Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes by Lauren Baratz-Logsted Read Free Book Online Page A

lived, one free of the addictions that had destroyed the two of us.”
    Clearly, the man didn’t know his own daughter. Me, free of addictions? Some days, I thought I’d never be free of them.
    â€œMom was an addict, too?” I was shocked. “What was Mom addicted to?”
    He studied his wing tips, his cheeks coloring a bit.
    â€œMe,” he answered. “Lila was addicted to me.”
    â€œThat’s not true, Dad. She wasn’t addicted. She just plain loved you.”
    â€œSame difference.” He straightened his shoulders. “And she’d hate it if I passed the blackjack compulsion on to you.”
    I thought he was making too much of this. My parents had had a happy marriage. I knew they’d been happy.
    â€œC’mon, Dad,” I wheedled. “Wouldn’t it be great to have someone really follow in your footsteps. ‘Lullabye, and good night, when the dealer has busted’ —”
    â€œWho taught you that song?” he demanded.
    â€œI don’t know.” I shrugged. “I thought I just made it up.”
    â€œIt just sounded so familiar there for a second.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t it be great to have me follow in your footsteps?” I tried again.
    â€œWhat about poker?” he said suddenly. “Everyone’s playing poker these days. At least if you started to gamble at poker, your mother might get confused when she comes back to haunt me since poker’s not blackjack.”
    I considered what he was suggesting.
    Even I was aware that poker was the current “in” game and it was a game that I had some familiarity with. Back in my junior-high days, my best girlfriend and I had started a poker ring while serving an in-school suspension for getting our classmates drunk during the science fair. We’d charged a dollar a game to play and even a couple of teachers, miffed that my best girlfriend and I had taken the fall when so many others had been involved, had stopped by to play a few hands while on their coffee breaks. I think we were all vaguely aware that they could have been fired for their complicit behavior, but it was a private school—this had been one of Black Jack Sampson’s better years for winning—and we were thrilled to take their money. Besides, once the weeklong in-house suspension had ended, life at school had gone back to normal and we’d folded up the gaming table with my best girlfriend and I each about fifty dollars richer. Of course, I’d never told my parents any of this because Lila would have been too mortified while Black Jack would have been too proud, thereby increasing Lila’s mortification.
    â€œNah,” I finally concluded. “Sure, poker’s a trend right now, but any trend can end at any minute. Blackjack, on the other hand, is a classic. It’s eternal. And, hey, I’m Black Jack Sampson’s daughter, aren’t I? I’m certainly not Poker Sampson’s daughter. C’mon, Dad. It’ll be great. It’ll be like having the son you always dreamed of.”
    It was a cheap shot to take, and I knew it even as I said it. Black Jack had always wanted a son; anyone could see that every time he tried to teach me how to hit a baseball only to have the bat twirl me around in such a big circle that I wound up dizzy on the lawn or every time he tried to teach me how football was played, keeping in mind the importance of covering the spread, only to have me yawn myself to sleep. But it was the one card I had to play, the only card that would get me what I wanted.
    â€œC’mon, Dad. It’ll be fun.”
    He ran one hand through his hair.
    â€œYou have to promise not to tell your mother about this,” he warned.
    I raised my right hand. “Scout’s honor.”
    â€œâ€˜O, I am fortune’s fool.’”
    See where I got it from? Black Jack and Lila were always quoting Shakespeare at me.
    He walked out to the