The 10 P.M. Question (7 page)

Frankie had looked up
avarice
in the dictionary:
an unreasonably strong desire to obtain and keep money.
Louie certainly had a strong desire for money, but Frankie couldn’t decide if it was unreasonable.

“The best way to make money
is
to get other people to work for you,” said Teen now. Teen had owned a lot of shops in her time and was moderately rich.

“But the
funnest
way to make money is gambling,” said Alma firmly. “And I have unmarked bills burning a hole in my pocket.” She heaved herself off the couch. “C’mon, Gordana. I haven’t taken money off you in months.”

“Homework,” said Gordana. “Big assignment. Art History. Due Friday.” She stayed right where she was, hunched over a magnifying mirror and plucking her eyebrows. Frankie rolled his eyes at Gigs. He hadn’t seen Gordana near a textbook in the last year. Gigs’s theory was that Gordana didn’t actually go to school, though she walked down the hill every day in her St. Agatha’s uniform. He reckoned she changed at the library, then went off to a secret job. Frankie and Gigs had spent much satisfactory time speculating about Gordana’s possible other life.

“I’m in the kitchen,” said Ma.

“I’ll help,” said Nellie. “I’ll grate and chop.”

“Frankie? Gigs?” said Alma. “You and me against George and Louie and Teen.”

“Bonga Swetso!” said Gigs, ducking away from Frankie’s punch. It
was
best playing with Alma, Frankie agreed; she was practically unbeatable. Louie and Uncle George were sharps, too, and Gigs held his own. Frankie was the liability, if the truth be told. He had a tendency to lose focus, his mind wandered, and sometimes he forgot what was trumps.

Alma had taken Frankie aside one Tuesday evening when he was nine years old. They had been playing four-handed euchre and Frankie had been quietly worrying about a small spider colony in the right top corner of his bedroom, above the closet; he was certain they were white-tails. He’d read in the paper about a North Island man whose hand had become gangrenous after a white-tail bite he’d sustained
while sleeping
. It was still unclear, apparently, whether the gangrenous hand would have to be amputated. Frankie was thinking so hard about the awfulness of a one-handed life that he played a two of spades on a heart lead, thinking that spades was trumps.

“Frankie,” Alma had said solemnly. They stood in the hallway, her arm around his shoulders, heavy as a slumped body. “You know I don’t dispense advice. It’s not my style. Everyone must work the world out for himself, I say. And, really, I don’t have any advice to give. I don’t have a store of maxims or shibboleths —”

“What’s a shibboleth?” Frankie said.

“Never mind,” said Alma. “That is, I haven’t
until this moment
ever had a foolproof piece of advice to offer anyone. But it’s come to me tonight — a Rule to Live By, an Unshakeable Truth — Frankie.” Alma had leaned into Frankie. He smelled her cheroot and face powder and Knight’s Castile scent. He watched the soft froggy swelling of her triple chin. “Frankie, my darling boy,
always remember what is trumps
.

“There you are,” said Alma, straightening up, pulling the voluminous red cardigan over her swollen middle. “That is it. My Benedictine Rule. All you need for navigating life’s tortuous road. Remember what trumps is! Okay? Good boy.” She’d bent over and planted a kiss on his cheek and pushed him back through the door, to the card table.

Frankie had done his best when playing cards ever since, but it wasn’t easy. It depended so much on his catalog of preoccupations. And the sad truth was, he really didn’t care enough about cards, trumps or otherwise. He just didn’t care about winning. Gigs and Louie loved to win; they especially loved trying to beat Alma. They sat upright; they arranged their cards swiftly; they concentrated all their wits on the progress of play.

Whereas Frankie found his attention fatally wandering to other matters. Tonight his thoughts were diving backward through the day, back to the morning at school, to the book project, which he was greatly enjoying. To Sydney’s suggestion that she come around to his house to work on the project, which he’d found alarming. To Mr. A’s color-coded handouts on camp, which were now burning a hole in his backpack. To the whole problem of camp, now less than a month away. To the fact that Ma hadn’t even collected the
mail
once in the last fortnight —

“Frankie?” said Louie. “Your bid.”

