Double or Nothing

By

Daniel Scott Dowell

Minnie Dorfman had been married to Harold for forty-one years. As far back as she could recall there had never been a cross word between them. But since they were childless, there were no witnesses to attest to that fact. Harold, now retired, had worked as a cobbler for almost half a century. Though there wasn't much money in cobbling, he had managed to make a decent living for himself and Minnie. Avoiding what he referred to as “sins of the flesh,” Harold was even able to set aside a small amount for retirement.

From time to time, he continued to work in retirement on special orders or to do small repairs for old friends. In what spare time he could find, Harold liked to tinker with leather crafts. But because of his years as a cobbler, he found that he could never make just one of anything—everything had to have a mate. He never cut and stitched just one purse. Every wallet came with an identical mate. Minnie referred to Harold's idiosyncrasy playfully as the “Noah Syndrome.”

The odd thing about Harold's Noah Syndrome was that it wasn't limited to cobbling and leather crafts. When he and Minnie went to the corner diner for breakfast—an expense that Harold felt Minnie deserved twice a month—he always ordered two eggs, two slices of crisp bacon, and one piece of whole-wheat toast cut into two equal triangles. Harold indulged himself in one cup of coffee before the meal was delivered, with a second refill accompanying the meal. Each cup was dosed with two cubes of sugar. All of this attention to two was repeated without the slightest acknowledgment on Harold's part. When someone else pointed out his preference for twos, he only blushed and laughed, but never denied the fact.

In Minnie's eyes Harold was king. For his part, Harold never once in forty-one years forgot that Minnie was his queen. And so it was on a drizzling Saturday morning that the Dorfman royalty found themselves walking to the corner diner for their special breakfast out.

“Oh Minnie, how I hate this blasted cold. When I die, don't put me in the ground. I'd freeze for all eternity for sure. Minnie, I want to be cremated. Maybe that way I'll get a headstart on where I'm going. But at least I'll be warm.”

Harold chuckled aloud, but Minnie found no humor in speaking lightly of the dead.

“Harold Dorfman, it's talk like that that's bound to get you there sooner than you planned. You mind your tongue, you silly old man.” Minnie laced her arm through his and pulled him closer. “I don't want to hear any more talk of dying. If it's warmth you want, then hold on tight to me right here on earth.

“Harold, have I forgotten a special occasion today? I mean, it's almost the end of the month. We don't usually go out to breakfast like this so late in the month.”

“Minnie, any day when my bride snuggles up to me on a public sidewalk the way you just did is a special day.” Harold winked and pulled her closer to his side. He knew what Minnie meant. With the month end still six days away, their household account was almost depleted. It would be a week before their next small certificate of deposit matured at the local bank.

Minnie pretended to be upset with Harold's display of open affection and slapped playfully at the lapel of his black serge suit coat, as they stood waiting for the crosswalk light to change. The coat, whose popularity hadn't survived the last thirty years, was a bit oversized on Harold's slightly stooped shoulders. Pretending to pick at a piece of lint, Minnie reached over and adjusted the padded shoulder. No sooner had she tugged the coat upright then the heavy serge slid back down to its customary and more comfortable fit.

Minnie glanced down at Harold's slacks just as the light changed. She didn't have the heart to tell him that the dark blue pants he had mistakenly matched were not the ones that went with his black serge jacket.

The early morning drizzle had turned to a fine mist as the Dorfman royalty crossed Main Street arm-in-arm. About a half block from the diner, as the two walked along the west side of Windsor Street , a bit of sunshine peeked through the gray skies to the east. For a brief moment, the sun's rays passed through the glass hood of a nearby street lamp. The beveled glass cast a prism rainbow across the sidewalk.

“Minnie, look. A rainbow. Should we follow it to our pot of gold?”

“Oh, Harold. You old silly.” She patted his arm and nudged him along. The clouds moved slowly across the rays of sunlight and shifted the path of the rainbow for other eyes to find. The two continued down the street toward the diner in silence.

