Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) (18 page)

The way back to the elevators seemed longer than she remembered, the galleries she passed through skewed and unfamiliar, as if she were stoned. No, there were her grandmothers with their
fanny packs, still tapping away. She hustled along, her feet aching, all the while accusing herself of stalling. She pictured herself returning to find him at the bar, in shock, the whole ordeal over. It may have been a crazy scheme, she’d console him, but at least he’d tried. The larger question of what they should do could wait. There was a lot to talk about.

Downstairs, the lobby was lined with wedding guests waiting for yet another new bride and groom to emerge from the chapel. Instead of rice or birdseed, they clutched handfuls of confetti. Strangely, they all seemed to be speaking Italian. She skirted them, returning their smiles, and then when she was deciding between Pepto and Rolaids, heard the happy clamor. By the time she paid, they were outside, watching the limo off, the carpet drifted with the mess. In the elevator, she was surprised to find a red piece stuck to her shoe, as if she were somehow, if only glancingly, part of the celebration. She thought of Emma walking down the aisle, and then herself, younger, untried by life.

The happiest she’d ever been was with him, and the saddest. Was that the true test of love?

While she was gone, he began alternating his bets on red. The odds were the same, and it kept the wheel honest. As long as he doubled when he lost, it didn’t matter. He plodded along, slowly padding their winnings, only once having to risk eight thousand. His stomach was worse, a cramp like a stitch making him wince and let out a breath. For a second he feared he was going to be sick. There were no empty seats, and he vetoed the idea of cashing out and going to the bathroom. The pain subsided, then returned, urgent. Between spins, he checked the entrance,
expecting her, until finally he gave up, concentrating instead on the game. In all, he’d been there an hour and banked six thousand dollars. At this rate, to double their stake, they’d have to play till four in the morning. His stomach gurgled, and the man to his right turned to him, concerned, as if what he had might be catching.

She showed up in the middle of a spin with a roll of Rolaids.

“Take over,” he said, getting up. “The bet’s two thousand.”

“Why’s it on red?”

“The color doesn’t matter.”

As she sat down, the ball dropped. He stayed to watch.

They lost.

“So put four on whichever color you want.”

“What color do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter. Black, red, whatever. I’ve gotta go.”

As she’d feared, he left her alone. She could see he was ill, but she also knew this was going to happen, that somehow she’d end up having to make decisions and bear responsibilities she didn’t feel were hers. She took a sip of his drink and was disappointed to find it was plain Coke.

She put the four thousand on black, thinking he couldn’t blame her for sticking with his original plan.

She won, and won the next one, banking the single chip. She lost a chip. She won two chips. She lost a chip. She was edgy yet bored, sitting there alone. It didn’t feel like gambling, betting so mechanically. She wanted to cover the table like last night, play a half dozen numbers straight up with the high rollers. This way was only interesting when she lost, the anxiety of doubling up
providing the missing thrill. And still, when she won, she won just the one chip, her victory incremental, and temporary, since one chip was the next bet. She’d thought he’d lost it when he’d come up with the plan, that the strain had made him desperate and deranged, but his strategy was exactly like him, methodical to a fault.

Win one, lose one, win two, lose one. It was a slow form of torture, and when he finally returned she was ready to give up her seat.

He was pale, and waved her down, shaking his head.

“That took a while.”

“I don’t think that was food poisoning you had the other night. I think it’s some kind of bug.”

“I’m sorry. It’s no fun.”

“Looks like you’re doing all right.”

“I don’t want to be doing it at all,” she said. “And definitely not by myself.”

“Want me to take over? I can.”

“Are you well enough?” She was going to suggest they quit while they were ahead, go home and start over, but obviously he wanted to continue.

“How much are we up?”

“Fourteen thousand.”

“That’s great. Add in last night and we’re more than halfway there.”

As encouraging as this was, she thought it was bad luck to mention it.

“Plus,” he said, as if he’d forgotten, “two more and we get that sixth spin.”

“Why don’t you take over? I’m sorry, I don’t have your patience. I’m ready to jump out of my skin here.”

“What’s the bet?” As always, his reasonableness shamed her.

“Two. Can I get you some water or something?”

“Please. That would be great.”

She didn’t need to know that he hadn’t quite made it in the bathroom, so that immediately he had to move to another stall, or that it had been coming out both ends. He’d kept the second trio of Rolaids down, otherwise his stomach was empty, burning with juices. This was his one chance. He wouldn’t miss it because of some stupid flu.

As if to rebuke him, the ball stopped on 0.

The man with the pitted face clucked in disgust and stood, defeated. The man beside Art took advantage of the extra room and slid down a seat.

