A Necessary End (29 page)

It seemed like it worked, in that he stopped following me. Gabe and I were able to be together in his car after work. It wasn't the classiest, but it still felt magical to me. Gabe wanted to keep us secret, but until when? Until Michael was over me? Until Michael got another girlfriend? Until he went off to college?

Gabe couldn't give me an answer. He didn't want to hurt his brother but he wanted me like he'd never wanted anyone. It was a terrible quandary. I could see that it really ate away at him. I didn't push too hard because I didn't want him to resolve it by ending things between us, and because I didn't want to hurt Michael any more than I had to.

I don't know when Gabe would have been comfortable going public, how it would have played out, but Michael discovered us. He hadn't actually stopped following me, he'd just gotten better at it.

His reaction wasn't what I would have expected. Oddly, he seemed energized. He was furious with Gabe but not with me. “Gabe's a player,” he told me. “You're just another girl to him.” It's like he thought he was protecting me.

Michael was all hyped up, fueled by his anger at Gabe. I felt like it wasn't even about getting me back but about beating Gabe. Proving that for once in his life, he was superior to his brother.

His whole being seemed to change. I had never heard of bipolar disorder then, but now I wonder if he had it. When people are manic, they can have lots of energy and delusions of grandeur. He told me he wasn't sleeping but he wasn't tired either. “I can do anything,” he said, “even get you back.” Apparently, people with bipolar can become psychotic; they can crash.

I've told that to Gabe over the years, but he thinks it's just a way to justify our own behavior. “You think I wouldn't have known my brother was crazy?” he said once. Sometimes I wish I'd told him the rest of the story. Then he'd have to feel differently.

The rest is this: One day, Michael's demeanor changed back again. He seemed sad and lost. He asked if I could come to the house, just to talk. “I need a friend,” he said. I believed him.

Alone in his room, he told me how much he loved me. “I'd share you with Gabe, if that's what you need,” he said. I felt sorry for him, yes, but I also felt, I don't know, flattered. I felt truly loved.

Gabe hadn't yet told me he loved me; he certainly wasn't making any offers to share me. In fact, it was the opposite. He was initially repentant toward Michael—I have a suspicion he offered to dump me but Michael had too much pride to take him up on it—but Michael just stayed enraged. I had the impression he said all kinds of awful things to Gabe, unrepeatable things, and finally, Gabe became angry himself. They were locked in this war, and I was the spoils.

So I was sitting there on Michael's bed, and I had this flash of nostalgia. The sex with Michael had been good, and part of me wondered what it would be like to do it without thinking of Gabe, without needing that fantasy since I now knew the reality.

It's like Michael could see me wavering, and he pounced. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. But afterward, I told him it was a mistake, just like Gabe had once told me. “You need to leave me alone,” I said. “It's not going to work between us.”

I was thrown by his response. I would have expected crying or begging. Instead, he was lying back against the headboard in this pose of supreme confidence.

“You can't tell anyone, okay?” I said. I didn't mean anyone, of course; I meant Gabe.

It seemed too easy, and it was. Because for the next week, he hounded me. He alternated between pathetic (“Please, just give me another try”) and threatening. He said there was a videotape of the last time we were together, with a date and time stamp, and he'd show it to Gabe. “Or,” he said, “you could share. The offer's still good.” That's when I realized I'd been set up.

I panicked. I didn't think Gabe would understand or forgive me for sleeping with Michael one last time. He definitely wouldn't be okay with sharing.

Michael—pathetic, puny Michael—was just standing there in front of me, so smug, like he'd finally won. He'd beat Gabe, and he'd beat me. I'd never seen him with so much strength and swagger. I'd never hated him before.

On the surface, I gave him what he wanted: He got to see me all the time, whenever I wasn't with Gabe. Be careful what you wish for.

I suppose it would qualify as psychological warfare, but he was the one who fired the first shot. I'd never wanted to hurt Michael before; he'd been collateral damage. When I saw how hurt he was, I'd been genuinely upset. But giving Gabe up wasn't an option. To do so would mean I'd hurt Michael for no reason at all. Wasn't it better for the pain to have had a purpose, for it to be part of a narrative of everlasting love?

I'd seen Michael at his most grandiose, and I couldn't know how long or hard the fall would be. I didn't know how to spot mental illness or what to do about it. I was sixteen years old. All I could see was that Michael was manipulating me. If he'd been doing it for love, I probably could have forgiven that; I'd have understood it. But I felt like it was really about revenge, directed more toward Gabe than me.

