The Bingo Players
The fading sun shines through lacy beige curtains and brings a quiet glow to Quale’s living room turning her surroundings into a welcoming cocoon. She wraps herself deeper into her yellow cardigan, stirs a little Irish cream into her coffee, and turns to Spike who is reading yesterday’s newspaper, quite oblivious to Quale’s obvious suffering. She hates him and his cool indifference.
“I didn’t think it would end like this,” she says. “I thought I’d awaken one morning and Mum would be gone—that I’d find her asleep in her chair with a peaceful look on her face and her plastic crucifix clutched in her hand. Sassy would be purring and licking her arm, trying to awaken her but knowing as an animal knows, that her mistress has gone someplace the cat cannot follow. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Dear God, not like this.”
“How long are you going to cry?” Spike asks as he glances her way. “Your Ma’s okay. She’s happy living at the home. It’s you I’m worried about. Snap out of it, will you?” Spike has heard Quale’s complaints for weeks. Her constant rehashing of her mother’s move to a nursing home isn’t good for their shaky relationship.
“I can’t help it,” Quale answers. “This is the first spring in seventy-nine years she hasn’t been home to see the daffodils bloom. It doesn’t make sense that she lives in a healthy body while her mind disintegrates. If she had died, it would be so much easier.”
“But she didn’t die and life goes on. Besides, the home has flowerbeds. She’ll be watching daffodils bloom from a different window, that’s all, and she won’t even know the difference. That should give you some comfort.”
“Why? Why does life go on and why should knowing Mum doesn’t know where she is bring me comfort? She worked hard all her life and look how it ended. Life makes no sense. It’s crazy—everything ends. Everything. All her hard work amounted to nothing. Her life amounted to less than a stick of kindling.”
“Stop it, Quale. Stop it or you’ll be sitting in a wheelchair next to her, dribbling your chicken noodle soup on your bib, and filling your Depends with urine.”
“You don’t understand. You didn’t live with her. We shared this house for nine years. It wasn’t until she moved in with me that I remembered everything about her that I thought I had forgotten. I loved her then I hated her then I forgave her then I loved her again. She’s only been gone two months. Give me time to mourn. Please. I need more time. That’s all I’m asking.”
“But you’re not getting better. Every time you visit her, you come home an emotional wreck. You can’t live her life. You have to go on and think about us. How about we go to the casino? I still have a little time before I catch the boat. What’d you say?”
“I say close the window. I’m cold and I can’t stand the noise from those four-wheelers. This road used to be so quiet—no more than three cars drove by in a day. Sometimes it was three days before one car went by. Now the quiet is gone. I hate it here now. Strangers live on the road that used to be ours. Kids break the windows in the old house and sleep like thieves in the barn’s haymow. Everything’s changed. I hate it. I hate the way things turned out. It isn’t fair. Please close the window. I said I’m cold.”
“You’re not well, Quale. You’re living in the past. You need to see a doctor.”
“What do I need a doctor for? To tell me cancer is eating my body? Or the polyps in my nose are malignant? So what if a doctor says I need an operation? And if I survive, what then? What then? If they heal my body, and I lose my mind, what difference will it make? Why bother with a doctor? What’s the point?” Spike closes the window.
“Here, put on this sweatshirt and drink your coffee. Dammit, Quale, you’ve got to pull yourself together. You’re all I’ve got. I need you. Don’t quit on me. Did you take your Xanax?”
“Xanax, Prozac, Tetracycline, four aspirins, three Butterfingers, a bag of gas station popcorn, and a pot of coffee. That’s what I’ve taken today. Tomorrow will be the same except for the candy. Maybe I’ll eat a bag of Switzer’s black licorice.”
“Do you think this is what she would want? That she’d be happy knowing you’re ruining your health? Did she give up when your Dad died?”
“No, but he died quickly. He escaped a nursing home.”
“Then be like she is. Be strong. She’s adjusting to her new life. She seems happy. It seems to me you might be a little jealous that your Ma has adjusted to the situation better than you have. She wouldn’t want to see you in such misery.”
“I’ve been strong all my life and for most of it, I’ve taken care of someone other than myself. I’m fifty-three years old and I’m tired. If I eat junk food and pop pills, then so be it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. You’re never around long enough to do anything anyway. Always complaining how much you hate the life of a Great Lakes sailor, but you love boasting about being one.”
As usual, Spike feels useless because he is. He looks at his watch. Nine-thirty. The ship will lock through in an hour and if he’s not on it, it will sail without him. The freighter Joe Block waits for no man. Spike knows when he’s licked. “Okay,” he says. “You don’t want to go to the casino, but come here and let me love you before I leave.” Spike heads for the bedroom but Quale won’t follow him. How can a woman make love to a man she despises? The years of manipulation and verbal abuse and passive-aggressive behavior have taken their toll. Quale no longer feels any emotions for Spike other than contempt and fear. She feigns concern as he gives up and puts on his jacket. He’s ready to leave.
“Be careful,” Quale says. “Dusk is when deer feed alongside the road. Promise me you’ll be careful.” Twice this spring Spike has hit a deer. Quale is much less concerned about his welfare. It’s the animals that have her sympathy.
“Don’t worry. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll call as often as I can, but you know when we’re on Lake Superior heading for Duluth I can’t get a signal on the cell.”
