A Game of Chess

Charles Northwood’s father lay in the hospital bed, tubes sticking out of his nostrils and arms, dying of cancer. His son sat just beside him, trying to convince himself it wasn’t true. Hadn’t it been just a year ago that his father was telling him that he wouldn’t rest until the cancer was gone? Now, here he was, resting, and the cancer was far from gone.

                He was a shell of the man he had been. A former world class hockey player, he was now gaunt and thin. And his eyes, which had once been so full of life, were as dim as caves. Charles had seen that withered look before, on the face of his mother. She had died a long time ago, when he was too young to even remember, but the pain of her death was still in him, and he was afraid of what would happen if that wound were reopened. Seeing his father now, he refused to believe it. How could this man, who he had relied so heavily on over the course of his life, who had taught him to swim, and given him money to take girls out on dates, be dying? It didn’t seem possible.

                Charles’ father motioned for him to take his hand. Charles did, and looked into his eyes. There was some life in them, but this life was fading.

                He smiled at his son.

 “You’re going to be OK, dad,” said Charles, more to reassure himself than his father. His father nodded slowly.

                Charles’ phone rang. Who could be calling him now?

                It was Mark. Mark was an old college friend whom Charles occasionally got together to play chess with. Sure enough, that is what he wanted to do now. Charles politely told him that he was busy, and that they would play at another time.

                “Who was that?” asked Charles’ father when he got off the phone.

                “My friend Mark. He wanted to play chess.”

                Charles’ father looked ponderous. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head back. Then, he smiled.

                “You should call him back. Tell him to bring the chess board here. I want to watch you play.”

                Charles was surprised by his father’s response, but he was definitely in no position to argue with him, so he called his friend back and invited him to the hospital. About twenty minutes later, Mark arrived with the chess board.

                The two friends sat at a table beside the bed so that Charles’ father could watch. It was evident from the beginning that Charles was a superior player, but this didn’t stop his father from kibitzing when it was Charles’ turn. Charles’ father had been an excellent chess player in his time, and had taught his son how to play. He had kept many lessons hidden from his son, however, and now he was determined to teach all of them to him during this one game. His son was annoyed by his father’s interference at first, but soon discovered that he was learning new techniques as a result, and came to appreciate it. Mark, who was not a very skilled player, tried to learn as much as he could from playing with his friend, and found his father’s kibitzing amusing.

                Soon, Charles had Mark surrounded, and the game was over. They shook hands, and Mark asked if Charles would like to play a game against his father.

                Charles looked at his father, and would have asked him to play had the look in his eye not already spelled defeat. He looked back at Mark. “I don’t think so,” he said.

                Mark looked over at Charles’ father. “Maybe I should go.”

                Charles nodded.

                “Take care, Mr. Northwood. I hope things work out.”

                Charles’ father nodded, and Mark left.

                “That was a good game you played,” said Mr. Northwood to his son.

                “Only because you were helping me along the whole way.”

                “That’s what I’m supposed to do,” his father said. He reached out and took his son’s hand. Charles looked into his father’s eyes. He wanted to cry, as he had cried for his mother, but feeling the grip of his father’s hand, he remembered that he was a man now, and that he needed to be strong.

                “Don’t you worry about me,” said Mr. Northwood to his son, his voice fading.

                Charles wanted to tell his father that it wasn’t him he was worried about, it was himself. What would he do without his father there to guide him? There was so much more life to live, so long to go. The thought of living it without his father seemed impossible. He wanted to tell him to hang on, that he couldn’t go on without him. His father’s eyes began to close.

                “Dad.” His hand became lifeless, and he squeezed it tighter. “Dad!”

                Charles began to weep. He kissed his father’s cold lips.