The Queen's Games

It came as a surprise to us that Bobo, given her intelligence and street smarts, could succumb to something as ordinary as a caffeine overdose, but Bobo could be reckless and wild. The six-pound-furball would shamelessly jump up on the kitchen table as soon as you turned your back, she’d stick her head in a cup and lick up every drop of coffee. The dog would shake convulsively if she didn’t get her morning fix. Bobo, a true hedonist, preferred coffee with sugar and cream, but she was not opposed to drinking it black.

“I’m sorry,” the vet said to The Queen, our mother. “Remember Balzac? Fifty cups of coffee a day. First recorded death by caffeine poisoning.”

The Queen didn’t know Balzac from Babel, academics not one her strong points. In the 1930s dyslexia and ADHD did not exist, and apparently, The Queen had been afflicted with both. As compensation, The Queen shopped, and she became a damn good card player. During the Great Depression, everyone played cards.

∞

When The Queen, who was ninety, and spent most of her day in bed, called to report Bobo’s demise, and her sudden willingness to embrace assisted living, we snapped to attention. The four of us decided that I would make the phone calls asap, concerned that The Queen would change her mind. Because she liked to keep us guessing. This was how she operated: she loved a game, any game.

The next morning I flew from the north country to the Florida coast, and as The Queen lay in bed – legs elevated and arms raised – she pointed at pantsuit after pantsuit: silver-sequined, beaded, and fancy-buttoned, saying, “This one. No, that one. And don’t forget my porcelain ballerinas.” The Queen wore the pants and was determined to wear them until the end.

Everything was going smoothly until The Queen could not find the TV’s remote. First no Bobo furball, now no TV. Roger was deployed next. He searched all over the damn condo: beneath couches, between cushions, in drawers, cabinets, closets and hidden nooks and crannies. Roger, a biologist and passionate advocate of sustainability (and unaware of the existence of universal programmable remotes) could not bring the TV back to life. “Fuck it,” Roger said. He bought a new TV and remote. He chauffeured The Queen to her assisted facility and hired a handyman to move her bed, the TV, TV table, and two ridiculously heavy stuffed chairs.

Clara, who owned a cleaning company, and lived in Missouri, was next. She spent a week decluttering The Queen’s condo, then hired a helper who picked through everything, setting aside usables for himself and the local charities before consigning the impossibly wretched and obsolete to the dumpster. At the Queen’s insistence, Clara carted over more pantsuits, purses, china, and expired bags of potato chips. Whatever The Queen wanted.

The Queen propped herself up on her bed – her throne – while the newly engaged TV dispensed vital information about the world. She was all smiles, surrounded by Jesus-music and melodious people shaking, shifting, swaying as they sang songs of sweetness.

“Living the life!” she’d croon.

Then it was Emily’s turn. She was an IT professional, and after she ordered another dumpster, she installed The Queen’s Hey Google so The Queen would always have someone – day or night – to talk to. She also fixed the illegal wiring in the condo so it could be sold.

“Hey Google, tell me what temperature is outside,” The Queen would say, and when Google responded, The Queen smiled from her bed.

∞

When the eldest of us was nine, The Queen had lain in bed for a solid year. That was the cure in the 60s for someone with rheumatic fever and a bad heart. Now we would say she was depressed: alone, in the country, having four babies in six years and no help. Little companionship. She ate potato chips, drank Coke-a-Cola, and medicated her aches with aspirin. A tiny black-and-white TV on spindly legs kept her company. The doctor would come every two weeks to take her vitals, and she’d laugh and joke with him, and try to convince him to stay and play cards with her. The Queen so loved a game.

Because our father left before dawn for the steel plant in Buffalo, we kids made the rules. We argued over whose turn it was to use the bathroom. We fought over who got the instant oatmeal with raisins. We cursed when there was no bread to make sandwiches for lunch. But we also made sure everyone got on the school bus, school being down the hill and a three-mile walk into town. Except for Emily, who was too young for school. She watched TV all day.

Now we all have families of our own. No one lingers in bed past seven. We all have jobs. We know to exercise. We know to eat healthful foods.

Emily cannot tolerate TV. Faced with the overhead screens at airports, she runs in the opposite direction, but she and her partner love to run, and that’s her game: beating the clock.

Clara, obsessive about clutter, has an immaculate house. She makes frequent guest appearances on the podcast, Use Things, Love People. She has lots of friends and knows fifty variations of poker.

Roger’s Re-Use Store is a stellar success. Because his store accepts almost everything, Roger has become a world-renown expert on vintage pantsuits and old decks of cards. He has two cats, and has taught them to sit, roll over, and jump in the air, but he never allows them on the kitchen table.

I teach psychology at the local community college. My focus is on family dynamics. I have come to believe that not only does childhood never disappear, but in adulthood, it expands, and its richness is there, but only if you know how to look for it. I don’t play cards, but I love a good strong cup of coffee. No sugar, no cream. I make coffee every morning. I drink it black, and savor every single drop.