Excerpt from Whatever Happened to Uncle Henry by Joanie Ward Smith
Plentywood, Montana, 1909
When Henry needed a few days off from the late nights and traveling, he’d return to Plentywood to the comfortable rooms he rented from the old widow, Mrs. Larsen. She was a cross between Sean’s mother and his mother, and she doted on Henry when he was in town. He enjoyed the attention and if he were completely honest with himself, he needed her warm motherly attention. Fishing, riding his horse, and eating home-cooked meals rejuvenated his mind and body. Having interesting conversations with Mrs. Larsen about her memories of her Scandinavian hometown helped to revive his soul.
He had rented a room from her for about a month when she asked him to play two-handed Whist with her. “Henry, do you know anything about cards? Have you ever played Whist?” Mrs. Larsen asked.
“I don’t know much about cards, but I’ve heard of the game. Don’t you need more people to play it?” Henry didn’t play cards just for fun. That was a mistake that rookie poker players made. You let your guard down, you lose your focus and confidence. No, Henry wasn’t going to play Whist with her.
“Doesn’t matter. Just the two of us can play. Here, I’ll show you how,” Mrs. Larsen said with her kind and warm maternal smile that Henry couldn’t ignore.
“OK, then, we’ll play,” he said as he obediently sat down at the table.
Mrs. Larsen explained the game, and Henry caught on quickly. Henry thought Mrs. Larsen was a decent player, but he would never advise her to play for money.
They had played for a couple of nights when she said, “Let’s make this interesting. I have a new recipe I haven’t tried. It’s called chess pie. I’ll bake one for you if you win. If I win, you have to do me a favor. You’ll have to chop enough wood for a week.” Mrs. Larsen looked so happy with her challenge that Henry couldn’t say no. Plus he knew he could beat her at her own card game. She had a tell that Henry had already picked up on. She dealt the cards, and the bet was on.
Henry had to chop wood for three weeks. He had lost the first hand. Then the second hand and then another. That clever, and maybe sneaky, woman had used her tell against Henry. She had planted it so she could con him. Sweet, motherly, old Mrs. Larsen was a card shark who had just taken advantage of the self-proclaimed professional poker player, H.M. Valdman. He vowed he would never tell this story to anyone.
“You conned me. How did you know I’d figure out your tell and try to use it against you?” asked a laughing Henry. If this had been poker, and he lost money, he wouldn’t be laughing. But this was Mrs. Larsen, and he was going to chop the wood anyway.
“And how do you know the word ‘tell’ and what it means, young man?” asked Mrs. Larsen with a mischievous smile.
“Just something I’ve heard about,” answered an evasive Henry.
“Hmm, of course. And do you know you have a tell?”
Those were practically fighting words. Henry prided himself on not having a tell. Years of discipline and working on controlling his emotions and any signs of them on his face, plus concentrating on his body language, and this woman thinks he has a tell? No way.
“What might my tell be?” asked Henry, acting uninterested.
“Well, there are two things that you do when you have a bad hand. One is you hesitate just slightly before you speak. Maybe you are trying to think of the right English word, or the conversation is interrupting your concentration. But the problem for you is that the tell is there. The second tell is your accent. You’ve worked hard on losing it or disguising it, but when you have a bad hand, your accent is just a little stronger with some words. An experienced gambler would notice.” Mrs. Larsen still had her sweet mother-like expression on her face.
Henry was confused. He told her he was a cattleman. Why was she talking about gambling? What did she know?
“Who are you? How do you know all of this? Why are you telling me this?” Henry asked.
“Oh, I’m just the daughter of one of the most notorious card sharks in all of Scandinavia. Occasionally my dad would let me go to a game with him. I’d help him detect tells and cheating, and I was pretty good at it. Then I met my husband who was anti-gambling, we moved to America, and I learned how to play Whist. I never, well, rarely, play for money. But I always win even when I’m not conning you.” She laughed and smiled at Henry. “You’re a natural card player. But you know that, don’t you? You, H. M., are a gambler. And a good one based on your clothing and the amount of traveling you do. Don’t try to deny it. I know your tells.” She laughed again. She was having a lot of fun with him.
