“Well then,” Mom exclaimed.
She was going over Poppa’s papers while I boxed seemingly endless books.
I looked up. There was an album in her lap, black pages empty but for an old postcard.
“He denied it when I’d said he’d taken me there,” Mom whispered. “I was young and believed him, but my heart knew all the same.”
I shook my head. Poppa was as straight-laced as they came.
“He gambled,” she explained. “A salesman meant frequent traveling. He used it to hide visits to casinos.”
She fingered the card. “Radium Springs Casino. I knew I hadn’t dreamed this place. The deep blue water wove tightly with the wheel.”
I gazed at the memento. At my mom.
“I was not-yet-four,” she sighed. “Thomas was just born and Dad took me to ‘work’ so Mom could rest. He played the roulette. … Perhaps his keeping of the card was another gamble.”