Lucky(54)

“You okay?”

Lucky nodded and coughed.

“Well, then. Day starts early. Six thirty a.m., report to the office trailer. There’s a sign on it says ‘office,’ you can’t miss it, it’s thataway. See you tomorrow.” She sped off again almost before Lucky had retrieved her backpack from the back of the cart. Lucky stood and watched her until she was out of sight.

She went inside the cabin. The toilet didn’t work in the dingy beige bathroom—everything was beige, including the plastic shower curtain, and everything was stained with mineral rust—but the sink did. She turned on the water and waited for it to turn hot. When it did, she scrubbed her hands with soap all the way up to her elbows, then left the bathroom and took her bag to the bedroom, which was small and faux-wood-paneled, with a tiny window up so high she couldn’t see out of it. There was a strange smell, like rot covered up with air freshener.

She began to unpack her meager belongings, tucking her few pairs of underwear and bras into a drawer that protested with a shriek as she opened it. A few wire hangers clung together in the closet, then jangled objections as she hung up a shirt.

She retrieved the lottery ticket from her bra, smoothed it out, and checked it for rips before folding it carefully and putting it in her wallet. It took only a minute to unpack; then she walked from the bedroom into the rest of the cabin, which consisted of a living room–kitchen combo. It was sparsely furnished: a couch upholstered in nubby army-green fabric, a stuffed pike affixed to a board hanging above it. There was a wooden chair next to the window, and a tin-topped table in the kitchen with two mismatched chairs. White-painted cupboards contained a motley gang of cups and dishes. She knew it wasn’t much, but it was a roof over her head. Somewhere she could be alone. And her mother was out there. Lucky was going to get to know her—and then she was going to tell her about the lottery ticket. It was all going to come together. This was the start of a new and better life.

There was a corkboard by the back door with a list of rules:

No smoking inside. No candles. No open flames. No moving the furniture. No parties. No loud music after 10 p.m. or the police WILL be called. Fish gutting happens in the gut house ONLY! Not on the back deck. Not in your kitchen!



Lucky’s empty stomach groaned, even at the unappetizing thought of gutting fish. She didn’t have any tackle to catch anything with, anyway. But frankly, she wished she did. She opened the fridge out of habit. It was empty. She stood in front of it, letting the cool air hit her face and body for a moment before closing it again.

A door in the living room led out to a wood-planked deck. It overlooked the river and was flanked by pine trees. She stepped outside and her toes landed in a wodge of pine sap that had dripped down from the trees. She looked at the slow-moving river for a while, trying to distract herself from her hunger.

After, she went inside and slid her shoes on. She walked back out of the cabin and along the dusty drive. Just before she veered off toward the road, she paused to say hello to the horses, all gathered at the fence. She petted one’s soft muzzle, made a mental note to ask Gloria their names tomorrow. Then she followed the main road that led to the nearest town. It didn’t take long. The sign said it was called Duvoyage, and had a population of 534. Downtown consisted of a gas station, a shuttered gift shop, a grimy-windowed pizza parlor, and a grocery store.

Inside the grocery store, Lucky took a basket and meandered through the cramped aisles, picking up coffee, peanut butter, some battered and bruised apples that were on sale. She kept the tab under twenty dollars in her mental calculations: a loaf of bread, some boxes of macaroni and cheese, a bagged salad, granola bars, and milk.

“That’ll be $19.11,” the cashier said, and Lucky handed her a twenty. Then, when the woman opened the register, Lucky pulled her final twenty out of her wallet. “Can you make change for this? In fives?” she said.

“Sure.” The cashier counted out four fives, handed them to Lucky, and turned back to the register. Lightning fast, the way her father had taught her, Lucky folded one of the fives up her sleeve. “Oops, sorry. You only gave me fifteen,” she said, fanning out the three fives.

“My apologies. I could have sworn I counted out four fives,” the cashier said. “But I can’t open the register now, so you’ll have to wait.”

“S’alright, Carla,” said another voice. “Here, you take my five, and Carla can square up with me after.”

Lucky turned. It was Gloria, and her eyebrows were raised. “Take it,” she said, and Lucky did, feeling her cheeks start to burn with shame. Gloria had seen her shortchange the cashier, she knew it.

“Thanks,” Lucky said. “See you back at the camp.” She picked up her paper bag of groceries in one arm and walked out. But Gloria paid for her own groceries quickly and followed.

“Hey,” she said, coming up behind Lucky. “I’ll give you a ride.” She pointed to a dull red pickup. “There’s me.”

Lucky climbed in. Gloria turned the truck on and pulled out of the parking lot. “Where’d ya learn to do that?” she asked as she signaled to turn left. “?’Cause there’s only one person I know who could shortchange a person so fast you almost didn’t know if you saw it. And his name was Armstrong, too, just like you. John Armstrong. You related? We were married. God help me, we still are, though I haven’t seen him in more than a few decades.” Gloria pulled a flask out from under the seat, took a sip as she drove, then pointed it at Lucky. “Want some?”