“Minnie, look.” Harold stopped abruptly. The rainbow cast by another street lamp snaked across the sidewalk in front of them and bent upward across the tarnished kickboard on the front door of Franchetti's Tobacco Store. The end of the rainbow faded into a weather-beaten sign that hung loosely from the door. Harold unlaced his arm from Minnie's and stepped over to the door. He reached down and folded the placard back up against the window glass. The faded printing read Lottery Tickets Sold Here.

“My love, what day is it today?” Harold asked casually.

“Why Saturday, you silly,” Minnie chided.

“No, what day of the month? What's today's date?”

“Why, it's February twenty-second.”

“Minnie, I've got to buy a lottery ticket.”

“Oh, Harold.” Minnie rolled her eyes in mock disgust.

“No, Minnie. Don't you see? Today's February twenty-second. That means it's the twenty-second day of the second month. The rainbow pointed the way!”

Harold didn't often say such silly things. But on those few occasions in the past forty-one years when Minnie had accepted his silliness, no harm had ever come from it.

“Come on, Minnie. What can it hurt? Please?”

Minnie slapped at his lapel, though it was really more of a brush than a slap. “All right, then. But don't expect me to go into that awful place with you. You know how I feel about tobacco.”

The sun had broken through the clouds and now dominated the eastern skyline. Prism rainbows danced on several storefronts. Minnie started to point this out to Harold, but he had already disappeared into Franchetti's to buy his lucky lottery ticket.

It wasn't the first time Harold had had the urge to buy lottery tickets. On the contrary, Harold bought lottery tickets as often as he could. He didn't smoke, drink alcohol (except for a little Bailey's now and then at Thanksgiving or Christmas), and except for lottery tickets, he never gambled.

Moments later, he stepped out onto the sidewalk, his hands thrust deeply into the outside pockets of his black serge coat. He walked up to Minnie, pulled his hands from his pockets, and gently placed them on her shoulders. He then gently kissed her on the cheek. Rubbing his hands together, he announced, “I'm starving.”

From the tobacco store the couple walked in silence to the diner. It was only after they had been seated and the waiter had taken their order that Harold finally spoke up.

“Want to know which numbers I selected, Minnie?” he asked leaning across the table toward her. “That's okay, I'll tell you anyway.” Harold responded before Minnie was able to say a word.

She knew he would tell her anyway. He always did. Just as he always played the same numbers—2, 12, 22, 32, 42, and 52. And she would respond as she always did, “That's nice, dear.”

“Shhh…” Harold admonished as the waiter reached across the table to refill their water glasses.

“Hey, Mister Dorfman, have you seen the lottery prize money today? All the way up to eighteen million dollars. That's a lot of tip money.”

Harold gave Minnie an admonishing look to ensure her continued silence regarding his lottery choices.

“Still playing your lucky number—two, twelve, twenty-two, thirty-two, forty-two, and fifty-two—Mister Dorfman?” the waiter asked as he mopped up the over-pour of ice water on the tabletop in front of Minnie.

Harold squeezed his eyes shut. In doing so, he didn't see Minnie's upper lip quiver as she stifled a smile. He opened one eye and looked around, just as another server was headed toward their table with two plates balanced in one hand and a fresh pot of coffee in the other.

“Here you go, folks. Say, Mister Dorfman, the lottery looks good this week. Guess you'll be playing your usual—two, twelve, twenty-two, thirty-two, forty-two, and fifty-two. Bound to work out for you one of these days, Mister Dorfman.” The server turned abruptly and walked away. Harold covered his face with his hands. This time, Minnie gave in to the temptation to laugh.

“Oh, Harold. Don't act so silly. Every time you buy lottery tickets you pick the same numbers. And every time you play those same numbers, you share your picks with anyone who will listen.”

Harold lowered his hands and shrugged. The padded black serge shoulders slid forward. He refused to look at Minnie. He knew if he did, she would coax a smile out of him in a second.

