C.E. Stokes

Capturing Pawns

 

 

The clicking of the cane accompanied Richard’s shuffling steps as he made his way past the row of tables, inlaid with checkerboards.  No one looked up, their eyes glued to the game boards, focused on the pieces and plotting their next moves. He nodded at the few men he recognized, not slowing to watch their games or even greet them by name. Instead, Richard concentrated on each shuffling step. The last thing he needed was a broken hip from a false step. No hospitals, not today.

 

          The rustle of trees muffled the sound of traffic so that even when the park throbbed with tourists, the secluded chess pavilion radiated a quiet dignity. Richard tucked an old cigar box up under his arm, the pieces inside rattling with the movement. The weekly visits to the park broke up the monotony of his days.

 

          His heart thudded in time with the cane, a constant reminder that twice he’d beaten death. Once when a stroke that stopped his heart for three minutes and again, a few years later, when a clot in his leg broke free and went a-traveling.  

 

          Each day, resentment festered at his continued existence. One by one, Death took the anchors in Richard’s life. First his son Bobby, killed overseas serving in the Gulf War. Next his wife, the victim of an alleged heart attack, although Richard knew it was the broken heart that Bobby’s death had left her. The final piece, his longtime friend surrendered to cancer, a mere two weeks ago on a Friday, the day after Richard had won their weekly chess game.  

 

          Without Harold and their games, Richard had no respite from the silence of his apartment.

 

          The cigar box thumped on the open table, the contents once again rattling against each other. He lowered himself onto the small wooden bench that served as a chair. With a wince, he wriggled against the hard seat. Once again, he’d forgotten the faded cushion in the small hall closet. His backside would ache by the time the game ended.

 

          The breeze swept through the trees and mingled with the faint sound of traffic. Richard laced his fingers over his paunch. Minutes ticked by. Quiet conversation drifted off the other players and lulled him into a slight doze. A shadow fell over him.  Richard straightened up with a snort, lifting his eyes to the man standing over him.

 

          From the gaunt cheeks to the deep-set eyes, an exact replica of his friend Harold’s face beamed down at him. However, it moved with an ease that the Harold hadn’t shown in years.  Which made sense to Richard. After all, just last week Richard had peered into the coffin and whispered his goodbye to his last friend.

 

          "I wasn't sure you’d be here." Richard held out his hand to the empty seat across from him.  

 

          "You didn’t think I’d leave you waiting this time, did you? Our last game, no less.” Harold fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed the beaded perspiration off his forehead and tucked back into a breast pocket with a flourish.

 

          Richard stretched his knobby fingers. Pain flared in his knuckles and radiated up his hand and arm. The cardboard lid of the cigar box flipped open with the ease of repeated use.  Worn chess pieces lay inside, jumbled together in a mix of ebony and ivory. He grasped a white pawn, only to have it slide out of his grip. He fumbled after it, closing around the piece. The black pawn cooperated, and Richard held one in each fist. Lifting his hands, he waited for Harold to tap his knuckles.

 

          Harold touched Richard, his touch cool compared to the warmth of the afternoon. Richard turned his hand over, his fingers unwrapping from the black pawn.

 

          “Fitting,” Harold said. He plucked the first of the dark pieces from the box and began arranging them with a confident speed.

 

          Richard grunted and flexed his fingers, unable to straighten out the digits. With a cluck of his tongue, Richard picked up a knight and set the piece two squares from the edge. Pushing through his pain, he set the pieces in their proper position. Each piece stood in the center of its assigned square, ready to start their battle.

 

          “You’ve been avoiding me. I wasn’t sure you’d be here yourself.” Harold nudged the rook into place.

 

          "The last game should be here.” Richard scoffed as he dragged his gaze off the chessboard.

 

          Harold took in the tables, the players hunched over as well as observers, a murmur of whispers blending with the rustle of leaves. With a nod, he turned back to the chess board. His thick brows furrowed over his eyes as he pondered his next move. A strange expression on a familiar face.

 

          Harold pushed other thoughts out of his mind and focused on the opening of the game. Instead of his trusted English opening, he fell back to the King’s Gambit, sliding his king’s pawn forward.

 

          Harold responded in turn, meeting the pawn with his own dark one. Richard pulled out of the game to study his friend. Harold would never let a change in routine pass without some sort of quip. He grunted and turned back to the game. Both men leaned over the board, feinting and falling back as they felt out each other's style.  

 

          No words broke the silence as they studied the board. They weren’t necessary as the game progressed. Harold’s hands moved over the pieces, not a sign of the tremors that had shaken him for the past year.  

 

          “Rook to C2.” Harold settled back with a smile. “Better watch that Bishop, Richard.”

 

          “My eyes work just fine.” he snapped and moved to protect the endangered piece.  Perspiration broke out on his upper lip as he defended his king from Harold’s sudden onslaught.

 

          “Queen to H3.” Harold slid the piece into place. “Checkmate.”

 

          “You finally beat me.” Richard’s hand shook as he laid his king onto its side.

 

          “It’s long overdue.” Harold rose to his feet with neither a grimace nor a hunch. A feat he hadn’t accomplished in over a year.

 

          “You didn’t have to lie, not to me. I’d know you anywhere. After all, we’re old friends, Death.”

 

          “When did you realize?” Death seemed surprised.

 

          “Soon as you showed up. Toward the end, Harold made me look down right speedy. I'll be glad to get away from these aches. Damn arthritis makes it hard to do anything.” Richard glared at the cane. He stretched out his aching fingers and picked up the toppled king. The piece rolled around his palm.

 

          “Sometimes a familiar face makes the crossing easier.” Death smiled, a sad little twist of his lips that had never crossed Harold’s face during life.

 

          “I’ve waited for you for a long time. Why play games with me now?”  Richard set the pieces in the cigar box. First the knight, a valiant warrior.  Next, the queen followed by the opposing king. He picked up his own king again, not ready to set it next to the other pieces.

 

          “I’ve always had a weakness for games. One chess match wouldn’t make a difference.” Death shrugged.  

 

          “Why didn't take me when you had your chance? Two chances, you know.”

 

          “You were the only one who could handle the loneliness.” Harold took the king out of Richard’s hand. “It’s time to go, Richard. Your friends and loved ones are waiting.” The king dropped into the box and clattered against the other pieces.

 

          Richard pressed his hands against the table and stood up. A weight fell off him, taking the aches and pains that shaded every movement. Behind him, a body stared up at the tops of the trees, the eyes unfocused and a hint of a smile on its lips.  

 

          Death reached out and Richard clasped his hand. Together, they headed past the tables. The other players focused their games, no sign they’d noticed the corpse among them.

 

 

 

C.E. Stokes is a freelance writer living near Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She has a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Bloomsburg University. Being too much of a foodie to accept the role of starving artist, she turned to writing. Her short stories have been in Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 words and The Wifiles as well as multiple issues of Quantum Fairy Tales and Dark Gothic Resurrected. Two of her stories appeared in different anthologies put out by Zimbell Publishing.