An Adult's Game (Extended Draft)

My father had taken Mr. Horowitz’s last horse. He looks at me and says that we just retrieved our opponents knight. Mr. Horowitz glances at the board, picks up a castle, and knocks down one of my father’s horses as he coughs into his sleeve. I ask my father if that makes them tied, but he shakes his head and whispers that now Mr. Horowitz is winning.

My father’s face looks disappointed, and he’s muttering in our native tongue under his breath. I feel nervous for him because I want him to win, for both of us. His eyes scan the pieces as he readjusts his keffiyah. He isn’t sure what to do next. There are so many white pieces left, and so little black. He moves one of his pawns---I believe that’s what they’re called---in front of Mr. Horowitz’s pawns. Pawns and a king. That’s all he has. That’s all we have.

I ask my father if I can play, but he shakes his head. He says I must learn by observation first. Mr. Horowitz pleads with him to let me play soccer with the other children, but my father insists that it is very important that I know the rules. Discipline, he calls it. He thinks it’s a game for adults, but I think it’s a game for children, too. So I continue to watch, and I’m distracted by the colors on the board. Black and white, just like my father and Mr. Horowitz. I’ve seen them play several rounds, but it seems like the white pieces always win. The adults continue playing, and the black pieces are becoming more scarce.

Mr. Horowitz smiles at me. He thinks it’s just a game, but my father is clenching his fists under the table. To him, this is not a game. Mr. Horowitz moves one of his pawns to a blank space even though he could take out one my father’s pieces. My father doesn’t notice. He swoops one of his pieces into the pawn, and his eyes begin to glow. He rubs my back excitedly, bouncing me on his leg in triumph. Mr. Horowitz winks at me, and I laugh because I understand.

They continue to take turns moving around game pieces. Mr. Horowitz looks uneasy, and he’s coughing an awful lot. My father is nervously scratching into his beard, and his fingernails are dusting skin flakes onto my lap. Even though Mr. Horowitz is playing generously, my father and I are losing. Mr. Horowitz suddenly utters Checkmate in a raspy, bubbling voice, and he begins coughing uncontrollably. My father shoves me off his lap and shoots up out of his chair. The board is in the air, and the pieces are flying past our faces. My father is having a tantrum, and Mr. Horowitz can’t breathe because he is coughing so hard. A black king strikes me in the face, and Mr. Horowitz is collapsed on the table. His wrinkled face is looking up at my father, smiling. He’s not coughing anymore. My father is still huffing and cursing. He doesn’t even notice that our neighbor is dead on the table.