Cold Study

Funerals were strange affairs.

Today I listened to a priest who’d never met my father talk about him as though they had been best friends for decades. I watched family who hadn’t gathered for years use his death as an opportunity to catch up on gossip, and watched my nieces and nephews, too young to understand why everyone wore black, playing tag out in the front yard.

None of it bothered me. It wasn’t like I’d expected anything different. I just observed, taking snapshots in my mind that I would sketch later when I had time. I’d long believed that little of our daily lives made sense if we could just step back and shift our perspective a little.

A small crowd of family remained downstairs, checking their phones when they thought no one was watching. They were all ready to leave, but no one wanted to be first out the door. Hopefully, by leading the way, I’d encourage the others to give Mom the quiet she no doubt craved right now.

The carpeted stairs creaked softly as I ascended to the upper level of the house. I’d intended to walk to my old bedroom, now the guest room, but stopped at the first door on the left.

Dad’s study.

I stepped inside and shivered. Somehow, the room was always the coldest in the house, for no reason we’d ever been able to figure out. As an illustrator maybe too willing to find metaphor everywhere he looked, I found meaning in that.

A cold room for a cold man.

Bookcases lined the east and west walls, filled with thrilling titles such as Basic Accounting, Accounting for the Modern Corporation, and the page-turning Learning Double Entry for Beginners. I shook my head as I scanned the familiar spines, wondering if Dad had ever read an interesting book in his life.

The south wall had a window that looked out on the front yard, letting light into the room throughout the day. An overstuffed chair and small table sat in the corner by the window.

In the center of the room was Dad’s most precious possession, an old whale of a desk that was probably the most expensive item in the house. In the center of the desk there was a chessboard, the pieces set up for a game he’d probably been waiting for years to play.

God, but that brought back memories. He’d taught me as a child and one of the house rules was that we had to play a game every Sunday night. Today, the board was set so the player behind the desk played black.

I shuffled over to the desk. I was tired and had looked forward to closing my eyes for a bit. But the sight of that chessboard stirred emotions that I’d been expecting all day.

I figured if I’d wrecked his life, I could wreck his chessboard, too. With a smirk on my face, I moved the white pawn to e4.

I took one last look around the room and decided I’d be glad never to set eyes on it again. I walked to the door, and then, as a last goodbye to Dad, I turned around and raised both middle fingers.

I froze in place.

On the chessboard, one of the black pawns had moved to c5.

I stood in front of my father’s desk, barely tall enough to see the top. I wanted to stand on my tiptoes, to see the papers he was staring so hard at, but I didn’t dare move. Six months had passed since he’d spanked me last, and I intended to keep the streak alive.

He held the papers up for me to see. They were pages from my school notebook. Drawings of spaceships and monsters covered the wide-ruled blue lines.

“Are these yours?” he asked.

That was a silly thing to ask. Of course they were mine. But I knew better than to question him. That was the quickest way to get my spank-free streak broken. “Yes, sir.”

He sighed, as though this was harder for him than it was for me. As though he was the one in the room suffering. “Do you know why I requested Mrs. Greene as your second-grade teacher?”

I didn’t even know parents could request teachers. It didn’t surprise me, though, that Dad had requested the meanest teacher in second grade. “No, sir.”

“It’s because she’s the only one in that school who cares about what’s important! Reading, writing, and arithmetic.” Dad spoke about them the same way the priest on Sundays talked about names in the Bible I was supposed to memorize, not like they were the most boring classes in school. “None of this arts and crafts nonsense.”

That almost got me to speak up, but I pressed my lips shut. Six months. And I was going to make it to seven.

He thrust the papers at my face as though they were evidence of a crime. “I don’t want to see any more drawings in your school notebooks. School is for learning. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sicilian Defense. Dad’s favorite response to e4 as black, though I’d never understood why. It was an aggressive choice, one that sought imbalance and sharp tactical maneuvers.

In short, it was nothing at all like my father, who drove three miles per hour under the speed limit and had his taxes prepared by two separate accountants in addition to his own work, just to ensure no mistakes were made.

I squinted, not sure I believed what I was seeing. I’d heard nothing, and I was certain I was the only one in the room. Bending over, I confirmed there was no one under the desk. I was also pretty sure that if someone was playing a prank on me, no one in my family even knew c5 was an appropriate second move. Honestly, I’d be surprised if anyone in my family even knew how the pieces moved.