Later that evening, as Harold and Minnie ate their customary Saturday dinner of canned soup and small salad in front of the television, the winning lottery numbers slowly scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The numbers were broadcast in the random order of selection—32, 2, 12, 42, 22, 52.

Harold stared at the bottom of the screen, his right hand holding his soupspoon motionless only a few inches from his mouth. By the time the number 42 crossed the screen, soup began quaking in the spoon. When 22 inched across the screen, soup began splashing freely from the spoon onto the surface of the aluminum television tray in front of him. As 52 nudged into view from the lower right corner of the television screen, Harold's spoon fell noisily to the floor. Across the room the same scene played out above Minnie's food tray. But instead of soup, a soggy bed of lettuce leaves lay strewn at Minnie's feet.

With State offices closed on Monday in observance of Washington's Birthday falling on the prior Saturday, the Lottery Office wouldn't be open to the public until Tuesday morning. Until then, Harold took every precaution to safeguard his winning ticket. The phone had been ringing all day Sunday. Minnie was right. Everyone knew that Harold held the winning numbers. How he wished now that he hadn't been so open about his regular play of numbers. The whole neighborhood—the whole world —must know about his numbers. As a result, Harold spent most of the morning putting several intruder chains and deadbolt latches on the front door. Neither he nor Minnie left the house.

After a sleepless night in his newly secured fortress, Harold was up before six anxiously preparing a full day in advance for his trip to the Lottery Office to claim his prize. He was sure there would be cameras to record the excitement of the winner. There always were. He planned on looking his best. He pulled his black serge suit out of the closet. Beneath the coat, Minnie had placed the correct pair of black slacks. Harold brushed away the hanger dust from the pants and tried to adjust the pleats as he snapped the suspenders in place. He put on the coat and gave a quick brush across each lapel. Then he took a brief but admiring look at himself in the closet mirror.

He looked good, but something was missing. He reached up on the top shelf and felt around in the darkness until he found what he was looking for. He pulled down his dark gray fedora and ran his fingers across the brim. He donned the dusty fedora and pulled the brim down in a jaunty position above his left eye. Facing himself one more time in the mirror, he winked at his reflection. He removed the fedora and gently placed it on the corner of the bed. He then took off the coat and placed it back on the hanger, confident that he would have the look of a winner when he appeared before all those cameras the next day.

To assure himself for perhaps the hundredth time over the last several hours, Harold reached into the right outside coat pocket and pulled out a lottery ticket. As if reading the numbers for the first time, he studied each number intently. He touched the 2 and felt a tingle in his fingertips. He touched the 12 and began to shake. He touched the 22 and found himself sweating lightly. He touched the 32 and felt light-headed. When he touched the 42, a searing pain raced down his left arm. Quickly, he placed the ticket into his trouser pocket. He moved his hands up and clutched his chest. Before he could touch 52, he lay dead on the bedroom floor.

A busy Emergency Room resident attending to gunshot wounds, stabbings, auto accident victims, and hypochondriacs took less than a minute to examine Harold and pronounce him dead. From the moment Harold last traced the number fifty-two on the lottery ticket to the moment he was transported to Graves & Sons Funeral Chapel, less than one hour had passed.

Yet, even before Harold's body arrived at Graves & Sons, news of the death of the lottery winner had spread from the ambulance, to the hospital, and ultimately to the chapel. Word traveled from the EMTs, to the attending ER nurses, to the grief counselor at the chapel, and ultimately to the funeral director himself, Mr. Ezra Graves.

A pale diminutive man, Graves was able to hide all emotion because of his countless years dealing with grieving friends and greedy relatives—all survivors of a myriad of his unfortunate clients. He had also endured the smirks and sneers of those who found the relationship between his name and his profession to be noteworthy. But he knew that someday he would have the last smirk and sneer. He didn't know how or when, but he knew it would happen.

And so it was no coincidence when that dreary Monday afternoon found the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to form at the rigid corners of Ezra Graves' mouth. His plan to steal the lottery ticket for himself was complete even before he had the opportunity to view the deceased.

