Wild Card

Two days after Christmas, Valentine tossed his crutches, and decided to go back to work. Hanging around the house was starting to feel like a prison sentence, and he found himself looking forward to returning to Resorts, and making some cheater’s life miserable.

But first, he had some business to take care of. Driving to the Margate mall, he found a jewelry store with a sign in the window that said Christmas sale, all items 30% off. He had a female clerk help him pick out an appropriate gift, then had her wrap it. He drove to the Rainbow Arms apartment with the gift in his lap, and parked on the street.

The building’s elevator was on the blink, and he climbed the stairs to the top floor. He was puffing hard as he knocked on the door to Sampson’s apartment, and told himself he needed to start exercising again. In two years he’d turn forty. He’d never had to regularly exercise, but suddenly it seemed like a good idea.

He heard chains being drawn. The door opened, and ten-year-old Bernard stood before him, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with the face of a toothless Leon Spinks, the former heavyweight champion of the world. He stared at the gift in Valentine’s hand.

“Thought you were coming by last week,” Bernard said accusingly.

Valentine had called and said he was coming by. Then he’d gotten beat up.

“I was out of commission,” Valentine said.

“What does that mean?”

“I got hurt. I called your grandfather from the hospital. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Hurt how?”

“Guy punched my lights out.”

“You get any licks in?”

“A couple.”

A smile spread across Bernard’s face. Yes, Valentine thought, his grandfather had told him. But Bernard wanted to hear him say it, and judge for himself if it was true. Valentine handed him the gift.

“Merry Christmas.”

They went down the shotgun hallway to the kitchen with the naked bulb danging from the ceiling. The grandfather sat at the table, the newspaper spread before him.

“I was getting worried about you,” Sampson said.

“I hurt my foot and couldn’t walk,” Valentine said. “It’s fine now.”

“Glad to hear it. Would you mind making some coffee? I’m dying for a cup.”

There was a cannister of ground coffee on the counter, and Valentine doled several teaspoons into the Mr. Coffee maker sitting beside it. He heard Bernard open his present, but did not turn around until he knew it was out of the box.

Bernard stared at the Timex watch. “This really for me?”

“Yes, it’s for you.”

“Let me see it,” his grandfather said.

Bernard held the watch a foot in front of his grandfather’s face and let him visually appraise it. “A fine looking time piece,” Sampson said. “Tell Mr Valentine thank you.”

“Thanks,” the boy said.

Bernard was good at keeping his feelings hidden, and Valentine didn’t realize until he’d put the watch on how much he liked it. Valentine had chosen a snappy-looking black leather wrist band, and it looked just right on him. Bernard knew it, too.

“Better hurry before you miss the school bus,” his grandfather said.

“Yeah,” Bernard said.

He was gone in a flash, the front door slamming behind him. Soon the coffee was ready. Valentine poured two mugs and brought them to the table. He held Sampson’s cup to his lips, and let the old man drink first. Then he took a sip from his own mug.

“I have some bad news,” Sampson said.

“What’s that?”

“I’m dying,” he said.

Sampson said he had less than a month to live. He spoke about it matter-of-factly, like you would the weather, and did not say what was killing him. So much of his dignity had been stripped away by his paralysis that Valentine did not feel it was right to ask him.

“I am not afraid of death,” Sampson said. “But I fear for the boy. There are few good influences around here.”

“What about his mother? Can’t she watch out for him?”

Sampson shook his head ruefully. “My daughter is not a good influence.”

“Is she here?”

“No.”

Valentine drank his coffee in silence. He’d figured out that Bernard’s mother was a street walker, and had considered sitting her down, and reading the riot act to her. But he didn’t think it would do any good. She had a son to feed, and the old man.

“Perhaps you could do something,” Sampson suggested.

Valentine stared at the grains in the bottom of his mug. He knew what Sampson wanted: If he came around the apartment more often, perhaps he could exert a positive influence on Bernard.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Valentine drove to work feeling rotten. Bernard had practically saved his life. That was worth something. But how much was it worth? He would come around and check up on him, but it wouldn’t be as much as the grandfather wanted.