Chapter 1. Poker Night
“Pot’s right,” Trish declared as a cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of her mouth, her right eye scrunched into a smoke-fueled squint. She held a well-worn deck in her left hand as she carefully watched for tells. Bug, still basking in the afterglow of his twelfth birthday, observed as his mama methodically dealt another card to each of the six kinfolk that gathered around the table nearly every Friday night for low-stakes dealer’s choice poker.
Uncle Punk spat a stream of tobacco juice into a Maxwell House coffee can he otherwise kept on the floor by his right leg. His wife, Aunt Thelma, sipping a rum and Coke, held her cards close to her ample bosoms. Bill, Bug’s dad, a tad sore about being ten bucks down, wiped a bead of sweat from his shiny bald pate as he finished a cup of hot coffee. Uncle Carl meticulously counted his winnings for the third time and his wife, Auntie May petted Tony, her cherished toy chihuahua, while humming a Harry James tune, her toe tapping to its boogie-woogie backbeat.
In those early hours of the poker gathering, Bug perched himself upon a bar stool just behind his mama’s left shoulder. From there, he could peer at her hand and observe her cunning scrutiny of the other players. To Mama, poker was a scientific pursuit. She possessed an uncanny ability to decipher her adversaries’ intentions and skillfully relay misinformation about her own hand, all done with an air of persuasion and subtlety. Her powers of observation were astonishing, never missing even the slightest twitch from her opponents. And once she’d peeked at the uplifted corner of each freshly dealt card, kept it face down throughout the hand.
As Bug watched her throughout most of his short life, it became evident that she would occasionally fold an obviously winning hand. But Mama didn’t play for the money; she played for the amusement. She knew that whether she lost or won a smidgen, it mattered not. She had snookered her opponents either way.
Dad, on the other hand, played poker like a down-and-out Vegas gambler, placing his hopes on the next card being the one that made his sorry hand a winner. But Lady Luck seldom smiled his way, and on most nights it seemed that for him the law of averages had been suspended. Despite his abysmal record of bad luck, Dad was the eternal optimist. Hand after hand, he would add to the pot looking for that elusive golden card and hand after hand he would lose. Mama spent many a Friday poker night simply reclaiming the money Bug’s dad lost.
Bug had gained the ability to subtly coax an adversary into an untenable situation after watching his mama mentally ambush her five familial opponents for several years. He had a prolific imagination, spurred by his passion for reading. It was said that he began reading as soon as he had detached himself from his mother’s teat. Trish, who worked for a book publishing company in Atlanta, fed him a constant stream of history books and adventure classics, which Bug consumed with ravenous passion and faultless recollection. By the time Bug was in the sixth grade, the school recommended he skip the seventh and go directly into high school a year early. However, his mama would have nothing to do with that idea as she knew that putting a sharp-tongued twelve-year-old in with much older, larger, and meaner teenagers was a formula for disaster.
As the deck made its way from one dealer to the next around the table, Mama’s winnings grew steadily. Uncle Carl, hoping to slow down his losing streak, spoke up, “Anything of interest to share since our last game?”
“Oh, we have some news you might find of interest,” Mama declared with a mischievous grin, her southern drawl as smooth and thick as sorghum syrup. “Bug got baptized last Sunday.”
Barely able to contain her laughter, she turned to Bug and asked, “Honey, why don’t you enlighten these folks as to how it went down?”
“I’d sooner not!” Bug shot a quick glance at his dad, who happened to be a deacon at the Pine Haven Baptist Church.
Bill met his son’s gaze with resignation. “I told Pastor Miller to fill the baptismal font earlier last week to allow the waters to warm. But, no… Preachers know best. Well, it was God’s will, I suppose.”
“Undeniably it was, darlin’,” Trish chimed in with a chuckle. “Allow me to continue the tale. Normally baptisms are conducted down at the lake but due to the unseasonably chilly weather we’ve had this year, the congregation pooled their resources…” Trish chuckled at her clever word play. “And the church bought what looked to be a giant glass aquarium. How much did it hold, Bill?”
