The Crapshooter

When Dad told Phil that Uncle Jud and Aunt Ada wanted to visit him, Phil said, “Tell them they can stay at my place and I’ll show them around.”

“You sure?  Jud will probably want to go to Vegas.”

“No problem.”

Mom cautioned Phil about the man he’d be meeting, who was seventy now.  “The stroke left him partially paralyzed, and Ada says he sometimes has trouble controlling his bowels.  Also, apparently, there are signs of dementia.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard.”

“One other thing, Phil, make sure you don’t talk politics.”

Before their arrival, Phil thought about the annual summer vacations the family took from their home in northeastern Ohio to New York State, back to Dad’s hometown of Gloversville, the glove-manufacturing city at the foot of the Adirondack Mountains where Uncle Jud still lived.  Every summer they piled into the black Oldsmobile wagon and drove north to Ashtabula, Phil and his brother, Greg, competing to see who would be first to glimpse the calm blue ocean of Lake Erie.  Then on through Welch’s grape country in western New York, the countless rows of vines propped up like columns of soldiers standing at attention.  Buffalo, Rochester, the Finger Lakes, Syracuse, Utica, then into familiar territory, their father calling out the names of towns he had haunted as a youth:  Little Falls, Canajoharie, Fonda.  For Phil, the high point of each trip was the visit with Uncle Jud, who treated him and Greg as if they were his own children.

 From Uncle Jud they learned to love the out-of-doors.  Each summer, Greg and Phil accompanied him and his two German Shorthairs, Tick and Tock, into the deep mountain woods near Canada Lake, where he’d let the boys target shoot with his hunting rifles, much to their father’s dismay.  Unlike Uncle Jud, and other members of the Gloversville clan, their father was not a hunter.  Phil was young, and didn’t understand Dad’s point of view.  What could be better than to be out in the mountains with the dogs and the rifles?  Phil often fantasized about being a pioneer, or one of the rugged Mohawks who had inhabited the region.

Back among the adults, Uncle Jud praised the boys, no matter how poorly they had shot.  Mom and Dad benignly tolerated his exuberance, but they could never mask their true feelings.  Uncle Jud would just smile and wink at Phil and Greg, as if they were partners in a conspiracy.  Phil wanted to grow up to be exactly like him.

* * *

Through the terminal window at Gate B21 in Sky Harbor Airport Phil saw the plane roll up, and the gray accordion walkway stretch out to the fuselage.  The gate attendant announced the arrival, and a minute later passengers poured into the waiting area.  A young guy in front of Phil greeted a beautiful blonde girl with a huge kiss.  A middle-aged man and woman searched anxiously for their first glimpse of someone, perhaps a son or daughter returning from college.  An elderly man with caterpillar eyebrows playfully shook a toddler’s hand.  Uncle Jud and Aunt Ada were the last two people to deplane.

Aunt Ada’s hair was dyed an unnatural black, a color reminiscent of charcoal briquettes.  She wore a full-length winter coat clearly a size too large for her petite frame.  She piloted Uncle Jud’s unwieldy wheelchair recklessly into the lounge, nearly running over an old woman who had stopped to embrace a younger one.  Uncle Jud’s skull was nearly devoid of hair, except for a few strands of limp white thread that lay tangled at the top.  He sat in his chair leaning left like the Tower of Pisa, staring at the carry-on bag in his lap.

“Hello,” Phil said, angling in front of them.  He shook Uncle Jud’s good hand and gave Aunt Ada a quick kiss on the cheek.  “How was the flight?”

“Goddam bumpy,” Uncle Jud said.

“That’s the thermals rising from the desert floor.”

Phil took over the wheelchair and led them to the elevator that descended to baggage claim.  They had so much luggage, a rental cart was required, which Phil drew behind himself while wheeling Uncle Jud one-handed to the parking lot.  Fortunately Phil’s SUV had plenty of room in back for the suitcases and wheelchair.  He and Aunt Ada had managed to get Uncle Jud into the front passenger seat, where they propped him upright.  Once, while driving home, Phil had to use his right hand to brace Uncle Jud from tipping over into his lap.

Uncle Jud looked at Phil’s hand and said, “When do we leave for Vegas?”

That’s what he wanted to do most.  Years ago, when he and Aunt Ada had vacationed in Las Vegas, Uncle Jud had won enough money at the crap tables to cover the cost of the trip—hotels, meals, nightclubs, even plane fare—with enough left over to pay the doctor bill for a cracked rib he had sustained banging against the tables rolling dice.  Uncle Jud’s broken rib had become an oft-told story in the family, and Phil still found it impossible to believe a man could do such a thing shooting craps.

