8-Wendip Week 2022 Wild Card
Win, Lose, or Draw?
As usual, eight Wendip Week prompts appeared for this year. I've done the regular seven, so this one is lagniappe. Hope you enjoy!
And to the Mystery Twins, 8-1-16-16-25 2-9-18-20-8-4-1-25!
Around 7:15 PM, an icy night in February 2022 . . .
The tree came out of nowhere. One second Wendy was driving along a curving Roadkill County Road, looking ahead to a date-night evening with her husband, and the next second a gigantic tree was falling, headlights showing it smashing to the pavement right in front of her car, too late to—
Crash.
Darkness . . ..
Grunkle Stan put his hand on Dipper's shoulder. Quietly he said, "Go get some shut-eye, kid. I'll wait here with Wendy and call you pronto if anything happens."
Wendy lay so still, so pale, in bed, her head swathed in bandages, her face bruised, more bandages on her arms, a yellowish IV drip feeding into the crook of her left elbow. "I can't leave," Dipper said hoarsely, his eyes red and bagged from lack of sleep. He'd been sitting in the hospital room for twenty-eight hours now, and the doctors kept saying, "We don't know, son. We'll have to see how it goes in the next few hours. We just don't know."
Stan patted his shoulder, gently. "Kid, you're beat. Look, the Stanleymobile is parked right outside the hospital. Two minute walk from here. Back seat is plenty big enough for you to stretch out. Here's my spare key. Grab a blanket from the shelf there. You go, I'll stay, and I'll call you with any news."
"Thanks," Dipper said wearily as he pushed up to his feet and swayed a little. "Oh—Mabel's finally managed to get a flight. She should be here late tonight." He stood by the bed and stooped to kiss his wife's cheek. "Hang in there, Wen," he said. "Remember, you're a flipping Corduroy."
Stan took Dipper's place in the chair and settled in for the vigil. It was late, getting close to midnight, a little warmer than it had been the day before. He reached into his outer jacket pocket and took something out. Then he sat still and waited, listening to the hospital sounds, the monitors, the occasional ding of somebody calling a nurse.
When the lights dimmed, he sat up straighter, taking a deep breath of the disinfectant-scented hospital air. "Here you are," he said. "Might as well let me see you. I know you're here and why you're here."
Like a storm cloud coalescing from vapor, a dark form materialized. It became a tall, robed, hooded skeletal figure, grasping a scythe. The skull tilted to the right. ARE YOU A WIZARD?
"Me? Naw, I'm just a guy." Stanley nodded toward Wendy. "The lady in the bed, there, she's my niece. By marriage."
USUALLY I AM VISIBLE ONLY TO WIZARDS OR WITCHES. AND THOSE WHOSE TIME HAS COME, OF COURSE.
"Yeah, I'm no wizard, but I been around. You've come for her, right? But it don't necessarily have to be her, if all the old folklore stories are in any way true. There's certain escape clauses. Unless you're really just a vengeful SOB."
VENGEFUL? DON'T LOOK ON THIS AS MALICE. I DO WHAT MUST BE DONE. I HAVE NO MALICE IN ME.
"You're dodgin' the issue. Come on, like I say, I been around. I'm Mr. Mystery. Retired. I read and saw enough weird stuff in my time to know there's always rules, and rules always have exceptions. So you don't have to take her, right, if I volunteer to go in her place. True?"
IT IS MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT. TRADITION HOLDS THAT TO WIN A REPRIEVE, A MORTAL MUST BEST ME IN A CONTEST.
"I challenge you to a pie-eating contest! And first one who drops part of the pie on the floor loses! Hah!"
For the briefest of moments, the fixed grin on the skeletal face seemed to show the faintest flicker of amusement. I MUST DECLINE. BUT THAT WAS A GOOD ONE, STANLEY PINES.
"Yeah, I was just pulling your leg. Straight up now, no fooling. You go in for, what, chess?"
SORRY, NO. I CAN NEVER REMEMBER HOW THE LITTLE HORSES MOVE.
Stan held up the deck he had taken from his pocket. "How about some Tarot Hold 'Em, nothing wild?"
Though the visitor's eyes could not blink, somehow they gave the impression of blinking. YOU HAVE PIQUED MY INTEREST. HOWEVER, PLAYING FOR JUST ONE LIFE IS RATHER LOW-STAKES.
