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

If you want to get real technical about it, Uncle Abe and Uncle Will haven’t even
shared the same room in years, but that ain’t news to anyone east of Livernois. By
now, the entire city of Detroit knows about Abraham and William Haddad—at least
those who regularly stop into the family party store for their weekly supply of
meats, spirits, and fresh-baked pita. It’s old news. Two bitter brothers broken up
over a girl who left town anyway. It’s been ages and the aunties need fresh gossip
for their kitchen tables.

And they’re bound to find it, so long as they crane their necks over the deli
counter and steal a glance toward the old store room. Between the cleaning supplies
and the cases of Labatts stacked five high, there’s hardly enough room for one
person to stand comfortably. Even so, they’ve set up the chipped vinyl folding
table, diagonal, with one corner hanging through the door frame, and managed to
stick four whole people around it—the uncles, my dad, and Aunt Sarah, who’s never
once let the fact that she’s a woman stop her from being one of the brothers.

Grandpa used to joke that he stopped at four kids because they made up the perfect
euchre game. Watching Uncle Will shuffle the deck and distribute two-three-two-
three cards, then three-two-three-two, I get the feeling that maybe he wasn’t
actually joking.

The rules to euchre are simple, just as long as they were explained to you at age
four, and you’ve grown up watching your family patriarch play every Friday night
since. Otherwise, they take about twenty minutes to explain and usually still
result in some sucker mucking up their first hand. Between tracking trump, finding
the bowers, and leading high off-suit, there are a lot of moving pieces, but the
people at this table are pros. Mop in hand, I throw my headphones over my ears and
make myself look busy, but I don’t press play on my Walkman. No chance in Hell I’m
missing this game.

The siblings scoop up their cards, each holding their hand close to their chest
like Grandpa taught them. With Uncle Will’s deal, it’s Aunt Sarah’s call. “Pass.”

Uncle Abe. “Pass.”

Dad. “Pick it up.”

“Diamonds are trump,” Uncle Will announces, sticking the deck’s top card into his
own hand.

They zip easily through the round, like they already know exactly which cards will
be played when. Part of that is just how euchre goes—it ain’t hard to count cards
when there are only twenty-four of them to go around—but part of it is just the
four of them playing the same game they’ve played since childhood. Dad’s hand is
mostly red. Aunt Sarah comes in with the final assist to win all five rounds.
Neither of the uncles looks pleased with the other.

Aunt Sarah picks up the next deal with a quick and efficient shuffle that was
trained into her hands before she could even spell euchre the right way. The quiet
around the table is unsettling. The only thing Michiganders love more than actually
playing euchre is talking about how shit their euchre hand was in the last round.
Time passes slowly between rounds without the standard bitching to fill it. My mop
leaves streaks across the floor while Uncle Abe and Uncle Will glare at one another
across the table.

Two-three-two-three, followed by three-two-three-two. The cards are drawn and it’s

Uncle Will. “Pick it up.”

“Spades are trump,” says Aunt Sarah, debating which card she wants to ditch in
favor of her new pick up. She takes too long, and Uncle Abe ain’t afraid to let her
know by clearing his throat.

Another round goes by quick. Uncle Abe shoots a look toward Uncle Will before he
leads with a high red Ace. Turns out Uncle Abe’s whole hand is red, and would have
made for a decent hearts hand, but that doesn’t do much good when spades are trump.
Doesn’t matter. Uncle Will has enough black to carry them through and keep from
getting euched—but it’s close. It’s exactly the sort of move that would usually
spark banter between the rounds, but the uncles don’t spare a word and the silence
seems to fill the whole store.

Uncle Abe collects the cards and knocks them all into a neat deck. At the end of
his practiced shuffle, he presents the pile to Dad and offers the cut. Dad leaves
one wordless rap of his knuckles atop the table and Uncle Abe distributes the deck
as is. Two-three-two-three, then three-two-three-two.

Dad. “Pass.”

Uncle Will. “Pass.”

Aunt Sarah. “Pass.”

“What are we gonna do about Mom?”

It’s a slight breach in the etiquette of euchre to interrupt the call for trump,
but Uncle Abe doesn’t seem all that concerned, and anyway he flips the top card in
the deck to move the round along. His question goes unanswered as the siblings
continue to search for a starting point.

Dad. “Pass.”

Uncle Will. “Pass.”

Aunt Sarah. “Pass.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

No one here is playing poker, but they’ve sure got the faces for it. Their eyes
stay glued to their cards, fingers fiddling with the placement just to keep busy.
Uncle Will is the only one with enough guts to speak up. “Call trump, Abraham.”

Uncle Abe’s answering laugh is low and humorless. “You want me to call trump?” he
says. “How about you call your mother once in a while, then I’ll call trump.”

Aunt Sarah cuts in with a soft warning. “Abe…”

But it’s too late. Uncle Will is already throwing his cards across the table. “I
didn’t come here to listen to a lecture.”

And Uncle Abe is already standing. “You weren’t going to come at all,” he hollers,
a callused finger pointed at his brother. “Because she’s already dead to you, ain’t
she?”
“Get your finger out of my—”

“Ain’t she?”

Uncle Will doesn’t rise to meet his brother. Doesn’t even meet his gaze. He just
picks his cards back up, one by one, and fans them in his palm. With a nod toward
Uncle Abe’s chair, he says, “Call trump, Abraham.” Uncle Abe looks like he wants to
object, but Uncle Will is still the oldest of four, and his years away haven’t
changed that. When he speaks, the others are obligated to listen, as outlined in
the officially unofficial sibling code of conduct. “You lured me here with a
friendly card game, so the least you can do is help me win it.”

Uncle Abe has got a nice, loud voice that resonates in his own outrage. “The least
I could—?”

“Play cards with me, Abe,” Uncle Will says again. This time it sounds like less of
a command and more of a plea. “Like we used to. Before we have to make a call we've
never made before.”

This, finally, seems to be the thing that calms Uncle Abe down again. He returns to
the fold-out metal chair that groans beneath his weight and sorts his cards into a
neat fan once more. “Hearts,” he declares, voice short and sharp. “Hearts are
trump.”