Vegas, however, was last on the itinerary.  First they’d visit Mexico, then the Grand Canyon.  Before Phil had a chance to tell them that, Uncle Jud turned to Aunt Ada and said, “I have to go.  Now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jud, can’t you hang on until Phil’s place?”

The imperative look in Uncle Jud’s eyes made Phil speed home through heavy traffic.  He and Aunt Ada got Uncle Jud out of the car and into his chair, then made a mad dash for the front door.  Fortunately, the apartment was on the first floor.  Once inside, Aunt Ada wheeled him straight into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with an expression that suggested an accident had been narrowly averted.  “It’s been like this since the stroke,” she said.  “Much of it is psychological, the anxiety of having to rely on someone else to take him to the bathroom.”

 Aunt Ada had been a nurse, and she knew how to handle people.  Without her, Uncle Jud would have ended up in a home.  It depressed Phil to picture him in a nursing home, a man who once had been such a rugged outdoorsman.

Phil said, “You tell him, on this trip, we’ll stop whenever he wants.”

The next morning, on the way to Mexico, while they drove along the highway beside the Santa Rita Mountains south of Tucson, Uncle Jud baited Phil into a political conversation.  “I suppose,” he said, sucking his teeth, “you’re a Democrat like your old man.”

“Actually, I’m an independent.”

“Independent enough to vote Republican in the last election?”

“I didn’t vote in the last election.”

“You must be pretty satisfied with the way things are.”

“Not really.”

“Then why didn’t you vote?”

“Does it matter who you vote for?  Things never change.”

Turning slightly to glance at Aunt Ada, Uncle Jud said, “I hope he isn’t saying what I think he’s saying.”

“He’s saying he thinks things never change.”

“What do you think I’m saying, Uncle Jud?”

“I hope you’re not saying you’re a communist.”

“That system of government is bankrupt, too.”

“There isn’t a government in the world better than the one we have.  At least when the Republicans are in office.”

They left the SUV in a five-dollar all-day parking lot two blocks from the border.  Having to negotiate a steep hill down to the checkpoint Phil had to regrip the handles on the wheelchair several times, and during one such moment a slapstick-comedy image popped into his head:  losing hold of the chair and watching it quickly gain speed as it carried a wobbly Uncle Jud past the guards into Mexico. 

They entered Nogales, Sonora, and browsed along the dirty, narrow streets of the city, accosted at every turn by vendors hawking their wares.  Uncle Jud and Aunt Ada bought nothing.  They seemed stunned by what they saw.  Aunt Ada walked stiffly, both hands clamped down on her brown leather purse.  A small beige Chihuahua with bulging eyes came out of nowhere barking aggressively at her while they waited to cross a corner, and she froze until Phil shooed the animal away.

Uncle Jud rode with his gaze fixed straight ahead, only occasionally turning to look at something Aunt Ada called to his attention.  Usually it was a shop selling handcrafted pots or baskets, cheap colorful blankets or earthenware donkeys ridden by sombrero-clad figurines.  Toward the end of their short visit, Aunt Ada entered a white adobe church while Phil and Uncle Jud waited outside.  There was no wheelchair ramp.  When Aunt Ada emerged, she wore an expression of calm satisfaction.

On the way back across the border—they had stayed just over an hour—Uncle Jud said, “So that was Mexico.  Let’s never go back.”

* * *

Two days later, they drove up to the Grand Canyon.  On the way to the Bright Angel Lodge, where Phil had booked two cabins, he stopped at Mather Point so that Uncle Jud and Aunt Ada could get their first-ever view of the canyon.  Phil had really looked forward to coming here because of Uncle Jud’s love of nature.  Aunt Ada was duly impressed by the vista, the deep pinks, tans, and creams of the rock formations, pine trees on the north rim made blue by distance.  “I can’t get over it,” she said.  “I just can’t get over it.”

“What’s to get over?” Uncle Jud said.  “It’s just a huge ditch.”

After they checked in at the lodge, they spent the rest of the day driving from lookout to lookout, inspecting the canyon from different perspectives.  Aunt Ada “oohed and aahed” the entire way, but Uncle Jud sat in silence, the demeanor of an elderly patient who’s spent too much time in the waiting room at a doctor’s office.

