Burn Cards
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Contents
About the Author
About the Publisher
Copyright
If you would like to use material from this eBook (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at info@280steps.com.
CONTENTS
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13
About the Author
About the Publisher
Copyright
Burn Cards – In card games, cards dealt from the top of the deck and discarded (“burned”) face down without being revealed to the players.
1
The sky has grown dark by the time he dumps me inside the trunk of the sedan. A rough interior lining scrapes against the exposed skin of my shoulders and arms, leaving bloodless scratches crisscrossing a yellowing bruise. He strains to fit me inside, breathing deep with each movement, enveloping me in a warm cloud of cheap bourbon and blood that tastes like sour vitamins. Pressure dots my vision with black spots, and I remember that I’m still in Reno. Everything is wrong. I pull my hands over my breasts and smell gunsmoke on my fingertips.
As he lifts my legs over the lip, wedging them in the corner behind me, the landscape blurs and I realize I’ve been lost, running in place until my feet are raw and blistered. Dragged away on bloody knees toward an unknown end, I am farther from freedom than I’ve ever been. I feel heavy, the air turning to water, my fingers clawing in slow motion at his hands.
He ignores what little flame I have left, and I finally submit, weakness blooming inside me. Desperation turns to a painful attempt at laughter, somewhere between a wheeze and a groan. It has all gone sideways. I don’t know where—it’s hard to see out of a deep valley, one where even the tallest trees are in the shade. He pauses and takes one last look at me before closing the trunk with a soft click. I wonder what he sees in that moment.
When I was a little girl, my father, Doug, took me to Washoe Downs for a day of horse racing. And betting. There was always a dollar to be made, or lost. That Sunday was no different. After a couple of bad bets in the morning, Doug doubled down on the final race of the afternoon, putting his money on Lucky Red, a strong filly with an outside chance and bettors’ odds. Her mane was caramel-colored with a red-orange tint in the sun. “Like your mother’s,” Doug said, pointing. He liked the color red, bet on it when playing roulette, which wasn’t often because of the poor odds. He swore he wasn’t a superstitious gambler but he’d throw money at a long bet just because he found a quarter on the floor next to a slot machine or a table happened to open up as he passed by. There were omens in everything, cash waiting to be made if you followed your gut instinct on the right one.
The horses made their way to the gate, the bookies called out for final bets, “LuckyRed’ere, anyfinalbetsLuckyRed,” speaking so fast it all ran together in a foreign language only the regulars could follow. I fell for the hope and excitement in the crowd. My mouth watered over the victory dinner Doug had promised. The gun sounded and the horses burst from the gates. I remember the thrill of cheering in the stands, the flutter in my chest with all our money on the line. Lucky Red started out strong, cutting outside the pack and tearing for the front. Amidst the thunder of hooves, just as she overtook the lead on the final turn before the home stretch, her front legs buckled and she crashed into the dirt, throwing her jockey into the stampede. The snap of her leg echoed across the track. Raucous cheers were replaced with gasps, followed by hushed silence. Doug collapsed into his seat, his face so white I thought he’d had a heart attack. Her jockey fought for air next to the horse, crooked hands clutching the crumpled section of his chest. While parents grabbed their children, covered their eyes and ran for the exits, Doug made me watch, made me listen to her agony as she thrashed in the mud and crews rushed to end her misery in secret, where the mind’s eye shows you the finale. This is how it feels to lose.
Now the ringing in my ears is gone, but it’s been replaced by movement and the thud of a flat tire, thumping over and over in slow motion, trapped until it expels its last breath of air and is shredded, left on the roadside. A jarring vibration rattles my teeth. They feel loose and fragile, humming inside my jaw. When I bite down, my tongue feels like a wet dishrag that’s been dipped in grease and smoke. My limbs no longer feel my own, itching and burning having shed their old skin. A horn sings and my skull meets familiar cold metal. Sweetness fills my nose. I am no longer lost. I try to remember the last smile I’ll ever see. I know if I open my eyes again, it will only get darker.
