Perpetual Check (13 page)

Dina steps out of the bathroom in Randy's hotel room just as he's putting his photo of her into his gym bag. He looks up and says, “Hi.”

“Hi.” She stands near the door and says, “Big room.”

Randy suddenly feels awkward with her, standing between two unmade beds, even though they've been in the room alone for less than two minutes. “Zeke slept here,” he says.

“Oh. Because you were lonesome?”

“No.”

“
He
was?”

“No… We just got to talking, so he stayed.”

Dina's been around enough to know that Randy and Zeke can go months at a time without saying anything but
a few hostile words to each other. “He seems nice today,” she says.

“He's got the capacity.”

“So you two actually
talked
?”

“Incredible, isn't it?”

Randy walks to the bathroom to make sure he hasn't left anything. “I guess that's it,” he says. “We need to go.”

“Did you guys have
fun?”
Dina asks.

Randy puffs out his cheeks, thinks it over for a second, and decides that they did. “We're going to coach soccer together. Little kids. Can you believe that? Me and him.”

“Wow,” she says. “Never thought I'd see that. Maybe it won't be two against one all the time anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Zeke and your father against you.”

“Is it that obvious?”

She laughs. “Did you actually think that it wasn't?”

Back in the conference room, Zeke sits next to Dina and turns to his mom. “No sign of Dad?”

“Not lately,” she says.

“You think he'll show?”

She frowns and shrugs. “Knowing him, yes. He'll act as if nothing happened. Like he always does.”

“He's
killing
us, Mom.”

She shrugs. “I guess he is.”

“Randy would be okay without him.”

“Maybe you should mind your own business, Zeke.”

“He can see him every weekend. And I'll … keep an
eye on Randy.” He lowers his voice even further. “Plus, he's got… her.”

Dina taps Zeke on the shoulder, and he turns, hoping she didn't hear that last comment.

“This guy is really good?” she asks.

“Pramod? He's good. We'll see
how
good. He managed to get through five entire rounds without facing another seeded player, but that's just how it goes sometimes.”

“Because he
looks
like an excellent chess player, but he also looks too confident for his own good… Like
you
do sometimes, you know?”

Zeke laughs gently. “You noticed that, huh?”

“You can't really
not
notice that about someone… Sometimes I think maybe Randy's too
nice
for his own good. In chess, I mean.”

“He might surprise you… In chess, I mean.”

“Yeah. I don't think he could ever be mean in real life.”

“No.”

“Sar
cas
tic, yeah. But never unkind. Not Randy.”

Randy takes his seat and starts setting up the black pieces. Pramod has his white pawns on the board, but apparently he's been waiting for Randy before setting up the others. He picks up a bishop and glances back and forth from it to the board, then puts it in the wrong spot. Then he sets up his other seven pieces incorrectly and waits for Randy to notice.

The door opens, and two adults enter the room. Randy can tell immediately that the man has to be Pramod's father—his skin is a shade darker, but the cut of his jaw and the narrow
nose are the same—and the woman, who is white, is probably Pramod's mom. They scurry to the back row and sit down.

“I'm not sure, but I think you've got those horsey things and the castles in the wrong place,” Randy says.

“Yeah,” Pramod says slowly. He lifts his fist to his jaw, as if he's trying to recall the right positions.

“The championship match will begin in one minute,” says Dr. Kerrigan.

Pramod, all business now, fixes the setup and gives Randy a hard stare.

Both players are tentative in the early going, seeking to gain control of the center but not risking any material in doing so.

Randy's been waiting uneasily all afternoon for that door handle to jiggle and his father to slip into the room. They're five minutes into the game when he shows up as predicted, tiptoeing in and hunching low as he walks to the folding chair at the end of the line. As if no one would even notice.

The Regional Director clears his throat but does not look over at Mr. Mansfield.

The corner of Pramod's mouth lifts almost imperceptibly, just enough so he's sure Randy notices.

Randy scowls slightly. He's been pondering whether to slowly build an attack on Pramod's queen or just capture a bishop with a knight. Pramod's smugness pisses him off, so he makes the bolder move and takes the bishop. It's the first advantage either player has taken. On his next move, Randy gets that knight out of harm's way.

Pramod shrugs, as if he's been asked a question.

And Randy does feel more at ease with his father in the
room. Not for emotional support or anything like that, but simply for knowing that the inevitable interruption of his arrival is over.

Randy's felt that same sickening anticipation a lot lately at home, never quite knowing what the guy's mood will be when he walks in the door. He wonders if he really wants three and a half more years of
that.

The door opens again, and everyone looks up. It's a photographer wearing a tag that says The Scranton Observer. He nods to the Regional Director and begins snapping pictures from several angles, trying to be inconspicuous. Pramod shoots him an angry look, but Randy just ignores him.

Ten minutes later Randy has taken four pawns and lost only three, and he likes the way that he's positioned his two knights and a rook.

