Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) (3 page)

BRIDGE ICES BEFORE ROAD
, a sign advised, and they motored up a swooping approach and onto the span itself, suspended, briefly, between the two countries. Snow swirled purple through the superstructure. Earlier they’d both filled out declarations swearing they weren’t bringing any produce or plants or potentially damaging insects or animals into the country, or more than ten thousand dollars Canadian. Legally, he said, you were allowed to bring in as much as you wanted. The crime was not reporting it. The law was really about money laundering and funding terrorism, not what they were doing. Most likely they wouldn’t be searched anyway, being part of a tour. His blitheness disturbed her, as if once again he’d become that other person, the one who would say or do anything to get what he wanted. Did he understand how hard it was to believe a word he said when he lied so easily?

Spotlit flags flapped atop the tollbooths. As she remembered it, the plaza was smaller, and there was no modern-looking glass cube in the middle, no fancy rock fountain. They angled their way past the lines of stopped cars to an empty lane dedicated to buses. As they slowed for the jersey-walled slot, he shoved the bag under the seat in front of him, sliding a foot on either side. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a clownish grimace, as if he knew how useless this was.

They stopped, the bus releasing a pneumatic hiss, and the cabin lights snapped on. The door opened, letting in a few flakes, and a customs agent in a baseball cap with an embroidered gold badge climbed the stairs. He conferred with the driver, jotting something on his clipboard, then turned to the passengers. He
filled the aisle, blocking any escape. The bus went silent, awaiting instructions. Marion couldn’t tell if he had a gun, but he was fit. She pictured him tackling Art, their bags ransacked, the money confiscated. They would lose it all anyway, but, after everything, to never have that chance, slim as it was, seemed wrong. Was that how he rationalized what they were doing? Because, for the first time, she could see it.

“Welcome to Canada, folks,” the agent said. “We’re going to ask you to disembark for just a couple of minutes. Please have your passports and customs forms available for inspection.”

They filed off, braving the cold for a moment, then standing in a switchbacked line in a bright office. The agents here were hatless and sat behind high counters like bank tellers.

An agent waved them up together and inspected their passports. “Where are you coming from today?”

She let Art answer, nodding confirmation.

What was the purpose of their visit? What hotel were they staying at? Did they have anything to declare?

She waited for Art to stumble over the last one, but he just shook his head as if the question was moot. “Nothing.”

“Enjoy your stay.” The agent gave Art back both of their passports, and they went outside and got on the bus again.

The bag was still there.

“That’s terrible,” he said. “They didn’t even stamp our passports.”

“You want to go back?”

“No, but…I kind of wanted a Canada stamp. I don’t have one yet.”

“Okay, settle down,” she said, because he was too pleased with himself.

“I’m just saying.”

“And I’m just saying.”

They let it rest there, a stalemate, but as they rode along, the lights whipping past beside her, she realized they were actually going to do this, that there was nothing stopping them, and had to admit she felt an illicit thrill, as if they’d gotten away with something.

Odds of a U.S. citizen being an
  American Express cardholder:
        
1 in 10

    The driver took them in via the scenic route, curving with the river, the rapids adding to the suspense. On the American side, disembodied headlights glided through the night. Somewhere on the dark water separating them bobbed a line of buoys beyond which rescue was unlikely if not impossible. Art kept this information to himself, watching for the first glimpse of the Falls. Ahead, an orange halo rose from the city, silhouetting a long black lump.

“Is that Goat Island there?” he prompted.

“I hope so. I’m ready to jump out of my skin.”

“It must be,” he said, because just ahead he could see a pink column of mist boiling up, spritzing the windows, turning the streetlights blurry. The river surged, sluicing ice chunks past snow-topped rocks, throwing off foam. Beneath the dieseling of the bus, subtle at first, then insistent, came a deeper rumbling, as of a great engine. The tremor grew to a muted roaring, enveloping them like the mist, vibrating in his chest as if the whole earth were shaking, and then, in an instant, the river dropped away to reveal the famous panorama, a mile wide, colored blood-red for the weekend.

Oooo
, everyone said.

