THE ONLY THING HE HAD
by Louise Norlie © 2006First published in Skive's December 2005 issue
"That was the best game we've ever had!"
What a liar, I thought. It had been too easy.
After being represented by a checkered field of marble kings, queens,
knights, bishops, and pawns, I felt an unsettling rush as I resumed my
humanity. I stood up and walked toward the window. I did not want to look at him. Trying to keep myself from saying anything, I moved the blinds to the side and looked out into the moonlight.
"We'll play again tomorrow, right? I really want a rematch, kid."
His strained cheerfulness finally broke me.
"Why did you let me win? Why don't you ever let me play with you on equal ground?"
I felt embarrassed as I spoke, but the frustration of my childhood returned
too intensely to conceal. I couldn't help it if my older brother still made
me feel as jealous as he always had.
Dusk had fallen as we played and we were both in shadows. We had
concentrated so intensely on the game that neither of us had made the move to turn on the lights.
"I don't want to play you again if you are still going to fool with me like
that," I added with bitterness. Dan did not reply to my outburst. I turned
to face him, but he was looking down, avoiding my eyes. I thought Dan must have been uncomfortable that I had the ability to see through him so well.
I left him behind as I went upstairs to my room. I closed my door and much later on, heard him shuffle quietly down the hall.
My mother scolded me when I whined to her that he never let me win. It is
the only thing he has. He is very sensitive. Leave him alone. Let him enjoy
winning what he is good at.
My older brother was never in good health. Dan was frequently in the
hospital and never well for long, the victim of an unnaturally bizarre
series of diseases and accidents. This did not keep him from being a chess
champion. His genius for the game was freakish. No one else in our family
was ever good at chess. Dan was practically invincible, except by the very
best of the best in elite international competitions. He would only accept
his infrequent defeats in tournaments because he was beaten by an elite but
equally talented stranger. Nevertheless, he was so sensitive to these
failures that he would act differently for weeks afterwards, very aloof and
upset. It seemed that he needed to go through a private ritual to repair his
inward secret.
I, on the other hand, was healthy and normal. I had no particular abilities
in any area. Dan was always the special one, the important one. What I
wanted most was to do what he could do. I should not have rued my big
brother his talent, but I did. He was extraordinary.
It was impossible for me to match his skill at chess; he could beat me
effortlessly. Check. It was hard to see the end coming before I was trapped. Checkmate. He sat across from me at the end of a game, silently and impassively triumphant in his dominance. It seemed that he was selfish to keep his superiority exclusively to himself. I hated those instances when I hated him and I hated myself. Even so, I desperately wanted to win, to be as good as him, to be calm, deliberate perfection.
At last, my mother became so annoyed with the sibling rivalry that she
talked to Dan. She told him to let me win, just once.
My mother sat close to us as we played that game, reading a newspaper,
watching us out of the corner of her eye. She was probably waiting to
congratulate me at the end, and then to pat Dan on the back for being so
compliant in contributing toward family peace. But Dan played so poorly that it was obvious to me that the game was a joke. My mother's plan backfired. I lost my temper and said many words I regretted. Slamming the door behind him, Dan angrily locked himself in his room, nursing an anger I did not understand. Maybe it was frustration at having to pander to me and sacrifice the only thing he had to give me a momentary sense of satisfaction.
After that I could never be sure if he was genuinely playing with me.
Whether he won or I won, I never knew it if was real. In the long, belabored silences between our moves, I was paranoid that behind his impassive face, he was laughing at me, leading me on, deceiving me, and muddling my understanding of my abilities.
That evening we had played for the first time in several years. Resting in
my bed, sleepless and guilty, I could not recall why I had suggested it.
Suddenly I heard a muted thud. It seemed that history was repeating itself.
Irregardless of why he played the game the way he did, I felt that I needed
to go to his room to apologize for acting so immaturely.
I knocked. There was no answer. I felt a cold wave of dread. My knees felt weak as I pushed open the door.
Dan sat slumped forward at his desk, having shot himself once in the head. I will never forget the desolate voice that I heard in the echoes of his last
scribbled words: I didn't let you win. You beat me on your own for the first time.
THE END