it.
But I needed something more to weave my tapestry. I wasn’t sure quite what it was, but I knew I could find it buried in this place.
We gathered around a table in the closed dining room of the inn, grown-up versions of the kids who used to gather in the smaller confines of the clubhouse to play blackjack. Oliver produced a deck of cards, waving it around in the air for all our eyes to take in. He swore it was the same deck we used in our clubhouse games. I doubted it, though it was the same brand, and the cards looked worn and faded, seemingly soft to the touch. They did not snap as he shuffled, like a fresh pack would. I could not believe he held onto them all these years, even as possessive as he was. I was sure the original pack had been lost in the fire.
As he shuffled, I reached out and grabbed hold of the cardboard box, extracting, with the lightest touch of my fingertips, the jokers from within. I stared at a joker’s face. There was the muse of my youth who guided my imagination. That’s what was missing. That’s what I left behind when I moved to New York City: The attic room in my mind where the Joker lurked had gotten shut down, locked up. The Joker wasn’t around to feed my mind the horror he collected in that dark place. The city was full of real horror, overshadowing the fangs and claws my imagination tried to conjure. Maybe I would have to unlock that attic door. Maybe I needed him to help me weave this tale.
We played blackjack just like we had in the old days, though the pots now were a little more bountiful than before. Oliver won most of the money, just like he always did. We had moved the portable bar into the room and many of the bottles were nearly empty. Lonny kept the ice bucket replenished from the freezer in the kitchen. He was slamming down the liquor at a pretty rapid pace. Something was gnawing at him. He seemed agitated. Outside the tavern earlier in the evening he had some words with Oliver in private, and his mood had been sullen since.
The inn was very quiet. No sign of the professor or the girl I had briefly glimpsed or of Mr. Wolfe or Sandy the chambermaid. It was as if we had the whole place to ourselves -- as if we were in our own private world, just like it was when we were in the clubhouse, without any outside interference in our domain. Yet, it didn’t feel exactly like it did back then. I thought our conversations would revolve around the times we had as the Jokers Club, but the talk continued to be stuck in the present gear. There was no down-shifting, no backpedalling.
After Oliver dealt the cards and Dale reached with his left hand to gather his up, I noticed Oliver glance at Dale’s hand, and my gaze followed his to the white strip of skin on his ring finger.
“So how’s the wife?” Oliver asked, wearing a smirk.
Dale met my gaze over the top of his cards and I could tell he realized his hand was exposed. There was no way he could bluff.
“Well,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Actually, we’ve called it quits.”
“No?” Lonny said, sounding surprisingly concerned. Oliver had trouble maintaining his smirk.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Truly.”
“It’s really for the best,” Dale answered. “For both of us. Things just weren’t going well.”
“Real tough luck,” Oliver said. “I thought for sure you two would make it.”
“So did I,” was all Dale could respond.
“Well, now you can join Thorn in the singles market,” Oliver said, looking at me over his cards. “Is that right, Thorn?”
“Martin’s still single,” I said, gesturing.
“Peak doesn’t count,” Oliver responded, “he’s practically married to his mother.”
Lonny burst out laughing. Martin just looked down at his cards, not bothering to rebut.
“Don’t plan too long a time mourning,” Oliver said to Dale. “The pickings out there could be pretty slim.”
“Not even on my radar yet.”
“Well, if you wait too long, all that’ll be left are
But I needed something more to weave my tapestry. I wasn’t sure quite what it was, but I knew I could find it buried in this place.
We gathered around a table in the closed dining room of the inn, grown-up versions of the kids who used to gather in the smaller confines of the clubhouse to play blackjack. Oliver produced a deck of cards, waving it around in the air for all our eyes to take in. He swore it was the same deck we used in our clubhouse games. I doubted it, though it was the same brand, and the cards looked worn and faded, seemingly soft to the touch. They did not snap as he shuffled, like a fresh pack would. I could not believe he held onto them all these years, even as possessive as he was. I was sure the original pack had been lost in the fire.
As he shuffled, I reached out and grabbed hold of the cardboard box, extracting, with the lightest touch of my fingertips, the jokers from within. I stared at a joker’s face. There was the muse of my youth who guided my imagination. That’s what was missing. That’s what I left behind when I moved to New York City: The attic room in my mind where the Joker lurked had gotten shut down, locked up. The Joker wasn’t around to feed my mind the horror he collected in that dark place. The city was full of real horror, overshadowing the fangs and claws my imagination tried to conjure. Maybe I would have to unlock that attic door. Maybe I needed him to help me weave this tale.
We played blackjack just like we had in the old days, though the pots now were a little more bountiful than before. Oliver won most of the money, just like he always did. We had moved the portable bar into the room and many of the bottles were nearly empty. Lonny kept the ice bucket replenished from the freezer in the kitchen. He was slamming down the liquor at a pretty rapid pace. Something was gnawing at him. He seemed agitated. Outside the tavern earlier in the evening he had some words with Oliver in private, and his mood had been sullen since.
The inn was very quiet. No sign of the professor or the girl I had briefly glimpsed or of Mr. Wolfe or Sandy the chambermaid. It was as if we had the whole place to ourselves -- as if we were in our own private world, just like it was when we were in the clubhouse, without any outside interference in our domain. Yet, it didn’t feel exactly like it did back then. I thought our conversations would revolve around the times we had as the Jokers Club, but the talk continued to be stuck in the present gear. There was no down-shifting, no backpedalling.
After Oliver dealt the cards and Dale reached with his left hand to gather his up, I noticed Oliver glance at Dale’s hand, and my gaze followed his to the white strip of skin on his ring finger.
“So how’s the wife?” Oliver asked, wearing a smirk.
Dale met my gaze over the top of his cards and I could tell he realized his hand was exposed. There was no way he could bluff.
“Well,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Actually, we’ve called it quits.”
“No?” Lonny said, sounding surprisingly concerned. Oliver had trouble maintaining his smirk.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Truly.”
“It’s really for the best,” Dale answered. “For both of us. Things just weren’t going well.”
“Real tough luck,” Oliver said. “I thought for sure you two would make it.”
“So did I,” was all Dale could respond.
“Well, now you can join Thorn in the singles market,” Oliver said, looking at me over his cards. “Is that right, Thorn?”
“Martin’s still single,” I said, gesturing.
“Peak doesn’t count,” Oliver responded, “he’s practically married to his mother.”
Lonny burst out laughing. Martin just looked down at his cards, not bothering to rebut.
“Don’t plan too long a time mourning,” Oliver said to Dale. “The pickings out there could be pretty slim.”
“Not even on my radar yet.”
“Well, if you wait too long, all that’ll be left are
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