Show Your Work

By Jan Field

Earl dragged the heavy oak pedestal table into the centre of his crowded living room, placing four mismatched chairs around it. The table could accommodate twice that number and had in the past. Drawing on the cigarette dangling from his lips, he stared at the table, scarred and dark with age, the number of chairs reminding him how few of his friends were left. Soon, there would be one chair less.

The back door banged open, spilling voices into the old sagging house.

“Christ, Earl. It’s a ‘friggin oven in here. Open some windows, will you?” roared Paddy.

“You knew it would be hot, Paddy. It’s always hot at Earl’s.” Frank’s slow, deep voice drowned out Paddy’s complaining as the two men walked into the living room carrying six packs of Molson Canadian.

Earl motioned to the cooler half-filled with ice set out near the table. “Put your beer in here. I’ve got more in the fridge.” He laid out bowls of potato chips and nuts. Roger was partial to salted cashews. It was a good idea to keep on the good side of Roger.

“Hope you’ve got more food than chips and nuts,” grumbled Paddy, swiping half the nuts from the bowl Earl had just filled.

 “I got sandwiches from the bakery…” Earl started.

“What kind?” Paddy cut him off.

“Does it matter, Paddy?” Frank shook his head. “You’ll eat anything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paddy grumbled. “Anything for dessert?”

Earl ignored the question, glancing over at Frank. “What’s got his shorts in a knot?”

Paddy snorted, grabbing a beer and popping off the top before chugging half of it down. “I’m hungry, that’s all. I missed supper.” He stalked back out to the kitchen, where he could be heard rooting around in the fridge.

Earl called out, “They’re in the big Tupperware container on the bottom shelf.” He looked over at Frank. “Another fight with Ginny?”

Frank nodded, grimacing. “Yep, a doozy. She was throwing boots and clothes at him when I picked him up. He drank most of his paycheck – again.”

The kitchen screen door banged, and they heard voices rumbling in the kitchen. Roger bounded into the living room, rubbing his hands. “All right, all right! Let’s get this show on the road! I’m going to clean house tonight; I feel it in my bones!”

Paddy shuffled into the room behind Roger, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth, and drained his beer. “Damn woman. Always busting my chops.” He looked around at his friends as he grabbed another beer. “A man should be able to enjoy a few beers in his own damn house.”

Roger scowled at Paddy. “Stop your bellyaching. You’re lucky Ginny puts up with you. I’d have thrown you out years ago – permanently. Now sit your ass down and play some poker.” He shook his head in disgust. Only Earl could hear his muttered curse, “Stupid bastard. Waste of space.”

“Well, don’t get pissy with me, Roge. We can’t play poker until we get some chips.” Paddy staggered as he waved his arms.

Earl shook his head. Paddy was already half-cut. Maybe he should put off telling them tonight. He could feel his gut roil. No, he needed to get this over with. He was running out of time. They needed to know what he was going to do. He owed them that.

Roger rapped the table with his knuckle, then tapped his watch. “Hey, Earl! Are we gonna play some poker? Where’s the bank?”

Earl pulled a beat-up old leather suitcase from a chest under the window, opening it flat. Before taking their places at the table, the men exchanged their money for chips, tossing their cash, honour system, in the top portion. Earl watched Paddy throw some bills in the suitcase. Guess he hadn’t drunk all his pay.

The men settled into their usual places. They’d all aged, but nothing much else had changed over the forty years the gang had gathered monthly to play poker. The host was always the dealer, provided the food, and chose the game. Everyone brought beer. And cash. Most of the time, they limited the betting. None of them were wealthy men. Well, maybe Roger was.

Earl rapped the table to signal they were starting. He broke open a fresh deck of cards, shuffling them thoroughly. He puffed his Players Plain before placing it in the ashtray at his elbow. “Texas Hold’em. No limit.” He blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth.

Roger waved at the smoke, looking at Earl over his reading glasses. “Sure about that?”