On the second night of their two-day stay they had supper in the fancy restaurant at the El Tovar hotel, steak and potatoes, a couple of beers, things Uncle Jud had demanded, but wasn’t supposed to have.  The second day of sightseeing had gone well, and Uncle Jud had been talking jovially about leaving tomorrow for Vegas.  While they waited for the waitress to bring back the receipt from the bill, a large African-American man and his blonde woman companion entered the restaurant and were seated by a waiter two tables away.  Uncle Jud stared at them, and kept at it even while Phil rolled him away and out into the lobby.  Before they got through the front door, Uncle Jud said, loudly, “Did you see that buck nigger with the blonde babe?”

Outside, under a sky peppered with stars, Uncle Jud said, “How do you figure a thing like that, Phil?  You’re an intelligent man.  What would an attractive woman see in a guy like him?”

Before Phil could respond, Aunt Ada, who’d been staring at constellations, said, “Why does he have to explain it?  Why does anyone?  What does it matter?”

“Well, you never saw that kind of thing in my day.”

* * *

The next morning, when Phil entered their cabin he found Aunt Ada standing behind Uncle Jud, who was seated in the wheelchair, squeezing and releasing the plastic grips on the chair handles.  When she saw Phil she let go, alternately flexing her fingers and then balling them into two fists.  When he asked if everything was okay, she said, holding up her hands, “Look what arthritis has done to my fingers, Phil, how crooked they are.”

“So sorry about that, Aunt Ada.”

“It’s what you have to look forward to.”

To Uncle Jud, Phil said, “Before we hit the road for Vegas, let’s go out for one last look at the view.”

Uncle Jud said, “If we have to.”

The sidewalk down to the rim was steep, and just as Phil began to hold back tightly against the weight of Uncle Jud in the chair both handgrips slipped free of the handles.  The wheelchair and Uncle Jud began to accelerate rapidly.  After the initial shock Phil started running frantically after the aluminum chair, his voice booming out a cry for assistance:  “Help!”  Panicking he watched as tourists ahead leapt out of the way.  Phil pictured Uncle Jud in his wheelchair disappearing over the canyon rim.  At the last second two people converged on either side of the wheelchair, bringing it to a sudden stop.  It was the African-American man and his blond companion who had come to the rescue.

When Phil reached them, he said, “Oh my god, thank you so much for stopping him.”

“No problem,” the man said, smiling as he looked at both of Phil’s hands.  “That’s absolutely crazy.”

The blond woman said, “You should sue the wheelchair company.”

When Phil examined the plastic grips in his hands he turned to see Aunt Ada who was just arriving.  To Uncle Jud, she said, “What do you say to these kind people who just saved your life?”

“I say, ‘Thanks.’  Thanks for showing me just how lucky I’ll be when we get to Vegas later today.” 

It was a good thing they hadn’t checked out yet because Uncle Jud had to use the bathroom urgently.  The wild run for their room barely prevented an accident.  When Aunt Ada came out a minute later, she said, “His bowels are loose today.  I’m worried about the long drive across the desert.  It wouldn’t be bad if I could go into a men’s room with him, but I’m afraid you’ll have to help if he has to go.”

Phil drove across the flat plane of western Arizona desert, sneaking a peek every once in a while at Uncle Jud, who stared straight ahead.  What would happen if he did have to go here in the middle of nowhere?  Hopefully images of Las Vegas danced in his head, keeping his mind off his bowels.  Aunt Ada enjoyed the view from the backseat, at one point saying, “So much open space.”

When they crossed Lake Mead over the Hoover Dam, Uncle Jud stopped sucking his false teeth for the first time in an hour.  “Look at that,” he said, referring to the dam.  “Now that’s a thing of beauty.”

A short while later the car crested a ridge, and they saw forever across the Nevada desert, all the way to Las Vegas, its downtown buildings like hypodermic needles poking into a flesh-colored sky.  Uncle Jud perked up even more.  “There it is,” he said, as if he were a pilgrim returning to Mecca.

They ate an early lunch at McDonald’s before finding a decent small motel near the Strip.  Later, after supper, before food was even partially digested, Uncle Jud wanted to go down to the lobby to try his hand at the old-fashioned one-armed bandits he had spotted near the check-in desk.  Phil got coins at the change counter, and then rolled Uncle Jud over to a dollar machine.  Phil deposited money while Uncle Jud used his good right arm to pull the lever.  He tried the slot again and again without a hit, dropping a quick fifty bucks.  But Uncle Jud was undeterred, wanting to head straight for one of the major casinos.