“You’re right,” said Henry. “I am good, really good. And with your advice about my tell, I’ll be better. Thanks. I want to hear more about your father.” Her father sounded vastly different from Henry’s strict Jewish father. Imagine a man who let his daughter watch him gamble and enlist her help. Henry wasn’t sure what to think.
They were up late that night and many other nights talking about her father, gambling, analyzing some of Henry’s card games, and discussing people-reading techniques. Henry loved these conversations. He could be himself around Mrs. Larsen. And she baked delicious chess pies. Henry was having a great vacation.
After a relaxing day of fishing and horseback riding, Henry arrived home and was surprised to find a very pretty woman sitting with Mrs. Larsen.
“Oh, no. She’s matchmaking,” thought Henry to himself. He jumped off his horse and headed to the large wrap-around porch to greet the two women. This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to fix him up.
“H.M., this is Grace Wallace. She has just moved to Plentywood to live with her aunt, who needs some help,” explained a beaming Mrs. Larsen.
Pleasantries were exchanged and Grace was invited to stay for dinner. Henry guessed the aunt’s need for help wasn’t urgent that night. Dinner was delicious, but poor Mrs. Larsen developed a “headache” and had to excuse herself from dessert, conveniently leaving Grace and Henry alone. Henry was used to meeting strangers and was a good conversationalist. Grace was charming and after a drink or two was even flirting with Henry. And that is when Henry’s intuition kicked in. He was excellent at reading people. Mrs. Larsen was too naïve and trusting about some things, and she hadn’t figured out who and what Grace really was. But Henry knew.
She was a lady of the evening who wanted out of the business and was looking for a husband. The “aunt” was probably a relative or an older friend who had promised Grace’s family that she would straighten Grace out and find her a husband. And who would make a better husband than the handsome and wealthy boarder at old widow Larsen’s place?
Henry played coy. He went along with the ruse for something fun to do. But that was it. Fun. Short term. If he had to pay her, he would, but he thought he wouldn’t have to since she was supposedly turning over a new leaf. She had reinvented herself as the young widow of Robert Wallace who had died from consumption before they could have children.
Henry didn’t take her to bed that night, but it wasn’t long before they were sharing her bed at her aunt’s place. This arrangement seemed to work. She didn’t mind that Henry was gone for weeks at a time, and he didn’t care what she was doing while he was gone. They’d get together when he was in town and share dinner and their bodies. He was cautious, though. He didn’t want her to get pregnant, so he insisted that they use condoms. Grace didn’t like it, but Henry was adamant that they use them. He didn’t want anything that would permanently tie them together. He didn’t want her to have any false notions about the relationship being serious or long-term.
Unfortunately for Henry, Grace had other ideas.
“Why do you never talk about your parents or where you’re from?” Grace asked.
“Nothing to say,” Henry grunted. Things were getting too serious with Grace. She was talking about marriage and what a great dad he would be. Henry wanted no part of that. She was fun to have sex with, but that was it. Henry recognized a desperate woman when he saw one. Grace was still pretty enough, but her looks would soon fade. She wanted security and stability. By his own design, Henry wanted the opposite of that, times ten.
“At least tell me where you’re from. You have a little bit of an accent when you’re drunk,” Grace said.
“I don’t get drunk. I occasionally have a drink during dinner with you and that’s it. My family is from the old country. Their accent must have rubbed off on me,” said Henry as he was putting on his clothes. He needed to leave. This was getting too personal. Time to bolt.
“Henry, please stay. Come back to bed. I won’t ask any more questions. I promise,” Grace implored. She knew she was losing him.
“Gotta go,” was Henry’s only response as he walked out the door. He wasn’t planning on seeing her again. He tossed aside any feelings he might have had for her, just as he had pushed away all thoughts of other women who had tried to corner him. He was not going to hang around one moment longer. Nor was he going to get caught in her trap. He was done.
Proud to be a Polan
I have read and thoroughly enjoyed it. My father and his generation never mentioned Uncle Henry. Not all of the apples on a family tree are alike, and Henry Polan was unique indeed!