Authors

“Do you have Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain?” I asked intently.

My Grandmother Irene huffed an exaggerated sigh and drew the worn card from her hand and passed it to me with a chuckle.  

I was 10 and greedy for victory. I loved it when adults played games and I loved the card game “Authors”.  It was our family’s traditional game. No one else I knew played it. My grandparents had very beautiful, well worn cards that they played with often.  It was fun, easy and made you feel a little sophisticated because you eventually memorized the deck and knew 30 famous authors and 4 of their most popular books.  My favorite author was Louisa May Alcott since she was the only woman in the deck and her books were easy to remember, Little Women, Little Men, Eight Cousins and An Old Fashioned Girl. We called Sir Walter Scott “Egg Head” due to the unfortunate proportion of his head in his portrait on the card. Having seen their faces so often I felt like I knew them.  Robert Louis Stevenson looked thin and brooding, Edgar Allen Poe appropriately sinister, Alfred Lord Tennyson jovial, Mark Twain mischievous.  Memorizing the authors and books was not just a byproduct of playing the game but it was important for winning the game.  Once all of your cards had been played you needed to remember the exact author and books on the cards your opponents were holding in their hands.  I was good at this part since I wasn’t distracted by the conversation, I was intent on winning.

My sister and brother were respectively 8 and 10 years older than I.  There was very little in our lives that I measured up to, let alone excelled at.  Dinner conversation was over my head, I didn’t follow the news, I didn’t get most jokes and I wasn’t included in the special relationship my siblings had.  My father would kindly ask me what I’d had for lunch that day so that I would have something to add to the dinner conversation. My siblings went to highschool together, knew all the same people and were teenagers in the 60’s together. I went to a different school, had different friends and all my great achievements were mastered by them long ago.  I probably understood that when they played authors with me it was only to humor me but I didn’t care.  Having everyone’s attention focused, however nebulously, on a task I was competent at was a powerful stimulant to my 10 year old self.

This particular game was between my grandmother and I.  I think my siblings were already off at college and my parents had gone off to one of the many conventions they attended for my father’s work.  My grandmother Irene stayed with me when they were gone and I adored her.  She treated me like I was the most wonderful creature God ever invented.  She thought I was beautiful, talented and smart.  She loved her Savior with all her heart, mind and soul and I felt like a close second.  She felt her job in life was to pray for others which she did with constancy and abandon.  She was selfless and good yet never took herself too seriously.  One never felt judged when you were with her, in fact she made you feel better about yourself because she beamed love at you.  She was probably the most Christlike being I’ve ever known but my 10 year old self didn’t really understand all these things then.  Ten year old Kimmie just wanted to win a card game, this card game.

Grandmother Irene got up to use the restroom before our game was over.  She put her cards face down on the table and left the room.  There was no one else in the room.  No one to see.  

I don’t remember if there was any inner turmoil surrounding the decision I made.  I don’t remember even making the decision but I remember the crime.  I remember picking her cards up and looking at them. I can see myself clearly at the card table in the living room looking at the cards. Looking at the cards of the woman who loved me unconditionally, who took time to entertain me by playing cards with me, who prayed for me consistently since the minute I was born.  I don’t remember the serpent’s whisper before I looked but I do remember the burning shame afterwards, even 45 years later.  I have never told this to anyone and yet it is the first memory that came to me from the “Difficult Memory” writing prompt.  The fruit I had wanted so badly, to win this game, became dust in my hands, sand in my mouth, and bitter remorse in my twisted stomach.  We finished the game, I don’t remember if I used my ill gotten knowledge to win or not.  I do remember wanting to conceal my sin more than win.  To run and hide and stitch together some fig leaves to cover myself. I see now that the shame I felt, the shame I still feel has served a purpose in my life. I never cheated again, that is if you don’t count diets of course.