Without waiting for Bill’s response, Trish carried on, “Easily over five hundred gallons, I’d reckon.” At the Wednesday night meeting, Bill and the other deacons built some steps up and over the font wall so the processioners could be dipped, one by one, in the holy waters while words of eternal salvation were spoken over each of God’s lambs. So, the deacons rolled this behemoth down the aisle to its divine, if not permanent resting place in front of the preacher’s lectern and left the preacher with instructions to get the garden hose from his house and fill the tank from the outside spigot as soon as possible.”
“I warned him.” Bill stopped shuffling and set the deck aside.
“Of course you did, honey, as you have so redundantly reminded us. Anyway, either by divine ordinance or the old pastor’s forgetfulness, the aquarium didn’t get filled until the night before the ceremony.”
“So, while the congregation was being seated for the service, I accompanied Bug and the five other young witnesses into the Sunday School room behind the sanctuary. As they awaited their eternal salvation, they all donned cotton choir robes and took off their shoes. They looked like precious little angels. Then in a solemn march, led by the ladies, they entered the sanctuary and positioned themselves to the left of the baptismal pool. The congregation rose and Preacher Miller, himself suitably robed, entered the waters from the right side. Fully drenched in those hallowed waters, the preacher quickly requested everyone be seated.”
At this point, the five kin around the table had concluded that Trish was intentionally drawing this story out. But only her husband and her son had the faintest idea why.
“Standing at the doorway behind the victims – I mean the wayward, soon-to-be-saved, I had a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings,” Trish continued with a chuckle. “As the first young girl entered the frigid waters, she let out a surprised yelp and inhaled sharply. After regaining her composure, she waded toward Preacher Miller. ‘Julie May,’ he asked, ‘Are you ready to receive the blessing and eternal salvation of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?’ ‘Y-y-yes, I am,’ she responded, eager to get back on dry land.
“At that point, the preacher placed his left hand on the small of the young girl’s back and used his right hand to cover her mouth, softly pinching her nose shut. He then dipped her gently backward, submerging her face and hair while offering a brief prayer, concluding with ‘I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ Once she re-emerged from those sanctifying waters, she quickly splashed her way to the exit steps.
“As the ceremony continued, I noticed the preacher started to shiver, his words growing rapid and slurred as his teeth chattered…
“His lips turned blue,” Bug interjected, “I swear,” he added looking at the mesmerized faces around the table.
Mama continued after giving Bug an encouraging pat on his leg. “So, it finally was Bug’s turn and Preacher Miller, once again asked, ‘Elmore, are you ready to receive the blessing and eternal salvation of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?’ to which my Bug replied… Well, honey, why don’t you tell everyone how you responded.”
“I said, ‘Could you repeat the question?’”
Auntie May let out a laugh that brought to mind a donkey’s bray and Thelma chuckled into her handkerchief. Uncle Carl smiled fondly at Bug. Bug’s dad slowly shook his head in exasperation.
Punk looked at Bug through amused eyes. “Your tongue is as sharp as your mind, kid.”
“And, in my defense, the pastor was slurring and stuttering so much it was hard to figure out what he was asking!” Bug searched for validation but found none.
“Honey, that was about as hard for you to figure out as a two-piece jigsaw puzzle. You’d heard that question uttered five times previous.”
“Well, he called me Elmore! Nobody calls me that but my grandma!”
“Be that as it may,” Trish continued, “Preacher Miller, seemingly irritated by Bug’s audacity, swiftly dunked him deeper and harsher than was customary. Startled by this sudden and somewhat violent immersion, Bug started flailing his arms in a panicked fit.
“One of those swings appeared to connect with the hypothermic preacher’s cold-shriveled privates, causing him to double over in obvious pain. As he did, he released my boy from his grasp. And like Lazarus rising from the dead, Bug emerged from the waters, cocked back his left arm, and delivered a solid blow to the preacher’s jaw, knocking the preacher’s glasses – and his dentures – into the sacred waters of the baptismal font.”
Uproarious laughter broke out amongst all those around the poker table – all that is, except Bug’s dad.
