakfast in his suite. It seems strange him wanting to talk to me; table relationships end when the game is over, but I’m damn sure gonna go. I guess if he was some ordinary guy that hit a monster roll and won big I’d forget his name in a week. But the way David Albertson won was different and my mind won’t turn it loose. Also, the possibility of a fat tip is still on my mind. I call Erica to say I’ll be late for the breakfast we’re supposed to have. There’s no answer so I leave a message. At nine-thirty Albertson lets me into this suite that looks how you'd expect an expensive whorehouse to look. Mirrors are mounted on the bedroom walls and ceiling and the sitting room is done in plush red and black velvet with a sunken hot tub in the middle. I knew about these rooms but I've never been in one – playpens for high rollers who for a couple of days get to be treated like the big swinging dicks they want to be.

"Hope I'm not interrupting your morning," Albertson says as he lets me in. The table is set and there are two serving carts within easy reach. "I don't have much going today," I tell him. “We'll have breakfast, we’ll talk, do a little business, then you can go." I still wonder what business he wants me for, but I don't ask. “Some joint," I say, my eyes moving from the hot tub to the statue of the nude woman with a toga draped over her shoulder. "They want me to stick around – think they can get their money back." He laughs. "I'll be around for awhile but they can’t have their money back." He busies himself serving our break­fast. His eyes are alive again.

"That was something – what you did," I say. He looks at me like he doesn’t understand. “When you walked into the casino, you thought you knew you were going to win – not felt lucky, not wanting to win, you thought you knew you were going to win.” I take a sip of the coffee he hands me and look at him. I don’t want to piss him off by asking too many questions, but this is bothering me. “And then you seemed to think you knew when the run was over. Understand, Mr. Albertson, I don't believe for a minute that you really knew – but I think you really thought you knew."

He studies his plate for a while then he studies me. "Okay. I'll tell you how I thought I knew . . . . In the beginning I thought I wanted to be a minister. A year in a seminary cured me of that ambition. I bummed around for a while and ended up broke in Vegas. The town was booming and casinos were paying people to learn to be dealers so I wound up in the craps pit at the Sands.” I shook my head. "Hard to understand how somebody who could have been a minister could give it up to deal craps."

“Devote my life to others?” He smiles. “While I liked the sound of that, it wasn’t me. Craps gave me what I was really looking for, power." I’m thinking it’s odd that he doesn’t mention money. How money, not some cross around your neck, gives power. Chewing his toast he looks out the window, out past the MGM, at the Sierra Nevada range on the horizon. "Sometimes I felt like I had control over the dice. I could think of the number and there it would be. Eventually I found out . . . well, I found out how to win.”

I listen, skeptical. “So I guess you must be pretty rich,” is all I can think of to say. He coughs, choking on his orange juice. “Well, you’ve hit on something there, Benny.” He clears his throat and laughs like you laugh when something ain’t all that funny. "Here’s the kicker. I can only win if I give the money away. In this sick, cosmic joke, that’s the way it works.” He has trouble getting it out. It’s like the words stick down deep when he says this. "What's the point?" I say, more confused than before, “and who says?”

“I don’t know. I get a little current running down my back and I know I’m going to win. When I follow certain rules – give the winnings away is the big rule, and anonymously, always anonymously – then I win the next time.”

“And the money?" I ask. My mouth feels dry. I don’t know if it’s this stuff about him controlling the dice making me feel weird or maybe it’s how he can’t keep the money that bothers me. "A gambler in too deep, ready to kill himself. Some women. The Salvation Army." He shrugs his shoulders, nods, and the action of moving his head seems to drain the blood from his cheeks. Lifting his pale face he laughs. “I’m a saint after all, right?” Being near Albertson is like being in a room full of people. The vibes are too strong to come from one person. “I’d think you’d be a legend – I never heard of you.”

“I move around. London, Spain, North Africa, the Caribbean, Macao. Can’t stay in one place very long. And I usually stop after an hour or so, smaller wins attract less attention."

“No money?”

“Only expenses.”

"Just roam around? Shooting craps in all those places?" He nods, stares into his coffee cup like something might be in there to give him comfort. "I need to find a way to win and keep the money." We sit for a while, not talking. This is even crazier than I thought. “Maybe,” he shakes his head, stares somberly at the poached egg growing cold in its cup, “maybe God isn’t who we think He is. Maybe God spends His time thinking up tests for people. Like you might have done with your Guinea Pig in science class . . . like some people pull the wings off flies just to see what they’ll do.” I eat a plump, red strawberry sitting on the side of my plate. Grown in water tanks with liquid nutrients. Beautiful, empty, tasteless.

