Give Me Your Heart (10 page)

This is warming to me, to hear.
Team—we are a team.
So I say, “I’m
in,”
toss another bill onto the pile. Croke mulls over his cards, decides to fold, Jax
folds, Heins raises like he means to provoke Deek. By now my bladder is pinching so hard I have to pee again, itchy and nervous, uncertain what to do, guess I will “fold” now, should I
“fold”? A single dollar bill is left of all my winnings. The winning hand is Heins’s, though maybe in fact Heins’s cards are weaker than my two pair, but damn it’s too
late, I’m out. I folded, and I lost. Could cry, my winnings are gone so fast, it’s like the dollar bills Deek staked me were my own, now gone. A childish hurt opens in me like an old,
soft wound.

“Too bad, li’l dude. This is poker.”

The guys laugh at me, I’m wanting to think fondly. The way you’d laugh at a pouting child who doesn’t have a clue what is going on around her.

Outside, the sky is mostly clouds. But a hot steamy sun is shining through. This smell in the air, it’s like there is a lightning storm somewhere else.

Heins is dealing. Heins says, “Cut, babe.” Somehow, I’m betting my last dollar bill. Something tells me I am going to win this time—win all my money back!—but the
cards are confusing to me, can’t remember what Deek was telling me, straight, flush, full house, two pair—I’m staring at my cards, king of hearts, ten of hearts, eight of hearts,
five of diamonds, and two of diamonds, get rid of the two of diamonds, that’s a low card—should I? or is this a mistake?—the replacement card Heins deals me is a six of spades,
I’m disappointed,
Ohhh damn,
in my confusion thinking that the black spade brings down the value of the red cards, that’s how it looks to me, so my last dollar bill is taken from
me when I’m too scared to bet and say instead “Fold,” laying down my cards, and Jax peers at them, saying, “Shit, babe, you coulda done better.” Anyway I am relieved
to be out of the game, needing to use the bathroom bad, swaying on my feet (bare feet? where are my sandals?), the floor is sticky against the bottoms of my feet, feels like it’s tilting,
I’m losing my balance, falling into somebody’s lap, but manage to get to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, feeling so strange, like on a roller coaster, where I’d be
frightened except everything seems funny to me, even losing my dollar bills,
my
dollar bills you’d think I had brought with me to the poker game, only just makes me laugh. In the murky
mirror above the cruddy sink, there’s my face, dazed and sunburned, and my eyes (that Momma says are my father’s eyes, hazel/dark-brown beautiful eyes but you can’t trust them)
are threaded with blood, that’s a little scary but still I can’t stop laughing. These guys like me, the way Deek looks at me, pulls my ponytail, slaps my rear, maybe I am a pretty girl
after all. Giggling leaning to the mirror, pursing my lips so they get wrinkly, kissing my mirror-lips, whispering
Ann’slee honey! Li’l dude!
Nobody has ever called me that
before.

I will tell Gracie. Nobody else.

Thinking how I loved it when Daddy tickled me when I was a little girl. Daddy spreading his big fingers and walking, pretending they were daddy longlegs come to tickle me, making me kick and
squeal with laughter. I was seven, in second grade, when Daddy went away up to Follette, and the woman from Herkimer County Family Services asked Did your father ever hurt you, Annislee?—and
I said No! He did not. Daddy did not. You would think that when you answered such a question that would be the end of it, but repeatedly the question would be asked, as if to trick you. Asking did
your daddy hurt you or your brother or your mother, try to remember, Annislee, and I was angry, saying in a sharp voice like a fingernail scraped on a blackboard,
No, Daddy did not.

“Hey, Ann’slee—din’t fall in, did you?”

One of the guys rapping on the door, making the latchkey rattle.

At the table the guys are devouring ham sandwiches in two, three bites. Big fistfuls of chips. Cans of Black Horse Ale opened, and the ale smell is sharp and acrid. Heins is shuffling cards,
pushes them across the table for me to cut. Am I still in this game? With no dollar bill to toss into the pot? They’re asking where am I staying at the lake and I tell them. Where do I live
and I tell them: Strykersville, which is about twelve miles to the south. Is your family with you at Wolf’s Head, Deek asks me, and I tell him yes, except for my father, who isn’t
there. Deek asks where is my father, and I hesitate, not wanting to tell him that I am not sure. Last I knew, Daddy was living in Sparta, but he’s one to move around some. Not liking to be
tied down, Momma says.

Croke asks do I have any brothers, his greeny gray eyes on me in a way that’s kindly, I think. I say Yes, Jacky, who’s nine years old and a damn pain in the neck.

