Four Of A Kind 1

Sometimes destiny hinges on a seemingly random convergence of unremarkable cards.

Their backs embellished with red diamonds, five cards stared up at me, the implications of their configuration consummating a previously murky intent. Four queens established the tableau, the heart suit carefully arranged on the left, followed by her sisters, each monarch a mirror image of the previous except for the suit. The final card, the ace of spades, broke the royal pattern, completing the exceptional sequence in mocking simplicity.

I never played much poker, couldn't afford to gamble, but I easily recognized the stunning rarity of this hand, the one I held between my trembling fingers. A natural four of a kind, not a deal to bluff, not a deal to reject carelessly. Hardened gamblers spend their entire lives drawing cards and never witness a sequence of cards like this.

Somehow, we'd all become four of a kind on this lonely, rainy, dismal holiday.

* * *

The afternoon offered only damp, gloomy October clouds tumbling across the sky like dirty cotton, whipped by a frigid wind, chilling to the bone.

Walking down the worn path, raised voices caught my attention. Two students argued passionately until, grinning, the smaller guy up-slapped the taller with his palm.

"Dude, does this look like the United States? Thanksgiving in November? What the hell are you thinking?" The smaller fellow cast a resigned look in my direction. I smiled and waved. Primarily held by myopic American exchange students, the common misconception Thanksgiving only existed south of the border and somehow possessed a stranglehold on November, somewhat amused me. I turned my eyes from the altercation and continued down the path.

I shivered and settled Bradley's battered suitcase into the trunk of the idling Ford, the tailpipe belching white mist about my jeans. Slamming the cover, I straightened, wrapping my arms about me, shaking as the wind bit through my thin jacket.

"Petie, my friend, sure you don't want to go home?"

Bradley stepped around from the passenger side of the car. He wore a sensible parka, complete with fake fur lining the hood, and cowboy boots.

"Don't call me Petie," I responded glumly.

Brad halted beside me and cocked his head to the side. His usual wisecracking visage crumbled into a more serious, thin-lipped frown.

"You need to tell her," he said seriously.

I nodded my head. Yes, I needed to tell her. Of course I should have climbed into the warm Ford with Brad, travelled the four hours to Apsley, and talked to her like I should have months ago. Coward's blood sheepishly ebbed through my veins. My backbone flexed even as I struggled to deny his implication.

"Bradley! We need to go before these skies open up!"

Bradley's mother leant out the driver's window, her hair billowing in the wind, flashing us both an impatient look. With an exasperated shrug, Bradley turned towards her. She ducked back inside the vehicle, furiously cranking up the window to repel the biting wind.

"I'll be ready in a minute, Mom." He returned his conciliatory gaze back to me. "There's still time. You don't even need to pack. Mom will wait. Come back home. It's Thanksgiving."

I bit at my lip, tempted, but then resignedly shook my head. Brad sighed and moved forward to embrace me. I stiffened for a moment, then acceded. His palm smacked my shoulder, and he released me.

"If you won't go see her, then you should at least call her." Brad shook his head in dismay. "It's Thanksgiving."

"I know," I whispered.

Brad nodded disappointedly, refusing to condone my reluctance. Without another word, he turned and rounded the car. The passenger door slammed. The Ford pulled away, squeaking its tires on damp pavement.

I watched as its taillights disappeared around the curve in the road, turning left at the stone gates of the university, towards feasts and family.

As far as I knew, Brad's departure marked the last of my few friends to leave the school, everyone else rushing towards home-cooked meals of turkey and parsnips set on extended dining room tables, laughter and warmth surrounding them all. I stared up at the empty dormitory, its harsh institutional cinder blocks reminding me more of a jail than living space for twenty students. I mentally corrected myself. This Thanksgiving, the lonely dorm might only welcome one student foolish enough to avoid escaping the deserted campus. Holidays stung the most—as school slowed down, the challenges of life resurfaced.

The first drops of October rain spattered to the pavement, dotting its surface like a complicated jigsaw puzzle. After a few minutes, moisture trickled into my hair and down my neck. Shivering, I trudged up the familiar path towards the dorm, watching my sneakers until I passed into the relative warmth of where I now called home.

