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“Briscola” was a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.
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MartyRus, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
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Briscola
by Emily Xu
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…..My teenage years were a passionate yet futile attempt towards finding my true love. I spent the thick August nights at my cousin Celia’s derelict apartment where the parties ran rampant and romantic opportunities were held like a cloud above our heads. Empty beer cans scattered the floor, yet we were most drunk with the ideals of a perfect partner, maybe even a perfect family. We danced until dawn, trying to find a connection amongst the mass of adolescents, freshly graduated from youthful innocence, that might suggest a chance at romance. We were none the wiser about how much we would have to sacrifice for love, yet we ran towards it relentlessly, leaving both nothing and everything at stake.
….. I’m forty-six now. And romantic relationships are nothing like what I was dreaming about with my friends foolishly in high school. They don’t tell you what it’s like to be married, only what comes before you’re inaugurated into this commitment—the dating, the puppy love.
….. Most marriages don’t turn out to be what the relationship was ten, twenty years ago. It’s impossible. People are far too dynamic for that to be the case.
…..For me, I’ve become a stranger to the Carrie Mae Weems that was young and lively. The best card player in Brooklyn, or at least according to my sister I was. I’d practice with my husband Steven, and win, without fail, every round. It became more of a practice for him than me, but I didn’t mind it.
…..Now, I rarely leave my apartment, only sending my children off to school or the occasional trip to the grocery store across the street. Cards were a long forgotten hobby that seemed to be a permanent thing of the past. Steven would always spit out some form of an excuse every time he sensed me beginning to mention the game. Acting on my nostalgic forlorning of the past, I decided to sit him down and begin a subtle game of traditional cards after enough years of avoidance.
…..It was Sunday afternoon, the optimal time for post-church family bonding. I took my chance: “Steven. Have you seen where the cards went?”
…..He peers over his newspaper. “I wouldn’t know, Carrie.” He goes back down behind the New York Times.
…..“It’d be nice if you could help me find them,” I tell him, unfazed by his nonchalance. I wait for his response.
…..“I’m in the middle of an article. Check the living room or something.”
…..I stand there, watching him read his stupid article. He doesn’t even twitch. I left swiftly for the cards, knowing very well that he just wanted me to stop bothering him.
…..As I rummaged through the culminating mess of office papers and children’s toys, determined to find a box of Bicycle cards, I spot a large gray envelope with chewed down edges and a crooked rubber band over it that would be otherwise very ordinary if it weren’t for the thick strap of cash inside. The paper was threatening to burst open with the sheer amount of crisp hundred-dollar bills. I hesitated. We never kept this kind of money in our apartment like this. I checked behind me and quickly grabbed it, my fingers quivering in anticipation: surely it couldn’t all be real. I held up each hundred dollar bill up to the light to check if they were real, counting as I went. One thousand, ten thousand, one hundred twenty thousand dollars. All of which were real. I sat there, staring at the sheer amount of money in my hands. I wanted to yell out, celebrate, throw the money in the air and feel it shower down on my second-hand clothing. But heavy suspicion held me down. I usually don’t trust my gut instinct after it lost me five grand at a bet twenty years ago, but somehow, I knew Steven couldn’t know about this—and I quickly found out why.
….. “Steve W,” the envelope read in fine red print. The handwriting was unfamiliar. I stared my husband’s name. Looking around, I found a deck of cards, and yet another gray envelope with the same red “Steve W.” Inside was, unfortunately, not more cash, but a letter. Everything was crossed out with thick black marker, and the only words I could recognize was “The Briscola Crime Family.” A hand gripped my heart and squeezed it, hard. It couldn’t be… could it? I looked at the cash. The letter. Steven’s growing distance and frequent absence. I stood, staring at the hallway to the kitchen table, where my husband sat. I picked up the cards, and swallowed all the anxiety that was plaguing my mind, and proceeded.
….. I found him in the same spot at the kitchen table, the paper still raised at the same angle. His extended periods of immobility were very impressive.
….. “I got the cards.”
….. “Did you?”
…..“Yes. Let’s just play one round. It took me so long to find them.”
…..He didn’t respond.
…..“The article’s definitely finished by now, right?”
…..He finally looked up. “Is some personal time too much to ask for?”
….. “Is spending some time with your wife for the first time in two weeks too much to ask for?” I say, sitting down across from him. I take out the cards and begin shuffling them.
….. Steven grumbles and sets down his paper. “Just one round. I’m tired.”
….. “One round,” I agree, setting down cards for each of us.
….. “Three cards? That’s it?”
…..“Yep. Three cards. That’s how the game works.”
….. “OK… what game is this?”
….. I clear my throat. “Briscola.” I watch his eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you were familiar with it?” I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible.
….. He looks at me, slightly alarmed. “I… I am. Yes… three starting cards. I didn’t know that you knew it.”
….. I chuckle. “Oh, I do. I’m very familiar with Briscola.”
….. The chair creaks as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I see.”
….. “I know everything about Briscola. It’s secrets, it’s tricks, everything. I’m a pro.”
….. “That’s great.” Steven looked astronomically nervous.
….. “Do you know anything about Briscola?”
….. Steven picks up his cards hastily. “I do. I said that already. Let’s play.”
….. “You can’t look at your cards yet, Steven. That’s not how Briscola works. Are you sure you know it?”
….. Steven opens his mouth to respond, but I add, “Unless you’re talking about a different Briscola?”
….. Steven stands up suddenly.
….. “Oh?” I say.
….. “One… One second. I need to check something.” He walks briskly and shakily to the living room and I hear silence.
….. I stand up, equally shaky and watch him turn around slowly from down the hall, the cash spread out across the floor under his feet.
….. “Carrie…”
….. “I told you, Steven. I know Briscola. Briscola killed my sister. And you work for them now, don’t you?” I say, abandoning my act of wisely chosen words, barely containing the fear in my voice. I was terrified of his answer, though I already knew.
….. “Carrie—”
….. “I know you do. You’re never home. You never talk to me, or even look at me. You don’t do anything for the kids. You’re just glued to that newspaper the second you get home. What are you looking for? Your photo being displayed with a caption of ‘new killer on the loose?’ Is that why you’re always reading that stupid newspaper?” I shout, approaching him and the mess behind him. “You think I don’t know where all this money mysteriously appeared from? I married a monster!”
….. Steven stands completely still. “You did.” He sounded remorseful, but couldn’t let my ears and heart deceive me.
….. “For Briscola, Briscola. Of all organizations! How many people did you kill?”
….. Steven looks at me. “Enough.”
….. “What are you?” I cry, tears in my eyes. “How can you do this? Our kids, our family… everything we’ve done… and this whole time? Why?”
….. Steven turns around and puts his hand in his pocket. I knew what was coming. He barely turns around before I tackle him and grab his gun and run. He yelps and dives after me.
….. Seconds before he could grasp my leg and pull me down, I raise the weapon and pull the trigger of same gun that shot my sister, watching his body crumple to the ground like a rag, with such a lack of hesitation that I startle myself. I look down at the gun and the body of the man I married.
….. I suppose I really never lose.
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Emily Xu is a 17-year-old senior in high school from New Jersey. Emily is a passionate cellist who has won competitions at the regional and international levels, and currently studies music at the Manhattan School of Music’s Precollege division. Besides music, Emily enjoys writing poetry and prose fiction which have won various prizes, and is currently working on her first screenplay in her Screenwriting course.
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