But it was completely dark outside now and Phil decided to first tour The Strip, the road that showcased a million blazing and flashing lights against the black velvet sky.  The street was clogged with traffic—cars, cabs, buses, horses-and-carriages—all filled with tourists, their eyes wide in awe of the sights.  The congestion made Aunt Ada nervous, but Uncle Jud was in nirvana, his face frozen in a comic mask as he reverently mouthed the names of the glitzy hotels whose marquees announced showtimes of celebrities he surely never heard of before.

After discovering a small casino with parking in the rear Phil rolled Uncle Jud around to the front and into the smoke-filled gambling hall.  Here there was every bit as much noise and confusion as out on the street.  People screamed, bells rang, sirens wailed, gongs gonged, lights flashed, machines sputtered and clicked.  Gamblers spilled free drinks onto an already-sticky floor.  Uncle Jud smiled.  He lifted his good arm and pointed to a crap table.  Aunt Ada, seeing the number of men around the narrow platform, went off to try her luck at the slots.

Phil rolled Uncle Jud to the edge of the action, not knowing what to expect.  He had never shot craps, and knew little about the game.  Locking the brakes on the chair he helped his uncle to his feet.  Since he and Aunt Ada had been visiting, Phil had only seen him stand once, at the apartment, when she had scolded her husband for not moving around enough.  One of the gamblers, noticing Uncle Jud wobbling on his feet, nudged a companion, and both men came over to help.  They walked him to the table as other gamblers made space.  Uncle Jud clutched the table’s edge with his good hand, eyeing the dice like a cat watching a pair of mice.  Not knowing the rules of the game Phil was surprised when the stickman, responding to some unseen gesture from Uncle Jud, said, “New shooter.”

Phil stood slightly behind with his hand against Uncle Jud’s back, pressing him forward against the table.  When Uncle got the dice, he rattled them in his fist, blowing once on the white sugar cubes before flinging them backhanded across the green felt surface.  When they bounced out from the far wall, one die showed one black dot, the other, four.  “Five for the money,” said the stickman, a prematurely bald guy in a red vest and black pants.  “Pay the line.”

The men who circled the table were, to a man, fascinated by Uncle Jud’s spunk, and they smiled and whispered to one another.  Some shook their heads in good-natured amusement, and one said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I hope I’m like that when I get old.”

“You won’t live that long,” another said, and the one woman at the table stifled a laugh.

Uncle Jud had another roll coming, but before the dice reached him, he swiveled his head to show Phil an anxious face.  “I’ve got to go to the can.  Now!”  Turning back to the curious faces of the men at the table, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Phil helped Uncle Jud sit down, unlocked his brakes, then wheeled him hurriedly to a restroom.  They had to leave the chair outside because the bathroom was so small.  Phil practically carried his uncle across the black-and-white tile floor to one of the stalls.  Once inside the john, Phil realized Uncle Jud’s predicament.  He stood precariously, clumsily fumbling at his belt with one hand.  “Ada always helps with this,” he said, the anxiety of an imminent accident on his face.  Phil quickly undid his belt, unfastened his pants, pulled them and his underwear down around his ankles, and helped his uncle down onto the seat.  The explosion came immediately as Phil stumbled backwards out of the stall.  “I’m sorry,” Uncle Jud said.

“Can you wipe yourself?”

“Yes, but I’ll need help getting back into my pants.”

“Give me a holler.”

 The toxic air forced Phil out of the restroom and back into the casino, where Aunt Ada stood just outside the door.  “I was afraid something like this would happen,” she said.

“It’s no problem.  Really.”

“I tried to talk him out of this trip, but he wouldn’t hear it.  Coming here has been his dream for years, ever since he won that money on our vacation.  He talked about it so much, I got sick and tired of hearing it.  I had to bring him here just to shut him up once and for all.”

They were silent after that.  After a few minutes more, Phil took several deep breaths, and plunged back inside.  “Uncle Jud? Everything come out all right?”

“Send Ada in here.  I’m all alone.”

An excellent idea, Phil thought, but when he stepped out she was gone.  He had to go back in and handle things himself.  Uncle Jud seemed humiliated by the experience.  So much so, in fact, that as soon as they got outside of the restroom he said he wanted to return to the motel.

“We can’t quit now,” Phil said, wheeling him out into the casino.  “They’re expecting you back at the crap table.”

“I’ve had it with craps.”

Phil thought Aunt Ada could talk him out of leaving, but she didn’t try.