“I know,” Quale says. She turns away after he kisses her cheek. She listens until his truck is gone and then closes her eyes. Soon she is sleeping, and her dreams reveal what she tries to keep hidden. Her dreams take her to the old barn, but it’s much larger than it was. Mum and Dad and Spike are with her. They’re walking along the south wall of the haymow because the floor isn’t safe. Years of neglect rotted the wood. Quale watches as the mow falls to the ground. Her parents disappear amid old milk bottles, curry combs, pictures of herself when she was young, and boxes of broken glasses. She grabs everything and runs to the house, but it isn’t the house, it’s the old red building Dad used as a work shed. When she puts the items on a table, they roll away like human heads roll from the slice of a guillotine. Quale sees herself in the mirror she holds in her dream. Her face is lined, wrinkled, looking much older than she is. She tosses the mirror aside and returns to the haymow. Female bodies lie on the hay. When she looks closer, they open their eyes, and their arms reach for her. Their faces are white and their eyes are colorless. A shudder runs through Quale as she thinks of the movie Je’Accuse and wonders what she has done to earn the wrath of these dead women. They go for her throat. Mum and Dad and Spike have disappeared so there is no one to help her. Resistance is pointless. She does not struggle as the dead women strangle her.
Quale cries in her sleep and awakens. In her mind’s eye, she sees Spike as he is—a handsome, tall man whose eyes are empty. When they first met she asked him why he had empty eyes, but he didn’t understand so he didn’t answer. Quale’s eyes take her to the picture of Jesus hanging on the wall. In every Catholic home, the same picture is tacked or taped to a wall. The eyes of Jesus follow her as she moves from the bedroom to the kitchen. His eyes are full of love and hope and compassion and understanding. They are not the eyes of a stranger.
“It’s just You and me now,” Quale says as she pours water into the tea kettle. “I guess You’ll have to do.” She pushes back the linen tablecloth, takes a china cup and saucer from the cupboard, and puts a teabag in the cup when the water is hot. She opens the cookie jar and places three oatmeal cookies on a fancy plate and sits at her place, staring at the same picture of Jesus that hangs from a nail on the west wall.
“I suppose You’ll do,” she repeats as she stirs sugar into her cup. “What choice do I have?” Quale looks past the picture and thinks of Spike as he drives north towards the Soo Locks where he’ll board the freighter. Then she thinks of her mother. She sits for a long time and wonders what they are thinking. Eventually, she finishes her snack, puts the dishes in the sink, and draws the drapes. Evening has descended. The house is cold and dark. Quale no longer sees the eyes of Jesus watching her, but she feels His presence within her. At least she thinks it’s His presence, but maybe it’s only the Xanax. Spike calls at midnight. She doesn’t pick up the receiver, and the call goes to the answering machine. “The night is clear. Superior is smooth as glass,” he says. “All is fine. I love you.” Quale erases the message and closes her eyes. She sleeps soundly until 6:00 a.m.
When she awakens she hopes the day will be different, but that’s a hope void of hope. How can something be different when nothing changes? She dresses, makes coffee, eats some cookies, sits at the kitchen table, and waits for the day to end. This is the life of Quale as she searches for meaning in the emptiness surrounding her. Emptiness occasionally broken by the appearance of a man she loathes. She longs for the safety and security of her youth when she was unconcerned about the future and the sorrow it would bring. Her eyes fill with tears.
Meanwhile, at the nursing home, Agnes pushes her wheelchair down the hallway until she finds her room—B2. It’s an easy number to remember because it reminds her of bingo and the number that always comes up. She just finished a good breakfast and is looking forward to watching her favorite show on the small television in her room. She likes the banter between Kathie Lee and Regis. It’s not quite nine o’clock so she does what she does every morning. She opens the drawer of her nightstand. A feeling of pride rushes through her as she looks at the contents. There are so many things in it. She counts each treasure as she removes it.
Number one is a bottle of gold-colored cologne. Number two is the holy card of Mary. Number three is her rosary. Number four is a Mother’s Day corsage. Number five is a new pair of socks. The counting continues until Agnes reaches thirty-one. The number is high because she counts all the tiny bits of discarded candy wrappers and all the ribbons from various presents. Everything she owns is spread on the twin bed that is not hers in the room that is not hers. She smiles and tells her roommate that all her possessions are from someone whose name she doesn’t remember but who must love her very much to be so generous. The roommate agrees. Agnes puts everything back in the nightstand that is not hers. Then she leans back on the pillow that is not hers and smiles as her show comes on.
She spends her days watching shows and talking to her new friends. When the afternoon soaps come on, she wheels herself to the glass patio door that faces the garden. She watches the flowers grow and smiles when she sees the daffodils that have finally bloomed. For the first time in her life, Agnes is happy. She no longer has to take care of or worry about anyone. Her health is good as is her appetite. She doesn’t remember the home she shared with her daughter because she doesn’t remember either one. She gives a contented sigh as she wheels herself to one of the tables. It’s time for bingo. B-2 is the first number called. Agnes finds it on her card and quickly covers it. She hopes she’s picked a lucky card. If so, she’ll win the blackout and the main prize, a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. The caller yells “B-8.” Agnes covers it. The man next to her pats her hand. “You’re on a roll, Dearie, he says. Agnes smiles. “I-21” is the next number. She covers it. The smile spreading across her lips would melt snow. She’s never been so happy.