2
The salon smelled of heat and cherry shampoo. I spun Rita in the chair and she let out a yelp, loud enough to hear over a blow-dryer.
“Again, Mirna!” she shrieked, displaying the widest smile I’d ever seen. She’d lost most of her front baby teeth since her last appointment, her mouth like a jack-o’-lantern. Under the black salon apron she held on tight to the arms of the chair and kicked her feet, almost losing a flip-flop as she whirled around a second time. Her giggle was contagious and I couldn’t help but laugh, the small moment a reminder of why I loved Jazmín’s Beauty Salon and the woman who gave me a chance.
The salon was a safe place, nestled in a nondescript strip mall in MidTown, my corner where I could work and forget about the world outside. Small—only three chairs—like the barbershop Doug took me to when I was little; it was nothing like the in-and-out business of a chain. The work there was personal; the customers family. Rita’s big eyes fixed on me through the mirror. I’d have given anything to steal some of her innocence and take it for a stroll around the city, experience something simple and new—the smells of the pavement in the hot desert sun, tobacco crisp and fresh. To see decaying casino lights as bright and energetic, and a drunken father as a funny clown with rosy cheeks, and a laugh that is real and genuine. Rita was young; she still had time. I hoped she could escape my fate, this town, and go to a place where she could just be a kid. In a city of gamblers, we shed our childhood like a young snake molts its first skin.
When I was thirteen, I stood in the kitchen on a Tuesday morning in an extra large T-shirt, clenching a plastic spoon, my stomach panging for the stale Frosted Flakes getting soggy on the table in front of me. My eyes burned on the verge of tears. I told Doug that I wished he had died alongside my mother in Vegas. He stood across the kitchen, his hands spread out behind him across the countertop. He puffed out smoke from his cigarette, and stowing it in the corner of his mouth, said, “if she was driving, I would have. Your mother was practically blind, you know?” Then he took an envelope of cash labeled ‘college’ out of the cupboard and stuffed it in his wrinkled pants pocket as he walked out the door. That was the moment I knew I was on my own.
A comb bounced off my arm, clattering to the floor. I glanced down at the cheap plastic.
“Jeeze, don’t be such a downer,” Nicole said with a chuckle. “Gonna scare the kiddo with that serious face of yours.”
I relaxed my jaw to mask a scowl and blinked at Nicole. Using the mirror to the right of my chair as a guide, she layered thick eyeliner in shades of glossy teal. Her dark brown hair was teased out in long curls and she wore a low-cut black dress that kept her cleavage and toned thighs on full display. One of her favorites; a real Friday night regular.
“I’m telling you, Mirna, you have to go out with me and the girls sometime. Live a little, you know? All you do is work.”
“I like it here.”
“Great, so do I. Doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.”
“May
be next time.”
“Sure, sure. That’s what you always say. Tell you what though, won’t stop me from asking again. I know a lot of cute guys I could hook you up with in a second.”
She posed in front of the mirror one last time, puckering her lips into a kiss, and turned to say her goodbyes. First to Rita, bending down for a high five, as low as her attire would allow. When she stood she adjusted the top of her dress, snatched her hot pink purse-of-the-week and said, “You have my number.” It was one thing we could agree on.
Nicole overflowed with compliments and generosity that felt like the faux leather couches in the waiting area—cheap and thin. Behind the cheerful facade, she did little other than pick up her paycheck. Often she took off during her lunch break and spent the afternoon lounging beside a pool. It got under my skin but I didn’t complain. The extra cash was nice and more importantly she could keep a secret.
During my second week on the job Nicole caught me choking down vodka minis in the alley behind the salon. I was having trouble adjusting to the new schedule and accepting Jazmín’s kindness. Thought the quick trip would take the edge off. Her wicked smile told me everything I needed to know as she lit up a joint without a care in the world. She was untouchable. Jealous, I threw back an extra shot and spent the rest of the day in a haze.
