Lucky Sevens

Part I

I was seventeen when I learned that my aunt Janice had won $20,000 on a scratch-off. It was after school and I was glued to the t.v. watching soaps. The phone rang but I was splayed on the floor with a bowl of cereal and didn’t feel like getting up. My mother answered in the next room. “Oh, hi Jan.” I turned my attention back to the show. A bellow broke the lull—“You’re kidding!” and in quick succession, “How much?” and “My Lord!” I bolted upright. I went to the doorway and tried to make eye contact but was shooed away.

My father and I heard details over dinner. Last month, my aunt was at a gas station air machine fumbling with a tire gauge when a man offered to help. My aunt was attractive, in her early thirties, and proudly independent. But she didn’t balk at assistance. The stranger was large and grizzled but “not in a scary way.” He reportedly crouched to remove the tiny tire caps, affix the nozzle, and repeatedly stop and measure. Jan said she’d found it charming that he periodically held the cap in his mouth. My Mom winced as she continued, “Charming? More like disgusting.”

Generally, I adored my Aunt Janice and ignored my Mom. Aunt Jan, or AJ as she had me call her, was loving and patient. She lived on Cape Cod, and our visits there would be forever entwined with my affection for her. Among my most vivid childhood memories were her wildly patterned apartment, the half-paved cobblestones, sandy beaches, crashing waves, and a town gazebo where, at twilight, musicians enlivened sun-tired audiences. I loved it there.

When the man said, “All set,” my aunt gushed, “How can I thank you?” “That’ll be $500,” he joked. “I have a five,” my aunt offered self-consciously. He leaned on his knees to rise. “How ‘bout we spend it on scratch tickets? Four for you, one for me. Maybe one of us will get lucky,” he said, winking.

AJ wasn’t much of a risk-taker. She was a self-taught seamstress who, in my mother’s mind, should start her own business. Instead, AJ had an unremarkable job in textiles which she appreciated for the free fabric scraps. Her idea of gambling was Butterick clearance patterns. She did want to thank him though, so agreed. As they passed his truck she noticed the gear. Ah, a fisherman! The unpleasant scent wasn’t burnt metal. “Explains the lack of a ring,” my mother quipped. My father forced a tired smile. AJ was his younger sister.

AJ bought the tickets and agreed to take just one. The man awkwardly looked for a surface to scratch on. She tucked hers into her purse. He looked up. He hadn’t realized the interaction was over. She stopped by the door, “Really, thanks so much. I’m Janice, from Harwich.” He replied, “I’m Dennis from Dennis Port— no relation!— and it was my pleasure,” he nodded, smiling.

A few weeks went by. She’d thought about the man occasionally but had forgotten the ticket. She was finishing her lunch at work and tidying her wallet when she saw it there. “Lucky Sevens” She scratched it absentmindedly. Lucky, indeed. The three 7s she uncovered yielded her $10,000. The emergence of a Joker doubled the prize. But by AJ’s telling, she didn’t whoop or holler and wasn’t even that excited. She merely chuckled and shook her head.

Dazed, Janice left work early. She went to the gazebo and sat on the built-in bench. Nearby were memorial plaques to war dead. She told me later that she felt strange. She racked her brain but couldn’t think of anything she longed for. Such a jackpot wasn’t exactly life-changing. She was grateful for it, but her notice kept shifting to the men’s names and their sacrifice. She felt bad and contemplated giving the money away. I doubt I would’ve considered that but admired the thought.

She went home and called Mom.

AJ took the next day off to drive to the regional Lottery office. Both my Mom and AJ’s best friend Gail had offered to go with her, but she said she didn’t need company. In truth, she just still felt uneasy about her fog of disinterest. After a photo and some requisite paperwork, the lottery worker shared that the station owner would also receive a reward. “Mr. Dennis Port” jumped to her mind’s eye and gave her a start. Telling him herself was the right thing to do.

Finding him didn’t take long. In the directory under “fishing,” boxes of graphical boats and gill-bearing creatures filled the page. He was simply listed: Dennis Chambers, (508) 760-9283, Eastside Marina, Dennis Port. Fishing Charters. 20 years experience.

Another month went by before she told us over dinner of the reconnection. AJ and “Denny” were now dating. We were at a restaurant, and I was excited by the novelty of a fondue. I kept losing chunks of food in the cheese. My Dad teasingly kicked me under the table. Denny grew up in Portsmouth, loved Springsteen, and wintered in Florida. He laughed a lot. AJ joked about the smell but said she’d adjust. She was smitten.

Months later my mom had grown tired of Jan’s indecision regarding the money. It was none of her business, she acknowledged, “But still!” AJ contemplated buying a nicer car but was happy with the one she had. She and my mother mused about trips but AJ couldn’t settle on a destination. Gail nearly persuaded her to go in on a time-share but then Gail backed out. AJ treated us to a day in Boston but, otherwise, all she’d bought was a leather jacket.