Albertson says, "There was an incident some years ago – at the Sands – a Casino employee was killed.” I nod, “Carl Katz told me.”

“Carl told you? Everything?”

“I don’t know what everything is . . . he said some pit boss got shot.”

The gambler thinks about this for a long moment. “A murder, clean and simple. A crime of passion. The boss was trying to slow the game, and me, I’m rolling dice like a wild man loving every minute of it. I saw the heavy from Jersey getting upset with the casino. I never thought . . . if I realized how drunk and angry the customer was I would have rolled a seven and ended the run.”

“You telling me you can just decide when to roll a seven out?” He looks at me for what seems a long time, and then his eyes drop to the table. “I want to hire you," he says. Walking to the bar he comes back with two cashier's checks. One made out to me in the amount of eight thousand dollars; the other to Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas for most of the night's winnings, eighty thousand. "I'm paying you ten percent for your help. Go to the hospital and give this check to the administrator after he agrees, in writing, to my terms.”

"You don't have to pay . . . ."

"Don't be so damn generous!" His tone is sharp. "I can't do it because all my gifts must be anonymous." He hands me an envelope. "There’s an agreement in there he has to sign. The money will be used for improvements to the emergency room. A bronze plaque will be placed on the emergency room wall in memory of Abraham Katz."
I stare at him, then at the check, trying to sort it all out. I am not immune to the thought that I’m holding a check for as much as I make in two years. Or that even the smaller check might be enough to get me back to St. Louis. "Abraham Katz was the pit boss at the Sands, killed the night I made my big score."

“Carl’s . . . ?”

"Carl’s father," he says.

I do the deal with Sunrise Hospital like Mr. Albertson told me. Carl's the only person who knows about that. I figure that might be why Albertson hired me, so I’d tell Carl. He shakes his head, “It’s not enough,” he mumbles. “Shit!” he adds. He walks away and thinks about it and when he comes back there are tears in his eyes. He wants details so I tell him everything said at breakfast with Albertson. “Where’d he go?” Carl asks. “In the suite, last I saw.”

“No more. He gave the limo driver a Franklin to take him to the airport.” Carl shakes his big head and stares across the casino. Staring at nothing, or, maybe staring down the strip to where the Sands Hotel used to be. “Did he tell you how he did it?” He finally asks. “He talked about it. Didn’t make any sense to me.”

“I don’t want to know,” Carl says.

As for me, I’m sticking around here awhile longer. Maybe buy that little ranchette at the foot of the mountains where I can see the sun lifting over the peaks in the morning. Albertson’s check gives me enough for the down payment. I can fix it up real nice over time, even nicer if Erica wants to help. Besides, I’ve come to like the weather out here better than St. Louis. Someday I’ll go back and visit mama. But not today. Today I’ll work, and I’ll watch the bosses, the girls, the money, and the crazies. Right now I’m going to find Erica. Talk to her about the ranchette. Find out if that’s something she’d like to do – hang out with me at the foot of the mountain and watch the sun rise.

--

Magical Seas (Short Story)

The officer leaned forward in his tattered armchair. His right fist punched the air and silver lieutenant bars bounced on the shoulders of his sweat-stained white shirt.

