The Tuesday Night Bingo Ban That Backfired

“I tracked the data,” she said, and there was a little pride in it, God help her. “Over the last eight weeks. You won four games.”

“Out of how many?”

She had not expected a question. “Twelve a night,” she said slowly.

“Times eight weeks is ninety-six. And four out of ninety-six is a little over four percent.” I folded my glasses. “We have forty-one players tonight, and the average player has about three cards, so she has roughly a two and a half percent chance of winning any game. I play six cards. That entitles me to about five percent. By my arithmetic, I am a hair under what I am owed. Honey, I’m winning at a perfectly reasonable rate. I would just like that noted.”

Somebody in the back row made a sound like a kettle. I believe it was Joanne Pfeiffer.

Darla’s ears went pink. “The data isn’t the only concern. You mark the free space on the cards before the players get them.”

“I stamp a little star in the free space,” I said, “on the cards I hand to people who have never played, so they don’t sit there ten minutes wondering where to start. It’s a star, Darla. The free space is free.”

“It’s tampering. And I have a written report from a new player who felt intimidated.”

“Which one?”

“The complainant asked to remain anonymous.”

“Well,” I said. “Whoever it is, I hope they’re warm enough tonight.”

That was the only mean thing I said all evening, and I am still not sure it counts.

I could have stayed and fought it. My daughter said so later. Why didn’t you call the commander, she said. Why didn’t you just sit down.

Here is why. The Post Commander, Gene Marsh, was lying in a hospital bed in Fort Wayne with a brand-new absence where his gallbladder used to be, his phone in a plastic bag in a drawer. The house committee that had hired Darla in August would not meet until the fourth Thursday of the month. And I was standing in a hall where my husband had volunteered half his life, in front of every person I loved, with no intention of making them watch me scuffle over a folding chair.

So I did it the way I used to close the books on the last day of the quarter.

“All right,” I said. I took the cash box key off the shoelace around my neck, the shoelace that had been Walt’s, and put it in Darla’s palm. “The bank starts at two hundred and twelve dollars and forty cents. The drawer sticks. You lift and push. The extension cord is in the orange bin on the second shelf of the supply closet, where I put it, because you moved the rest into a box labeled ‘Cords, Misc.’ and nobody has found a thing since August. The coffee urn has not been descaled since March. That’s yours now, too.” I set the pan on the table by the door. “These are for the room. They are not intimidating. You are welcome to one.”

She did not take one. I want that on the record, because by the end of the night I was keeping a record.

I walked down the aisle to the caller’s stand. Orville is eighty-four, a retired Navy man with two hearing aids, and he looked like a very old dog watching someone take his bowl.

“Orville,” I said, and put a hand on his sleeve. “Don’t let the free space get cocky.”