Trish resumed, “I needn’t tell you that this caused quite a stir amongst the congregation. Several ol’ ladies in the front row swooned – including the preacher’s pious wife, who was as frigid as her husband was at that moment. Several deacons rushed to the aid of the floundering preacher, and one even ventured into the font to retrieve the preacher and his choppers, which, by now having been divorced from his gums, had stopped their chattering.
“But most surprisingly, those congregants seated towards the back erupted in uproarious laughter at the preacher’s mortifying embarrassment.”
“Turns out Pastor Miller wasn’t hurt too bad just mortally embarrassed,” Bill added. “But I was stripped of my deaconship, and our family has been banned from the church.” He looked with accusation at his son. “And I suspect that was the plan all along.”
“Now Bill,” May interjected, “as Trish tells it, it would seem likely that Bug acted in self-defense. Besides, who knows how anyone else would have reacted in a similar situation? But that is a first, I tell you, being excommunicated from a Baptist church. Ha!”
“It’s alright, Sis. This whole ordeal opened my eyes to the vain hypocrites who lead the church. Hell, most deacons would show up at the Wednesday evening meetings reeking of whiskey. I don’t blame Bug; in fact, I hold some blame myself for forcing Bug to get baptized when he obviously wasn’t the slightest bit interested.”
With the conclusion of Trish’s epic tale, the game resumed. Shortly, however, May, brimming with excitement, looked at Bug and said, “Honey, are you ready to see the old Conrad mansion with us tomorrow?”
Bug had been dreaming about this ever since his aunt had broached the subject two weeks ago. “If I were any readier, I’d be there already!”
“That’s the spirit. I’m sure May will need an extra pair of strong hands to cart off all those antiques she purchases at the estate sale,” Trish interjected, her words laced with encouragement and a hint of sarcasm.
It was a well-known fact that May, having grown up dirt poor, was determined to make up for lost time by spending her husband’s considerable salary as quickly as he earned it. Scouring the area for antiques and heirlooms was her chosen approach to achieve that objective.
Bug loved visiting their house. And as his dad would park their old Chevy in the sweeping asphalt driveway, lined with monkey grass and rhododendrons, his heart quickened with anticipation. Crossing the threshold into the living room, Bug would marvel at the exotic furnishings his aunt had acquired and the countless souvenirs that his uncle – an executive for the Coca-Cola Bottling Company in Atlanta – had returned with after securing sweet cola contracts that spread carbonated joy, as well as tooth decay and diabetes, into far-off places. A burgundy Persian rug from the late 1700s, adorned with captivating symbols and patterns, took center stage in the room. There was a camel saddle, draped in soft, tan leather, which May used as a foot stool. In the corner, next to the front door stood an umbrella stand fashioned – he was told – from an actual elephant’s leg, a whimsical sight that tickled Bug’s imagination as he envisioned a herd of three-legged elephants roaming the African savannah solely to meet the demand for such stands. His gaze would wander to a massive emu egg intricately scrimshawed with mystical images by Australian Aboriginals, guarded all the while by a Maasai warrior carved from Jacaranda wood. A Queen Anne china cabinet proudly displayed a white porcelain vase adorned with a blue dragon crafted during the Ming dynasty and an array of other exotic curios, accolades, and ceramic pieces. The adjacent study displayed photographs capturing Vanuatu natives leaping from tall, crudely constructed wooden towers, their foreheads kissing the ground as the tree vines attached to their ankles stretched taut, a testament to their bravery and agility. Other snapshots showed a younger Uncle Carl atop a dromedary next to the King of Jordan who was relishing a sip of Coke from a small frosty bottle.
For Bug, Auntie May’s home offered a glimpse into those far-off exotic places; even the scent that lingered in the air carried a sense of adventure. Part palace, part museum, it stood in stark contrast to Bug’s family home – the unpretentious dwelling his parents could presently afford.
“We’ll need to arrive early to beat the late-risers and snatch the best deals,” May reckoned, ending Bug’s daydream. “It’s about an hour’s journey from here so let’s plan on leaving around six o’clock.” Being one of those ‘late-risers’ himself, Bug suppressed a groan.