Nicole was related to Jazmín through a complicated connection that she had trouble explaining without fumbling for words. It was thin, but family was family, and Jazmín treated her like a teenage daughter, instructing her on a daily basis not to stay out too late. But since Jazmín took in a bum like me, I guess I had to give her credit. They weren’t perfect, but the pair was more of a family than I’d ever had.
I studied myself in the mirror, the hand-me-down black T-shirt with Jazmín’s logo fraying on the left breast and wondered how I’d fit in with Nicole. Doug never said he wanted a son but he raised me to play sports and wear pants. Growing up, the only thing that kept me resembling a girl were the magazines I’d read in bookstores around town. I’d sit for hours at a time, cross-legged in the aisles, tracing my fingers along the likes of Heidi Klum and Gisele, desiring their beauty, makeup and hair. Stacks of those magazines owned much of the counter space in front of my chair at the salon, dog-eared and wrinkled from thumbing through countless times with Jazmín, no longer just looking, but learning. A few more months and I’d have a real education, a degree that would take me places. Maybe even break the habit of losing myself in bad memories. Scratch the itch of the crumpled pack of cigarettes that whispered my name from my back pocket.
Refocused, I told Rita to hold still while I finished up. I combed her bangs down and cut slowly, my scissors hugging across her forehead. Rita wrinkled her nose as wet dirty blond bits no longer than an eyelash fell across her cheeks.
I started the blow-dryer and tussled her hair as she checked herself out in the mirror, a miniature blond version of her mother, Sam. Rita and Sam were two of my regular customers. We’d chat over headlines and she would gossip about her students. They were a rowdy bunch of freshmen but she treated them like an extension of her family, keeping long office hours and staying late.
I only cut Rita’s hair now. A few months back, I told Sam I wished I had someone like her as a mother. She clammed up and gave me an awkward smile like she didn’t know how to help. I struggled with what to say and Sam put up a wall after that, only making an effort to say hello or goodbye when she brought Rita into the salon.
I hear in the Midwest people look you in the eye and say hello when you pass by on the street. The smiles are genuine and they are quick to invite strangers into their home for a cup of coffee. At least that is what the truckers at the diner say.
But I wasn’t going anywhere and it didn’t do me any good thinking about the world outside of Reno. Especially when everything changed that night. At some point in life, you get stuck in a rut spinning your wheels obsessing over the future when all you need to do is get out of the car and take a different path on foot. But you grind and grind until you’re feeling sorry for yourself and don’t see the madness coming around the curve. You think things are bad, but it's just the start and they are going to get much, much worse.
3
It wasn’t unusual for Doug to show up at the salon looking for money. Just a few bills to get him back in the game. He’d beg, promising to make ‘the investment’ back tenfold. The celebration we’d have when he proved me wrong–this time. It wasn’t unusual to see the depression, a tattered cape wrapped around his hunched shoulders. Or to see him crack a smile and shed a tear or two when I reached into my tip jar to make him disappear.
What was unusual, on this occasion, was the fear in his eyes. Not a fear of losing the next hand, or spending the night on a bench padded with cardboard. It was something more, something dangerous and imminent, as if the turn card wasn’t an ace, he was going down.
Well, the turn card gave him nothing and he’d gone all-in on the river. It was written all over his face that late Friday afternoon, but I didn’t see it. You’d think a girl would sense such a change in her father, but Doug was absent so often that I just didn’t care anymore. I had one foot out the door and would do anything to keep life stable until the other was out behind it. I should have known it was only a matter of time.
As I dried Rita’s hair, bells above the door of the salon jingled, signaling the entrance of a late arrival. I turned to look but Rita started squirming in the chair, desperate for more attention. You’d think she’d get enough attention, being an only child. Then again, I was an only child and the recipient of jack shit, so what did I know?
“We’re closing, sir. No more time for cuts tonight,” Jazmín said, disappointment in her voice at turning a customer away.
