Rion Scott - Insurrections

Manny smiled in my direction after the last game, dimples sitting again on his cheeks. Then he winked. I looked away.

My father clutched my hand as we walked home in silence. I replayed each of his three games, mostly the endgames, in my head, still not believing what I had witnessed. All I could see walking up the streets were my father’s scarred thick hands clumsily moving pieces and Manny’s smooth brown hands, with their feminine fingers and strong snake veins, nimbly moving in confident counterattack. I couldn’t beat either of them, but I could see just where my father had gone wrong. For all his talk of thinking ahead, Daddy didn’t do it very well. And he couldn’t adapt to changing circumstances, always protecting his queen while his king stood exposed. Why did I never see his sloppiness when he was my opponent? As the image of my father’s leathery hand laying his king flat in surrender played in my head, my father spoke:

Sometimes you lose. A lot of times you lose. Sometimes you lose more than you win. That’s all.

My mind now drifted during our games, thinking about my father pushing over his king while Manny folded his arms across his broad chest and nodded in satisfaction. It was that slight nod, more than anything, that drew me back to the park day after day to watch the neighborhood chess heroes inch pieces forward and stare at their boards as if the world depended on each of their moves.

Manny sat before a board every time I wandered through Ol’ Cigar Park. He was as much a part of the place as the maroon wooden benches, the crumbly blacktop of the basketball court, and the dark green weather-beaten statue of the serious-faced man atop a galloping horse — sword in one hand, reins in the other, and a cigar between his lips — that sat in the center of things and watched over the whole area. Sometimes Manny would look up from a game while waiting on an opponent’s move. He’d smile or wink and then return his gaze to the board before I could respond with a smile or a wave of my own.

Manny checkmated a man once just as I showed up to watch the afternoon’s matches.

Little lady, he called, and waved a raised hand as his opponent slinked away. He returned the chessmen to their starting positions and offered me the white pieces. His board was vinyl like my father’s but smooth and new. When I made my first move, he told me it was all wrong. Manny had a comment after each of my turns. I clutched the head of a knight. He guided my hand instead to a pawn I hadn’t considered. When he removed his hand from mine, I slowly eased my arm back, knocking over my king and queen, and felt myself blushing. Manny laughed and placed them back on their squares. Chess had never made more sense; the game had never been more beautiful. I watched his smooth hands dance as they conducted the lesson. He took his eyes off the board to look up at me when I spoke and complimented me each time I did something unexpected.

As I moved my queen, a woman, tall and brown-skinned, holding a silver purse over her shoulder, walked up behind him and placed her hand on his back. He greeted her without turning from our game. Just after her arrival, he took my queen. The woman smiled at me. I kept a serious face and stared at the fallen piece. He mated me with his next move.

Manny placed an unlit cigarette at the corner of his mouth, lit a match, and cupped his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind.

Good game, little lady. He stood from the table, scooping up a handful of pieces and dropping them into the woman’s purse. He rolled the floppy vinyl board, and the woman stuffed that too into her purse. You’re going to be real good one day. Go home and show your daddy what I taught you.

Manny winked at me over his shoulder as he walked off with the tall woman. A board sat empty on an adjacent table. In my mind I filled it with pieces, reliving the game I had just played, trying to make all I had learned a part of me.

My twelfth birthday neared. It landed on a Sunday, so my father let me stay home with him on the Friday before the day. I floated between sleep and wake as my little brother rustled around, packing his stuff for school.

How come she gets to stay home? he asked. It’s not fair.

Life’s not fair, my father replied. Hurry up, boy, and get your stuff together before you miss your bus.

The two-hundred-and-first checkmate came that morning after my father made breakfast. The doughy scent of pancakes mixed with the sticky, sweet smell of maple syrup and filled every inch of our apartment. My king lay flat on the crumpled mat as my father jumped up and shuffled across the floor in celebration. He called it his James Brown dance.

What? Did you think I was going to go easy on you because it’s your birthday?

Watch out, Daddy, your dancing days are going to be over soon. Just wait.

It wasn’t idle talk for me. His game was weak and strained, and I could see his king toppled and defeated, lying at the feet of my queen.

He cooked us hamburgers for lunch, and while I ate I heard him on the phone arguing with my mother.

He disappeared for a long stretch in the afternoon while I watched Woody Woodpecker and Droopy and Bugs Bunny, and when he came back his eyes burned fiery red and puffy folds of dark loose skin bunched beneath them. His breath burned with the harsh-sweet scent of alcohol. He moved slowly, as if his joints had stiffened with weariness and pain.

He sat on the couch next to me and we watched the Roadrunner outsmart Wile E. Coyote.

This used to be so funny when I was your age, he said.

It’s still funny, Daddy.

I got something for you, baby.

He pointed to a rectangular box on the dining room table. It lay wrapped in two different types of paper that puffed out and wrinkled at the edges. My father had wound several strips of black electrical tape around the box. Daddy’s wrapping job was so pathetically cute I almost didn’t want to open the gift.

I know your birthday isn’t until Sunday, but you played such a good game this morning.

When I ripped the paper from the box, I could do nothing but stare at my gift. It was a green marble chessboard. I ran my fingers along the clear glass that covered the thick emerald base. The white pieces were a shiny crystal, the dark pieces a frosted gray. It was heavy. My father grunted as he moved it to the center of the table for us to play.

When my mother came home we were on our way to the two-hundred-and-second checkmate.

Look what Daddy got me, I said as she closed the door.

That’s nice, baby, she replied evenly and blandly, and her lack of enthusiasm irritated me.

My father and I played a long game, neither of us dominating. I had just taken his second rook when my mother made me go to bed. It was early. I frowned and sighed loudly in frustration, but I dared not talk back. There was no checkmating my mother.

The walls in our apartment were as thin as bedsheets. It didn’t appear as if my parents cared that night. It was long after I was supposed to have gone to sleep, but I lay awake thinking of my next moves. This time I was sure I’d defeat my father. An army of pawns would become queens on the far side of the board.

The soft drone of my parents’ conversation grew into muffled screams. I held myself still so the creaking of the bed wouldn’t obscure their bickering, and I even took shallow breaths so as not to miss a word. My brother slept in a bed across the room, not stirring a bit even when the shouting grew so loud it seemed as if we had no wall to filter the sound.

How the hell can we afford that? my mother screamed. It’s not even her birthday yet. I thought we talked about this. I told you we couldn’t afford it. You don’t think.

My father’s response sounded like muffled grumbling, forever lost between the paint and plaster of the walls.