What I did to Michael seemed, at the time, like self-defense. I
picked at his inadequacies, pulled at them like loose strings until he began to unravel. I let him feel how unwanted he was, while still doing everything he asked. I behaved like a prisoner so that he would soon have to set me free.

It might sound diabolical, but really, I was just a scared kid myself. I was desperately in love with Gabe, having to play double agent to hang on to him. All I wanted was to be done with Michael for good and to be with Gabe only. I mean, why did Michael think his desires should trump everyone else's? Just because he wants someone, it doesn't matter what they want? He wanted power over me; he was coercing sex. It was a form of rape.

One night, he called me over and over again, crying. “You have to love me,” he said. “You just have to.” I told him that I'd been trying, but it doesn't work that way. “You have to let me go,” I said. He told me, “You need to come over or I'm going to kill myself.”

Instead of arousing my compassion, it just made me angry. It felt like another brand of manipulation, of control. Here was my rapist, asking for a favor. “Get some sleep,” I said. “You'll feel better in the morning.”

The next day, I learned he'd slashed his wrists.

I admitted to Gabe that Michael had called me, begging me to love him. I told the absolute truth except for Michael's last line about killing himself. Gabe might think that I didn't do enough to pull Michael back from the brink, and that could be true. But my intention was never to push him over; I just didn't see how close to the cliff he really was.

Gabe's borne a lot of guilt by continuing to see Michael as an innocent victim. But that makes Gabe and me the villains, and I disagree with that version. None of us were innocent. Would a victim blackmail someone with a videotape that never existed? That sounds like villainy to me. Evil begets evil, isn't that how the saying goes?

I
busted my ass today at work, and just before closing time, I did it. I made the sale. Now I've only got to make another eight before month's end.

By the time I complete all the paperwork and get home, it's almost ten. Leah's on the couch in her pajamas. I get the feeling she's been waiting up for me.

I fold myself into the chair across from her. “Hey,” I say. “Where's Trevor?”

“He went to a movie. Adrienne's already in bed.” She tucks her legs up under her, like she's settling in. We're about to have a serious talk. “What's up, Gabe?”

“I made a sale. A big one. GS hybrid. Took me all night, but I did it.”

“Congratulations.”

“The commission should pay for a few cases of diapers.” I knit my hands behind my head, aware of a rank smell filtering up from my armpits. It was tense for a while there; I thought the guy was going to walk. “I've still got some adrenaline to burn. You want to go to the Pyramid with me? Play some poker?”

She smiles, sudden and wide. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Have you been reading your Harrington?”

She shakes her head. I can sense her nervous anticipation.

“You'll do great. You've got the killer instinct.”

I've successfully diverted her from whatever she was about to say. Works for me. I don't need any heavy talks. She gets to her feet. “What do I wear?”

I laugh. I never would have expected that question out of her. For one thing, 90 percent of her wardrobe is black.

“Forget it, I'll figure it out. I just need to pump first. I don't want to start leaking at the table.”

“That'd be one way to get a guy to fold his hand.”

“Or push all-in.”

We laugh together, and then she's gone for about fifteen minutes. I think about going into my bedroom to change, but I might wake Adrienne. Better to leave a note on the refrigerator. She'll see it when she gets milk for the next feeding.

I was looking forward to telling her about the sale, though. In the old days, a GS was cause for major celebration.

I still can't believe I turned Adrienne down last night. That's, what, the second time that's happened in our marriage? The first time I had a 103 degree temperature. I don't know what it was; I just couldn't be close to her.

Leah returns. She's brushed her hair and put it back in a low ponytail, and she's wearing red lipstick. “What?” she says.

“You just look . . .” I meet her eyes. “Perfect. You look perfect. You're going to win a grand, I can feel it.”

“How much do I need to put in?”

“It's a maximum buy-in of two hundred dollars at the one-dollar/two-dollar table. I wouldn't do less than a hundred dollars, unless you want to play short stack, which doesn't give you any room to open up your game.” At her worried expression, I say, “Don't worry, I'll bankroll you.”

“If I lose—”

“Then it was just money. Just poker. It's your first time out. Relax, I sold a GS tonight.” I neglect to mention it's all I've sold all week, or that I'm on probation. You can't think like that before you play poker. You worry too much about the money, you play scared; you play scared, you fold too easily, you beat yourself.

On the drive to the Pyramid, I quiz Leah: What are the best starting hands? How do you play early position versus late position? How do you calculate pot odds?

After we're parked in the lot, I pronounce her ready as she'll ever be. She's nervous, yeah, but she's also excited. We walk in together, and I can't help it, I'm proud. Ames is waiting on the rail, and he does a double take. I realize what it is: Leah's Adrienne, but younger.