Back in the motel room Uncle Jud asked if they could leave for Phoenix in the morning.  Phil was going to say something about hitting one of the big casinos tomorrow, but decided to let it drop.

Later, when he left for his cabin, Aunt Ada stepped outside with him.  “It’s his condition,” she said.  “He’s usually more depressed than not.”

“I hope he’ll feel better in the morning.  I’d hate to think we came all this way for one toss of the dice.”

She touched his arm.  “I always knew you’d grow up to be a fine man, Phil.”

He didn’t sleep well that night, lying in bed remembering the Uncle Jud of the past, thinking about a particular incident that always came to mind when he recalled those trips to Gloversville.  Phil was sixteen, and for the first time ever had traveled alone with his father to Dad’s hometown.  Greg was in college, a freshman at Ohio State.  For some reason, Mom had decided not to go along.  Phil had recently gotten his driver’s permit, but was frustrated at not being allowed to drive on any part of the trip.  He felt certain he could have navigated safely on the New York State Thruway, but Dad didn’t want to risk a high-speed accident.  No wonder Phil was ecstatic when Uncle Jud gave him his first real driving opportunity.

Uncle Jud had left his beagles at his cabin near Pinnacle Mountain, and he needed to go pick them up.  He invited Phil along.  When they got outside to his vintage white International Travelall, Uncle Jud walked purposefully to the passenger side and climbed in.  It took Phil a second to understand, but when he slipped in behind the steering wheel he was smiling hard.  Dad, who knew his older brother too well, had witnessed the event from the kitchen window and came outside to urge caution.  Uncle Jud shrugged him off with a wave of the hand.  “Come on, Fred,” he said, “how’s he going to learn?”

“On something smaller than this yacht.”

 Uncle Jud handed the keys over, saying, “Crank her up, Phil.”

He started the truck and backed carefully out of the driveway, realizing immediately that maneuvering the vehicle would demand all of his skills.  When Phil straightened the beast out on the road to Meco, he gave Dad a toot on the horn.  Dad waved, but Phil could read the expression on his father’s face.

Along the way, Uncle Jud spoke to Phil as if they were equals, explaining his job as superintendent at the leather mill, talking about townspeople, and, when they reached the dense woods that blanketed the Adirondacks, telling him why he loved hunting so much, especially for deer.

“They’re the most majestic animals in the world, Phil.  And they’re a lot smarter than people think.”  He went on to say how he loved nothing better than to be out stalking deer, sneaking up on one for a shot.  He described how careful a hunter had to be not to step on twigs because there was nothing more finely tuned than a deer’s hearing.  “And when you raise that rifle and sight down the barrel to the center of the buck’s heart,” he said, “you pray he won’t move before you squeeze the trigger.  You want a clean kill.  You don’t want the animal to suffer.”

Uncle Jud never killed solely for pleasure.  He always used the entire carcass.  He made hats and gloves from the fur, venison steaks and roasts from the meat.  He even made sausage using the deer’s intestines.  He mounted the heads as trophies on the walls of the cabin, where he and other family members would excitedly discuss the number of points on the antlers.

 As soon as Uncle Jud opened the gate to the pen where the four beagles were waiting they jetted out heading for the trees.  “Let’s split up and get them, Phil.  Their names are Rebel, Champ, Snoop and Cookie.  Usually if you whistle and call their names they’ll come.”

It was a magical moment for Phil, alone in the deep green woods, jigsaw-puzzle pieces of sunlight scattered about the forest floor, the smell of earth and pine filling his head.  He whistled and called for the dogs loudly, praying they’d come right away.  Phil wanted to make the return trip as soon as possible, sure Uncle Jud would let him drive the Travelall back.

Standing near a pine tree deciding which way to go Phil noticed a kind of fungus he’d never seen before, a thick white growth shaped like half a dinner plate.  He pulled it off the tree, and with his pocketknife proceeded to cut into the pulpy flesh.  Carving too forcefully he sliced into his left index finger right down to the bone.  The skin peeled away like a piece of whittled wood, and as Phil stood in shock looking at what he’d done the wound began to bleed.  He pressed the skin back into place, but it didn’t stem the flow of blood that gushed from his finger.