Pramod backtracks with his remaining bishop, and Randy's chest wells up slightly, his eyes narrow their focus, and his heart begins to beat a bit faster. He moves his kingside rook forward two spaces, forking one of Pramod's pawns and his queen. Of course, Pramod moves to save his queen, but every little capture helps, and Randy is thrilled to take another pawn.

Aggressive
is not a word one would use to describe Randy, but today is different. He steps up his offense and sees things more clearly than ever—three, four, five moves ahead—knowing how Pramod will have to respond to every move and how Randy will capitalize on any waver. Nothing that Pramod does surprises him. Randy soon has nearly twice as many pieces as Pramod.

Eventually Pramod brings his lone knight to a safe position near the center of the board. He raps his knuckles lightly on the table and says, “I offer a draw.”

Randy scans the board to see if he's overlooking something, but the advantage is very clearly his. Pramod's just trying to avoid a loss. He tilts his head to the side; says, “I decline;” and attacks that knight with a pawn.

Pramod moves the knight back to where it was, and Randy shifts his queen three spaces along the back rank.

Pramod moves a pawn one space forward and again says, “I offer a draw.”

He's got to be kidding,
Randy thinks.
I'm two moves away from checkmate.

Randy doesn't say anything. He declines the draw by shifting his bishop three diagonal spaces forward and looks up at Pramod.

“I've got things to do today,” Pramod mutters so only Randy can hear. “No draw, then I resign. What's the big deal? We're both going to the next round anyway.”

Yeah, but there's also that little matter of a thousand dollars. The runner-up gets nothing but a plaque and an invitation to Philadelphia. “You resign?”

“I
said,
‘I resign.’”

Randy shakes his head slowly. It's just like Pramod to concede the game without admitting defeat, as if whatever he has to do couldn't wait another two minutes. “Okay,” Randy says. He stands up and reaches out his hand.

Pramod shakes it. The spectators applaud politely except for Mr. Mansfield, who claps loudly and whistles.

“What just happened?” Dina asks Zeke.

“We won,” Zeke says, beaming. “It was a slaughter.”

The Regional Director motions to Randy and shows him a form that he needs to fill out for next weekend's state championship. “One thing to note: We did make an error last night. Anyone under eighteen who elected to stay at the hotel was supposed to have an adult with them in the room.”

“No big deal,” Randy says. “Right?”

“We'll overlook it. But you'll need to list a guardian on the entry form for Philadelphia.”

Randy looks at the form, then at his mother, then at his dad. “An adulteration?” he asks the Director.

“Excuse me?”

“Someone eighteen?”

“Yes.”

Randy writes “Zeke Mansfield” on the line. The Regional Director hands him an information sheet for the state championship and wishes him good luck.

“This is fantastic,” Mr. Mansfield says, patting Randy on the shoulder as the family gathers in the lobby. “I couldn't be prouder of you guys. First and third out of the very best chess players in this half of the state.”

“Nice math, Dad,” Zeke says. “There are eight regionals. That's not exactly half.”

“Pretty close. Here, I got you something when I was over at the mall.” He hands a shopping bag to Zeke.

Zeke takes out a new sleeve of bright yellow tennis balls. “Thanks,” he says flatly.

“And as if you need any more awards,” Mr. Mansfield says, beaming at Randy and handing him the other bag, “see how you like this.”

Randy opens the bag and takes out a slim paperback book:
101 Tips for Young Chess Champions.
He nods and says, “Thanks.” It's a book Randy could have written.

“Technically I
tied
for third with Serena,” Zeke says. “They didn't have a consolation round.”

“Believe me, you would have beat her. Let's call it third.”

“Let's call it a tie,” Zeke says, looking away. “It is what it is, right?”

“If they'd set up the brackets better, you two would have met in the final and you'd
both
be going to Philly,” Mr. Mansfield says. “Either one of you would have knocked off that Indian kid. That was obvious.”

“It was, huh?”

“It was to me. But what do you expect? That idiot running this thing doesn't seem to know his ass from his elbow.”

“He was all right,” Zeke says. “He tried to be fair.”

“My ass he did. He totally screwed you in that semifinal. Interrupting the game like that.”

Randy looks at Zeke, who has a familiar look of disbelief. They both know where this is going. You can't keep playing a game nobody can win.

“Anyway,” Mr. Mansfield says, “that's all behind us now. No sense dwelling on something somebody else did to us.”

“That's the spirit,” Zeke says.

“That's right,” Mr. Mansfield says, missing Zeke's obvious sarcasm. “We're bigger than that. Let that wimp-ass have his ‘rules.’ We've got the trophy. We … kicked … butt!”

He goes outside for a cigarette. Pramod and his parents have come out of the conference room, and they all shake Randy's hand.

“You played really well all weekend,” Pramod says, turning off his jerk switch in front of his parents. “See you in Philly.”