I could tell you a story about how my uncle Grey Alexander left me Magnolia
Hall because I was his favorite niece. Then you might think I visited him every
summer to attend reunions, and our family was close and very loving. That's when
I'd explain that Uncle Grey always sent me beautiful birthday cards, telephoned
me on Christmas morning to wish me a happy, peaceful holiday. And at the end of
our conversation he'd go on and on about how he wished I were home instead of
in dusty Las Vegas.
I'd also tell you on the day he died I found out he
made sure I, Juliette Carlton, a forty-year old,
three-time, divorced blackjack dealer, his beloved
niece and misplaced southern belle, inherited all he
had, including the memories of a loving southern
family. But none of it would be true.
Someone once told me the reason people lie is because
it sounds better. They were right. And life, as my
mother used to remind me over and over, is raw and
ugly. Part of that is true. Life is raw and ugly if
a person makes it that way. Maybe that's why my
mother lied so much.
I've decided not to fabricate anything, especially to
myself. At one time I was big on that. I'd tell
myself I was happy when I wasn't, tell myself a man
cared when he didn't.
So the truth is I inherited an old southern house from a man who just happened
to be my uncle. I barely had a few faded memories of him. I became the owner of
his house because I'm the only family member left. And that one little mistake
of Grey Alexander not making a will changed my life forever. Because before all
this happened I believed money would make my life better, different, worth living.
What I didn't know was that no amount of money could help me. It took something
so strange, like inheriting an old southern mansion that really didn't belong
to me to make me see what's really important.
Chapter One
Las Vegas, NV
June 2000
Barbara, the only other female blackjack dealer on day shift just tapped me
on the shoulder for my break. I've been dealing blackjack to two deadbeat guys
for the last forty minutes. Dealers deal for forty minutes, then break for twenty,
over and over until their eight hour shifts are finished, just like in a factory,
in this case, a big, smoky money machine. I clap my hands to show I'm not stealing
chips, and I'm halfway down the middle of the pit when the pit boss motions me
over to the center podium.
"Message for you," Joe says then adds, "Casino policy
says no personal phone calls." Even so, he hands me
the yellow Post-It Note he's holding between his thumb
and forefinger. Joe, as always, is wearing plenty of
gold jewelry. And I just know his navy suit must have
cost him at least a thousand. Joe makes two thousand
a month before taxes watching people deal cards. Most
pit bosses try to pretend they own the casino,
probably just to make their lives bearable.
"Thanks," I force myself to say. I've worked at the Golden Nugget
for three years. Joe has only been here six months, and he's been on my ass since
the first day he walked into the pit. He's asked me to go out and have a drink,
but of course, he doesn't talk about his wife when he suggests we walk across
the street to the Horseshoe after work. He's just trying to get laid. Casino bosses
think they have a right to the help, but even if I found him attractive, I'm totally
through with men, especially men like Joe who pretend they have more than they
do, or they're single or both.
I fold the Post-It Note in half, smile and walk back to the break room. A moment
later I unfold the yellow square. Joe printed Ron Tanner, a name I don't recognize.
And now I'm thinking Bill, my ex, might be in a jam. And this scares me, how easily
he can pop into my mind. I've been working extra hard to forget. Guess I've just
got to try harder.
I walk over to the table by the payphone, pick up the phonebook and check the
area code. Whoever Ron Tanner is, he's calling from the western half of North
Carolina. And he probably doesn't have anything to do with Bill. That man, I am
sure has never been east of the Arizona border. However my father was born and
buried in North Carolina, and he, my mother and I lived there for a brief time.
I have one uncle who lives there, but we haven't seen each other or spoken in
thirty-five years. I ball up the tiny piece of paper, walk to the trash. Before
I can pitch it, my curiosity gets the best of me.
A moment later I dial the number using the last bit of credit on my phone card.
The voice on the other end announces law offices. I tell myself to hang up. With
Bill I found out law offices can only mean trouble with a capital pain in the
ass, but instead I identify myself and ask to speak to Ron Tanner. A minute later
in a strong southern accent, Ron Tanner announces that he's acting as the court-appointed
executor for Grey Alexander's estate. I hear him take a deep breath then at a
quick pace he explains he's sorry to have to tell me, but my uncle passed away
three weeks ago, and I have inherited his estate because I'm his only living relative.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
"Yes. What happened to my uncle?" I ask, confused.
"He had cancer. From what I understand he fought it
for quite a while. I'm very sorry."
"Thank you."
There's this long silence while my mind tries to wrap
around what I've just been told.
"I'm sure you have a few questions," Ron says.
This little sound like "oh" bounces out of my mouth. "No?"
"Sorry. What exactly do you mean by estate?"
"It consists of your uncle's house and his belongings, which aren't much."
My uncle. I hadn't thought of him in years, and now all of a sudden I have
his house.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his smooth deep accent,
getting deeper.
"Yeah, I'm okay, just surprised." I shake my head-- feel dizzy.
When was the last time I saw my uncle? Then I remember. My dad, mother and I were
driving away from my uncle's house. Grey Alexander, a tall man with blond hair,
in a navy jacket and cream pants was standing on the front porch of his large
house, his arms crossed, staring at our car. I waved a five-year old goodbye--he
never lifted his hand.
"I certainly had difficulty locating you," Ron Tanner breaks in.
"Do you know your phone's disconnected?"
Did I know? I've been without a phone for a month, hoofing it down to the
7-11 on Sunset and Green Valley Parkway to make calls in an attempt to straighten
out the mess Bill left me in. But I don't tell Ron this. He probably doesn't want
to hear my sad story.
"What exactly is in Grey Alexander's estate?" I ask, and then remember
I've already asked this.
