The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club - Book One Read Free Page A

for several years. When I informed the CEO I was
ready to retire for good, he took Roger and me to dinner at one of
the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in Cincinnati.
    He told me at dinner I’d been a wonderful
asset to the company, and that in his opinion, the increased stock
price over the years was partly my doing. He had a twinkle in his
eye when he said all that. I expect because he knew, although we’d
not met before, that I’d recommended him for advancement early
on.
    But I digress. As I was saying, give me a
paragraph or two of handwriting and I can tell a lot about the
person who wrote it. Can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman,
their age, or whether they’re left- or right-handed. But I can tell
if that person is creative or conventional, fearful or
egotistical.
    I can also tell if two people are a good
match, although my own children chose not to listen to me. Both my
daughters are now divorced, which was no surprise. Oh well. Guess
we all have to make our own mistakes.
    Lately, I’ve begun collecting writing by the
staff here at Brookside. I’ve become quite adept at finding
crumpled papers in wastebaskets. I’m putting all the bits I find
into a file folder for a rainy day. My plan is to write an article
for a Graphoanalysis journal entitled: “Personality Characteristics
to Be on the Lookout for in Retirement Home Staff.” With the number
of us old folks just going up and up, it should be most
helpful.
    Although it takes effort to do an in-depth
analysis, I do quickie ones all the time. All I need is a person’s
signature, and I can tell you if that person is open or is hiding
something.
    It’s simple, really. The more illegible the
signature, the deeper the secret. Now, Edna and Myrtle both have
perfectly legible signatures. Which I admit is odd in Edna’s case,
given what she did to her sister. But then, she was open about what
she’d done. Her husband, poor man, would likely disagree about
Edna’s openness and honesty, although maybe he never knew the
truth. I confess, I would find it most interesting to take a look
at her writing.
    I’d also like to take a peek at Josephine’s.
She’s such an enigma, or a ’nigma, as my momma would say. A
signature that’s mostly easy to read, with only a couple of minor
flourishes, and yet she’s never invited any of us to her apartment.
In fact, the woman who cleans my place told me Josephine is so set
on her privacy, she doesn’t even let a housekeeper in the door.
It’s certainly mystifying.
    Despite those oddities, I like Josephine.
Tart as lemon juice, but not a prejudiced bone in her body,
something I’m quite certain about since I’ve had years of practice
recognizing prejudiced bones.
    It’s a wonder, really, I ended up in a
lily-white place like Brookside. But Roger and me, we worked real
hard and saved our pennies. Before he died, he said he wanted me to
live in a nice place, and he thought Brookside sounded real
pleasant. Still miss that man. Oh my, I do.
    It did take a while for me to feel at home
here since I’m the only black person living at Brookside. I have
noticed something real interesting, though. Seems the more wrinkled
the skin, the less the color matters.
    What’s helped take my mind off things, like
missing Roger, is playing cards. It makes for a more interesting
day, even when Josephine is tormenting Myrtle about Bertie.
    Have to confess, I don’t disagree with
Josephine. For me, it’s much better living with memories of my
Roger than it would be with the reality of a Bertie, but I suspect
for Myrtle, any man is better than no man. For sure, that woman’s
not giving up her belle-of-the-ball status without a fight.
    We’ve heard all the stories about how she
was the pumpkin queen three years in a row in the small town where
she grew up, and I don’t believe I’d admit to something like that.
I could see Josephine was thinking the same thing, and I nudged her
with my foot. Didn’t want her and Myrtle