HEARTS ON THE AMERICAN PLAN, 1963

"Sitting on the Black Lady, eh?" Papa says.
"Okay. Let's have her. Hurry up--we
don't have all night." Push,
shove she thinks. Hustle. Just
let me be. She plays her six of hearts,
looks left. Son Number One
lays down a four. "Come on, boy"--
Papa to Son Number Two--"I know
you've got her. End my pain."
Bart dumps his ace of spades. "Lord
Bart," Papa says, "how'd you know?",
slides an eight across the oilcloth, sighs--
big man, early forties, Old Golds,

ice-blue eyes. Above his crewcut Woolworth
knicknacks; from the den, black-
white flashes of Peace Corps, advisers,
stutter of gunfire. Papa leads
his jack of clubs. Fakes a grimace.
Bart waits. "Make your move
son. The American Plan says
you act on what you know, you win.
You wait, you lose." Son Number One
thumbs a card, rolls adolescent eyes.
"Think that's corny Wade?" Papa says.
"It works, is what I know. We ain't
the best"--Bart slips on his queen
of hearts--"for nothing. You see
today's paper? Arco,
up another half. Texaco, two points.
You think I give clients bum advice?
'Invest, the future's now.' I know

what I'm doing. Stare at your navel
you lose out. Move, you make a killing."
She thinks, Another "Message to Garcia"
as Wade flicks down a ten
and she has to follow suit. Her only club's
the queen. "Aren't you lucky!" Papa says.
"The good Black Lady. Last hand now,
we'll see who's getting stiffed. Lead 'em
like you've got 'em, honey." A heart,
the trey, is all she's got. She lays
it out, forgets to breathe as Wade
piles on the deuce. Bart tricks out
a pubescent Papa smile--he has the queen.
Spade sticks out its tongue at her,
digs her twenty-one points deep
and more as Papa dumps a diamond.
"Bart, my man!" he says. "Great
strategy." Bart glows. To Wade:
"Not half bad." Wade smirks a smile.
Papa turns to her. "Almost, sweetheart.
But you got to think strategically, like
these guys. Be quick, be aggressive.
But not half-cocked . . ." Bang

you're dead she thinks. He shuffles, deals
on schedule, doubletime. She sees
a starting-pistol pointed as his heart,
sees the party pop of flag unscroll
the list of winners: Boomer Investment
Phillips Petroleum Sooner Football.
"Papa . . ." He looks up, dealing still,
gives Wade Bart's card, stops: "Papa
what? You've screwed me up,
my rhythm's off. What you think
I'm doing here?" She says,
"Time on The American Plan."