And see? Already he’d failed to hear what everyone had bid in the first round. He thought quickly. It was five hundred. Alma always bid high in five hundred. So did Louie and Uncle George. They never liked to give away the lead.

“Pass,” said Frankie. He nearly always passed. He was drearily cautious.

“I go
eight
diamonds!” said Gigs. He beamed around the table.

“Living dangerously, Gigs, my man,” said Uncle George, knocking the table to signify a pass.

“In his dreams,” said Gordana. She had finished plucking and was leaning on Uncle George now, scanning his cards. Ray Davies nudged hopefully at her heels. He wanted to play rough-and-tumble; he hadn’t had as much dinner as everyone else.

“What’s trumps?” asked Gordana.

“Ask Frankie,” said Louie.

“Diamonds,” said Frankie virtuously.

“Good boy,” said Teen.

Gordana moved on to Louie. “Which one’s the left bower and tell me again
why
it’s called the left bower?”

“Bugger off!” said Louie, batting her with his cards.

“Keep your hair on,” said Gordana. She flicked his head with her hand and Ray Davies began yapping with protective fierceness.

“Come here, boyo,” said Louie, playing a card. He leaned back in his chair and let Ray Davies up onto his lap. Ray Davies rested his nose on the table and stared longingly at the remains of the Black Forest cherry cake.

“You know how I feel about canines at card games,” said Alma. “Mine, I believe.” She swept the cards in, led her next card, and signaled Gordana to pour a whiskey, all in one fluid movement.

“Damn,” said Gigs, frowning.

“Oh, good
God,
Angelo, will you ever learn?” said Gordana, slopping the whiskey as she poured it into Uncle George’s glass.

“
Watch
it!” growled Uncle George.

“Good
God,
” said Gordana, bringing her face down to Uncle George’s. “Your nose needs a serious plucking. How could you let it get this bad?”

“Go
away
!” yelled Uncle George, Louie, and Alma all at the same time.

The phone rang.

“I’LL GET IT!” said Gordana. She skidded across the floor, in her socks, like a boisterous ice dancer. Ray Davies leaped off Louie’s lap, anticipating a bit of action.

“Frankie?” said Teen. She nodded at the table. Frankie looked at the played cards and back at his own hand. He couldn’t remember if all the clubs had been played. He leaned over to Gigs.

“No table talk!” said Uncle George.

“Good
God
!” said Gordana, doing a hefty glissade back to the table with the phone. Ray Davies clattered in her wake.

“This is really
not
the way I like to play,” said Alma, taking a big gulp of whiskey.

“Pffffphone for Pffffphrankie,” said Gordana, loudly. “Some tottie with a deep voice.”

“Grabotsky frigintalius, Yendysalia!” said Gigs, waggling his eyebrows.

Frankie felt his face go very hot.

“The rest are mine, I rather think,” said Alma, putting down a splayed hand.

“Are you going to take it, or what?” demanded Gordana.

“Sanquito definatus miribilius deswenko,” said Gigs.

“Has my little brother got a girlfren?” said Louie, shuffling the deck.

Frankie pushed back his chair and grabbed the phone from Gordana.

“Leave the poor lad alone,” said Teen. “More cake, anyone?”

“Gordana, take his hand,” ordered Alma. “Let’s get this game
going,
for heaven’s sake.”

“Seriously, has he?” said Louie.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Gordana, thumping down in Frankie’s chair. “He hasn’t even got underarm hair.”

Frankie turned his back, hating them all. He stood in the recess between the bookcase and the television, staring vacantly at the cover of the book on the end of the shelf,
Animal Farm.

“Hello,” he said.

Behind him, the card game seemed to have gone rather quiet.

“It’s Sydney!” said the phone.

“Hi,” said Frankie with great nonchalance. He pulled
Animal Farm
off the bookcase and sniffed it absently. Uncle George had read him
Animal Farm
during the winter he was nine. He could remember it so clearly; the smell of the book brought it all back — Uncle George’s bass voice, the soft brush of the flannelette sheet on his cheek, the dawning realization that Boxer was going to die, his own fingers picking anxiously at the stitching on his Buzz Lightyear duvet.

“Sounds like a circus at your house.”

