Halibut on the Moon by David Vann

Author:David Vann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2019-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

17

Time. The entire ball of wax. He sits playing pinochle, freshly showered and warmed and wearing more of Gary’s clothing, baggy flannel shirt. Partnered with his mother, who is debating a bid of twenty-nine.

“Jesus, Mom,” he says. “Just do it. Your whole life going too low on the bids, missing so many lead hands, and all for what? What was going to happen?”

No one is responding to him. A secret pact they’ve all made while he was away.

She looks so worried, afraid of the twelve cards fanned out in her hand, but the cards must be good. She never bids at all unless it’s the kind of hand that would cause no hesitation in anyone else. Sighing, actually sighing and shaking her head, as if terrible things are coming, impossible to avoid.

“I bid once,” he says. “That means I have either a lead hand or a helping hand. Either way you’re safe to bid again. You must have cards or you wouldn’t have bid at all. You never bid a helping hand, so usually I’m having to take the lead with no information. Whereas here all knowledge has been laid at your feet. And it’s only twenty-nine. No need for thought at all until you hit thirty-five.”

Still staring at her cards, mouth tight and worried, head shaking back and forth in recognition of certain doom.

“Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen?” he asks.

“Well I guess I’ll say twenty-nine,” she says in the most defeated voice, as if the wagon train has just been burned and she’s contemplating the far mountains, calculating the hundreds of miles of unknown territory still to cross.

“Thirty,” Gary says.

“Sure you don’t want to evaluate the risk first?” Jim asks. Gary with a sour face.

“And I shall pass, Mom, but in full support of your lead hand, as expressed already through my initial bid. All anxiety and uncertainty burned away in an instant.”

His dad folds his cards and drops them on the table, a silent pass developed years ago to match his personal flair. He rubs at one of his ears, other arm folded over whatever chest exists above that great mound of gut.

Back to his mother now, who looks even more worried.

“All pretty simple,” Jim says. “It’s the two of you bidding for the lead, and you can’t let him have it for thirty, so of course you’re going to say thirty-one now. Thirty-three will also be automatic. Thought doesn’t have to begin until thirty-five.”

“Thirty-one,” she says, but not as a bid, only as a contemplation, the enormity of it, whether it can be reached.

“I wonder if this is what got me,” Jim says. “This worry. Maybe this is the base on which all the rest has been built.”

“Just play the game,” Gary says. “No need for the comments. We’ve been playing since we were kids. Mom’s been playing even longer.”

“But she’s frozen with fear. Look at this. Frozen at the prospect of making a low bid with a good hand and a partner who has help.

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