I returned to the chessboard and played knight to f3. A standard opening.

No matter how long I stared at the board, nothing happened. Then I closed my eyes and counted to ten, wondering if perhaps grief had hit me harder than I expected. When I opened my eyes, a black pawn had moved to e6.

“What the—” I looked around the room again, but I was as alone as ever.

I brought my d pawn out to d4, playing the opening as I remembered it. I closed my eyes again, and the black c pawn captured it. The captured pawn sat peacefully on the side of the board. I recaptured with my knight, closed my eyes, and opened them to a pawn advanced one space forward. I brought my light-square bishop to d3, and I held my breath as I closed my eyes again. When I opened them, the black knight had gone to e7.

I swore and almost tripped over my own feet as I ran out of the study.

Twenty minutes later I was pacing in my old bedroom. It couldn’t be possible. I had to be going mad. Maybe it was something I ate. I even pinched myself.

No one played knight to e7. The main line brought the knight out to f6, which opened up some potential traps for unwary players. E7 had been one of Dad’s favorite moves, though. He claimed it made for a more solid structure.

I’d always thought it was a move that summed my dad up well. He played the Sicilian because he thought he was some bold, brave adventurer. But within a handful of moves, he was playing passively. Because that was who he was.

A man who found accounting to be all the excitement he could handle.

The room felt too small. I left, glancing back into the study as I passed. The pieces were there still, the knight on e7. I hadn’t been imagining it.

I hurried in, moved my own knight out to c3, then tore out of there and down the stairs.

Aunt Lucy was the last to leave. She was my favorite aunt, and made sure Mom was okay before she left. The two of them had always been close.

Mom shut the door behind Lucy and closed her eyes. She was nearly seventy now, but still had the sturdy build she’d developed as a young woman growing up on a farm. Age was wearing her down, but she still hauled fifty-pound sacks of flour up and down the stairs for her bread baking, no matter how many times the doctors told her not to.

When she opened her eyes, she was all business. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

Only my mom would ask if I needed a meal three hours after she’d buried her husband of nearly fifty years. “I’m good, Mom. I actually came down to see if you needed anything.”

She shook her head. “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I was just thinking the same. Call upstairs if you need me.”

“Thanks, dear. And thanks for coming. He would have wanted you here.”

I didn’t believe that, but her words made me pause outside the study again. The other black knight had moved out to c6. A natural developing move.

Maybe I was nuts, but I stepped back into the study. The next few moves were natural. A knight move by each of us, followed by me castling kingside. Pawns advanced on both sides, and I lost myself in the game.

Though I’d never admit it out loud, Dad’s lessons in chess had sunk their claws into me. I was fascinated by the game, because it was a game of perfect information. Both players could see everything. A grandmaster stared at the same thirty-two pieces as a beginner. In a world where so much was unknown, playing chess was a relief.

I’ve long suspected my father felt the same. He was a great accountant. I spent my whole childhood hearing that from everyone. But he’d never understood people. He always seemed like he was just a little lost in the world. My friends and I used to joke that he was like a robot. He knew what he was supposed to do, but never understood why.

He donated to charity and was part of several neighborhood organizations. There were four years he spent on the church council. He invited people over to the house for supper, and the meals were always perfectly pleasant.

But he had no real friends. I rarely saw him laugh. He had Mom, and me, for a while.

And then it had only been Mom.

The last time I played chess against him, I was in high school. I knew he wanted to play more games, but I was lost in my own world, and we weren’t on good terms at the time.

After a few more moves, I brought my queen out to h5, exposing my most valuable piece to all the dangers on the chessboard.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door to Dad’s study. There was no way this conversation was going to go well, but it had to happen sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.

“Come in,” he said.

I opened the door and peeked in. He was in the chair in the southwest corner of the room, reading the day’s paper by the late afternoon sunlight. “Hey Dad, got a minute?”

“Of course.” He folded up his paper and put it on the small table next to the chair. “What is it?”

“I wanted to talk about this summer.”

His eyes hardened, because he was no fool and suspected what I would say, and I rushed forward before I lost my courage. “I’ve decided that I’m going to try freelancing instead of doing the internship.”

“What?” His voice was cold.

In the face of his anger, the reasons I’d come up with earlier seemed pointless. But I listed them off quickly anyway. “I know that you want me to get work experience, but this gives me that, too. I’ve already gotten a few gigs, and I think I can earn some real money this summer, which will help me pay for college.”

