Page 83 of Wild Card
Wide eyes dart up to mine. “Mary Jane. I haven’t heard that one in a long time.” She can barely get the words out without bursting into a fit of giggles.
All I can do is blink at her.
Clyde turns now, facing Gwen. “You know I’m right, though. It would be good for him.”
She rolls her lips together, head tilting from side to side as she considers. All the while avoiding eye contact with me. Finally, she shrugs. “Yeah, probably.”
“Aha!” Clyde’s hand shoots up in the air, and he stabs toward the ceiling with one of my sharper kitchen knives. “I’m right!” He points the knife my way. “You, my friend, just need to blow a spliff, have a nap, and consider getting a little sun on your perineum.”
“Clyde, I will never put sun on my perineum.”
All I get for that is an eye roll. But then the man pauses. “Does that mean you’ll blow a jay with me?”
I can’t remember the last time I smoked pot. Sure, it’s legal. Sure, I understand the medicinal benefits. It’s just something I’ve never reached for. And I’m not sure it’s something Clydeshould be reaching for either. “Clyde, I don’t even know if you are medically cleared to be smoking pot.”
He waves me off like I’m the unreasonable one in this situation. I suppose I don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being cleared for something.
“Nah. Grew these plants myself. In fact, while you were away, Gwen and I took a trip up to my place just to check on everything. Grabbed a little bit. Said hi to my Maya.”
My brows furrow. “What’s my Maya?”
Gwen’s head snaps up, her features taking on a sad expression that has me looking between the two of them. Obviously, she knows something I don’t.
“My wife,” he says plainly, like this isn’t the first time I’m hearing about her. “Got all her pictures up at my place. You’ve never noticed them?”
I blink at him. No, I hadn’t noticed them. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a close look at anything in Clyde’s house beyond what was necessary. “I’m sorry, Clyde. I don’t think I ever paid close enough attention. Next time we’re there, you could show me?” I say, trying to smooth over the lump of guilt in my gut.
“It was a long time ago. She’s been gone for forty-odd years now.” My throat feels thick as I watch him speak about the wife I never knew he had. “Blood clot got her. She passed peacefully. Though I’ll never get over taking her to the hospital and being told it was a migraine. Got sent home that night. She died in her sleep. So anyway, enjoy your life while you’ve got it. That’s what I say. Tomorrow is never promised.”
He says it like it’s not one of the saddest stories I’ve heard. Like it wasn’t wholly unnecessary.
And suddenly, little bits of Clyde’s personality slip into place for me. His mistrust of the medical system. His belief in so many zany things. Why wouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he? An event like that would have a profound effect on a person.
It makes me feel bad that he hasn’t felt like he could tell me. It makes me question what type of friend I’ve been to him. I unload all my drama on him, but do I ever stop to listen?
“You could bring the pictures here if you wanted,” I say, hoping to make this better. “You don’t have to leave just to see your things, Clyde.”
I want him to feel at home here. What felt like an intrusion before now feels like me just being a reclusive asshole.
Have I been forcing them to walk on eggshells around me?
“Nah, Maya wouldn’t like it here. Her pictures belong there, in our house. We were happy there together, you know. Still one of my favorite places in the world to be. Nobody grew marijuana like my Maya. In fact, I still have some of her strains going to this day. That’s how we made all our money, but we still just loved our quiet cottage. Got emergency cash buried in different spots around the property. For safety.”
Of course he has cash buried on his property.
My eyes flit between Gwen and Clyde as I take in all of this new information—the unexpected pieces of his life and the strange way we’re reminiscing about the way he and his late wife used to grow marijuana illegally.
Deciding this has the potential to be a somewhat wholesome moment, I tap a palm against the island’s countertop and announce, “You know what, Clyde? I would love to smoke some of Maya’s Mary Jane with you.”
At that, Gwen bursts out laughing before dropping a handful of chicken into a sizzling pot. “Yeah, Clyde,” she adds. “I too would like to smoke some of Maya’s Mary Jane. Let’s get this soup ready, then we can all go sit outside and enjoy it together.”
The man brightens, standing up taller, his eyes sparkling. “Really? You two would do that with me?”
“Hell yeah,” Gwen says as I give him a solemn nod. “You can tell us more about Maya.”
Clyde smiles—a rare, genuine smile. Not a smirk, not a mischievous grin, but the kind of smile that speaks to a bone-deep happiness. It’s a smile I don’t wear often. But, in this moment, it might be reflected on my face too.
I watch as they finish making lunch, chattering away about which ingredients to add to the chicken noodle soup and which ones they should leave out. Clyde approves of Gwen’s homemade bone broth but scowls at adding more vegetables. Gwen firmly but gently overrides him at every turn, explaining that if vitamin D is good for his taint, then vegetables are also good for his immune system.