"God will strike these thieves and whores,” he said, “and everybody responsible for this brutal abomination.” Saliva flew from his mouth, riding rays of morning sunlight that streamed through a window.
His wife sat across the small room on a sofa covered with a print of dark red roses. She was sewing, closing holes in socks. From time to time she nodded in order to appear interested in her husband’s monologue.
Their son, Mayo, sat politely on the edge of a wooden straight-backed chair bought at the Sears store in Havana. He completed the triangle, sitting between his parents, but off to one side. The boy was playing the Inside Outside game. Inside he prayed that his father would die, or at the very least fall asleep. Outside he appeared to be considering the disconnected thoughts streaming from his father’s flushed face.
"Batista was a tool of Satan," his father went on, "and the country I have pledged to defend kept him in power." He paused and rubbed his left shoulder board with his right hand, then drank from the glass that the boy had just refilled with rum and seltzer. "And this new one, this Castro, same cloth, different suit . . . but no one gives a rat’s ass . . . right this minute in the casinos of Havana, killers and pimps and gunrunners are laughing and drinking with United States embassy people." His lips continued to move but no more words came out. Slowly, his chin relaxed onto his chest.
"I didn't cause Cuba's problems and our government didn’t either," his mother said. She spoke quietly, a whisper, as if really speaking only to herself. She worried that her husband was talking like this in front of other people, other Navy officers.
"Mayo!"
"Yes sir?" The boy looked anxiously at his father, who was suddenly awake and staring at him. Mayo sucked in a chest full of air and held it. He had been here before and knew they were at a crossroads where the man could either turn violent or soon drift off to sleep. He thought about running.
The officer waved his glass in the air. "When you're older, remember what I'm telling you . . . not ten miles from here, around the edges of those lush cane and tobacco fields, women’s teeth rot out and their children die of fever and . . . ." He paused, the rest of his thought forgotten.
Gratefully, Mayo nodded. The turn had gone his way and his father’s words were slurring more now. With luck he’d stop soon, his head tilting to one side and his eyes closing and his breath coming slow and hard.
Waiting in silence was a hard business. The boy’s attention drifted. He picked up a dog-eared book lying on the small table beside his chair. With his finger he absentmindedly traced the letters of the title, The Sea Around Us. He had not read the book, but his father referred to it often. In addition to getting drunk and worrying about Cuba, his father sometimes got drunk and worried about the ocean.
"Mayo," his mother said quietly, "I want to talk to your father."
The boy kissed her and thought to say goodbye to his father but the officer’s chin was again on his chest and his eyes were closed. Mayo cringed as a board in the floor of the little house creaked, but he did not slow down and reaching the door, stepped out and softly closed it. He ran down the driveway and onto a palm-lined avenue and as he ran he took deep breaths of the fresh salt-spiced air blowing in from the Caribbean. The tightness slipped out of his chest and arms, pushed away by the temporary giddiness that comes with escape.
He rushed down a street of housing for enlisted men and their families, Quonset huts set down on tiny lawns and gleaming like mirrors in the southern sun. A boy about his age, Bobby Fry, twelve years old, stood on the corner. As Mayo passed, Bobby fell in alongside. “Where you been?” he asked.
“My daddy was talking.”
"Where you wanna start?"
"Fat Turtle Cove."
"Think we’ll find something big? Like a whale bone, maybe a dead squid?"
"I dunno, maybe just shells. But I know they had bombing practice last night 'cause I heard it, so who knows what might wash up."
They reached the far back dunes and stood above a little cove where the waves lifted high off the swells and came ashore in long, unbroken lines. Down a quarter-mile of white sand beach littered with clumps of seaweed and driftwood and beer bottles gray-backed sanderlings worked the receding waters. A few yards out from the tide line gulls fed on a school of baitfish.
"What's that?" Mayo shouted. Something floated in the breakers near the rocky headwaters at the north end of the cove.
"Shark!" Bobby yelled and they broke into a run toward the thing, which seemed to flounder in the foam of the last wave.
Dolphin, Mayo realized as they reached the water. It was only a few feet out, and battered by the incoming waves. The animal's mouth gaped open and shut in a silent cry; its flippers moved as it attempted to find deeper water and each wave pulled it nearer to the threatening rocks.