She came back with his water and a white wine and sat beside him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the croupier said. “Seats are for players only.”

“We’re together,” he said.

“That’s fine as long as both of you are betting.”

“Here,” he said, giving Marion a chip to put on his.

They both won, meaning they both had to bet one the next time.

“I’m sorry, seats are for players only.”

“For God’s sake,” Marion said, getting up. “There’s nobody here.”

She stood behind him, fuming, her frustration blooming into anger. When he lost, he asked her to sit, but she refused. Now she wanted him to win to teach the croupier a lesson, but the pace of the game and the nature of his strategy were against her. He won, but so little that it didn’t matter. It was like watching someone play solitaire. She finished her wine and asked him to order another from the server. She expected the croupier to say beverages were for players only.

“Change these into fifties for her, please?” he asked the croupier, pushing two chips across the table. He patted the seat beside him. “Come on. Do what you did last night.”

“What about your sixth spin?”

“Already got it.”

The chips the croupier gave her were gray—a subtle dig, she thought. Four stacks of ten. She resisted the urge to blow them all on the first spin. She spread them around, craning over the table in an arabesque to place her bets rather than let the bitch touch them.

The contrast between her randomly scattered chips and his neatly centered one was too perfect, and made her laugh.

“What?”

“It’s like a personality test.”

“So what does that say about me?”

“You don’t want to know.”

They both lost, then both won when Emma’s 17 came up.

“That’s my girl!” she cried, for the croupier’s benefit.

“Well done,” he said

“How much is that?”

“That’s going to be seventeen fifty.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” She was just rubbing it in now.

“Minus whatever you put out.”

“Still, not bad. Not bad at all.”

She banked a thousand of her winnings and meted out the rest, covering most of the board, while he switched his single chip to red.

“Very bold of you.”

He won. She hit a corner at 8 to 1, but didn’t make back her stake.

“This redistribution of wealth is trickier than I thought,” he said.

“Exactly.”

Now that she was playing, he could stop worrying about her. They were close, only a few thousand away from doubling their money. His stomach was going to make it. He was amazed at how easy it had been. The method actually worked better than it did online.

When he lost the four thousand, he thought maybe he should stop, just cash in what they had, but she’d won, and with the slack they had, they could cover the eight thousand easily.

When they lost the eight thousand, there was no question they had to make it back.

When they lost the sixteen thousand, they were barely breaking even. It was as if they hadn’t won anything, as if they were starting over from zero.

The bet was thirty-two thousand on black. Or red.

This was what they’d come to do, yet now he doubted himself. They would have absolutely nothing.

He looked to her, half hoping she’d tell him to stop.

“First thought best thought,” she said.

He chose black.

“Maximum bet is twenty-five thousand,” the croupier said.

He’d researched the casino. It was a no‑limit table, that was why they were there, but for a moment he thought she might be right, the rule might have changed. There was no sign posted.

“Can you please check on that for me?” It was because he was using a system, he was sure of it.

She conferred with the pit boss, who’d been lurking. The boss got on a walkie-talkie, then conferred with her again.

She came back over. “I’m sorry, sir. The limit is twenty-five thousand.”

“Then I’ll need to change these,” Marion said, pulling a handful of chips from her purse and spilling them on the table.

“Look at you,” he said.

“Look at me.”

“I guess we better win then.”

“I guess we better.”

The last five spins had come up red. The odds of this one coming up black were the same as any other, not quite even, thanks to the 0.

“Don’t tell me that,” she said.

“It doesn’t change anything.”

They held hands as the croupier waved a palm over the board. Behind her, the pit boss watched with his arms crossed.

She couldn’t look, and bowed her head, pumping his hand like a blood pressure cuff. As with so many decisions in her life, she’d led with her heart, foolishly perhaps, unsure what she truly desired, just trusting in the rightness of the moment. If it was a mistake, she would have to live with it.

He knew what he wanted—what they’d once had, what he’d ruined out of selfishness. If she believed in him again, after everything, maybe he could too.

The ball dropped, hopping across the slots, kicking into the air, the gates batting it so it rolled up the bowl and down again, slowing as it skipped and clattered, nearly spent, bouncing out of 15 black and into 19 red, then onto the milled steel rim separating the numbers from their trays, its momentum ebbing, overtaken at last by the wheel’s so that it wobbled along the divider like a drunken cyclist on a tightrope, their future together at the mercy of the smallest forces, until the ball teetered and dropped sideways, finally and decisively coming to rest with a pebbly click on 4 black.

“We won!” he cried, hugging her.

“We won!” she cried, hugging him.

But of course, they’d already won.