“This is Leah,” I say. “She's the birth mother.”

“Oh, sure,” he says, like everyone antes up with the mother of their adopted child. “Leah. Good to meet you.” When she turns to look around, he mouths to me, “Holy fuck.” I start to laugh.

“What's funny?” Leah asks.

“Let's get on the list.” I steer her over to the board, and we're in luck. We're seven and eight, so within a couple minutes, they've started a new table. Technically, Leah shouldn't sit right next to me—it's bad form—but she's a newbie, and gorgeous to boot, and the Pyramid's not exactly the Bellagio, so no one's going to say anything. We seize prime real estate, directly across from the dealer. Ames leaves a seat between him and me in a nod to protocol.

It's a mix of ages and styles at the table: a twenty-five-ish nerd who can't stop sneaking glances at Leah, a nondescript fortysomething guy I've never seen before, a couple old Asians who couldn't give a shit less about her or anyone else (they're going to raise with aces and kings and ace-kings and pretty much fold the rest), a younger Asian kid who raises big with any two hole cards, Ames, Leah, and me. There are two empty seats, one on each side of the dealer. Leah smiles when anyone catches her eye; everything about her screams “first time out.” But if they underestimate her, they're going to be sorry.

Everyone buys in for $200, except for the nerd, who does $75. I
whisper to Leah that she should watch out for him: “Any hand he plays, he's got to be prepared to go all-in, so you need to be prepared for that, too.” She nods with great seriousness.

Ames leans over the back of his chair and asks me in a low voice, “Has she played before?”

“I've been teaching her.”

He groans. “That's all I need.”

I'm debating whether to tell Leah some tips on how to neutralize the young Asian kid's loose-aggressive style when Berkeley Goatee takes the seat to the left of the dealer. I start smiling. Now we've got ourselves a game. I'm going to whup his ass, I can feel it. I sold a GS tonight. My luck is changing, and Leah's here to witness it.

Berkeley Goatee notices me, so I immediately whisper to Leah. It's petty, but I want him to know we're together. “I hate that guy,” I say, “the one with the goatee.” Her eyes land on him.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.” He seems wary, but that might be because he's not used to a girl who looks like that talking to him.

He buys in for $200, and then we're off.

I fold the first hand, and the second, and the third. Ditto for the fourth and the fifth. I even have to fold my big blind to a raise from the Asian kid. It's frustrating, being card-dead when I want to show Leah how it's done.

Leah, meanwhile, is aggressive immediately. She reraises the Asian kid two out of three hands, and he folds both times, though he spends some time thinking about it and studying her. When she's in a hand, she's cold as ice and just as still. Then when she's collecting her chips, she starts blushing and smiling like a geisha. It's genius. It's like the guys are rooting for her in spite of themselves.

“Next time,” the Asian kid says, “you better show.”

“Or what?” she answers coquettishly. “You'll fold?”

The guys all laugh, and he has to laugh with them.

“This is fun,” she whispers to me. I watch her stack her chips, and
I realize this is how I always imagined Adrienne would be, if she ever cared about poker. I feel proud of Leah, which is funny, since the birth mother of your son is not exactly an extension of you, not like a wife.

So maybe it's more like a coach and a player. I've taught her well, and now she's making good.

Nah, it's not really that either. I've never known precisely what it is with Leah and me.

I fold again and again. I'm a spectator here. Finally, I raise with a 3-4 suited. Hey, it's got potential. Any two cards can make a full house with the right board.

Leah, who's acting after me, actually reraises. Jesus.

Then one of the old Asian guys reraises her. I fold, she folds, and he takes down the pot with his aces or kings or ace-king. We don't even see a flop. It's not too exciting, except that Leah is sending me a message. She's here to play, even against me. Because she obviously wasn't reraising me with a premium hand or she wouldn't have folded to that reraise so quickly.

Berkeley Goatee looks at me with a smirk. He noticed Leah's move, too. I wonder what he thinks my relationship is to her. No one's going to guess birth mother. I can only hope no one's guessing she's my daughter. My wife? I'm wearing a ring, she's not. Mistress? I wouldn't mind.

It reminds me of that day when Leah and I went to the Richmond and she pretended to be my wife. I was uncomfortable because I didn't know her intentions and it felt disloyal to Adrienne. I've gotten over that.

Leah goes on to take a big pot from Goatee; I lose one. But I can't blame myself. He had pocket queens, I had pocket jacks, and if our hands had been reversed, we would have each played it the same. I realize that the previous rancor between Goatee and me has evaporated. Somehow, Leah has brokered a détente. It helps that she's beating him every hand they're playing together, and that feels a little like my beating him.

