Hearts in Atlantis(125)

'Where's Dearie?' I asked. 'Do you know?' The sleet was falling hard now, rattling through the trees and pinging every inch of exposed skin.

'The young and heroic Mr Dearborn is out sanding sidewalks and paths with a dozen or so of his ROTC buddies,' Skip said. 'We saw them from the lounge. They're driving around in a real army truck. Malenfant said their pricks are probably so hard they won't be able to sleep on their stomachs for a week. I thought that was pretty good, for Ronnie.'

'When Dearie comes back - '

'Yeah, when he comes back.' Skip shrugged, as if to say all that was beyond our control. 'Meantime, let's get out of this slop and play some cards, what do you say?'

I wanted to say a lot of stuff about a lot of things . . . but then again I didn't. We went back inside, and by mid-afternoon the game was in full swing once more. There were five four-handed 'sub-games' going on, the room was blue with smoke, and someone had dragged in a phonograph so we could listen to the Beatles and the Stones. Someone else produced a scratched-up Cameo forty-five of '96 Tears' and that spun for at least an hour non-stop: cry cry cry. The windows gave a good view on Bennett's Run and Bennett's Walk, and I kept looking out there, expecting to see David Dearborn and some of his khaki buddies staring at the north side of the dorm, perhaps discussing if they should go after Stoke Jones with their carbines or just chase him with their bayonets. Of course they wouldn't do anything of the sort. They might chant 'Kill Cong! Go US!' while drilling on the football field, but Stoke was a cripple. They would happily settle for seeing his commie-loving ass busted out of the University of Maine.

I didn't want that to happen, but I didn't see any way it wouldn't. Stoke had had a sparrow-track on the back of his coat since the beginning of school, long before the rest of us were hip to what it meant, and Dearie knew it. Plus, Stoke would admit it. He'd deal with the Dean and the Disciplinary Officer's questions the same way he dealt with his crutches - at a full-out plunge.

And anyway, the whole thing began to seem distant, okay? The way classes did. The way Carol did, now that I understood she was really gone. The way the concept of being drafted and sent away to die in the jungle did. What seemed real and immediate was hunting out that bad Bitch, or shooting the moon and hitting everyone else at your table with twenty-six points at a whack. What seemed real was Hearts.

But then something happened.

33

Around four o'clock the sleet changed to rain, and by four-thirty, when it began to get dark, we could see that Bennett's Run was under three or four inches of water. Most of the Walk looked like a canal. Below the water was an icy, melting slush Jell-O.

The pace of the games slowed as we watched those unfortunates who were working the dishline cross from the dorms to the Palace on the Plains. Some of them - the wiser ones - cut across the slope of the hillside, making their way through the rapidly melting snow. The others came down the paths, slipping and sliding on their treacherous, icy surfaces. A thick mist had begun to rise from the wet ground, making it even harder for people to see where they were going. One guy from King met a girl from Franklin at the place where the paths converged. When they started up Bennett's Walk together the guy slipped and grabbed the girl. They almost went down together, but managed to keep their combined balance. We all applauded.

At my table we began a hold hand. Ronnie's weaselly little friend Nick dealt me an incredible thirteen cards, maybe the best pat hand I'd ever gotten. It was a shoot-the-moon opportunity if ever I had one: six high hearts and no really low ones, the king and queen of spades, plus court-cards in the other two suits, as well. I had the seven of hearts, a borderline card, but you can catch people napping in a hold hand; no one expects you to shoot the moon in a situation where you can't improve your original draw.

Lennie Doria played The Douche to start us off. Ronnie immediately played void, ridding himself of the ace of spades. He thought that was great. So did I; my two court spades were now both winners. The queen was thirteen points, but if I got all the hearts, I wouldn't eat those points; Ronnie, Nick, and Lennie would.

I let Nick take the trick. We spilled three more tricks uneventfully - first Nick and then Lennie mined for diamonds - and then I took the ten of hearts mixed into a club trick.

'Hearts have been broken and Riley eats the first one!' Ronnie bugled gleefully. 'You're goin down, country boy!'

'Maybe,' I said. And maybe, I thought, Ronnie Malenfant would soon be smiling on the other side of his face. With a successful shoot, I could put the idiotic Nick Prouty over a hundred and cost Ronnie a game he'd been on his way to winning.

Three tricks later what I was doing became almost obvious. As I'd hoped, Ronnie's smirk became the expression I most enjoyed seeing on his face - the disgruntled pout.

'You can't,' he said. 'I don't believe it. Not in a hold hand. You ain't got the f**kin horses.' Yet he knew it was possible. It was in his voice.

'Well, let's see,' I said, and played the ace of hearts. I was running in the open now, but why not? If the hearts were spread evenly, I could win the game right here. 'Let's just see what we - '

'Look!' Skip called from the table nearest the window. His voice held disbelief and a kind of awe. 'Jesus Christ, it's f**kin Stokely!'

Play stopped. We all swivelled in our chairs to look out the window at the darkening, dripping world below us. The quartet of boys in the corner stood up to see. The old wrought-iron lamps on Bennett's Walk cast weak electric beams through the groundmist, making me think of London and Tyne Street and Jack the Ripper. From its place on the hill, Holyoke Commons looked more like an ocean liner than ever. Its shape wavered as rain streamed down the lounge windows.