* * *

I stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the clouds tumbling chaotically like angry grey cats chasing their tails. Icy tears trickled down the window, obscuring my vision. Trees bent and twisted in the wind, multi-coloured leaves whirling in mini-tornadoes above the manicured lawns and footpaths crisscrossing the quad.

We'd kissed for the first time on a day mirroring this: stormy, dreary, rain lashing against basement windows. For as long as I could remember, Lauren had shared my life—she lived next door, and we had blossomed from kindergarten to high school, fraternal twins from different parents. A dismal October day, around Thanksgiving, chased inside by the inclement weather, Lauren and I tangled on her basement sofa, watching a rerun of

Gilligan's Island

, or some other equally inane sitcom.

* * *

"Have you ever kissed a girl?" Lauren asked benignly from her end of the sofa.

I shook my head. Girls didn't exactly flock to my side. Skipper smacked Gilligan with his hat for the zillionth time. With no warning, she crawled close, her hands resting entwined against my shoulder, her face hovering only centimetres from mine.

Without thought, without considering if it might shatter our easy friendship, I kissed her. Simple as that: lips touching, her warm, minty breath banishing the pattering of the rain outside.

* * *

Oh, I loved Lauren in my own way, and I always would, but an emptiness intruded. Her desires diverged from mine—a large family, maybe a hobby farm. I needed to reach the stars. Lauren stood by my side, but we rarely talked. Our easy friendship dissolved in passionate kisses and sensate petting. A typical high school romance.

We sat together contentedly, watching the sunset, fingers entwined in complicated familiarity. The end of summer steadily approached, neither cool nor hot, serene autumn leaves changing colour in the dappled sunlight. Subtle tears filled her eyes, but none yet spilled.

"Do you really have to go?" she asked.

I nodded with a touch of regret as the sun kissed the horizon over the placid lake. Mist spiralled upwards from the water, shrouding the molten ball of orange.

"You know I do, Lauren."

I wanted to tell her then. I've hated myself ever since. Yes, I loved her, but not in the way she wanted. And I couldn't tell her. I couldn't as she looked up at me, losing me to the big world outside of hers, trusting I'd someday return. Instead of telling her what I felt, I kissed her, telling her what she wanted to hear.

"I love you, Peter," she said simply.

I should have told her then. I should have. I should have. I should have.

I swallowed and said exactly what I shouldn't have. Unfair truth mixed with hidden deception infused my facile words.

"I love you, too, Lauren."

* * *

Sharp in my memory, her yielding lips brushed my cheek, her soft breasts pressed into me, her final embrace before I left her.

"Come back soon," she whispered. "Maybe Thanksgiving?"

I heedlessly climbed into the family car, on my way to university and a new life, leaving her standing alone on the curb. As the car moved inexorably away from her and towards the beckoning unknown, I failed to look back. I don't even know if she waved.

* * *

I stared out the window at the unrelenting rain, the campus awash in a great flood, only missing pairs of animals marching towards a giant ark. The ceaseless rain transformed footpaths to swollen rivers, manicured grass sodden and listless. My heart ached in regret and indecision.

Most of the time, I still hated myself.

* * *

An unusual stillness permeated the dorm. Only a muted laugh track kept me company as I sat alone in front of the droning television.

Gilligan's Island

had transformed into slightly more cerebral humour:

M*A*S*H

graced the magic box, where the antics of Hawkeye, Trapper and Hot Lips masked the general dreariness beyond the streaked windows.

Not many dorms on campus yet boasted co-ed. This white-washed cinder block structure housed twenty of us. Twelve girls, eight guys, all living together in controlled chaos, sharing four bathrooms, one shower room and one common area. By this time of afternoon, four fights for control of the only television would have provided alternate entertainment, while four other guys would argue companionably over Euchre on the old battered card table in the corner. Sometimes, the game participants played for money, mostly to pass the time. Sometimes, they would switch to Hearts, and occasionally, when they could find four students who knew how to play, Bridge. A contented community, if not the quietest in the world.

Today, as most of my dorm mates travelled to distant homes where relatives and girlfriends and boyfriends waited to greet them, the dorm reverted to an eerie silence.