A quick check of Harold's trousers yielded the lottery ticket with the six winning numbers—each number containing Harold's lucky number 2. Graves slipped the winning ticket into his inside coat pocket just as his assistant opened the door to the body preparation room, with Minnie Dorfman shuffling sadly behind him. She wore the look of someone who had endured the unexpected without any time to grieve. The day had been a rather quick odyssey from her home to the emergency room, and ultimately to the chapel for a distraught and confused Minnie.

“And you must be Missus Dorfman,” Graves said in a kindly voice with a slight hint of false reverence for Minnie's loss. “We all share in your loss.” Graves found himself with a morbid urge to laugh aloud at his unintended pun. If only she knew just how much he was about to share in her loss. Eighteen million dollars worth of sharing! He swallowed hard and fought to remain composed. Though giddy with excitement inside, he presented a somber exterior.

Outside, a storm had set in. The chapel, accustomed to being kept at cool temperatures, was freezing. Minnie felt the chill immediately.

“Please, sir. Cremate my poor dear Harold as soon as possible. He's so cold. I don't want him to suffer. Please. It was something that he made me promise. Harold just hates the cold.” Minnie brought a small lace hanky to her face and dabbed at her eyes, oblivious to the illogic of her statement.

Though not a single feature of his face moved, the coroner smiled inside. He had perfected the muscle control necessary to feign shared grief. The widow requested cremation as soon as possible. The death certificate had been signed, as all attempts to resuscitate Harold at the hospital had been in vain. Cause of death was listed. No autopsy was required. Preparations for cremation could begin at once. The law could be such a lovely ally. How perfect.

The last wishes of the deceased should be carried out without delay. After all, that was the family credo—to respect and satisfy every family's unique needs. The law allowed it. His oath of position required it. It couldn't have unfolded better if Graves had orchestrated it from the start.

With the ticket safely in his possession, and with no trace of the deceased after cremation, but for an urn full of ashes, who was to say that the ticket didn't tragically follow Mr. Dorfman into the hereafter? Or maybe Mr. Dorfman had been mistaken. There would be allegations. But there would be little proof of any wrongdoing. The rules of the lottery were quite explicit. The only proof of ownership of the jackpot would be the presentation of the winning ticket. Challenges to this provision had been made in the past, but the courts had all upheld the rule of possession. So what if the argument arose as to Mr. Dorfman's habits. What weight would the courts give the recollection of a clerk in a tobacco store? That would be hearsay, but he would have the ticket. Who was to say that he hadn't purchased the ticket just before or just after Mr. Dorfman's purchase? All unfounded and unproven accusations.

He would have eighteen million dollars to face any weak challenge in court. Hints of impropriety would more than likely cost him his job. As far as his reputation was concerned, he could buy a new one somewhere else. The world was a big place, but eighteen million dollars would spend just as easily in all parts of it.

“I'll take care of your wishes personally, Missus Dorfman,” Graves assured her as he removed his suit coat and hung it on the hanger by the door. “Is there a special presentation you would like me to make, or shall we prepare Mister Dorfman as he is?”

Minnie looked down at Harold's body. She could almost see the goose bumps on the backs of his hands.

“No, please. Wait. Harold needs his jacket. Please. It will only take a moment. I have a few of his things in the car. I'll be back soon,” Minnie sniffled.

Though he was irritated at this sudden delay, Graves showed no concern on his face. “Please, Missus Dorfman, take all the time you need. But remember that Harold is lying here in this chilly room. We wouldn't want him to suffer now, would we?”

The director's assistant turned his head quickly toward Graves with a look of surprise.

The director shot back a look that told the young assistant to tend to business.

Earlier in the day, Minnie had taken a moment to collect herself after the ambulance attendants left the house with Harold. Though only a doctor could legally certify Harold's death, the kindly EMTs had assured her that there was no reason for her to accompany the body to the hospital.