Mayo waded into the water and as he neared the animal he saw a nasty-looking gash running along its side, from head to mid-body, just above the flippers and along the black cape of its back. Blood and a milk like fluid oozed from the wound and a jagged piece of metal protruded from the back extreme of the cut. "Maybe he caught a depth charge," Mayo said. He held his hand out near the dolphin’s head. The animal didn’t move so he touched its skin, just behind the eyes and above the cut. "Like Mama’s satin dress." he whispered.
"This is great," Bobby yelled, standing a safe distance behind Mayo. "He must be ten or twelve feet long. Nobody at school ever caught a fish this big!"
Mayo leaned close to the dolphin’s face and stared into its great, black eyes. His reflection stared back and behind this, deeper, something else. The dolphin moved its flukes slightly but did not try to get away. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his tee shirt and stared for another moment into the deep black pools, then forced himself to turn and look at the wound. Something needed to be done here, and he felt that he was about to know what it was that needed doing. He did not consider the reason for this, or even think about it in terms of suddenly knowing; he simply knew that whatever he did next would be the right thing to do
"Listen," Bobby was saying, “how we gonna kill him?” He stood back a few feet and held his hands wide, estimating the size of the animal.
Mayo turned from the dolphin. "What?” Then, sharper: “What did you say?"
Puzzled at his friend’s tone, Bobby stared. “How `bout we get him stuffed and take turns keeping him.”
Not understanding, Mayo stared back. “We're gonna make him better."
"It ain't yours to say, we both found him."
Mayo looked at the dolphin. He turned to Bobby and stared until the heavier boy lowered his eyes. "He don't belong to nobody,” Mayo said, finally, “we're gonna help him."
Bobby flashed a look at him, then at the dolphin. "Ah, shit," he said, turning away and splashing the water with the palm of one hand. “If you want to, it’s okay, but it don't make no sense. It's just an old fish. It don't feel nothing, it can't think, and it's gonna die anyways."
"It feels," Mayo said.
They were in very shallow water now, at low tide, in a pool less than two feet deep. And while there wasn’t enough water to float the dolphin, he remained upright and was constantly splashed and refreshed by the incoming waves. Mayo knelt beside the animal and watched its eyes. Now they moved slowly, half closing, then jerking full open again.
“We gotta get that piece of metal out,” he said.
“It’ll kill him.”
Mayo sat down in the pool on the dolphin’s right side, near its head. “We got no choice, if we leave it in he’ll die.”
Bobby looked at the big animal and shook his head. But in spite of his fear he cautiously leaned over the dolphin with his arm holding it tight, and his weight pressing against the long, sleek back.
Mayo took his tee shirt off and wrapped it around his right hand. Water lapped gently around his knees and the sun seemed a comforting arm laid on his shoulders. This is right, he thought. Then, careful not to wiggle it, he got a good grip on the piece of shrapnel. “Hang on,” he whispered, and pulled hard. The dolphin lurched once then lay quietly. The piece was nearly six inches long, but it was thin, like a spear point, and the three inches that were imbedded slipped out without further ripping of the flesh.
Removing it opened the wound, however, and Mayo watched fearfully as blood trickled out. He looked around for something to press on the gash to stop the bleeding. The sand was littered with gifts from the sea, shells and seaweed, and debris rejected by the waters: cans, bottles, a dead and rotting ring-billed gull. He held his folded shirt against the wound. "Let's put some seaweed on where it’s bleeding," he told Bobby.
"What good is that?
"It's what we have to do. It'll make him well."
Bobby gave Mayo an odd look, but shrugged his shoulders and began collecting the coarse, green plant from along the tide line. In a few minutes he brought a handful back. While Mayo washed the sand from the small bundle of seaweed, Bobby held the wet, bloody tee shirt and kept pressure against the wound. Then they tried to pack the stuff on the cut, but each time Mayo covered the torn skin the next wave washed it off again.
"We've got to move him," Mayo said after the fourth try, “get him to a place where he’s wet but the waves don’t hit him.”
"Shit, the thing must weigh three hundred pounds."
"Probably more,” Mayo said. “How we gonna move you?" he whispered to the dolphin. Again he looked into the black eyes and this time saw a field of stars. The stars became constellations and he wondered if he could walk among them. He realized his eyes were closed and thought he might be dreaming. Then he was moving across the black void and he saw Orion looming ahead. He knew Orion because his father had stood on a dock at midnight with a drink in one hand and his charts in the other and pointed to the hunter, anchored by the bright star Rigel, and to his prey, Taurus the bull.
Now he was no longer looking up but staring down at the constellation, and his view pointed to the star pattern of Eridanus, the river as it flowed from the bright Rigel toward Alpha in the south. He was moving very fast but there was no sensation or force attached to the movement, no wind on his skin, no breathless gasp as when the roller coaster flies downhill. Where Eridanus bends around hard south he saw the three suns, the largest Epsilon, and to his surprise around this great sun swarmed a planetary system—three, five, six planets Mayo counted – and he was suddenly above the third orb from Epsilon, a blue and green marvel not unlike earth. He drifted above an indigo ocean and it was filled with dolphins and whales of all sizes and in the air were great flocks of sea birds. The dolphins frolicked and the whales made flunders with their tails and Mayo giggled at their antics.
Then the ocean changed and what had been white was now dishwater-colored and the indigo had turned to red. Birds fell from the air and fluttered helplessly among the sea creatures, now floating with their bloated bellies turned to the raw sun. He felt his heart shudder and a choking fear took hold, pressing in on his chest, making him weak for lack of air. Then the ocean was gone and he was once again high above the mysterious planet, no longer afraid and breathing easily as he traveled safely among the stars. He rested there until he felt Bobby shaking him.
Bobby shook him harder. "Hey, Mayo. Mayo, you all right?"
Opening his eyes, he pushed his friend’s hand away. Sloshing toward the tide line for a few steps, he turned and sloshed back. The safe feeling disappeared – if he did the wrong thing this dolphin would die, would end up like those fly-blown carcasses on the other planet. Fear knotted his chest again and left his forehead clammy and cold in the Caribbean sun. Turning to the dolphin, he put his hand lightly on its head. The clammy feeling eased and he felt his heart begin to slow. Caring for injured dolphins seemed suddenly to be an ordinary task, one for which the instructions were already in his head. He turned to Bobby. "Here's what we'll do,” he said.