“Oh come on, it will be quick. Look at this scruff? I’ve got to look my best for the weekend.”
The man’s salt and pepper hair was in stark contrast with his skin, fresh from soaking up the rays in a tanning bed. He wore a white suit and a red shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest. In the bright light of the salon he appeared crisp and put together, not faded like my memory. He looked past Jazmín and our eyes met.
A shock rippled through my chest and I felt my face flush. I worked at the salon to escape, but like the rest of my life, the dirt found a way to creep in. When the roots are buried deep, the tile cracks and they push up from under, all brown and ugly. Antonio placed a hand on Jazmín’s shoulder, squeezed as he passed and strutted to the back toward me. His white leather shoes squeaked against the linoleum. He gave the other two chairs a gentle spin, the gold rings on his fingers blending into his skin.
“Mirna Fowler,” he said, cupping his hand over his mouth in surprise. “Look at you. What has it been, five years?”
He extended out his arms like a cartoon in a gesture of peace. I kept the blow-dryer going, absently fluffing Rita’s hair. Her fidgeting ceased, curiosity peaked. When Antonio figured out I was ignoring him, he turned his attention to Rita, poking at her feet and tickling her leg. She laughed, the huge smile reappearing on her face. I cut the blow-dryer and spun the chair to get her away from him. Her days would be numbered around men like that.
“Alright, Rita, you’re all done.” I stripped off the cape and handed her a small mirror. She held it up high with both hands, turning her head side to side, and jumped down from the chair without a word—until her mother would arrive with a tip to deliver along with a hesitant thank you.
Rita completed the routine by running to the front, standing on her tiptoes to retrieve a peppermint from a green dish on the front desk and then plopped down on the couch, pulling out a cell phone. Who needs a babysitter?
“Hey, over here,” Antonio said, stepping into my line of sight. “What, no hello? Is that how you treat a long lost friend?”
I thought he’d say lover. The blow-dryer shook in my hand. I sent it clattering to the counter before I did something I’d regret.
“What do you want, Antonio?” Anxious, I twirled a p
air of scissors around an index finger. He apparently found the act sexy and moved in for a hug. He smelled sweet with a hint of smoky aftershave that threw my need for nicotine into overdrive. I’d half a mind to run for the back and chain-smoke the last of my pack. But knowing Antonio, he’d fall in behind, and the two of us would be alone in the dying light.
“How many times do I have to remind you, call me Tony? Look, I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his stubble. “I just can’t believe we’re running into each other like this. Hell, I just got into town, and here you are. Amazing.” His eyes darted up and down my figure, checking out what he’d missed.
“Aren’t I too old for you now?” I said, slipping a piece of my mind before I could bite my tongue. The calculating grin on his face told me there was more to this ‘surprise’. It was the same face I’d made the mistake of falling for five years ago.
I met Antonio when I lived in the suburbs. Doug hosted the weekly poker game and Antonio rounded out the necessary sixth as a last minute replacement. The group always needed six. The group never skipped a week so it was common for a friend of a friend to fill in when someone had to bail. Antonio spotted my status as the neglected lamb the second he walked in the door. He blew all of his chips early after a few drinks, spending the rest of the night nursing a beer and talking with me on the couch. We joked about high school drama and how poor he was at cards. We even had the same taste in music. His deep voice warmed me to my core. He played the father figure I’d missed and the boyfriend I wanted to curl up and fall asleep on.
I convinced Doug to let me attend poker night every week after that. When host duties rotated away, I told him it was to be his designated driver, but it was really to see Antonio, who’d become a regular—an easy loser they’d decided to keep around. Four weeks later Antonio hosted his first poker night. His two bedroom apartment was plain, but comfortable. A bachelor’s pad with little character—just the essentials. I all but melted when he winked at me as I left to drive Doug home. Once Doug passed out on the couch, I slipped into his car and sped back across town.