"OK, OK," Stan said. "Gotcha. Penny-ante's no fun. Here's the deal: One hand. Double or nothing."
SO IF I WIN, I TAKE BOTH OF YOU, BUT IF YOU WIN—
"You get neither. Or if you have to take something, find a sick bird or squirrel or something. But no humans. Like a what do you call it, scapegoat. That's allowed, the stories tell us. What do you say?"
LET US FIRST AGREE ON THE RULES OF THE GAME.
It took them some time, but Stan had already noticed that the wall clock's second hand had frozen at five ticks to midnight, and all sounds had stilled. Somehow time had paused for this. Finally, they agreed to the basic proposition: The Major Arcana would be left out of the deck. The Minor Arcana would be played like a poker deck. Each player would be dealt two hole cards, face-down, and then five more community cards, face-up, and from the total seven, each player would select five to make up his hand. After a minor bit of quibbling, they agreed on just one wild card. Stan disliked wild cards, but as the visitor insisted, THERE MUST ALWAYS BE A RANDOM ELEMENT.
"OK, I'll agree to that," Stan said, spreading out the whole deck. "Here, point out the wild card you want." A bony finger tapped one. Stan snorted as he added it to the fifty-six card deck of Minor Arcana. "Figures."
Stan pocketed the smaller stack of Major Arcana. They pulled up the narrow hospital table, the kind that raised and lowered so a bed-bound patient would have a place for plates, silverware, and cups or glasses. Stan sat forward in his chair. The other stood but bent a little. Stan neatened the deck. "Cut the cards. And not with that thing!"
DON'T POINT. IT IS VERY SHARP. AND I APPRECIATE THE HUMOR. The bony hand reached out and cut the deck as nearly equally as anyone could, probably twenty-eight cards in one stack, twenty-nine in the other. Stan shuffled repeatedly.
He dealt one card to his opponent, one to himself, then another to each. As he picked up his two, he said, "We're not fooling with flop, turn, and river bets. Here go the first three."
He laid them down one by one. Ace of Wands. Three of Pentacles. King of Wands.
Stan reflected. He held the Knight of Wands and the wild card. OK, he could make that at least a pair of aces, not too shabby.
NOW, REMIND ME OF THE VALUE OF THE POSSIBLE HANDS.
With a sigh, Stan reviewed the various hands and their standing. "Ready now?"
READY.
Stan dealt the Queen of Wands. "Interesting," he said. "We still good for the deal?"
WE ARE STILL GOOD. THE SUSPENSE IS NOT KILLING ME.
"Hah! Good one yourself!"
Stan dealt the final card. Page of Wands.
READY FOR THE SHOW-DOWN, STANLEY PINES?
"Yeah, I guess. Whatcha got?"
Death showed the Ace of Pentacles and the Queen of Swords he held. TWO QUEENS AND TWO ACES.
Stan whistled in admiration. "Nice. Two good pair you got there. However—" He laid down his cards. "Page of Wands. Knight of Wands. Queen of Wands. Wild card, I'm using as King of Wands. And Ace of Wands. Royal flush."
I SEE.
Stan tapped the Death card. "That's the one you insisted be wild. It's wild. So I say it's now King of Wands, and I win."
A BIT IRONIC, I SUPPOSE.
"You accusing me of cheatin'?" Stanley asked with a grin.
His opponent silently returned his grin. Bit of a foregone conclusion, that . . ..
Dipper rushed into the hospital room, still clutching his phone. The doctor stood by Wendy's bed, his back to the door, but he turned, saw Dipper, and, his eyes above his green surgical mask obviously smiling, gave him a thumbs-up.
"What happened?" Wendy asked in a woozy, weak voice.
"You're going to be OK," Dipper said, leaning close to her, his tears falling onto her face. He kissed her lips, very gently. "You had an accident, but—you're going to be OK!"
Then he turned—and saw Stanley sitting slumped in the chair. A scatter of oversized cards lay on the floor between his feet, his cell phone beneath his dangling, limp right hand.
Dipper gasped. "Oh, no."
He stepped around the doctor, who was murmuring reassurances to Wendy, and fearfully reached to shake his Grunkle's shoulder.
