By the time Evan comes in with the morning paper and a pencil, I’ve knocked out six letters. I fold my last blue aerogram and run the glossy edge across my tongue.
“Hey,” he says, dropping down next to me.
“Hey.” I tuck the envelope addressed to Mom Corrigan into the center of the pile. “How was Rovers?”
“Good, yeah. So, you ever play chess?”
“No. Backgammon … Rummy 500 … Spit.” Spit makes him flip on a high-beam smile that’s so much flashier than the rest of him. “You don’t know Spit? It’s a good game!”
“Yeah. So is chess. Want to learn?”
“Sure.”
He puts an ottoman between us and sets up a board. He explains that there are sixty-four squares, eight by eight. He shows me the bishops and rooks, and tells me which pieces move diagonally, which by alley. He uses the words blockade, obstruct, isolate. I like them all, the way they sound, their metaphoric quality.
“This is your queen, your most essential piece. Only the queen has full range, meaning she can move in multiple directions. So always be aware of her and protect her. Once she’s gone, it’s a whole different game,” he explains, like someone who remembers well the pain of losing his queen.
“You write a lot of letters,” he says as he slides a pawn forward.
I pick the same pawn on my side and mirror his move.
“I’m a junkie for mail,” I say.
“You get a lot of letters back?”
I shrug. “Not really.” In the beginning, I heard from lots of friends, but eventually they went back to their lives, and now the only people who write regularly are my parents. My mom pens three or four letters for every one my dad scratches out. “So I’m pretty much just moving pawns. Should I be doing more?” I ask, switching topics.
“It’s slow in the beginning. Your mum must write,” he switches back, calling her out in a way that startles me.
“Oh, yeah.”
“What’s she like?”
“My mom? She doesn’t play chess, I can tell you that. She likes other games—backgammon, bridge. Actually, I always think of her when you bring in the newspaper. She’s big on the crossword, too. She does it while she has her Sanka.”
“Is that medication?” he says, moving another pawn.
“Sanka? No, it’s like coffee … fake coffee … coffee crystals.”
He wants to know more about my mother, so I go on, even though the ground around this subject feels slippery.
“She spends a long time with the morning paper in general. She looks at the bridge hand, she checks her stocks, she does the Jumble—your paper doesn’t have that—and then she goes to church and, after that, to work.” I look at the board, wanting to do something bold and maybe regrettable—move the rook, slide the bishop out—something to match this conversation.
“What’s her job?”
“She sells houses.” I chicken out and move another pawn.
“What else?” He’s hungry for details.
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s smart, or so my dad says. Big reader. She’s the one who told me to read the book I’m reading now, My Ántonia.” He moves a rook. I decide to go big. “Was your mom into books?” I ask, looking up at him.
I don’t look away, even though I feel shivery and unsure. A piece of his hair falls by his cheek and I have the urge to tuck it behind his ear. Nothing at all happens for a second, and then he meets my eyes. “Yeah.” This is the first time we’ve held each other’s gaze, and I am charged with affection for him. After a beat, he picks up his knight. “See, up two and over one. Or I could have gone over one and up two.” Chess is not going to be my game. Too many choices, too many subtleties.
“Okay, then, so, I’m going to try this,” I say, sliding my rook, impatient for action. We play for a while in silence. He doesn’t remind me to keep an eye on my queen or ask me any more questions about my mom, and I don’t ask him any more about his, and after about ten minutes he looks at the clock.
“Hey, I probably ought to get a shower before work. Do you mind if we leave things here and come back later?” He stands.
“Of course. That’s a lot of ground to cover for one day.”
He moves the board to a safe place.
“It gets easier to understand. You’ll figure it out,” he says, even though I think we both know I won’t.