Insurrections (11 page)

From the chatter I learned that the younger man was Manny, his opponent was Chester, and nobody had ever seen anyone defeat either of them.

Eventually Chester pinned Manny's king. He didn't get up and dance. Manny didn't rip the black hairs from his upper lip and storm off in anger. The two slapped hands, complimented each other, and left in opposite directions.

When I reached home, I told my father all about the match. Speaking breathlessly, I mixed up parts of the story and corrected myself into an incoherence I knew only my father could understand. And he did make sense of it, even if he had to ask me to slow down a few times.

I heard about them dudes, my father said.

We should go out to the park, Daddy. You can beat Chester.

Baby girl, chess ain't about who can beat who; it's about life. He unrolled the board and set up the pieces. Now come let me beat up on you.

It wasn't until checkmate one hundred twenty-one, or perhaps one
hundred twenty-two, that I convinced my father to come watch the men in the park play. It was a mild day, coming off a string of cold ones, and he agreed that it would be a shame to waste the shining sun and pleasant warmth by playing indoors.

When we got to the park, Chester sat blindfolded at a picnic table. He had three games going at once. He'd make a move and then a woman would guide him to the next table to make another move. The crowd looked on silently.

He's just showing off, my father said.

You can beat him, can't you, Daddy?

He's a showboat, my father said as if he didn't hear me. Chester vanquished an opponent and walked slowly to a different picnic table to make a move as another challenger set up a board for defeat. My father said, He a good showboat, though.

You can beat him, right?

My father grabbed my hand and we walked downhill, away from the action, to a maroon picnic table of our own. He unrolled the crumpled mat and set up the chipped pieces. I played with the black ones as usual. He said I could be white when I beat him. My father took one of my knights and taunted me.

Now, little girl, you know you can do better than that. You gotta protect them pieces, girl.

I took his queen and laughed at him. He clenched his jaw, and his whole face became tight. Playing my father was no longer as hard as it had once been. I was getting used to his rhythms and seeing weaknesses in the creaky stiffness of his gameplay.

Now where did you learn a move like that? he asked.

Don't worry about me, worry about your game, I replied, which made him laugh.

We both hunched over the board. There was no world outside the both of us, outside of this game.

Hey, little lady, you missed a chance to take back the game from your old man, a voice called out. My father looked up and frowned. It was Manny. He sat on a nearby bench studying our board, his right hand rubbing against his smooth dark chin.

Move your queenside knight—

Come on, man, let me and my daughter play in peace.

All right, brotherman, I'm just saying that if I was her, I'd move that queenside knight so I could castle and set up some opportunities to put you in check, otherwise the game is over in three.

Whatever, man, worry about yourself, my father said. I hear Chester did you like that computer did that Russian.

Aw man, fuck Chester—

Could you have some respect for my little girl?

Sorry, man. I ain't mean to disrespect the little lady. Let me play winner, Manny said, and then he winked at me. I smiled.

Staring at the board, I could see Manny was right. My father knew it. His annoyance showed in his stiff brow and the nests of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. There was only one way out. But winning wasn't as important as doing so gracefully and on my own. The knight stayed in his position and I moved a pawn instead, hoping to get it to the other side of the board before the game ended.

Aw, little lady, you just signed your death warrant, Manny said. Let me play winner.

Man, my father said, let the girl play. With a quick maneuver of his fingers he trapped my king. It stood there lonely and helpless, cut off from all its allies.

Checkmate! my father called with the drunken excitement of a midnight partygoer. You're getting better, but you're still not good enough to beat your old man.

My father gathered the pieces, snorting and grunting in a way that let me know he was pleased.

Come on, man, let's go a round, Manny said with a dimpled smile.

Naw, man, I got to take my little girl home.

What you scared of? he asked.

My father barely even bothered looking up at Manny as he rolled his board and cradled it in the crook of his arm.

My dad's not scared of you.

Looks like he is, Manny replied.

Come on, Daddy, you can play one game.

Naw, girl, we got to go.

Yeah, little lady. Y'all gotta go, Manny said. The way your pop plays, I'll have him mated in two. He doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of you.

My father unrolled the crumpled board and set up his pieces.

Manny removed a cigarette from the right breast pocket of his black leather jacket and made a ceremony of lighting it. Then he took a long pull and blew out a cloud of formless gray smoke.

I'll even let you be white, he said.

It's my board, boy. I'm the defending champion. You can't
let
me be anything.

Turn your head, little lady. I'm 'bout to beat your daddy like he stole something.

They didn't just play one game. They played three, my father staring into the crumpled board as if that vinyl square held an opening to the abyss and the chipped pieces were Satan's own demons flying out to wreak havoc. He was so still at times it was as if he had become one of his chessmen. But his face tightened with each falling of his queen, his bishops, his knights; and it dropped each time Manny calmly said, Checkmate, and blew another plume of smoke.

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.

We haven't even paid the rent this month, my mother yelled. I got to go grocery shopping this week. Robert, you don't think.

Why is everything such a big deal for you? I didn't do anything wrong. I got the girl a nice gift.

You didn't get that for her. You got it for yourself. When are you ever thinking about anybody but yourself?