“It’s my brother’s birthday.”

“The one with the beagle?”

“Seven hearts!” said Teen.

“Eight spades!” said Uncle George.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Gordana. “You can’t do
eight
spades. I’ve got about five.”

“Yeah,” said Frankie.

“So,” said Sydney. “About tomorrow. I can come. My mother says it’s okay, but I have to be home before it’s dark. So, shall I just come home on the bus with you? I’ve already got the story plan. You’ll really like it.”

Frankie felt suddenly weak.

“ . . . Vickerman,” he heard Gigs say. What a traitorous weasel.

“Tomorrow,” said Frankie, stalling.

“Yeah, Wednesday,” said Sydney. “Thursday’s no good because I have to look after the little ones while my mother’s reading to the blind.”

“The blind,” said Frankie dumbly. He had a sudden and most absurd vision of a woman sitting in front of a blind — a Venetian blind — reading aloud from a book.

“ . . . opening our bowling,” Gigs was saying.

“Is she cute?” said Louie.

“No,” said Gigs. “But she’s even faster than David Robinson’s sister.” That settled one thing, then — Gigs was certainly not having his Honey Johnson moment. A small part of Frankie’s brain registered mild intrigue at his ability to hear and think and feel about five things at once, even in the middle of great stress.

“Yeah,
the blind,
you egg,” Sydney said. “People who can’t
see.
”

“See,” repeated Frankie. He seemed to have turned into a witless echo machine. He put down
Animal Farm
and began fiddling with the latch on the window beside the bookcase. He could see the Fat Controller outside on the garden bench, poised and still, watching the house balefully. The Fat Controller was allergic to Ray Davies and had to repair to the garden whenever Louie came around.

“Yes,
see
!” said Sydney.

“ . . . changes schools heaps,” said Gigs. “And
countries.
Probably won’t be on the team next summer, so we may as well go for it.”

“See, see” said Frankie. “Si, si.” He wanted to laugh hysterically, relieved at his sudden genius, but he leaned out the window instead, lapping up the cooler evening air. “Si, si, yes, yes. Tomorrow’s okay. Hey, what’s the time?”

“Forty-five past eight,” said Sydney. He’d noticed she always said the time this way. “Why?”

“Hey, Frankie, don’t fall out the window,” called Louie.

“Hey, Frankie, don’t fall in love,” sang Gordana.

They all laughed like idiots.

Oh, bite me,
thought Frankie. He decided to throw all caution to the winds.

“It’s not even dark yet,” said Frankie. “You can stay for dinner, too, if you want. My ma’s a mean cook.”

“Are you asleep yet?” whispered Frankie, walking around to Ma’s side of the bed.

The light was still on, but Ma’s eyes were closed and the book had fallen out of her hands. She sometimes fell asleep like that. Uncle George would put her book away and turn off the light when he came to bed.

“Nearly,” said Ma, keeping her eyes closed. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” said Frankie, sitting on the chair beside the bed. He picked up Ma’s book and examined it.
Eugene Onegin
by Pushkin. Another Russian. Ma had a thing for the Russians. Uncle George said if she ever met anyone called Vladimir, she’d be off.

“You right?” said Ma. She opened her eyes.

“Yeah,” said Frankie. He turned to the last page of
Eugene Onegin
and read the final lines.
Fate has taken so much: good friends who’ve not remained at life’s great feast, who have not drained their cups . . .

“But,” said Frankie. He kept reading. . . .
Who have by now forsaken life’s narrative . . .
“I was wondering . . . how long does food poisoning take?”

“Frankie,” said Ma. “Why would you have food poisoning?”

“I think my chicken sandwich was past the use-by date. I’m pretty sure it was off.”
As you have seen me leave my cherished friend . . .

“When did you eat it?” said Ma. She closed her eyes again.

“This morning.”

“What’s the time now?”

“Ten p.m., of course,” said Frankie, and they both laughed.

“You’re fine,” said Ma. “Food poisoning only takes eight hours.”

“You sure?” said Frankie.

“Yes,” said Ma.

“Completely
sure?” said Frankie

“Promise,” said Ma.

“Bonga Swetso,” said Frankie. “’Night.”