Hurrying back to the cabin he felt faint, picturing himself bleeding to death while Uncle Jud hunted for his dogs.  But his uncle was already sitting in the International, the dogs secure in back.  When he spotted Phil he knew something was wrong and jumped out.  Seeing the bloody finger Uncle Jud quickly retrieved a first-aid kit from the glove box.  He took out a tube of salve and squeezed the toothpaste-like substance on the wound, clamped a wad of gauze around it, and taped the makeshift bandage tightly.  Then he drove Phil straight back to town and to the hospital’s emergency ward.

They waited in a grey-curtained cubicle until a doctor came in to inspect the damage.  A nurse followed behind.  She irrigated the wound, then numbed the finger with a cold chemical spray from an aerosol can.  The doctor fitted the piece of skin perfectly into place, then bandaged the finger.  Phil thought they were done, but the doctor insisted on giving him a tetanus shot, which hurt more than the finger carving.

* * *

In the morning, Uncle Jud’s mood could only be described as morose.  He never responded when Phil said, “Shall we have a last shot at those one-armed bandits in the lobby?”

Aunt Ada said, “Let’s just go back to Phoenix, Phil.”

They checked out, got Uncle Jud into the front seat of the SUV, stowed the suitcases, and started off on the long drive across the desert.  The silence in the car would have been unbearable had it not been for the beauty of the land, statuesque yuccas casting shadows across the sand, creosote bushes twisting in a morning wind, blue mountains against a robin-egg sky.  And theirs seemed to be the only vehicle on the road.

They crossed into Arizona and drove most of the way to Phoenix before stopping at a hamburger joint in Wickenburg.  By then Uncle Jud’s spirits had lifted, and he decided he wanted to eat something his doctor forbade.  “I want to be bad,” he said.  He had a bacon cheeseburger, large French fries, and a Coke.  When he finished, he ordered a large coffee, despite the warning from Aunt Ada.  “You know how that affects you,” she said.

“To hell with my bowels.”

She tried to coax him into using the john before they left the restaurant, but he said, “I’m not putting Phil through that shit again.”

Later, while pulling out of the parking lot, they spotted a mule deer nibbling grass at the side of the road.  It was a young buck, nearly full grown, with an odd-colored left ear.  “Oh, how pretty,” Aunt Ada said.  “It almost seems like someone’s pet.”

Uncle Jud said, “If I had a rifle, I’d teach somebody a lesson about leaving their pet deer alone.”

The sighting of the deer led him into a reverie about his marksmanship as a younger man, and he reminisced the rest of the way to Phoenix, going into great detail on what seemed like a hundred different stories about deer hunting in the Adirondacks.

Finally, Phil said, “Enough, Uncle Jud.  I think we got the message:  you love killing deer.”

With a side-eyed squint, Uncle Jud said, “Really?  You were never snippy as a kid, Phil.”

Aunt Ada intervened.  “Don’t chastise Phil.  You’ve had diarrhea of the mouth for the past twenty minutes.  It’s a wonder he didn’t speak up sooner.”

Phil looked at his left hand resting against the steering wheel, noticing, for the first time in ages, the white scar on his left index finger, the pale crescent of flesh that had been taped back into place all those years ago.  He thought to show it to Uncle Jud, to see if he recalled that day when the two of them went together to the cabin to get the dogs.  But Uncle Jud’s mood had soured, and he stared at the desert though the passenger window.

* * *

The morning of their departure, while they packed, Aunt Ada did nothing but talk about how wonderful Phil had been, putting them up at his place, acting as tour guide.  She had especially loved the Grand Canyon, she said, and would never forget his kindness in taking them there.

Uncle Jud had completely recovered from the casino fiasco, and he was talking again about Las Vegas.  “Maybe we’ll make it out there next year, hit the crap tables for some big bucks.”

 Later, at the airport, Phil waited with them in the lounge at the gate.  The place was already filled with passengers heading east.  When the airline clerk announced early boarding for disabled people, Phil kissed Aunt Ada goodbye and shook Uncle Jud’s hand.  Uncle Jud held Phil’s hand tightly for a moment, pulling him forward to whisper something in his ear.

“You’re an intelligent man, Phil,” he said, “so tell me this:  all the thoughts I’ve had over the years, the ideas good and bad, the joys, the sorrows, everything I’ve seen and heard during my life amounts to what after I’m gone?”

Before Phil could even imagine how to respond, Jud said, “Thanks for everything, son.”

When Aunt Ada rolled him down that ramp, Phil took a deep breath.  He stayed to watch the plane lift off, seeing it climb and bank left, picturing Uncle Jud and Aunt Ada in their seats way in back near the bathroom.  Just in case.

Phil knew he’d never see Uncle Jud again.