Why’d I say this? To make the guys laugh? You’d think that I don’t love my little brother, but truly I do.

Seems like the guys want me back in their game. Deek is allowing me to put up my Cougars T-shirt “for collateral.” Since washing my face, I’m feeling more clearheaded—I
think!—wanting to win back the dollar bills I’ve lost. Maybe this is how gamblers get started—you are desperate to win back what you’ve lost, for there is a kind of shame in
losing.

But the cards don’t come now. Or anyway, I can’t make sense of them. Like adding up a column of numbers in math class, you lose your way and have to begin again. Like multiplying
numbers—you can do it without thinking, but if you stop to think, you can’t. Staring at these new cards, nine of hearts, nine of clubs, king of spades, queen of spades, four of
diamonds. I get rid of the four of diamonds and I’m excited, my replacement card is a jack of spades, but my eyes are playing tricks on me, what looks like spades is actually clubs, after
raising my bet I see that it’s clubs and I’ve made a mistake, staring and blinking at the cards in my hands that are kind of shaky like I have never seen a poker hand before. Around the
table the guys are playing like before, loud, funny-rude, maybe there’s some tension among them, I can’t figure because I am too distracted by the cards and how I am losing now, nothing
I do is right now, but why? When Croke wins the hand, Deek mutters, “Shi-it, you goddamn fuckin’ asshole,” but smiling like this is a joke, a kindly intended remark like between
brothers. I’m trying to make sense of the hand: Why’d Croke win? Why’s this a winning hand? What’s a full house? Wondering if the guys are cheating on me, how’d I
know? The guys are laughing at me, saying, “Hey, babe, be a good sport—this is poker.”

Croke says,
“My
T-shirt now!” Pulls the Cougars T-shirt off over my head, impatient with how slow I am trying to pull it off. There’s a panicked moment when I feel the
guys’ eyes swerve onto me, my halter top, my small breasts the size of plums, anxious now like undressing in front of strangers, but I am trying to laugh, it’s okay—isn’t
it?—just a game. “This is poker,” Deek says. This is Wolf’s Head Lake in August, the kinds of wild things you hear about back at school, wish you’d been part of. And
now I am.

In just my swimsuit now, and barefoot. Feeling kind of shivery, dizzy. Picked out the swimsuit myself at Sears, so can’t blame Momma. It’s like a kid’s sunsuit, too young for
me: bright yellow puckered material, a halter top that ties around my neck and a matching bottom and both of them kind of tight and itchy and damp-smelling from the lake. Croke is clowning with the
T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban, saying that li’l babe owes him one more thing: “This is strip poker, honey. You raised that bet, din’t you? There’s two damn
bets here. My T-shirt, and now something else.”

Croke is teasing, isn’t he? All the guys are teasing? The way they are looking at me, at my halter top, I’m starting to giggle, can’t stop giggling, like being examined by the
doctor, icy-cold stethoscope against my chest, and I’m half naked, trembling on the edge of an examination table, so scared my teeth start chattering and the doctor gives up, disgusted, calls
for Momma to come in. Jax is saying, “She’s drunk. We better sober her up and get her out of here.”

Right away I mumble
I
am not drunk!
which makes the guys laugh.

Deek says, leaning over me, brushing my arm with his to make the hairs stir, “Thass a cute li’l swimsuit, Ann’slee. You’re a hot li’l babe, eh?”

Jax says, disgusted, “She’s just a kid. Ain’t even in high school, I bet.”

Deek says, “Shit she ain’t. How old’re you, Ann’slee?”

Eighteen, I tell him. Can’t stop laughing, wanting to hide my face in my hands. Thirty-eight! (Thirty-eight is Momma’s age, so
old.)

Jax says, “I told you, she’s wasted. No way she’s more’n fifteen.”

Deek says, “Fifteen is hot. This is a hot li’l babe.”

Heins says, “Want the cops to bust us? Asshole.”

Deek says, “How’s that gonna happen? This li’l honey is my girl.”

My girl
is such a warm thing to say.
My girl my girl.
Nobody has ever said that to me except my daddy till now.

“Strip, li’l dude! C’mon.”

“Got to be a good sport, Ann’slee. That’s poker.”

Deek is teasing me, but he’s serious too. And Croke.

“I’ll
strip. Lookit me.”

