Hearts Are Trump

Uncle Abe and Uncle Will haven’t played cards together in years.

By now, the entire city of Detroit knows about Abraham and William Haddad—at least those who regularly stop into the family party store. Two bitter brothers broken up over a girl who left town anyway. It’s been ages, and the aunties need fresh gossip.

Between the cleaning supplies and the cases of Labatts stacked five high, they’ve set up the chipped vinyl folding table. The uncles, my dad, and Aunt Sarah, who’s never let being a woman stop her from being one of the brothers, sit around it.

Grandpa used to joke that he stopped at four kids because they made up the perfect euchre game. Watching Uncle Will shuffle and deal, I get the feeling he wasn’t joking.

The rules to euchre are simple if they were explained to you at age four. Otherwise, they take twenty minutes and still result in someone mucking up their first hand. Mop in hand, I throw my headphones over my ears but don’t press play. No chance I’m missing this game.

The siblings scoop up their cards. Aunt Sarah: “Pass.” Uncle Abe: “Pass.” Dad: “Pick it up.” Diamonds are trump. They zip through the round, like they already know each move. Aunt Sarah comes in with the final assist to win all five rounds. Neither uncle looks pleased.

Aunt Sarah shuffles again. The quiet is unsettling. My mop leaves streaks across the floor while Uncle Abe and Uncle Will glare across the table.

Uncle Abe: “Pass.” Dad: “Pass.” Uncle Will: “Pick it up.” Spades are trump. Another round, another silence. Uncle Abe shoots a look toward Uncle Will before leading with a high red Ace. His whole hand is red, useless against spades, but Uncle Will has enough black to carry them through. The usual banter is absent, and the silence fills the store.

Uncle Abe collects and shuffles. “What are we gonna do about Mom?” The siblings don’t answer. They just keep sorting their cards.

Uncle Will: “Call trump, Abraham.” Uncle Abe laughs, humorless. “You want me to call trump? How about you call your mother once in a while, then I’ll call trump.”

Aunt Sarah: “Abe…”

Too late. Uncle Will throws his cards. “I didn’t come for a lecture.”

Uncle Abe stands. “You weren’t going to come at all. Because she’s already dead to you, ain’t she?”

Uncle Will doesn’t rise. Doesn’t meet his gaze. He picks up his cards, fans them. “Call trump, Abraham.”

Uncle Abe wants to object, but Uncle Will is still the oldest, and that still means something. “Hearts,” he declares. “Hearts are trump.”