Renatka's Blog Post

 When Fortunes Dwindle

Screeeeech.

The engine sputters and chokes as rusted wheels skid to a halt against the train tracks, peeling into the bustling station just in time to accept a throng of holiday travelers. Sparks burst out onto the rails, and a sprawling cloud of grey steam settles over the rabble. William glances outside his cabin window as he joins the group flocking to the exit, his eyes sliding from the crowds of strangers babbling and laughing on the platform to the sharp icicles hanging from the station’s roof. Clutching his suitcase tightly, he steps outside the train, the cold night wind battering itself against his face as strangers push and shove him to get inside the train. A few minutes later, the train engine splutters violently once again, and the wheels crash against the train tracks, until the shrieks of colliding metal fade to a distant rumble. William makes his way from the station, a smile plastered on his lips and the beginnings of a bright idea brewing in his head.

The icy ground slides against his boots as he walks down the streets, warm lights from shop displays spilling out onto the snow. The city welcomes and beckons him, past the busy main street with its smells of freshly baked bread and cinnamon cookies wafting through the crowds, and through a tight side alley, around overflowing dumpsters, beggars crouching on their knees, pleading, and a low-hanging clothing line. He doesn’t know why his feet aren’t leading him home, instead crunching through the snow on an unfamiliar path, but he can hear the heavy stacks of bills shuffling around in his suitcase, can feel his mouth start to ache from grinning for so long, and knows the two aren’t unrelated.

He arrives at the casino, the grandiose entrance towering above him, doors inlaid with twinkling lights and abstract carvings. Though he’s heard of the Red Crystal Casino many times before--so much so that the directions to the entrance have ingrained themselves into his memory-never once has he stepped foot inside the painted mass of wood beams, looming above the little record shop next door as if to impose its presence onto the neighborhood. He climbs the stairs to the blood red double doors, adjusts his grip on his suitcase, and rattles the knobs open.

As soon as he steps inside, a cascade of light, laughter, and wine floods past him to the much darker and colder street. He snaps his eyes to a brawny figure in the corner, tapping his feet against the wood floor and fidgeting with a pile of tokens. Just imagine cashing in all of those points! His hands start to shiver in excitement despite the pulsing radiator sitting in the corner of the room, and he barely listens to the croupier welcoming him inside.

Instead, he gapes at the bundles of tables and chairs stacked almost on top of each other in the giant space, between which waiters hurry to refill drinks, barely squeezing past the babbling patrons. The incessant clinking of glasses and ringing of slot machines reminds him of the obnoxiously loud bells of the church his father used to drag him along to--as if he had thought that an eight-year-old boy could be bothered to study the Bible every day when he could be listening to the radio or playing with friends.

At any rate, William no longer has to worry about his fool of a father and his oppressive rules--after that incident with the car crash, Henry Sutton’s strict, nonsensical rules could fade from his memory forever. No longer would he have to spend sunny August afternoons locked in a stuffy library reading 17th century literature; no longer would he have to report his every nap, drink, and conversation to that useless old crow--not with his inheritance wrapped neatly inside a suitcase. He smiles at the thought of this new freedom--the freedom which he could now grant to his own son, despite his father’s wishes--and sits at a poker table, where three other players stare at him as his grin presses against his cheeks. It would be fairly simple to prove his father wrong: to double that man’s entire life savings using a game that he had religiously forbidden throughout his lifetime would be an exhilarating victory indeed.

The evening passes quickly, and his hands clasp and unclasp his suitcase dozens of times as he exchanges tokens and cash with the strangers playing with him. He doesn’t recall their faces or names, only the movement of the tokens, flitting between his fingers as swiftly as a hummingbird, tumbling between his quivering, sweaty palms and the poker table. All night, he glues his eyes to the game, his grin widening at every glorious flip of a token, teeth biting deep into his tongue, and fingers dancing across the table. Occasionally, he drops a clammy hand into his pocket to reach for his handkerchief and slick his greased hair away from his eyes, careful not to let it block his vision.

“Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?”

His head jerks up and his eyes dart to the ceiling, scanning the brightly lit room, landing on the empty chairs, then the waiters cleaning up half-empty wine glasses, and finally to the stout little man standing in front of him, his back to William.

“He still hasn’t woken up yet. What am I supposed to do? Drag him out the door and let him freeze?” The man scowls and turns around, only to flinch backwards and gasp. He stumbles away from William and grabs a chair with one hand, causing another to crash onto the ground.

“Charles? What happened?”

Another, younger waiter rushes over, but stops after seeing William.

“What--Why is he--Sir, are you alright?”

The stout man holding onto the chair stands upright and peers forward. “I was only startled, that’s all,” he says, a note of concern in his voice. “It’s just that… I apologize, sir, it’s simply that when I turned around you were smiling very strongly… and your eyes so wide… I apologize.”

William sits up in his seat and slides his gaze around the room a second time. No players remain at the mahogany tables, only a few waiters cleaning up drinks trays and piles of cards.

“It’s quite alright,” he says, his eyes slipping from one man to the other. “Although, I would very much like to know where my tokens have gone.”

Charles and the young waiter glance at each other, a spark of uneasiness flashing between them.