Deek yanks off his T-shirt that’s grimy at the neck, suddenly he’s bare-chested, coarse black hairs like a pelt over his chest which is hard-muscled, but at the waistband of his swim
trunks his flesh is bunchy and flabby. “Shi-it,” Croke says, loud like a cross between yawning and yodeling, with a flourish yanking off his T-shirt, baring his heavy, beefy,
pimple-pocked chest like a TV wrestler; Croke’s chest is covered with hairs like slick seaweed, and oily with sweat. There’s a strong smell of underarms. Jax and Heins make crude
comments. I’m saying that I don’t want to play poker anymore, I guess, I want to go home now, need to get home where my mother is waiting for me, and Croke says, bringing his fist down
hard on the table like he’s drunk, “Not a chance, babe. Ain’t goin’ anywhere till you pay up.”

Deek says, “When you won the pot, we paid up, din’t we? Now you got to pay, Ann’slee. That’s poker.”

In just my swimsuit, what can I do? Can’t take off the halter top, but for sure can’t take off the bottom.

My sandals! Maybe the guys would let me substitute my sandals.

Except I don’t see my sandals on the messy floor.

Maybe I lost them in the other room? Climbing through the window?

The guys are pounding the table: “Strip! Ann’slee’s got to strip! Top or bottom, you owe us. That’s poker.”

Deek is practically on top of me. Not just his underarms smell, but his oily spiky hair that’s cut mini-hawk-style. Big yellow crooked teeth, breath in my face like fumes. Deek is saying,
like you’d talk to a young child, or some animal like a dog that needs to be cajoled, “Take off your top, li’l dude, thass all, thass a damn cute li’l top, show us your cute
li’l boobies, you ain’t got nothin’ we ain’t seem already, wanta bet?” All this while I’m hunched over trying to shield my front with my arms, but my arms are so
thin, and Deek is pressing so close, slides his arm around my shoulders and I’m on my feet, panicked, trying to run to the door. But Croke grabs me like it’s a game we are playing, or
him and Deek are playing, like football, Ann’slee is the football, captured. Croke’s big fingers tear at the halter straps, Croke manages to untie the straps and pulls off the halter,
Ohhhh, lookit!—
the guys are whistling and stamping their feet, teasing, taunting like dogs circling a wounded rabbit, and I’m panicked like a rabbit, trying to laugh, to show
this is just a joke, I know it’s a joke, but I’m desperate to get away from them, stumbling to the bathroom, the only place I can get to, shutting the door behind me, fumbling to latch
the door, had a glimpse before I shut it of Croke (I’d thought was my friend) with the halter top on his head, tying the straps beneath his chin like a bonnet.

Somewhere not too far away Momma is looking at the clock, fretting and fuming: Where is that girl? Where the hell has Annislee got to this time?

They wouldn’t hurt me
—
would they?

They like me
—
don’t they?

How long I am crouched in the bathroom in terror of the guys breaking in, how long I am shivering and trembling like a trapped rabbit, I won’t know afterward, and even at the time what is
happening is rushing past like a drunken scene glimpsed from a speeding car or boat on the lake. My right breast is throbbing with pain, must’ve been that Croke squeezed it, an ugly yellowish
purple bruise is taking shape.

Croke I’d thought liked me. Helping me out of the boat.

Back in grade school already we’d begun to hear stories of what guys can do to girls if they want to hurt them, though we had not understood why. And sometimes the girls are beaten,
strangled, left for dead, it isn’t known why.

“Hey, Ann’slee.”

There’s a rap on the plywood door. I’m not going to open it.

One of the guys rattling the door so hard it slips open. It’s Jax leaning in, seeing me crouched against the wall so frightened my teeth are chattering, says, like he’s embarrassed,
“Here’s the swim top. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

I’m too scared to reach up and take the halter top from him. Jax shoves it at me, muttering, “Put the damn thing on.”

Jax shuts the door. With trembling fingers I refasten the top.

Avoiding my reflection in the mirror. That greasy smudge where I’d kissed my own lips.

When I emerge from the bathroom, stiff and numbed, my eyes blinking back tears, the guys are still at the table, still drinking. Seems like they’re between poker games. Or maybe
they’re through with poker for the night. Their eyes swerve onto me in that way that reminds me of excited dogs. Deek says, “Li’l dude! There you are. C’mon back, sit on
Deek’s lap, eh? You’re my girl.”

A glint like gasoline in Deek’s bloodshot eyes and a way his big teeth are bared in a grin without warmth or mirth warns me that I am still in danger. Through the plywood door I’d
heard Deek mutter what sounded like
Ain’t done with her yet, so don’t fuck with me.