Bill looked up from his hand and addressed his son with exaggerated seriousness, “Bug, let’s step into the kitchen a minute.” As Bug rose and followed his dad, he wondered which of the several unsanctioned escapades his dad had uncovered. Did someone snitch that Bug had made gun powder from ingredients he’d purchased at Freeman’s hardware? Did Ol’ Man Bailey complain about Bug fishing his pond late at night? Or perhaps he’d inadvertently left out a part when he’d reassembled his dad’s old pocket watch that he’d taken apart to see how it ticked? No, he’d felt pretty certain that it was working again when he put it back together. And it couldn’t be the ruckus his baptism caused, so scratch that one off the list. Bug was perplexed.
As the kitchen door swung shut, Bill put his arm around his son and spoke in a hushed tone. “I want you to be on your best behavior while staying with May and Carl, you hear? Now remember, next Friday is your mom’s birthday. Take this,” he said, slipping three crisp five-dollar bills into Bug’s front pocket. “Keep an eye out for something she might fancy at that estate sale. We’re all surprising her here with a party before our card game starts. It’s a secret so don’t say anything to Trish, understand?
Relief washed over Bug as he returned to the stool. He loved and respected his simple, hard-working dad who had left high school during the harsh grip of the Depression to provide for his family. When war erupted, Bill joined the Army Air Corp as a B-17 tail gunner. After the war, fate brought him together with Trish and shortly – and still somewhat mysteriously to Bug’s mind – a little Bug was born. “Of all the possible outcomes of my parents’ coupling, what are the chances that it would result in a ‘me’?” He would ponder this, the most existential of questions throughout his childhood. “It must be less probable than drawing a royal flush every hand, all night long! I just as easily could have been born a moron, or, worse yet, a girl.” The improbability of this fortunate outcome made Bug feel special and privileged.
With limited marketable skills, Bill toiled as a laborer for a large construction company in Atlanta to support his growing family. At night, he drove a bread truck for the local bakery, bringing home day-old loaves to help make ends meet. Some of Bug’s earliest and fondest memories involved his exhausted father cradling him late at night in an old rocker, both inevitably falling sound asleep.
When Bug was four, Bill began studying for the General Educational Development test. Night after night, Bug would sit beside his dad, watching as he tackled the multitude of assignments and exams that soon earned him his high school equivalency certificate and a boost to his employability. Bill’s hard work and leadership skills caught the attention of the construction superintendent and when an office position opened up, Bill gratefully accepted it. Since then and with the help of Trish’s job, they slowly but surely gained economic security and a more comfortable lifestyle.
As Bug reentered the room, Trish subtly watched as he staunched his emotions with the finesse of a seasoned gambler. She was well aware of what transpired but willingly played along in this charade.
Typically, Bug found endless amusement in the lively banter around the table. On this particular late spring occasion, the discussion had already veered towards the upcoming November presidential election. Auntie May tapped her cigarette in the ash tray and, in a voice as enticing as a summer breeze remarked, “That Senator Kennedy is quite the handsome candidate.”
Uncle Carl took the bait: “But honey, He’s entangled with the Irish mafia, and let’s not forget, he’s catholic and eats only fish on Fridays. Aren’t you allergic?” his brow furrowed with feigned worry.
May was cogitating on a clever response when Punk wiped away a dribble of brown spittle from the corner of his mouth and blurted out, “I’m inclined towards Lyndon Johnson, but I suspect Humphrey will be voted in by those ni—”
“Clifford!” May shouted, causing Punk to swallow his word and a sizeable gulp of tobacco juice. “I love you, brother, but say that word and you will be excommunicated from this house!” she warned as she leaned menacingly toward her brother, inadvertently causing the table to quake. Uncle Carl gave Punk a judgmental gaze over his thick-lensed hornrims. Dad shook his head disapprovingly as he tried to corral his paltry herd of nickels and dimes that had used the chaos to execute their escape.