I glanced out the window during a commercial. The rain continued to pour over the world, cleansing it and drowning it simultaneously. I sat at the end of the most comfortable sofa in the common room—a luxury rare for me. The singular communal phone hanging on the wall stared accusingly at me. Brad's words haunted me.

Call her, at least.

As my closest friend here, I shared too much with Brad. Intuitively, he correctly sensed my guilt, regardless.

Call her, at least.

I missed Lauren terribly. I missed her laughter and her effortless friendship.

I desperately wanted to call her. I should have called her.

I wanted to love her. I couldn't.

Fairness and life mixed like oil and water. The accusing instrument hanging on the wall mocked me, so I tore my eyes from it and glumly returned to watching the antics of the 4077th.

* * *

A new episode of

M*A*S*H

began with haunting theme music.

Suicide is painless.

Uh huh.

Somewhere down the hallway, towards the female section of the dorm, a door slammed, and I sensed, more than heard, a whisper of feminine giggling. Soon after, the entrance opened to my right, and two girls entered.

The brunette, Alison, strode confidently, graceful and lanky, wearing blue jeans and a bright blouse. The girl beside her, Claire, ambled more furtively, perhaps surprised to see me, only a little shorter, caught laughing, her blonde hair drawn back in a long braid.

Rumours circulated around, as rumours normally do, that these two girls might enjoy more than simple friendship. They had arrived together from the same all-female academy directly to our little university. Alison and Claire, indeed, seemed inseparable. Personally, I didn't believe the rumours, but even if truth underlined the gossip, I didn't care. If these two found more than friendship together, happiness, what else could one ask for? Honest love held far more appeal than a fractured lie of a more

typical relationship

, whatever that meant. Rumours birthed from the silliest misunderstandings. Girls simply displayed more affection than guys.

"What's up?" Alison asked me.

I shrugged and motioned the girls to make themselves comfortable.

"Watching reruns. You want to watch something?"

Truthfully, that anyone else remained in the dorm surprised me. I didn't mind if they wanted to watch another show. Well before Alison and Claire wandered in, my attention had meandered far from the Korean War and sarcastic doctors quipping across the television screen.

Alison plunked into the far sofa and Claire stretched out, yawning, onto the sofa nearest the phone, pillowing her head on her hands.

"

M*A*S*H

is fine," Alison offered, settling in and turning her eyes to the screen. Claire shrugged agreeably, following Alison's lead.

In the first commercial break, Claire pushed herself up and approached the phone. I closed my eyes and turned away the judging instrument chastising me.

Claire dialled and spoke purposefully into the receiver, her voice drowned amongst the blaring commercials. I thumbed down the volume for her. After a brief conversation, she covered the mouthpiece and faced us.

"Cafeteria is closed for the weekend." Alison and I groaned together. Claire smiled. "What do you want on your pizza?"

* * *

We failed to agree, so Claire ordered two, one with anchovies, the other without. Alison shrugged, willing to eat either.

Turning away from the television, I glanced out into the downpour. While the sun hid behind the cloud cover and the relentless rain, its light waned as a troubled sunset approached. Twilight filtered through the clouds, washing the world outside grey and featureless.

I squinted. A flash of pale colour shimmered on one of the footpaths. I wiped at the condensation on the window, ignoring the dampness coating my palm. Shielding my eyes, I peered out.

A girl walked laboriously through the downpour, her head down, unprotected from the rain. Taking each step carefully, her boots nearly disappeared in the wash of water flowing down the paths. She carried bulky objects in her arms, clutched protectively to her chest. I neither recognised the girl nor her burden through the onslaught.

"Who is that?" I asked, my finger pressed against the glass.

In a moment, Alison leant on my shoulder, her clean feminine scent washing over me, her brunette hair tickling my cheek. She peered through the small cleared patch beyond the streaked rain. I shifted to give her more room. Alison blinked and then bit her lower lip.

"I think it's Paige," she murmured. "Silly girl, out in the rain like this. She's crazy, you know."

Alison straightened and wandered back to her perch. Ignoring the television, I continued watching the girl struggle through the downpour. Once, the girl nearly slipped and fell, and an unhinged urge to laugh helplessly descended on me as I watched her burden tumble to the saturated ground. She struggled to retrieve the objects, wiping them off awkwardly with a bare hand. The urge to laugh fled as quickly as it had arrived, and I mentally chastised myself, ashamed.