Earl shrugged. “Dealer’s choice.”

“But, Earl?” Frank said, “No limit?” He nodded towards Paddy.

“Don’t fuss. You’re worse than my old lady,” Paddy snapped before taking another swig of beer.

“Might be my last game,” Earl shrugged. “Want to go out in style.”

“You’ve been talking about your last game for years,” Roger said, waving his hand.

“You shut up, Roger,” Paddy said. “Cancer sucks and it don’t play favourites.”

 Always the peacemaker, Frank tried to get them under control. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s play cards.”

 Earl sighed and ran his hand through his white stubble, barely there since the last round of chemo. He hadn’t meant to stir them all up. “Come on, Roger. Place your bet, and let’s play.”

 Roger shrugged, then moved a short stack of chips into the centre. “It’s your funeral.”

 Frank sucked in a breath. “Christ, Roge, that’s cold.”

 “It’s just an expression. He knows I didn’t mean anything. Right, Earl? Come on, Frank, place your bet.”

“Sure. Just an expression.” Earl said. He never let Roger’s digs get to him. He’d had a lot of years to practice.

Paddy pushed some chips into the centre. “I’ll see you, Roge.”

Earl sighed. “Paddy, you’re never going to learn, are you? You can’t place a bet until after I deal the hole cards.” He looked pointedly at Frank. “Which I can’t do until Frank, the big blind, places his. Frank, you going to play cards or have a nap?”

Frank snorted and shoved a pile of chips into the centre. “Okay, boss. Let’s play cards.”

The haze from Earl’s smoking filled the room as play continued for the next two hours. The number of empty beer cans in the chest soon outnumbered the full ones, and the supply had to be replenished. The pile of chips in front of Paddy had all but disappeared. Frank still had most of his chips, but Earl was down by at least half. Roger, sitting pretty, was wearing his usual shit-eating grin.

“Let’s break for some food.” Earl headed to the kitchen.

Frank called after him. “I’ll give you a hand. Just going to open a window or two, okay?”

Paddy was down to his undershirt. “Ha, finally got to you, didn’t it?” he crowed.

Frank ignored him, wedging open a window with a stick, sucking in some of the fresh air. He’d always found it hot at Earl’s, but tonight was unbearable. Joining Earl in the kitchen, he asked, “You okay?”

Earl handed him the Tupperware container and some paper plates. “I’m fine. Just have old, thin blood. I can’t get warm.”

“You’re only a few years older than me. Sixty-eight. That’s not old, Earl.”

Earl’s eyes burned into Frank’s. “Older than Andy was, though. We’re all older than Andy was when he died, right?” Earl returned to the living room without another word, carrying the brownies and more beer. Frank followed, silenced.

Roger tipped back in his chair, his eyes dancing as he tucked into the food. “Great sandwiches, Earl. I’m going to get the bakery to do them when it’s my turn.” He looked at Paddy, who was mumbling and searching his pockets. “Out of cash?” His grin was nasty. Most of Paddy’s money was sitting in front of Roger. “Put an I.O.U. note in the bank. We know you’re good for it.”

Frank rolled his eyes, glancing over at Earl, who shook his head. They both knew that wasn’t a good idea. Paddy was broke, which was why Ginny was so mad at him. But Paddy would take the bait. He always did.

Play resumed, and Paddy continued to lose. Frank was losing, too, though not as badly. And the tables were turning for Roger. Soon, most of his chips were in front of Earl.

Earl grinned, his enjoyment of the situation barely concealed. “Still feeling lucky, Roger?” Paddy and Frank had folded. It was just Earl and Roger now.

Roger stared at Earl but said nothing. He scribbled a note and threw it in the top half of the bank, taking out two columns of chips. He placed his bet, upping the pot. “Shut up and deal.”

Earl won the hand. He gathered his chips and the cards and then paused to light another cigarette before slowly shuffling the deck. “Got something to say.”

 Roger’s face was flushed, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. He wasn’t used to losing. “Well, say it and deal the cards, goddammit.”