“Ah.” Charles swallows and pulls out a napkin from his back pocket, which he twirls between his stubby fingers. “Yes.” He glances down at the poker table, where William’s leather suitcase lies, devoid of both tokens and cash, then back to the waiter.

“You see…” He swallows again. “You lost all of your money to that gentleman who came in around 12 o’clock. You remember the tall fellow? With the red mustache? Yes, he wanted you to repay your debt by calling him at his office.” Charles grabbed a business card stuck beneath an empty wine glass and presented it proudly, albeit with a trembling hand, to William. “This number, right here! Quite simple, you see?”

William doesn’t take the card. The man’s fingers’ quaver even more, and he sets the card back down onto the table with a nervous ahem.

“Well, but don’t be alarmed,” the younger waiter hurries to add, after seeing William’s smile fade into a frown. “We assumed… Well, sir, you are dressed quite nicely, and have a good amount of money with you in that suitcase… That is, when you came in. You were just so keen on playing the game uninterrupted, so, ah, entranced were you, that no one quite wanted to say anything after you continued to, well, lose everything.”

“Everything?” William repeats, as if in a daze.

“Well, everything that you brought here tonight. Of course, a fine gentleman like you must have other wealth. Surely!”

William’s heart skips a beat and thrums against his ribcage in short, quick bursts. He does have other wealth--plenty, in fact--but it is nothing compared to the amount he’s lost today.

The two men stare at him, fingers clasped, their eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, so eager are they to witness his reaction. Sitting in the center of the casino, legs sprawled across the cushioned chair and forehead perspiring at a rate reminiscent of a miniature waterfall, William bolts upright, snaps his neck to the entrance, and hurtles his entire body forward, knocking over chairs and crashing through the red doors, landing face-down on the snow. Shivering, he spits snow out of his mouth and wipes his face with his sleeves, then sits back on his knees.

“Sir! Sir! You’ve--you’ve forgotten to take the business card! You must pay off your debt!” Charles’ voice is a distant shout, overpowered by the snowstorm now thundering down onto the pavement. William pays him no heed, instead scrambling back up onto his feet as snowflakes bite into his hands and cheeks.

“Please sir! You owe a great deal of money!” Charles stumbles down the stairs, panting his hands on his knees, hand outreached and gripping the business card.

William takes one look at him and sprints.

He dashes down the streets now clear of shoppers, his leather shoes smacking into the snow, and feels the wind striking his body, thrashing him backward with all of its might. His jacket flaps in the wind and slaps him in the face; his shoes sink into the snow every ten paces, and the sweat that had previously dripped down his forehead now freezes over in the cold. The storm whips and flings his body up and down and around as if it is only a ragdoll, but still, he keeps sprinting, propelling his entire being forward with a force great enough to drive through the storm. One block, two blocks, three--they all blur together. All he knows is the screaming of the wind, the snow melting on his cheeks and mixing with his tears, and the image of one person, burned forever into his memory.

Through the snow and wind, he can just make out the front of his home if he squints--the sky-scraping wrought-iron gates, leading to the house with each window warmly-lit. Still sprinting, he climbs the gate and leaps off of it, toward the front door, his body exhausted, ready to crumble, but his will stronger than ever.

Shoes packed with snow, suit soaked, eyes gleaming in the storm, he lurches forward and smashes his entire body against the doorbell. Standing on the doormat shivering, he spots a figure moving toward the door through the window, and the door opens--

“Mr. Sutton? Is that you, sir? Why, you ran all the way--” The nanny he’d hired stands at the door, her expression understandably concerned.

“Where’s Eddie?” he shouts, trying to peer past her shoulders into the house.

She steps aside to let him through. “Edward’s upstairs in the playroom, Mr. Sut--”

He races forward, through the entrance hall and up the stairs. “Eddie! I’m home! Eddie?” he calls, rushing toward the playroom door, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest as he bursts into the room.

“Papa?” The boy looks up, smiling, two train cars in his hands, as his father pants, hands on his knees, his expression worn but clearly relieved.

Eddie stood up. “Papa! You’re home! Ms. Virginia said you’d be home early today, but…” He looks down at his hands. “You weren’t.”

William hurries forward and takes his son in his arms to hug him. “I know, Eddie. I know.”

“But why weren’t you?”

“I…” William can’t bring himself to look the boy in the eye. “Eddie, things are going to be a little bit different from now on.”

Eddie looks up at him, his eyebrows drawn together. “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer, looking around the room at the velvet curtains, embroidered rug, and plush armchairs. His father’s inheritance is worth more than William’s entire estate despite the manor’s extravagant decorations, and now that he owes that same amount of money…

Once again, he looked at his son’s beaming face, so delighted to finally see his father again, the tiny fingers clutching the toy trains, the round cheeks flush with excitement, and pulls him close.

“Eddie, you have to promise me something right now,” he whispers.

“Okay, Papa!” Eddie bounces up and down, grinning. “What do I have to promise?”

William holds Eddie’s shoulders and gazes into his eyes. “Promise me that no matter what happens to me, you will always hold me close.”

Eddie’s smile fades as he looks at his father. William pulls him into a tight hug and asks again.

“Will you do that for me, Eddie?” His voice cracks and he shuts his eyes.

A tear drops onto Eddie’s head.

“Yes, Papa. I’ll do that for you.”