Уолтер Тевис - The Queen's Gambit

She walked up Main, heavy-footed and in turmoil, trying not to think about the game. It was horrible. She had allowed this tournament to be a test for her—the kind of rigged test an alcoholic makes for himself—and still she had failed it. She must not drink when she got home. She must read and play chess and get herself together. But the thought of going to the empty house was frightening. What else could she do? There was nothing she wanted to do and no one to call. The game she had lost was inconsequential and the tournament was nothing, but the humiliation was overwhelming. She did not want to hear discussions about how she had lost to Foster, did not want to see Foster himself again. She must not drink. She had a real tournament coming up in California in five months. What if she had already done it to herself? What if she had shaved away from the surface of her brain whatever synaptic interlacings had formed her gift? She remembered reading somewhere that some pop artist once bought an original drawing by Michelangelo—and had taken a piece of art gum and erased it, leaving blank paper. The waste had shocked her. Now she felt a similar shock as she imagined the surface of her own brain with the talent for chess wiped away.

At home she tried a Russian game book, but she couldn’t concentrate. She started going through her game with Foster, setting the board up in the kitchen, but the moves of it were too painful. That damned Stonewall, and the hastily pushed pawn. A patzer’s move. Bad chess. Hungover chess. The telephone rang, but she didn’t answer. She sat at the board and wished for a moment, painfully, that she had someone to call. Harry Beltik would be back in Louisville. And she didn’t want to tell him about the game with Foster. He would find out soon enough. She could call Benny. But Benny had been icy after Paris, and she did not want to talk to him. There was no one else. She got up wearily and opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator, took down a bottle of white wine and poured herself a glassful. A voice inside her cried out at the outrage, but she ignored it. She drank half of it in one long swallow and stood waiting until she could feel it. Then she finished the glass and poured another. A person could live without chess. Most people did.

When she awoke on the sofa the next morning, still wearing the Paris clothes she had worn when losing the game to Foster, she was frightened in a new way. She could sense her brain being physically blurred by alcohol, its positional grasp gone clumsy, its penetration clouded. But after breakfast she showered and changed and then poured herself a glass of wine. It was almost mechanical; she had learned to cut off thought as she did it. The main thing was to eat some toast first, so the wine wouldn’t burn her stomach.

She kept drinking for days, but the memory of the game she had lost and the fear of what she was doing to the sharp edge of her gift would not go away, except when she was so drunk that she could not even think. There was a piece in the Sunday paper about her, with one of the pictures taken that morning at the high school, and a headline reading CHESS CHAMP DROPS FROM TOURNEY. She threw the paper away without reading the article.

Then one morning after a night of dark and confusing dreams she awoke with an unaccustomed clarity: if she did not stop drinking immediately she would ruin what she had. She had allowed herself to sink into this frightening murk. She had to find a foothold somewhere to push herself free of it. She would have to get help. With a great sense of relief, she suddenly knew who it was she wanted to get help from.

Jolene was not in the Lexington directory. Beth Tried information in Louisville and Frankfort. No Jolene DeWitt. She could have married and changed her name. She could be in Chicago or the Klondike for that matter; Beth had not seen or heard from her since the day she left Methuen. And there was only one thing to do if she was to go through with this. Her adoption papers were in a drawer in Mrs. Wheatley’s desk. She got the folder out and found a letter with the Methuen name and slogan at the top of it in red. The phone number was there. She held the paper nervously for several moments. At the bottom it was signed in a small, neat hand: Helen Deardorff, Superintendent.

It was almost noon, and she had not had a drink yet. For a moment she thought of steadying herself with a Gibson, but she could not hide the stupidity of that idea from herself. A Gibson would be the end of her resolve. She might be alcoholic, but she was not a fool. She went upstairs and got her bottle of Mexican Librium and took two. Waiting for the tension to ease, she walked into the yard which the boy had mowed the day before. The tea roses had finally bloomed. The petals had fallen from most of them, and at the end of some of the stems were spherical, pregnant-looking hips where the flowers had been. She had never noticed them when they were blooming in June and July.

Back in the kitchen, she felt steadier. The tranquilizers were working. How many brain cells did they kill with each milligram? It couldn’t be as bad as liquor. She walked into the living room and dialed the Methuen Home.

The operator at Methuen put her on hold. Beth reached over to the bottle, shook out a green pill and swallowed it. Finally the voice came, shockingly crisp, from the receiver. “Helen Deardorff speaking.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak and wanted to hang up, but she sucked in her breath and said, “Mrs. Deardorff, this is Beth Harmon.”

“Really?” The voice sounded surprised.

“Yes.”

“ Well .” During the pause that followed it occurred to Beth that Mrs. Deardorff might have nothing to say. She might find it as difficult talking to Beth as Beth did talking to her. “Well,” Mrs. Deardorff said, “we’ve been reading about you.”

“How’s Mr. Shaibel?” Beth asked.

“Mr. Shaibel is still with us. Is that what you called about?”

“I called about Jolene DeWitt. I need to get in touch with her.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Deardorff said. “Methuen cannot give out the addresses or phone numbers of its charges.”

“Mrs. Deardorff,” Beth said, her voice suddenly breaking through into feeling, “Mrs. Deardorff, do this for me. I have to talk to Jolene.”

“There are laws—”

“Mrs. Deardorff,” Beth said, “ please .”

Mrs. Deardorff’s voice took on a different tone. “All right, Elizabeth. DeWitt lives in Lexington. Here’s her phone number.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jolene said on the phone. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“How are you, Jolene?” Beth felt like crying, but she kept the quaver out of her voice.

“Oh my God, child,” Jolene said, laughing. “It is so good to hear your voice. Are you still ugly?”

“Are you still black?”

“I am one black lady,” Jolene said. “And you’ve lost your ugly. I saw you in more magazines than Barbra Streisand. My famous friend.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Jealous.”

“Jolene,” Beth said, “did you ever get adopted?”

“Shit, no. I graduated from that place. Why in hell didn’t you mail me a card or a box of cookies?”

“I’ll buy you dinner tonight. Can you get to Toby’s on Main Street at seven?”

“I’ll cut a class,” Jolene said. “Son of a bitch! U.S. Champion at the historic game of chess. A genuine winner.”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” Beth said.

When they met at Toby’s the spontaneity was gone. Beth had spent the day without a drink, had her hair cut at Roberta’s and cleaned up the kitchen, almost overcome with the excitement of talking to Jolene again. She arrived at Toby’s a quarter of an hour early and nervously turned down the waiter’s offer to bring her a drink. She had a Coke in front of her when Jolene arrived.