Reading Railroad

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood

Brother couldn’t play board games without cheating. He was a dice-tipper. He jumped extra spaces, moved battleships, and flicked spinners so hard they broke when he was losing. But if I complained about him, Mom stopped what she was doing and glared at me for interrupting her peace.

“That’s enough, young lady,” she said. “If you can’t play nice with your brother, then don’t play at all. Do you understand me?”

I nodded.

Brother smirked.

It was obvious that Brother had Mom fooled, but not me.

I only played board games with him when I had to, like when there was absolutely, positively nothing else to do.

Mom and Dad played grown-up games like chess. Mom liked playing solitaire in the kitchen booth. They would stay up late with a bottle of wine, playing Yahtzee or Cribbage. Shaking dice in a cup always made me sleepy.

Sometimes, we all played Monopoly on Sunday afternoons when it rained. Brother was always the banker with the silver sports car. I was the Scotty dog in charge of properties, Mom was the thimble, and Dad chose the top hat.

While Brother and I assembled the game on the coffee table, Dad searched his record collection for music fit for a drizzly afternoon. In the kitchen, Mom made popcorn on the stove and melted a stick of butter. She poured cold apple cider and arranged the glasses on a tray alongside a large wooden bowl filled with hot buttery popcorn. I looked forward to spending time together with my family, even though I knew I probably shouldn’t.

“Everybody loves a baby; that’s why I love you,” Mom sang, pointing at Dad with her oven mitt. That was her theme song.

Dad winked at her and pulled “Herb Albert’s Whipped Cream and Other Delights” from its record jacket.

Seated around the coffee table on Naugahyde floor cushions, we toasted our apple ciders to the Tijuana Brass, the best trumpet players in the world, and to good sportsmanship.

Dad rolled first. He got a six.

It wasn’t long before the cheating started. Mom and Dad were too busy talking about Richard Nixon to notice that Brother had twelve hotels when no one else had a house. I saw him steal a couple of $500 bills from the bank and tuck them under the game board when he thought no one was looking. When he rolled a four and should’ve gone to jail, he mortgaged Reading Railroad instead!

I couldn’t take it any longer. “You’re a big, fat cheater!” I hissed.

“No, you’re the cheater,” Brother fired back. He rolled a two, moved six spaces, and bought a utility!

“That’s enough, young lady,” Mom barked. “We can end this game right now. Is that what you want?”  

“No,” I mumbled.

What I wanted was more popcorn and apple cider, to hear the Tijuana trumpets over the raindrops falling on our trailer roof. Most of all, I wanted laser-beam eyes to burn a hole through Brother's ugly face! I struggled to understand how Mom could think a girl like me, who spent most of her time in Monopoly jail, could possibly be the cheater, while Brother zipped around the board in his flashy sports car, gobbling real estate and declaring himself a railroad tycoon.

It was Mom's turn. She blew on the dice, hoping to end her unlucky streak. When she rolled a five, her thimble landed on Brother's Park Place, which had three hotels.

Mom went bankrupt.

And I was glad.

Dad didn’t want to play after that. He made two martinis and joined Mom outside on the patio.

Brother and I kept playing Monopoly, and he kept cheating. Strangely, it didn’t bother me as much now; my frustration faded, replaced by a quiet acceptance. At least I had someone to play with, even if he was a cheater.