Sunday Game

Jazz music blanketed the room with the lazy haze of saxophone improvisation, accompanied by the tinkering of fine glass and poker chips. It was a Sunday afternoon — the weekend just after Christmas — leaving the casino mostly empty, save for the occasional senior citizen and George, the bartender and their friend. Elise rested her cheek on her fist and stared at her hand with distracted eyes. “I can’t believe father got rid of old Neptune,” she said, casually. Across from her, Herman played with his chips with feigned indifference. “Yes, I do miss the boat sometimes.”

Elise’s lips twitched at the lie. They hated the boat. It had been a gift (only their father was capable of such grossly out of touch generosity) given in hopes of salvaging his broken marriage with their mother. She never used it. So it became something of a hideout for their father when the 1 A.M. arguments became too overwhelming, even for him. Elise remembered the sound of the front door slamming open, and glaring at his retreating figure as he stormed out towards the dock where the boat bobbed in its shiny, obnoxious glory. She would creep up to Herman’s room and find him shuffling his cards in an attempt to distort the incessant hissing of the open tap from the ensuite above them. They’d hear a few harsh sobs, something clattering on the porcelain sink, the toilet flushing. It was then that she wished the boat would sink, taking her father with it.

“How is father these days?” Herman asked, as the dealer reshuffled the cards. He mindlessly stroked the green felt with his forefinger, something he’d done since he was a teenager. It was a terrible giveaway, but he never grew out of the bad habit. They never played for money anyway. The game was the only thing they inherited from their father, so they mocked him with it. On Sundays, long after he stopped taking them to church, he would teach them how to play. Elise secretly relished in this time he dedicated to them. Ignoring their mother’s disapproving eyes, he would perch her up onto his lap and explain the cards to her. “Stop teaching them to gamble,” she would say, “It’s not right. They’re children.” Another row would ensue, leaving Herman and her together in the study to fend for themselves. When he had replaced them with a new family, the game stayed with them. They had gotten used to their lives without him.

“About father,” Elise began nervously, “He wants to see us. He’s coming home in January.”