The inappropriate urge to laugh obligingly transformed into a vision of myself, a knight in shining armour racing through the rain to help the girl up. I shamefully banished the second image, convinced the knight, not the girl, would have needed rescuing in the unrelenting rain.

I continued to watch her slow journey.

* * *

Five weeks prior, shortly after arriving on campus, the common room smelled of instant coffee and toasted waffles. Morning sunlight flooded through the tall windows. Students, in various states of dress, wandered about, engaged in morning conversation, laughing and planning the upcoming day. Towards the back of the dorm, showers rained, accompanied by off-key singing. In short: controlled chaos.

I recognised Alison and Claire from brief introductions upon arriving, both attractive coeds, seemingly comfortable amongst the ebb and flow of our somewhat frantic mornings. Both women drank steaming cups of coffee near the sinks, engaged in fragmented conversation. Alison touched Claire's hand, emphasizing a point.

Behind me, two guys argued about the teaching abilities of a shared professor. To his friend, another guy boasted about his sexual conquest from the night before.

Paige wandered into the common room from the female wing. She wore mismatched socks, baggy sweats and an untucked purple satin blouse clearly cross-buttoned at her throat. Wisps of her golden hair escaped a haphazard ponytail at the nape of her neck to frame her defined face. Carrying a short stack of books against her chest, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She avoided eye contact with everyone, including me, as she strode deliberately to the exterior doorway to find her runners.

Even as she breezed through the morning slalom course, her grey eyes held an unusual intensity of focus, haunting in its depth.

Paige had never introduced herself to me. I only knew her name through others in the dorm. Her isolation neither offended nor surprised me. She didn't avoid only me. I had never witnessed her socializing with others, either.

As Paige laced her runners, picked up her books and opened the exterior door, Alison called out from the sinks, "Have a great day, Paige!"

Without glancing back, Paige simply waved her fingers over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.

* * *

Sunlight bathed the quad as fluffy cumulus clouds skipped across the sky. I sat alone on unyielding concrete steps, watching students hurrying to and from distant classes, some carrying coffees and textbooks.

As noon rapidly approached, I gathered my textbook from the steps, pushed myself up and descended to lecture hall 301. Early, I hesitated at the doors. Inside, a professor droned.

I carefully slipped inside, allowing my eyes to adjust to the relative gloom. Hundreds of students scattered about the wide hall, none disturbed by my silent intrusion. A picture of a human hand, its fingers curled into a claw, projected brightly on a white screen at the front of the classroom. The professor's shadow intersected the faraway wrist. I only caught the end of his question, "... indicates ischemia of the forearm?"

He picked a female student at random near the middle of the hall. After a moment of hesitation, she replied uncertainly, "Carpal tunnel?"

The professor shook his head sadly. "This will be on the exam, Josie." He turned to the remainder of the classroom. "Anyone else? Anyone at all?"

I prayed he wouldn't notice me lurking in the shadows at the back of the room. Macroeconomics, the next class in this hall, challenged me enough, my grades suitably reflective of my ongoing scholastic struggle, without participating unexpectedly in human anatomy.

As my eyes continued to adapt, I spotted unstyled blonde hair attached to a familiar girl, who sat alone in the front row of the hall, illuminated by the reflection off the screen.

"Paige?" the professor continued, his eyes settling on her unkempt hair, his finger pointing at her. The danger, as I saw it, of sitting at the front of any classroom? Undesired queries from overly enthusiastic teachers.

While her hushed voice barely reached me, Paige answered with full confidence. "Volkmann's Contracture."

This obscure medical phrase embodied the only words she'd ever uttered in my presence.

The professor nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

* * *

With a start, I returned to the present. Yes, Paige oozed eccentricity, certainly she walked as a lone wolf, but despite Alison's announcement, lunacy held no more sway over her than the rest of us. Beyond the tearstained glass, Paige cautiously, but steadily, waded, splashing through the river of a footpath towards the warmth of our dorm.

* * *

Paige appeared, following a bluster of wind and dampness, as the exterior door opened and shut. She pressed the door closed and stood dripping near the entrance. I glanced up.