Marion had turned to the window. He leaned across, nestling against her back as if to get a better view, taking in the warmth and scent of her neck. He thought of wrapping his arms around her, but resisted, afraid of ruining the moment. Often when he was trying to be affectionate she accused him of just wanting to cop a feel, as if he were a teenager. The charge hurt worse because he was at least partly guilty. He’d always loved to touch her. He’d thought it was a compliment, his ardency, but somehow, now, it was a burden for her to be desired.

“Why do they have to do that?” she said. “Why can’t they just have moonlight on it?”

“I think it’s supposed to be fun.”

“I guess I’m no fun then.”

“I think you’re fun.”

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I know what I am.”

Had he said anything like that? He was baffled at how quickly they’d gone from riffing to these recriminations, as if she’d set a trap he’d been dumb enough to blunder into again. As always, not knowing what the problem was, he traced her unhappiness back to Wendy, for which he took full blame, though, after so many years, he thought they’d both suffered enough, a judgment he wisely kept private and which made him all the more guilty and unable to answer her. The safest response he could offer was silence.

“God, stop with the poo-poo face,” she said. “It’s fine, I just need to eat something.”

He forgot about holding her and accepted this as his quest, as if it were a solution, not an excuse.

They were nearly there. The hotel rose directly opposite Bridal Veil Falls, the sinuous aluminum facade meant to resemble the cataract, the casino at its base a muscular whirlpool flinging off huge fanciful water droplets outlined in aqua neon. The bus pulled up the circular drive and as a group they tramped through the spongily carpeted lobby, open to the casino floor, manic with the jangling of slot machines.

Another tour had just arrived, so they had to wait. They stood in line like conscripts, minutes of their lives ticking away. Marion took out her book.

GAMBLING PROBLEM?
a state-sanctioned poster asked.
CALL 1‑800-GAMBLER
.

“We can go grab something and come back,” he suggested.

“That’s not what you want to do. Let’s just stick with the plan.”

The front desk hadn’t lost their reservation, as he feared. The receptionist had them down for a nonsmoking Fallsview suite on the top floor with a queen-sized bed. All she needed was an imprint of a credit card.

He’d booked the room with his American Express, and handed it to her, watched her swipe it briskly through the machine. Technically, since he had no intention of paying the bill, he was guilty of fraud, or could be once he filed for bankruptcy, but that was months away, and by then so many other charges would have accumulated that the trustee assigned to his case would rightly assume he’d mismanaged his finances so badly that, owing
alimony and with a piddling income, he was forced to use his credit cards to live. The debt would be forgiven, discharged with no more serious repercussion than he would never again own an American Express card.

“There you go,” the receptionist said, holding it out between two fingers.

On its face, by his name, in a masterstroke promoting brand loyalty, the raised date reminded him that he’d been a member since 1981, the same year they were married. It was possible he’d used it here then, and in a flash he saw a map of the world with all of their travels connected by dotted lines. England, Ireland, Hawaii. In the Florida Keys they drank rumrunners and made love on the beach, rinsing themselves in the warm shallows. How many flights had they charged to this card, how many meals?

The receptionist ripped off the slip. Somewhere in a windowless room he was on camera, flattening the receipt against the counter in lo‑res black-and-white. Fearing whoever was watching could read his intentions, he took the pen she’d given him and signed his name.

“Will you need help with your bags?”

“No, we can handle them,” he said, because they’d spent enough money they didn’t have and he wanted to leave—which turned out to be hasty, and the wrong answer, because in the elevator Marion asked him why he couldn’t have just paid the bellhop the five dollars.

Odds of a married couple reaching their
  25th anniversary:
        
1 in 6

There were roses and champagne waiting for them, and a red-cellophane-wrapped fruit basket with a note from the management. The sitting room was modern, everything made of bent chrome and black leather, even the lamps. It was bigger than their own living room, the drapes open to show off the Falls, floodlit and hallowed far below like an empty stage. Art went ahead, finding the lights, pointing out the amenities as if he were selling her a condo. There was a second flat-screen TV in the bedroom, a glass-walled shower stall and a huge jacuzzi for a tub. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or upset by such opulence. She reminded herself that people stayed at much more luxurious places all the time.