"A house. A car, not much else."
"What's the house like?" I wonder if it is the same one, the one
I stared at through the back window of our family car, the same one where I ran
down the hallway to a roomy kitchen. Ron explains it's very old and pretty run
down.
"How do I sell it?" I ask, think about the extra money
that I need desperately.
"You might consider coming back to Greensville. The
house has to be inspected then you could talk to a
realtor."
I think about how Joe hates me cause I won't go out
with him, would never let me off, even for a few days.
"I can't. I have to work. No vacation left. Can I
get in touch with a realtor from here? Have her take
care of the inspection?"
"You can," Ron says, "I can get you a few names."
Moments later, still dazed and wondering if this is all just a big joke, I
cradle the phone and lean against the wall. Leanne, the break room waitress walks
up to me, glances at her watch and asks if I want anything to eat. I look up.
"Are you okay?"
I shake my head, blurt out I've just inherited a house
in North Carolina.
"You're lying!"
"No, it's true, or at least I think it is. I just
spoke with the attorney."
"I'm so sorry about your loss."
"I really didn't know the person."
Leanne pats my shoulder then steps back a little.
"Well, now there's no excuse not to get out of this
hellhole."
My mother, when I'd talked about moving away from Vegas, always placed her
hand on her chest, right in the middle and whispered how alone she was in the
world, how she needed me. Which now, years later, I know was total bullshit. But
her drama gave me a good excuse for not moving--this desert, glittering town sucks
people into its dreams.
Leanne's brown eyes grow larger. "When are you going to see your house?"
I shake my head. "I'm not. I've got to work, and I
don't have any extra money."
She stuffs her hands in her pockets and looks hard at
me. "Are you kidding? Someone loves you enough to
leave you a house, all their things and you aren't
going to go and look at them. You're crazy."
I think about telling her me getting the house doesn't have anything to do
with love, but what's the point? Grey Alexander didn't leave me his house, some
probate judge flung it to me because I'm from a small family.
"I don't have the money to go," I say again, and this is so true.
Bill left me in debt, took almost everything good we owned. "Besides Joe
isn't going to let me off for a week. The lawyer said he'd give me the name of
a realtor who would handle everything."
Leanne sighs. "What's a Supersaver cost? I never saw a house sell for
anything without the owner being there. We sold our house up in Salt Lake after
we moved down here and got screwed. You'd better get back there and take care
of business."
I stand, wish I hadn't told her about the call. "I'd better get back
to the pit before I get the ax." Leanne shakes her head, clucks her tongue
and heads toward the kitchen.
*****
I slip my time card in the clock, and the deep thunk clocks me out at eight-o-one.
The Golden Nugget time office pulses with boredom, greasy concrete floors, and
bright fluorescent lighting that shows too much reality. Up front the casino,
restaurant and lounge are all gold, red and satin under soft lighting. Back here,
this is the truth. The timekeeper nods and I walk down the stairs into the parking
lot.
Furnace-like air engulfs me. Eight o'clock at night
and it is still eighty-five degrees. For the next
three months the desert heat will cook everyone
slowly, in our own sweaty skins, like poached eggs. I
open my car, go around and roll down all four windows,
curse the air conditioning that gave out two months
ago.
Twenty minutes later I'm sitting on the garage sale
couch I bought a week ago to replace the Ethan Allen
one my ex-husband stole, along with all my underwear
that he forgot to take out of the top dresser drawer
and put on the floor when he was cleaning out our
house.
Just for the hell of it, I remind myself I own a house
in North Carolina. Christ, life can turn on a dime!
On the drive home, I tried not to think about the
house, the extra money, but I couldn't help myself and
decided as soon as I can sell the house, I'm going to
move to a better apartment, or maybe even buy another
home and get my car air-conditioning fixed.
I dig in my purse and find the orange tip envelope I
picked up right before I left work. It feels fatter
than normal and for one brief moment I feel joy. A
big tip day, the phone call to Ron Tanner. What more
could a girl want?
A twenty, a ten and two ones are wrapped around a pink
paper. I unfold it. It's one of those weakass carbon
copies of a lay-off notice--Reduction In Staff--signed
by Joe Gamino, the dickhead.
Great! Stunned, yet not surprised since I've known
he's been after me for months, I go to the fridge and
grab a Coors Light, twist off the top, listen to it
sigh then take a big swig.
Over at the window, I pull back the thin drapes and
rest the cool amber beer bottle against my cheek.
Fired! Fuck.
To make myself feel better, I think about the house in
Greensville, how maybe it will sell quickly. It's just got to.
When I was five my parents moved back to Greensville
for two weeks, and we stayed at Magnolia Hall until
our apartment was ready. I remember the house was
white with bricks, really big and filled with
antiques. At night my mother, father and I, along
with my uncle would sit on the porch that wrapped
around the front. I played on the steps with my doll
or ran out into the grass, trying to catch fireflies
while the grownups' whispers floated through the air.
After we moved into the apartment, and as my mother
was unpacking the last box, she started crying and
couldn't seem to stop. Two days later my father
announced we were going back to California, where it
was cool in the summer, warm in winter, and maybe it
would be a place where my mother might get her sanity
back.
I never understood this two-week, six thousand mile
trek; it is one of those mythical family stories that
children aren't allowed to enter, just watch from the
outside and wonder about.
Most of all I remember the cool morning air feathering
my face, touching the trees as the three of us walked
to our car, me in between my mother who was crying
softly and Dad, his hand wrapped around mine. I felt
wounded for them that day, like now, aching and not
knowing why, afraid of the unknown.
I let the drape fall, take another sip of beer and for the first time in many
months, I admit my life has turned to pure crap.