One night I was in the dining room doing homework and my father answered the kitchen phone. “Oh, hi Jan. Wanna talk to Patty? — Oh, sure.” The scrape of a chair indicated my father taking a seat. They continued. I was curious since my Dad didn’t often talk with AJ. I heard ‘outrigger,’ ‘R-O-I,’ and several ‘is that so?’s.

AJ had called to consult about a sizable loan to Denny. She’d be part owner in his business. I wondered whether she felt it was partly his due. It kinda was, right? My Mom, however, saw Denny as a con. She pressed my father, “You think that’s smart?” My father, circumspect, replied, “She’s a grown woman, Pat.”

Denny & AJ were married in a small civil ceremony.

I was thrilled. I liked Dennis. He took us fishing and allowed me to bring friends. He was funny and sweet. My father also liked him. I saw a different side to my Dad with him. My grandparents died years ago, and it occurred to me that my Dad didn’t interact with other men much outside of my Mom’s father and brother. Thus their spark made AJ happy too.

For their honeymoon, they went to the Vineyard. They planned it so they sailed at sunset. We threw rose petals from the dock.

Part II

By the time I turned thirty I was a senior purchasing manager at my company. I’d been a lackluster student but graduated college and surprised everyone, including myself, by also getting an MBA. I lived in Yarmouth in a cute apartment and had an active social life. Life was good.

But in that same span, AJ and Denny divorced.

They were happy for a while but, in the end, succumbed to mundane issues of incompatibility. It seemed she never got accustomed to the smell after all. Maybe at the start they’d gotten too wrapped up in those lucky sevens. They should’ve remembered the Joker.

The investment had been a good call though. Denny’s charters became lucrative. AJ started a side business sewing boat decor. They bought a Cape near the marina. Denny had also introduced Gail to one of his friends, they got married, had two kids, and were still thriving. We were all sad but AJ and Denny stayed close, in no small part because Denny and my Dad had become best buds. My Mom struggled with that but adjusted. By then— empty nesters and near retirement— they’d moved to the Cape themselves.

AJ and Denny ultimately dissolved the business and Dennis bought her out of the house, leaving her with a tidy sum. AJ talked of starting anew. And boy, did she! She quit her job and took to the road in an RV. She brought her sewing machine and delighted in gifting fellow campers with unexpected crafts. She also took up poetry and became a great camp-fire cook. I met up with her in Pennsylvania and twice in Oregon.

Our last rendezvous was marked by a string of rainy days. We lounged inside. I picked up a nondescript book from a recessed shelf. It was smooth and black. A flat elastic sewn into the binding served as a bookmarker. “What’s this?” “Oh,” she said, “something I’m working on for your father. The mountain air does wonders for your memory!” Respectfully, I put it back. She smiled wistfully, “I wish you’d been old enough to remember my parents. Your Dad is so much like our father.”

Four months turned into a year, and then nearly two. Finally, AJ quit the road to resettle in Harwich. Her old job wasn’t available but, coincidentally, another was— and she didn’t even need to interview for it. “Lucky sevens!” everyone said. She was happy to be home, and we relished her return. It was a banner summer.

Sadly, however, that autumn Dad had a massive heart attack and died in his sleep.

My mother was up late reading and had fallen exhausted into bed, unawares until morning. She felt guilty and horrified and never forgave herself. She became a quieter person.

Denny was first to meet me at the house. I’d called and left messages for AJ and my Mom’s brother in Maine. The calls which follow death are a grievous task.

Denny embraced my Mom and she cried freely. AJ arrived soon after. The rest of the week was a blur punctuated by poignant memories: the service, decision making, recognition of my Mom’s advanced age, raucous card games, and drunken crying over photo albums.

In a quiet moment, my mother had me and AJ sit. “Jan, I’d like you here for this,” she said. She put her hand on my knee. “My dear, your father loved you so much.” She pulled out the journal I recognized as my aunt’s from the RV, its cover still smooth. AJ teared up. “Jan gave this to him for Father’s Day… a book of childhood memories. He’d been so enjoying it and talking about wanting to show it to you. I’m sorry I didn’t make that happen.” I took it onto my lap, opening it gingerly and with anticipation.

I breathed deep. There in AJ’s handwriting, an inscription, “My dearest James, nothing was luckier than having you as a brother. You’ve loved and guided me and made me an aunt. You’re my hero! Enjoy these memories. Looking forward to many more! ~Jan.” Taped beneath was a blurry photo of them— grinning, gap-toothed, small and smaller, in matching Red Sox jerseys. My Dad was proudly displaying an oversized cookie, the frosting in the shape of a “7.” It was a picture I’d never seen and the number now looked like a talisman.

AJ’s journal was a balm to me. The familiar stories were a comfort and those unfamiliar a revelation. I started writing too. I wanted to do something lasting. I was ready. That winter AJ, Denny, and I got matching tattoos. Our aligned arms would show three 7s in a row, each with his initials. My tattoo artist was kinda cute (with no ring). “I guess there’s a story here?” he inquired. I smiled at AJ and Denny and laughed, “There sure is.”