Paddy grabbed another beer. “Let the man have his say. It’s his house.”

Frank looked over at his old friend, concern etched on his face.

Earl looked down at his hands as he shuffled the cards. “My cancer’s back. Nothing the docs can do. I got maybe a month, maybe two left.”

The room went silent, and everyone looked back at Earl.

Roger shook his head. “Damn, I’m sorry, Earl. I thought you had it beat.”

Paddy sniffled. “Me, too. Geez, that sucks.”

Frank’s face sagged. He’d known something was up. “You could see another doc…”

Earl grinned a crooked smile, shaking his head. “No, my time’s up. I know that.” He dealt two cards to each of them, then put the deck down and lifted his cards. Smiling, he looked around at his oldest friends. “Bets?”

Paddy folded, but Roger raised. Earl met the raise, continuing, “We’ve played a lot of poker together over the years, haven’t we? I remember when we used to play at Andy Brennan’s. In his shed, ‘cause Sheila didn’t like the cussing and the smoking.” He chuckled. “I remember one night when one of his boys sneaked in the back to steal beers. You remember, Roge?” Earl dealt the flop, looked at it, and smiled again. “Bets?”

 A bead of sweat trickled down Frank’s face. He pushed the rest of his chips into the centre. He shook his head at Earl, willing him to be silent. No good would come of bringing up the past. Especially that past.

 Roger threw a glance over his glasses at Earl before placing his bet. “Sure, I remember a lot of things.” Then he sat back in his chair, his cards face down on the table before him.

Paddy shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about, Earl?”

Earl glanced at Paddy before looking back at Roger. “You sure were mad at the boy. Matt, I think it was for sneaking into the room that night. I still don’t know what you were so steamed about. The kid was too young to understand what we were talking about. You know, about what we planned to do at the mine.” He paused; three pairs of eyes boring into him.

Roger snarled at Earl. “What you were talking about. Always running your mouth. Andy wasn’t in the room, but his brat was. You don’t think he could have run and told his daddy? Christ. You’re such a moron. Stop yapping about the past and throw the river card already!”

Earl obliged. He pushed all his chips into the centre without looking at his cards again. “Your call, I believe, Roger,” he said with the merest hint of a smile.

Roger looked at his cards and then at the flop. The vein in his forehead was pulsing like crazy now. He glared at Earl before putting his cards down. “Fold.”

Earl cackled with glee, pulling the chips toward him. “Beat you, Roge. The Devil beat you.” He flipped over his cards.

Frank sucked in a breath. “Jesus, Earl. A seven-deuce hand? You bet all of that on the Devil’s Hand?”

Paddy ran his hands over his head, shaking it at Earl. “Man, you got some balls.”

Roger’s eyes narrowed as he watched Earl stack his winnings. He pushed back his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee, throwing a handful of nuts into his mouth as if he wasn’t in the least bit perturbed by the loss. But the vein throbbing in his temple told another story.

“Devil’s Hand, eh? Good one, Earl. Good one.” Roger’s voice was flat.

Paddy popped the tab on another beer, grinning. “’ Bout time someone took you to the cleaners, Roge.”

Earl pushed back his chair, too, before lighting another cigarette. “Don’t be mad, Roge. It might be the last time I play. Nice to go out winning, don’t you think?”

Frank motioned to Paddy to fish a beer out of the cooler. “Don’t talk like that.”

Earl took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly. “Sorry, but it’s the last time… for a lot of things. I’m going on my last fishing trip tomorrow. Walleye season opens the day after, and I want to be at my special spot.”

Roger threw another bunch of nuts into his mouth. “So?”

 Earl put his cigarette into the ashtray, leaned forward, rested his arms on the table and looked around the table. “And when I come back, I’m gonna tell Brian Brennan the truth about the explosion at the mine. The truth about how his daddy died. I’ve written a letter to publish in his newspaper.”

