We played for hours that first afternoon.
“Shoes carry people to interesting places,” he said. “Yours carried you to me. That makes them valuable.”
I did not know then how much I would come to depend on those afternoons.
***
Day after day, we returned to the oak tree, listening to old jazz records on his portable player, trading stories of our regrets.
He told me about his late wife.
“Shoes carry people to interesting places,”
I told him about the children I never had.
“You have three children,” I reminded him once. “Where are they?”
Arthur moved his bishop and stared at the board with a grim look.
“They don’t care about me,” he continued. “They are just waiting for me to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Gregory,” he said. “He is patient. He is polite in person. And he is planning something. I can feel it the way you feel a storm before it breaks.”
“They are just waiting for me to die.”
I did not know what to say.
The bitterness in his voice was too old and too deep for comfort.
I reached across the little table and covered his hand with mine.
“Then let us play chess and not think about storms today.”
He smiled, but his eyes stayed troubled.
“You are the only person in this entire place who wants nothing from me. Do you realize that?”
I did not know what to say.
“I want to win a game before I die,” I teased.
“That,” he chuckled, “you will have to earn.”
His daughter Evelyn visited once during those weeks.
She lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching us with a strange, conflicted expression.
Arthur beckoned to her, but she shook her head and left.
“That was Evelyn,” Arthur told me. “She is not like her brother. Not entirely. But she does what Gregory tells her. She always has.”
She shook her head and left.
“People can change,” I said.
“Some do,” he agreed. “Usually when it costs them something.”
We sat in silence as the record crackled to its end.
Arthur looked older suddenly, smaller against the grand backdrop of his gilded world.
“Whatever comes,” he said, “promise you will keep playing chess with me.”
“I promise,” I said, and I meant it completely.
“People can change,”
***
Arthur’s cough grew worse each morning.
By the third week of that bitter winter, he could barely lift a chess piece.
I sat beside his bed, holding a cup of the imported tea he loved, when the door burst open without a knock.
Gregory strode in first, tall and cold, trailed by his sister Evelyn and three men in expensive suits carrying leather folders.
The door burst open
“Father, we need to talk about your care,” Gregory announced. “This place is bleeding money you don’t have to spare.”
Arthur pushed himself up against the pillows, his eyes sharp despite his weakness.
“My money is mine to spend, Gregory. I don’t recall inviting you.”
One of the lawyers stepped forward with a document.
“Mr. Arthur, your family has concerns about your capacity to make medical decisions. We intend to petition the court to appoint your eldest son as your guardian and medical agent.”
“We intend to petition the court.”
“He’s perfectly capable of thinking for himself,” I said. “Anyone can see that.”
Gregory turned to me with a look of pure contempt.