Occasionally, we talk to each other, but mostly, Leah and I address our chatter to the table. Still, I feel close to her. It's why I used to want to play with Adrienne. Later, I know Leah and I will do a postmortem on the various hands; we'll laugh about the other players, and ourselves. So even as I'm having the experience, I'm taking notes on how I want to share it with her once we're alone. What's more intimate than the anticipation of greater intimacy later?

A couple of companionable hours pass. I'm still largely card-dead. I manage to steal a few blinds and win one legitimate pot with a big pair; I'm breaking even. Leah is continuing to accrue fairly steadily. When she reaches a showdown, she's always got the best hand.

Our table's full. There's a hulking black guy to the right of the dealer with a scar bisecting his eyebrow. He's quiet and never makes eye contact. He's a terrible player, doesn't know how to fold, but he knows how to rebuy. I've seen him lose thousands with no visible reaction. Ames says he's heard that the guy's a fixer. I didn't even know fixers existed, outside of a Scorsese movie. “Does he kill people?” I asked Ames, intrigued. “Break their legs? What?” Ames shrugged and said, “Probably. But the real money is in covering his tracks, and theirs.”

I like when the Fixer joins my table. For one, it's easy money. For another, how often do you brush up against a real gangster? Sure, I've sold cars to guys with questionable business dealings before, but the Fixer—he's out there committing real violence. Just having him at the table raises the stakes on a level that has nothing to do with poker.

I scoop up some of the Fixer's chips. Ames, Leah, and Goatee do, too. The Fixer lifts all boats.

Then I finally get a real hand, the realest. A couple of aces. But I'm in early position, so I don't want to do a big raise that scares everyone away. I do a min-raise, twice the big blind. People generally don't know what to make of that.

Leah calls. Generic calls. Then the young Asian kid raises big: five times my initial raise. I'm not worried about him. He's just trying
to steal, and he thinks my min-raise meant I had something like pocket sevens. Goatee calls. It's the kind of action I was hoping for.

You don't want to have too many people in the pot who can outflop you when you've got a big starting pair, even the best starting pair there is. So I've got to weigh out whether to push all-in now and drive them out (it's already a pretty good haul, my best of the night) or just call and see the flop. They won't expect me to have aces, if I just call. It is a risk, though; I'd prefer to isolate one of them. The old Asian guys would definitely push all-in. But I've got Leah next to me, and I want her to really see what I can do.

I call. Leah calls, too. That means I've got pocket aces, but I'll have three opponents on the flop. I'm not loving this. Generic folds.

Flop comes king-ten-eight, with two clubs. I've got the ace of clubs, but to get a flush, I'd need runner-runner. Those are not good odds, and one of my three opponents could have two clubs in their hand. What is good, though, is that no one can yet have a straight, only a straight draw. If anyone has pocket tens or pocket eights, I'm in trouble. I'm pretty sure nobody's got pocket kings.

I put in an almost pot-sized bet. There are too many draws out there between straights and flushes. But I do want at least one caller. I'm pretty much pot-committed now. On the next street, I'll be all-in.

Leah thinks a while as she watches me. It's a sexy look, like she knows something. I have always wondered if I've got a tell when it comes to her. Then she says, quietly, “All-in.”

I'm either way ahead or way behind. If she's got a set of eights or tens, I haven't got much of a chance; I'd need an ace for a set of my own, or a jack and a queen for a straight, or two flush cards. So I've got outs, but it's slim. Or I'm ahead, and she needs to catch her cards.

Part of me wants to beat her, same as any opponent. But the other part—well, her beating me would be kind of a turn-on. I've always loved a woman who won't back down. Despite everything, I still do.

The other guys fold, and watch intently. Every poker session, there are one or two hands that charge the air molecules. This is the
one. But with Leah here, I don't think it's just the air that's charged. I'm not the only one who's hard, I assure you.

I push all my chips into the center and turn my cards over. I'm expecting her to do the same, but her eyes are on the board. She's not going to show until she has to. I'm pretty sure she's on a draw.

Ten of hearts, three of clubs. If she was on a flush draw, she's got me.

She mucks, tossing her cards into the center, unseen. Her mouth is set in disappointment.

She had me covered, so she's left with over $100. “That's more than enough to get back in it,” I point out to her. She shakes her head to tell me not to bother, she doesn't need my consolation. She's pissed. I'm dying to know her hole cards, if it was a stone-cold bluff and she really had nothing but the will to push me out of the hand, but with her looking like that, there's no way I'm going to ask.