“But I got you the internship. When I told Mr. Park about your math and science test scores, he was very impressed. I vouched for you!”

Dad had gone out on a limb for me. I knew as much because he’d told me so several times. But he’d gone out on a limb to get me an internship I didn’t want.

He believed software engineering was my best career choice, as it combined my love of technology with my high competence at the aforementioned subjects of math and science.

The worst part was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d been carefully considering software engineering, and the internship Dad had gotten me at a big local accounting firm would open up tons of doors at potential colleges.

But I was just starting to see some traction with my art. I specialized in fantasy creatures, and there were a few card game designers who were quietly interested in my work. It was a risky chance, but one I had to take. “I’m sorry, Dad, but this is what I’ve decided to do.”

His lip curled in a snarl when he recognized that I wasn’t going to back down. He snatched the paper up from beside him and snapped it open. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to stick out my neck for you again.”

The black dark-square bishop moved forward, threatening one of my knights and hoping to destroy my pawn structure. I evaluated the risk for a moment and decided it wasn’t worth guarding against, so I brought my rook on a1 into the game by shifting it to d1. I could potentially open up some discovered attacks on the black queen in a few moves.

When I opened my eyes again, the bishop had taken my knight.

It still creeped me out, as I hadn’t heard any of the pieces move. But there my knight sat, next to the captured pawn. I took the bishop with my b pawn, accepting the damage to my structure.

We shuffled some pieces as I looked for the best way forward. I felt like I was winning. I had a lot of attack opportunities and controlled more space. Finally, I broke through his structure by advancing my pawn to f5. I double-checked my calculations, but I was pretty sure I could eventually get his position to crumble.

I tore myself away from the mysterious game when I heard my mother crying downstairs.

“Sorry, dear,” she said as she wiped her eyes with tissues. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” I thought about telling her I’d been in the study, but then she’d have questions I wasn’t ready to answer. When I was in there, it was like being trapped in a dream. Not quite a nightmare, but not pleasant either.

And I still wasn’t convinced I wasn’t going mad.

I took her hand in my own. It was real, and she anchored me to the moment.

I’ve never been great at sympathy. Maybe I inherited it from my father. But all the words we say to one another in times of grief always seemed so empty to me. I discarded one after the other.

“It’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

I knew the meaning of the lines wasn’t in the words themselves, but they still never felt right to say. So I held her hand and let her cry.

Eventually, her tears ran dry. “I’m going to miss him.”

I almost reflexively said, “Me, too,” but it would have been a lie. I hadn’t missed Dad’s presence in my life since junior high.

But she had loved him. They were the picture of a rock-solid marriage, though I’d never understood why.

“Why him?” I blurted out.

For a split second I cursed my blunder. That was no question to ask on a day like today. But between the bizarre occurrences upstairs and my own memories, the question just slipped out.

My mother smiled, though, taking no offense.

It was what made her special to me. With so many people I felt as though I had to walk on eggshells to avoid offending them, I never had that fear around my mother.

“You’ll not like to hear this, but you’re like him, you know. Always to the point.”

I squeezed her hand tighter.

She took a deep breath in through her nose. “You remember how I grew up?”

I nodded. She’d grown up on a farm, and from the outside, it had probably looked to be a pretty normal life at the time. But her dad, a man I’d never met, had come back from the war changed. He’d been erratic, subject to frequent mood swings. Mom’s family had managed, but Grandpa had eventually drunk himself into an early grave by wrapping the family vehicle around an old oak tree. Mom didn’t talk about it often.

“When I met your father, I knew he was someone I could depend on. He never drank more than one glass of alcohol a day. He never did anything after work except come home and spend time around the house. I could send him to the grocery store with a list and ten dollars, and he’d come back with the list complete and the exact change in his pocket. I know it doesn’t seem like much to you, but I loved that about him. To have someone I could rely on, well…” She trailed off, and I saw the tears beginning to fall again.

She pushed through, though. “I think that’s part of the reason you two never saw eye-to-eye. He never said as much, but I think he knew that being dependable was what made him so precious to me. And I think he wanted to make sure you would be as dependable for someone else. He thought you took too many risks.”

Mom rested her head on the pillow of the couch, and her eyes began to close. I grabbed a blanket and pulled it up to her shoulders. She grabbed my hand. “I hope that in time you can remember him better.”