“We’re gonna get some rocks and smash up this seaweed, make a kind of paste of it, but first we’ve got to ease him into deeper water -- just enough to float him -- then we’ll move him to those rocks over behind the point so he’s sheltered from the waves.”
"I don't know," Bobby mumbled.
With his arms partially around the dolphin, just ahead of his pectoral fins, Mayo began to lift and pull the animal. "Get behind him,” he gasped, “when the next wave comes in, push." The dolphin not only allowed itself to be handled, but moved its flukes and pectoral fins awkwardly to add forward momentum. After nearly an hour of careful movement, with several stops to catch their breath, the boys had the animal resting comfortably inside the wall of rocks, cooled by a constant fine mist and occasional spray of water.

They rested for a few minutes, looking at the dolphin and now and then at each other, then walked along the tide line and collected two large armloads of seaweed. The original idea of converting the tough, rubbery plant into a paste didn’t work. But after pounding the seaweed between two rocks it did seem softer and more pliable, so they packed the pulpy mess into a bundle and carried it back to the dolphin. They spread a layer on the animal’s wound and draped Mayo’s tee shirt over the poultice to hold it in place. Then they walked around the beach and surveyed the healing area. The large rocks sheltered the animal from the view of anyone walking along the beach.
"That stuff ain't gonna stay on very long," Bobby said.
"We'll come out early in the morning and doctor him again."
"Can't. My folks are going visiting in Miami for the weekend . . . and I've got to go . . . hey.” He stopped, grabbed Mayo’s shoulder and said with a big smile, like he had just thought up a cure for cancer, “Why don't I ask my papa if I can stay with you this weekend?”
"Can't, my mom's sick . . . got a flu or something. But it’s all right. I'll come over here and check on him." Mayo felt guilty about lying, but he didn't want Bobby here. He didn't want to talk about things, he just wanted to be near the dolphin and think.

The next day was Saturday and Mayo came to the bay at dawn. All day he watched, alone, perched on a rock beside the dolphin, wet and cool from the spray, and put fresh softened seaweed on the wound every couple of hours. Sometimes he just dozed in the sun. Sometimes he thought he was thinking the same thing the dolphin was thinking and sometimes he wondered about the third planet from Epsilon. When he left at sundown he worried because the dolphin’s breathing was labored, and the wound was covered with white pus and seemed more inflamed than before.
On Sunday he went to church, his father nodding then suddenly jerking awake, his mother staring stiffly at the pulpit. They walked home together, a silent and awkward procession.
Mayo wolfed down his lunch, but it was still nearly one o'clock before he got to the cove.

As he came off the dunes, he stopped suddenly, a chill sweeping over him--a dozen dorsal fins swiftly cut the water in a wide whirlpool fifty yards out from the rocks. They’re coming to kill him, he thought, his mind racing towards panic.

But as he stared several large, gray shapes rose from the water. Dolphins, not sharks, rising for air then slipping back under the blue Caribbean. He gasped with relief, realized he was crying and wiped the tears with the sleeve of his shirt. Taking but a moment to watch the graceful flotilla he ran into the water and splashed the dolphin’s side to wash away the sticky sickness.

Tiny pockets of pus still oozed but a soft scab had formed. Mayo put his cheek on the dolphin's head for a moment, the feel of the satin skin cool and soft to his face. Reluctantly, then, he released him and stepped back. The dolphin followed him with his eyes and pushed his nose into Mayo’s stomach and moved it back and forth in a caressing motion. The tide was in and the animal floated gently in the rising pool. The boy held the dolphin and looked into his eye and his mind once again cut loose from its moorings and roamed freely around a heaven full of twinkling bodies.
When the animal moved again, Mayo opened his eyes. He was still standing in the impossibly blue Cuban ocean. The dolphin was testing his pectoral fins, ready to work his way to deeper water.
With Mayo’s help, and with awkward pushes of his powerful flukes, the injured animal made his way out of the protective corral. Slowly Mays backed toward the shore, eyes fixed on the dolphin as he moved seaward. When he reached the waiting squadron, all fins moved into a tight formation around the new arrival and headed slowly for open sea.
The boy watched until he couldn't separate the fins from the whitecaps. Then, moving closer to shore, he sat down in shallow water, a joyous bubble swelling inside him. The dolphin was alive and free and Mayo was proud of his part in making that happen. But just under that happy bubble, pulsing hard, ascending, was a great lump of sadness spawned by the loss of a thing better and stronger and more magical than anything he had known before.

The waves broke gently over his chest and he couldn’t tell if the salt water running down his cheek came from within or without.

-End-