This time, the silence extended into several beats as the other three men drew in breath and held it.

Frank whispered. “Jesus, Earl. We promised. We said we’d never talk about what happened. It was an accident.”

Paddy moaned, putting his head in his hands. “We all agreed. We swore to it.”

Earl raised his hands. “I’m not gonna name you guys. I’ll keep my promise that far. But I can’t go to my grave with this on my conscience. I’ve got to tell the Brennans the truth. Things I did caused their daddy’s death. We didn’t mean it, but that’s what happened.”

Roger hissed at Earl. “You dumb bastard! You think you can ruin our lives because you’re dying? You think you can avoid dragging all of us into it?”

Frank nodded. “No one will believe you acted alone, Earl. We all hung out together back then, too.”

Paddy groaned. “Shit. Our lives are over.”

Earl crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell them it was just me and those two union goons from the States. That they tricked me into setting the charges so the mine management would be blamed for safety issues when the explosion happened. It was thirty years ago. No one’s going to be able to check.”

Roger shoved back his chair, knocking it over as he stood, leaning over the table, spitting as he spoke. “You’re not going to tell anyone anything! You hear me?”

Frank shook his head. “We’ve got to talk about this. Please?”

“Sorry. My mind’s made up. Poker night’s over, boys. I’m going to finish packing for my trip.” Earl stood and started clearing the table, walking into the kitchen with the leftovers.

Frank’s shoulders slumped. He turned to Roger. “You’ve got to talk some sense into him. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

“Oh, he’ll listen to me. You bet your ass he’ll listen to me.” Roger stared at the kitchen door. You go on home.” He looked at Paddy, slumped in his chair, his head on his chest. “And take Paddy with you. I’ll deal with this.”

Frank nodded, relieved. Roger always took care of them. Always. “Come on, Paddy,” he said as he hoisted him to his feet. “You can sleep at my place tonight.”

Earl made another trip into the living room, clearing away the empties and the cooler. Roger sorted the chips, placing Earl’s winnings in cash on the table before closing up the suitcase. Neither man spoke as the sounds of Frank’s truck faded away.

Earl was moving around the living room, laying his gear on the table and sorting it as he packed his knapsack. All the while, Roger sat at the table, his eyes following Earl.

It was several minutes before he spoke. “You can’t do it.”

Earl sighed. “I’m tired. Real tired. Go home. I need to get some sleep before I head out tomorrow morning.”

Roger’s rage exploded. “Tired. You’re tired? I’ll show you tired, you miserable bastard!” He lunged out of his chair, grabbing Earl’s shirt in his fists and shaking the older man like a rag doll. “You’ll keep your mouth shut, do you hear? I’m not risking everything I’ve built in the last thirty years for some goddamn notion of morality.”

Earl gasped for breath, pulling away from Roger. “How you gonna stop me? What can you threaten me with? Death?” His bark of laughter dissolved into a hacking cough. He yanked a hanky from his pocket to cover his mouth. When he pulled it away, it was stained with red spittle. “Looks like God beat you to it.”

Earl, exhausted, waved his hand at his old friend. “Go home.”

He didn’t see the knife that slid into his back. Barely felt it. But he knew what had happened. He tried to turn, to look at Roger as he fell. “Jesus, you didn’t need to do that, Roge. You didn’t. I wouldn’t have named …” The blood gurgled out of his mouth, obliterating his last words.

Roger bent over his oldest friend, pulled the knife from his back, and rolled him over. He dropped to one knee, placing a shaking hand on Earl’s chest, and watched the life leave his eyes.

“Why’d you have to play that hand, Earl? Why?”

———

Jan Field lives in Uxbridge, Ontario. After a forty-year career in the tourism industry, she’s now retired and working on her new career: writing. She is currently editing the first book in her mystery series, set in the wilds of Northern Ontario, with plans to publish next year. When not writing, or learning about writing, she’s dog walking in the forest, taking care of family, and enjoying the heck out of retirement!