Left alone, Minnie had moved from room to room, confused and directionless. With only the sound of her footsteps occasionally interrupted by a sniffle or a deep sigh, she had slowly tried to accept the reality that Harold was gone. A hurried phone call from a kindly emergency room nurse had assured her of Harold's passing and had confirmed the choice of Graves & Sons as the appropriate funeral home.

Before leaving the house to travel to the chapel, she had noticed Harold's black serge coat still on the hanger in the bedroom. Together with the suit coat, she had gathered together his polished black oxfords and his dusty gray fedora. Now these articles of clothing were all in the back of the '62 Impala parked at the curb outside the chapel.

When Minnie returned with the rest of Harold's things, Graves was working quickly to prepare Harold for cremation.

“Just like you wanted. Right, Missus Dorfman?” the director asked as he stepped back from Harold's body.

Minnie placed the fedora on the coat rack by the door. At the base of the rack she placed Harold's oxfords. She was reaching for a hanger for the black serge coat when the director stepped back to show her the results of his preparation.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. That's not the way my Harold combed his hair.” Walking quickly over to the preparation table, she draped Harold's black serge suit coat over the back of the director's desk chair. “He always parted it on the other side and combed it across his bald spot. He would never forgive me if I sent him into eternity with his bald spot showing.” She caught herself and realized how foolish she must be sounding. She reached down and swept Harold's hair across his forehead, pausing to caress his cheek with her hand.

“Oh, my. He's already getting cold.” She pulled her hand back quickly. “We should hurry.”

The director nodded to his assistant to continue with the preparation. The cremation would happen whether the paperwork was in order in time or not. Paperwork was a nuisance he could address any time, but to guarantee his plan, Harold's immediate cremation was a necessity.

“Why don't I take you into the outer office and complete some of the details? We'll need to know where you would like the remains. We haven't discussed internment. Or would you rather have the remains made available for you to pick up?

“My assistant will finish dressing Mister Dorfman with the clothing and other items you brought with you,” he said motioning toward the accessories Minnie left by the door. “Once that is complete, we can proceed with the cremation. Why don't we finish these necessary arrangements while Harold is sent on his comfortable journey. It's customary. Trust me.” The sides of his mouth quivered as he struggled to hold his sympathetic countenance. “I have taken the liberty to collect his effects for you. Would you like his jewelry left on him, or would you like to take it home with you?” he asked, not skipping a beat.

“I want Harold to be happy,” Minnie said, oblivious to the practicality of her statement. “I want him to be comfortable. He would never leave the house without his watch.”

Graves smiled. “Do you wish to view Mister Dorfman one more time before we proceed?” he asked motioning to the door with every ounce of false reverence he could show.

Minnie sat back in the overstuffed chair meant for grieving relatives and dismissed the offer with a wave of her hand. She couldn't bear to see her king one last time in such a state.

The director stepped to the doorway leading to the crematorium, opened the door, and nodded to his assistant to begin the cremation.

Offering himself as her pillar of strength, Graves stood holding Minnie's elbow as the two waited in the anteroom for Harold's coffin to slowly proceed into the crematorium flames. Every tick of the somber grandfather clock in the corner of the anteroom wrenched Minnie's heart. Every sweep of the second hand made the director's skin tingle with excitement. Minnie waited as her husband of forty-one years—her king—slowly enveloped in flames. Graves waited as any secondary claim to his fortune was reduced quickly to ashes.

“Oh, my goodness, wait!” Minnie pulled free from the director's grip and moved toward the entrance to the crematorium. “The ticket. What about the lottery ticket?”

Graves pulled her back as she started toward the hot furnace. The flames danced around and through the disintegrating coffin. Both the director and his assistant tried to restrain Minnie.

“Didn't you check all of the pockets for any personal effects?” Graves asked, challenging the excited assistant..

“I…I assumed you did when you nodded to me to proceed with the cremation. I…I—”

“You can't be serious. You're always supposed to check for personal effects. You know better.” Graves was quite amused with his feigned irritation.

