Show Low

It’s one of those stories that I’ll never fully know. No one from then is here now. The bits and pieces I got were always just that and never formed whole cloth. It’s a story about suspicion and betrayal. Here’s what I think happened.

My father was a miner. He didn’t mean to be but it met the financial shortcomings and the calendar gaps of a junior high math teacher. His mining stints meant fairly long absences from my mother and me and one summer, while dad worked the mines in a little dust bowl of a town called Show Low, Arizona, my folks began to talk in earnest about dad quitting his teaching job in Phoenix and working full time in the mines. There was decent demand for the silver and copper that was coming out of that region so my mom and dad  thought maybe they could make a home there together. They started thinking that they might even build a small place with some land and that possibility  took on the makings of a dream. 

But then something changed. Dad began to cancel weekend visits home and discouraged visits there. His reviews about the mine’s potential turned from “so much promise” to “dry holes and dead veins.” His description of the town went from “growing community” to “nothing but a ghost town.”

Something was up. 

Another woman. What else could it be? Why would his calls become shorter, less loving, his visits home less frequent? Mom wasn’t going to give up without a fight so she dropped me at her nearby sister’s and headed to Show Low.

In 1959, that road was a long, tedious straight-away with no radio reception and few fellow travelers. Her thoughts must have bounced from “to hell with him” to “to hell with her” and back again. Perhaps she rehearsed her speech about their life together or stories about me or, more likely, threats about it all. She was a beautiful young woman prepared to fight for what was hers and then decide if she wanted it enough to forgive.

She got to Show Low around dusk. Dad’s pick-up wasn’t outside the shabby little apartment. She let herself in without knocking and found the sparely furnished space that was clearly home to only one person. The place was tidy enough with a breakfast bowl in the sink, the bed straightened, dirty clothes in the hamper. The ceramic ashtray had been used but emptied. There were two Pabst beer bottles in the trash along with the remains of a Swanson TV dinner. Just one.

She sat and waited. It got dark. She still waited. She could only guess that he was with “her.” Who knew when he’d return? But then the door opened and my dad, tall and dusty, flipped on the light and walked in to be jolted by my mother sitting in the one plaid, worn chair.

He was startled, then delighted. He spread out his long skinny arms to her. But not so fast! 

Mom was not one to cry. There would be no hysterics — at least not yet. She would have been mercilessly confrontational. Who is she? Does he love her? How long has it been going on? What about them? How dare he!

Dad would have stood confused and then embarrassed. Yes, he had been dishonest. Yes, he had been stalling her. Yes, he had a secret. But another woman? God no! He finally stammered out the truth. He had gotten himself into a poker game and could not get untangled. He was one hundred and twelve dollars into debt and until he managed to win it back, he couldn’t face her. He was so sorry for the betrayal, for his pride and for her hurt.

I suspect her relief was palpable. And I imagine her anger was not far behind. 

I don’t know much more. I never knew my dad to gamble at anything so an addiction to that wasn’t likely. I never knew my mom to get over things quickly so I suspect there was some penance to pay. What I do know is that the dream of their life together in a small mining town ended that night.

According to legend, two men, Cooley and Clark, were in a land dispute and agreed to a winner-take-all game of poker. The final call would be determined by the player who could “show low,” or pull the lowest card. Clark drew a two of clubs and declared, “Show Low it is!”

From what I know of that dusty little Arizona town and the lives we made in the years ahead, it was very lucky for us that Dad, like Cooley, was bad at cards.