“Check it out,” he said, pulling a blind aside. “A tub with a view.”

“That’s great. Did you see an iron anywhere?”

He left her to search the bathroom cabinets, a minute later called from the hallway, “Got it!”

He came in beaming, holding it up like a prize. “It was in the closet.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Was there a board?”

“I didn’t see one.”

“They wouldn’t have an iron without a board.”

She checked, and of course, in the same closet there was a small one hung from a bracket. “It’s okay,” she called. “I’ve got it.”

He was hunched on one corner of the bed with the gym bag, trying to figure out the safe.

“Do you have anything you want me to iron?”

“Just a shirt.”

What if she hadn’t asked? He would have worn it wrinkled. He was like a teenager, or a bum, he honestly didn’t care what he wore, never had. There were jackets in his closet from before Emma was born, resoled shoes he refused to throw out.

He fetched the shirt—a boring white oxford, though for years she’d tried to give his wardrobe some color. From habit, she did it first.

“Here you go.” She held it out for him to take. “What are you going to do when I die?”

It was an old favorite. From her tone Art knew she was kidding, but it was a routine he hated, not merely for its hidden threat and insinuation of helplessness but also because the literal answer was forbidden. He could not say he would live. Sometimes, after too much wine, she would answer herself: “I don’t know why I bother worrying. You’ll be fine. You’ll go marry your precious Wendy or some other young chick who’ll take care of you.” Which—though it had once, if only briefly, been the
plan—had been rendered moot for so long it was painful to contemplate the idea that he’d risked losing everyone close to him for someone who turned out, after everything, to be a stranger to him, just as that former, lovestruck Art now seemed crazy. Equally insane was the notion that any young woman would be interested in a broke fifty-two-year-old with thinning hair, but that was never addressed. No, the real answer, the real reason the question tortured him, was that without Marion he wouldn’t know what to do or even who he was. He could send his laundry out, but he would belong to that legion of aging, unloved men buying frozen dinners and six-packs at the grocery store, or, worse, working there, bagging their sad purchases and wishing them a good evening.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to sound sufficiently grateful. “Don’t let me forget, we need to change some of this money later. We shouldn’t do it all at once.”

“Right.”

He still had to unpack, but took advantage of her being busy, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, snuck the silver gift-wrapped box with her ring from the bag and hid it deep in the safe, walling it in with stacks of twenties. Thankfully it all fit. Following the instructions inside the door, he changed the combination to her birthday, made sure it worked, then closed it again, congratulating himself in advance for arranging this surprise.

The ring was one more thing they couldn’t afford but which, given their circumstances, would ultimately cost them nothing. After he filed, a trustee would go back and search for obvious
large transfers to family members of money or property, like cars or second homes, which could then be retroactively seized. Not so with personal items, which were exempt up to ten thousand. It wasn’t a tough choice. He’d much rather spend the money to make her happy than let the bank take it. Her original ring was modest, the best a young underwriter could do at the time. Now, with nothing left to save for, he was able to buy one that would make her cry. His plan was to surprise her with it Sunday night at dinner, both as a Valentine’s gift and proof that, win or lose, he would always love her.

“What time is our new reservation?” she asked, laying out her dress.

“Eight-thirty. I doubt they’re going to be very busy.”

“You never know. It’s Friday night.”

For the overall sprawl of the suite, the bedroom was small. They changed on opposite sides of the bed, trying to stay out of each other’s way, a ballet of accommodation. One of the great privileges of his life was watching her undress. Countless times she had asked him not to. It made her self-conscious, and lately she hadn’t been happy with her body. Being less critical—being a man—he didn’t understand. He’d always been happy with it, and now, discreetly, he appreciated the way she shed her jeans and top and, demurely facing away from him as she freed and then fitted their hooks, switched to a different bra. Rather than feeling deprived, he found her shyness girlish and endearing. Perhaps it was familiarity, but he thought her back one of her best features.