“I'm so, so sorry,” the assistant said as he addressed Minnie. He looked long and hard at the director, and then back to Minnie. “Missus Dorfman, I feel terrible.”

Minnie brought her hands up to her face. The lottery ticket was by now little more than ashes mingled with Harold's own.

With the coffin now fully engulfed in white-hot flames, and any challenge to his newfound fortune eliminated, Graves coldly took Minnie by the arm and escorted her toward the door, all the while apologizing coldly for the indiscretion of allowing her to view Harold's final moments..

“You may go home now, Missus Dorfman. We no longer need your assistance.” He surprised himself with his coolness. “I'm sorry you had to witness this…I'll see to the ashes when the chamber has cooled. We should have Mister Dorfman's remains appropriately collected and delivered to you sometime tomorrow midday.” He was a mix of reverence and impatience as he tried to lead Minnie toward the front entrance.

“But I—”

“Now, now, Missus Dorfman. It's been a long morning. Harold will be looked after. I can assure you of that. You need to get some rest. What would Harold think?”

Again, the assistant glanced quickly at the director. Again, Graves silenced him with a cold stare of his own.

As he walked Minnie toward the door, Graves unfolded and buttoned the sleeves of his dress shirt. At the door he instinctively reached for his jacket. The rack was empty. Panicked, he turned toward his assistant.

“Where is my coat? I hung it here this morning. Where is it?” He tried hard to hide the panic in his voice. He failed. “Good Lord, man, where is my jacket? ”

The assistant stood deathly still. He looked from the empty hanger on the coat rack slowly to the crematorium. The flames were almost out. A bright glow covered the floor of the chamber.

“The hat and shoes were—”

"Don't say it, man!” Graves knew immediately where his coat was. He squeezed his eyes so tightly that they disappeared into his cheeks. His coat…his eighteen million dollar coat was nothing more than ashes commingled with the remains of Harold Dorfman. The director took three quick steps toward the crematorium, reached for the latch and threw it open. The odor of lacquer and burnt flesh filled the room.

" Mister Graves! ” the director's assistant yelled. “Have you no decency? It was just a coat, sir. I'll pay to have it replaced.”

Confused by the commotion and Graves ' peculiar behavior, Minnie had slowly sidled over to the desk where Harold's coat was draped neatly across the back of the chair. “Here, Mister Graves. It was my fault. Take Harold's coat. It's the least I could do. Harold would want me to—”

“I don't want your husband's damned coat. I want my coat—the coat this fool just destroyed.” Graves took the coat from Minnie's hand and tossed it toward the door.

“I'm sorry, Mister Graves. Perhaps I could pay you for—”

“Pay me? Pay me? Lady, you have no idea how much that jacket was worth.” Graves slumped down in his desk chair and covered his face. Minnie stepped quietly across the floor and picked up Harold's jacket. She smoothed it across her arm and paused at the door. As she looked back, she thought she saw Mr. Graves weeping softly.

Later that same evening, Minnie sat alone on the edge of the sofa. The house seemed so big without Harold. Outside, the weather continued to storm. The rain had moved from sleet to snow. She thought of Harold walking through eternity in his mismatched suit, his fedora tilted jauntily over his left eye. She smiled through wet eyes and dabbed her cheeks softly with the remnants of a well-worn tissue as she remembered their breakfast two days earlier when she had noticed his blue pants. He was happy that day, in spite of the mistake. Perhaps he wouldn't mind mismatched eternity after all.

In the bedroom, she straightened the two pillows on Harold's side of the bed. She opened the closet and moved the two umbrellas aside to make room for Harold's black serge coat. Out of habit, she checked the two inner pockets. Both were empty. As an afterthought, she checked the two outer pockets. From the left pocket, she pulled a small thick stub of paper. Slowly, she traced the 2, then the 12, then the 22, then the 32, next the 42, and finally, the 52.

Harold Dorfman was a creature of habit. Everything he did, he did in twos…even purchasing lottery tickets.

End