"Hey! Hands off! Oh, it's you," Stan said, jerking. "Sorry, Dipper. Thought somebody was tryin' to pick my pocket. I wasn't asleep, I was just resting my eyes. Like I told you on the phone, I knew Wendy'd come through."
He grunted and bent over and began to pick up his phone and the scattered Tarot cards.
"What were you doing?" Dipper asked, staring at the colorful cards his Grunkle was gathering..
"Ah, hand me that Death card, kid. Thanks. What do you think I was doing? I was playing a hand of solitaire. Might play another one tomorrow night, who knows. Wendy's been asking for you."
"Dipper?" Wendy croaked as the doctor paused to shake Dipper's hand. "My head hurts and I'm thirsty."
As he straightened the deck, Stan said, "Go take care of your wife, knucklehead."
"Water will be fine," the doctor said. "Everything looks great. I'll be in again before eight, but Wendy's turned the corner. Good night."
Dipper was so tired he fumbled and nearly spilled as he poured ice water from the pitcher into a plastic glass. Stan smiled as he watched his nephew hold a bent straw to Wendy's lips and she began to drink. When she'd finished half the glass, he heard her whisper, "I love you so much."
Stan decided the two needed their privacy and left them alone. On the way out, he stopped at the small first-floor chapel, where Manly Dan was praying. "Hey, Dan, good news," he said. "She's gonna make it. Go up and say hi, and then get your butt to bed. She needs rest, and you ain't gonna be any good to her all wore out."
Manly Dan shook his hand, nearly crushing it. He glanced upward and rasped, "Thank you, Lord," before he hurried out of the chapel and toward the elevators. Stan honked his nose in his handkerchief and walked out of the hospital, not to go home immediately but just to stand for a minute and look up at the stars. "Anytime you want a game, putz," he said genially. "You know where I am."
His cell phone chimed and he took it from his inside jacket pocket. "Yeah?"
A strained, frightened voice: "Grunkle Stan?"
He grinned. "Pumpkin! Wendy—"
Mabel's voice was frantic. "Oh, God, is she—"
"Calm down, Doc says she'll pull through fine." Stan heard Mabel whisper something, a prayer, and then he asked, "Where are you?"
"Portland, airport. I'll drive—wait, I'm too young to rent a car. I'll do something, call an Uber or catch a bus—"
"Nah. You just go get something to eat," Stan said, glancing at his watch. "Then rest somewhere in the airport. Keep your phone handy. I'll be there in two and a half hours."
Sounding exhausted and edgy, Mabel blurted, "It's so late! Are you up to driving—"
"Kid, way I feel now, I could drive for a day and a night. I think I just might live for a hundred more years. Do what I told you. And I love you, Mabel."
Now she was sobbing. She said something he could not catch, her voice strangled with relief and tears.
"Anyhow, I'll call you soon as I get there." It came out maybe a little gruffer than he'd meant. In a gentler tone, he added, "I'll meet you at the passenger pick-up. And dry up the waterworks before I see you."
"I love you too," she squeaked.
On his way out of the hospital lot, just after the turn on the highway, Stan saw a brownish blur—a rabbit bursting from cover and darting across the road. He heard a thump on the undercarriage.
Stan sighed and pulled over to the shoulder. Resignedly, he climbed out of the car and walked back until in the glow of parking-lot lights from the hospital he found the young rabbit, unbloodied, still warm, but its body loose with the finality of death.
"So you had to make me hurt a little," Stan said. He laid the small rabbit in the yellow, overgrown grass beside the road. "You couldn't just lose gracefully, could you?"
He didn't see a thing, but he perhaps heard a remote voice: A LIFE HAD TO BE TAKEN. AND IT IS FITTING THAT SOME GRIEF MUST COME AT SUCH A TIME. STILL, REMEMBER THE ONE I CAME FOR.
Stan walked back to his car, nursing a sour grudge. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, I guess. I gotta go get my niece now. My niece by blood, not by marriage."
DRIVE SAFELY.
Despite himself, Stan smiled—grimly—as he got into the driver's seat. "That a warning?"
JUST FRIENDLY ADVICE.
"You're kind of a cruel bastard, ain't ya?"
When no answer came, Stan started the engine, turned on the heater and pulled back—carefully—onto the highway. "Nah," he said to the night. "I guess not cruel. Just a real workaholic."
The End