Mama said softly, “Clifford, darlin’, that word is so vulgar and philistine. Before you resort to the use of such a barbarous designation, take a breath and reflect on the fact that your vernacular shows the world the quality of your soul and your standing in society. In the future, please be more considerate in your elocution.” She then gazed down at Punk’s stained and tattered shirt, then up to his stubbled ruddy jowls and continued, “you wouldn’t want your words to sully your reputation, now would you?”
Punk looked back at Trish, dumbfoundedly, as he struggled to untangle her meaning.
“The ladies is right, hon, such language ain’t proper at the table, especially iffin a young boy is present,” Aunt Thelma concurred. “The polite word is Negro!” Unanimously admonished and a bit green across the gills, Uncle Punk grumbled under his breath and the players got back to worrying about their cards.
It had been rumored that Punk was a member of the Ku Klux Klan and wore a bullet on a string around his neck, the purpose of which was never clearly stated. Was it so he could commit suicide when cornered by the militant wing of the NAACP rather than divulge secrets about the Klan? Or perhaps it was a last-ditch defense in the event he’d emptied his pistol trying to fend off a band of neo-abolitionists.
But none of that made sense, even to Bug’s young mind. He inwardly chuckled as he conjured up an image of his portly uncle struggling to unstring the bullet and fumbling for his revolver, while a group of Black avengers shuffled their feet, waiting for the Klansman to load his gun.
No, the logical answer was that like so many family stories, this was pure fiction. Punk was just a simple rural southerner who used crude racial epithets because that is what he had heard his whole life. He, like most folks in the Jim Crow south, was a captive of strong cultural currants that were nearly impossible to swim against. Little did anyone know that those currents were about to shift in a most tumultuous way.
As 10:00 pm approached, Bug put the stool away and headed into Auntie May’s family room to watch either boxing or, if lucky, a cheesy science fiction movie on the television. Normally, he would stretch out on the carpet, legs under the Queen Anne couch. But a newspaper lay open to the entertainment section, so Bug sat down and searched for the TV schedule.
“I checked already, looks like a boring fight between two no-name middle weights.”
Surprised, Bug looked up from the paper. His cousin Danny had walked in, silent as a ghost.
Danny, at the ripe old age of seventeen, was five years and one day Bug’s elder. Bug’s dad’s side of the family had always professed that they were part Cherokee. If that was so, then Danny got every drop of that Indian blood. He was red complected, with jet black straight hair and keen brown eyes. Although somewhat short in stature, his stocky build and comely features presented both a rugged and handsome quality. With a smile as broad and warm as a blacksmith’s hearth, he possessed a charm capable of bending even the most unyielding iron.
Danny’s inclinations leaned toward individual pursuits, with little regard for the clamor of team sports. A natural-born huntsman, he displayed an innate talent for archery, tracking, and trapping small game – a set of skills that had become scarce, even in the deep South. Bug’s Uncle Carl, previously a captain in the Marines who earned the Silver Star for his valor during the Battle of Okinawa, had taken it upon himself to instruct his son in the arts of survival. Hand-to-hand combat became second nature to the boy under his dad’s tutelage. In his junior year of high school, Danny’s prowess was on full display as he effortlessly claimed the coveted state wrestling championship.
Bug often mused that his cousin was born a century too late. Yet, he rejoiced in having Danny here in the present age so he could impart some of his talents and wisdom unto him. Bug held an unwavering reverence for his older cousin, and he wholeheartedly endeavored to emulate Danny’s actions and conduct.
Danny interrupted his cousin’s pondering with a scruff of Bug’s shaggy brown hair. “Big week ahead of us, with Spring Break and all. Maybe we can head down to the lakehouse and do some fishing or go camping or something. You looking forward to the estate sale tomorrow?”
“You know it!”
Danny chuckled and said, “Good, let’s hit the hay. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. And five o’clock will get here sooner than either of us wants.”
“Five o’clock? Auntie May said six o’clock!” Bug whined.
“That’s when we leave, knucklehead. We have to eat breakfast and I have to get Cobbie.”
“Who’s Cobbie?”
“You’ll see. Tomorrow.”
After saying good-bye to his parents and getting an embarrassing hug from his mama, Bug followed Danny upstairs to bed.