I softly shook my head as I pulled away. It seemed too late for that now, what with my father buried six feet under. But it was sweet that she thought that way.

I went back upstairs, intending to check my phone for new messages. I stopped at the door to the study and looked at the chessboard from a distance. The pieces were almost as I’d left them, with one of the black knights jumping forward.

My mother’s words came back to me, and I remembered the last time I’d set foot in his study.

It was the summer after my sophomore year of college. I’d debated coming back home, but the rent was free and my girlfriend at the time had decided to travel overseas for the summer. I figured I could work from home and save up some cash to maybe go see her just before break ended.

Of course, one afternoon I’d told Dad that I was switching majors from software engineering to graphic design.

It was the first time I’d ever heard him shout. And the things he said that day drove me out of the house that summer. He called me worthless, a waste of money. He called me a fool and worse, and promised to cut off all payments to the school until I changed my major back.

Sad as it was to say, that was our last meaningful conversation.

I left the house that night and spent the rest of the summer sleeping in my car and on friends’ couches. I poured every ounce of myself into my work. Traveling was out of the question, but I saved enough to put myself through school. Dad, always true to his word, never paid another dime for my education.

I didn’t cut my family out of my life completely. It never made sense to me.

I came home for the holidays and soon discovered that about seventy-two hours was the limit of time I could stay around Dad without getting in an argument. So for years, that was what I did. I came home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, stayed no longer than three days, then left again. It was a truce we’d all learned to abide by.

Dad and I never played chess again.

I left the study behind. I’d stay for another day and help Mom with whatever she needed, then I’d leave. There would be a constant stream of family visiting, and I felt as though I’d only be in the way.

Several messages waited for me on my phone. Some were condolences from friends and colleagues, but others were requests for progress and mock-ups. The world didn’t stop, even for grief.

I knew that if I told my clients what had happened, they’d grant me extensions. I’d earned plenty of goodwill over the years and had a reputation of being an artist who responded quickly and finished my work on time.

But something inside me rebelled at the idea of asking for an extension.

The work might require some extra hours, but I’d get it done without complaint.

I stopped halfway through writing a sentence, my thumbs hovering over my phone. I grunted.

He’d raised me to be dependable.

I swore softly under my breath, then stared up at the ceiling as I fought against the sudden onslaught of emotions welling up in my chest.

I finished my message and sent it off. The work would be done.

But I had a game to finish first.

I stared at the board. Black’s position was weak and full of holes. I saw three or four ways to attack the position, but most of them were slow.

I moved my own knight up, deep into enemy territory, surrounded by black pieces. It stood in front of a pawn that couldn’t move, pinned to its king by my queen, still standing tall against an onslaught of opponents. But the light-square bishop had no problem taking the knight. My pawn recaptured the bishop.

Black was losing, and fast. I closed my eyes, wondering how the pieces would respond.

When I opened them again, the g pawn had moved one square forward, attacking my queen. I studied the board for a full minute, running the moves through my head. Then I took a knight with my queen, a move that looked completely foolish. The sort of mistake a child learning the game might make.

It put my queen, my most valuable piece, in position to get captured by a lowly pawn.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, my queen was gone, captured, as expected, by the pawn. I moved my own pawn forward, putting the black king in check.

Though I was down a valuable queen for a lowly bishop, I was going to win.

When I opened my eyes again, the black king had been laid gently on its side in surrender. I’d sacrificed my queen but won the game.

I stood up. Silly as I felt, I spoke out loud. “You never understood what it meant to risk everything for a dream.” I gestured at the board. “It might mean losing at times, but it’s how I win, too.”

I rubbed my eyes and turned to the door, but then I froze in my tracks. The pieces, which moments ago had been in the final position of our short game, were all neatly lined up, ready to play again. This time, the player behind the desk had the white pieces.

The room, which was cold in almost all my memories, suddenly seemed the warmest place in the house.

One last memory hit me, harder than all the others, and it was my oldest.

I was sitting on Dad’s lap, listening to him describe how the pieces moved. He beat me our first game, and for hundreds of games after, because he didn’t believe in playing down to his opponents. But after that first game, I met his gaze and told him that someday, I would beat him every time.

“I know, son,” he said with a smile.

The memory faded, and I returned to the desk.

“Fine,” I said. “One more.”