CIGARETTES

"Are you going to play?" Mr. Henderson asked his wife.

Mrs. Henderson took a steady drag of her cigarette and looked out of the window at the dark landscape silently. As if in contemplation, she blew the smoke sideways at the glass, then slowly turned around and walked to the table. The Egyptian blue seam of her evening dress softly traced the floor, and its beadwork sparkled in the dim library lamplight. She was aware of how beautiful she looked, but beauty would not help her win this battle.

Mr. Henderson smiled reassuringly and indicated for her to move first. She accepted his smile with a cold stare and intently put out her cigarette. She wouldn’t let him win the argument; they were not going to his business dinner, and that was final. Her hand quivered above the board for a moment, like a cobra just before it strikes, then in an instant she moved her pawn forward. If he thought she had forgiven him and would enjoy a lighthearted tête-à-tête, he was quite mistaken.

Mr. Henderson could read her mind perfectly, but he wouldn’t continue to fight. Calmness was the only thing that would bring about a fair game. These dinners were always dull, with the same directors and managers in attendance. Still, not going would do more harm than ducking in for a few pleasantries.

He tried to humor his wife  "I would watch out if I were you. You’re playing against an expert."

Seeing what he was doing, she smiled. He hadn’t won her over yet, but she was pleased to know that they still understood each other so well. She could play the game this way too: as if without a care, and yet entirely focused on winning. They were evenly matched, and they both knew it. This was not an uncommon way for them to settle their arguments. She had won the last time, when they were trying to decide what to get their niece for her birthday. A gift certificate had been tempting, but its relative thoughtlessness would have left an awkward discord between them and the rest of the family. They seemed to have lost their talent for thinking of children’s gifts.

Of course, they had not always quarreled so much. That had come about in recent years. Forcing herself to relax, she would continue for now, in this game. "As you’re well aware, I have been playing for the past twenty years, and have won many times before."

"That hardly matters, my dear, when everything depends on this game, tonight."

She saw that he only wanted to make her nervous, perhaps cause her to stumble. She surveyed the board like a king viewing the map of his recently gained territory, with confidence above curiosity. "Your tricks will not work on me tonight, I’m afraid."

"But you acknowledge that they might another time?"

He was being playful, but she knew that he was right. If history was any indicator, she would rely on him again soon, just as he often relied on her. "That doesn’t matter. Tonight, I plan to win."

He watched her as he lit a cigarette. The flame hung low in the lighter before leaping to the tip and away from his eyes. Carefully, but without caution, he brought his knight out. "Gainsley was telling me today that everyone’s going to Costa Rica for their summer holidays this year. I told him we might try being adventurous and go to Nepal instead. That would be something, wouldn’t it?"

Her posture had stiffened slightly, but she stayed focused. "Very amusing. Suppose we actually did go this year?" She slid another pawn forward, giving him a casual glance as she did so, but making sure that he could feel her eyes push into him.

He looked back at her, absorbed her stare with a light chuckle, and said, "Yes, I suppose you’re right on that account. But here," moving his bishop over to take her queen, "I’m afraid you are mistaken."

The room crystallized and a rush moved over Mrs. Henderson as she lost control of the game. In a flash, she picked up her queen and took her husband’s bishop. She immediately regretted it; in an effort to save her beloved queen, she had exposed her king. Looking at her husband, she caught a fleeting sparkle in his eye which only appeared when his competitive nature was satisfied because he had secured victory. When he had coached the local boys’ baseball team, he had this smile after every game, and he hadn’t been the only one. But she stopped herself from thinking about that. She lit another cigarette. He had coached a good team, she remembered. He had a way of pushing the boys to be better players without intimidating them. Emphasizing teamwork and camaraderie above everything else. Now, she looked across the board at his tired face, not old just yet, but drained from the last six years. She took a deep breath.

"I’m always so amused by those books," she said, looking at the shelf across the room. "Somehow I pretend that the good ones stay on the shelves while the naughty ones fall off constantly."

With that small, wistful sentence, she disarmed him. He looked at her sadly, unsure of where to move the conversation. They had inherited most of the books from her side of the family. Arranging the library had been a gift to themselves; they added their favorites to the collection, brought in stuffed leather chairs, and even maintained a small cataloguing system. It had been a distracting project for over a year.

Now, he closed his eyes and took a long drag of his cigarette before smashing it into the ashtray. As though unconscious of what he was doing, he immediately lit another one.

In that moment, she pitied him. She knew that he wouldn’t let her quietly bow out of the game and sighed, preparing to give him what he wanted.

"“I’m afraid I couldn’t let you take my queen. She’s far too valuable."

"You may find that if you play to win, there are other pieces that should be protected more," he said, tapping his finger lightly on the table.  

"I could never quite grasp that. Why should the queen have so much power to run around the board if she is less important than the king, who just sits there?"

He realized she understood and was letting him win the way he wanted to. Her benevolence made him apologetic. "Well," he began, "I suppose it’s to reflect that without his partner, man is nothing."

In a warm flush, she forgave him for the entire evening. "Oh, enough nonsense," she said playfully, taking his cigarette from him. "Go on, finish it then."

He picked up his knight and paused over her king. "You know it’s not just the chess game, Celia?"

It was a simple question, but for Mrs. Henderson there was an audacity to it. She became a pillar in front of him, and though she had forgiven him only seconds before she no longer could, when he chose to finish the entire argument off like this. "Are you suggesting that this was a war rather than just a battle?" she asked, her eyes steely. He wanted to turn this game, this disagreement, into their entire life, but she would not let him.

"We have to go to the dinner," he said.

In her mind, he had not really won the fight, just the authority to decide whether or not they went to this particular function. She could already feel the monotonic conversation draining her vitality away. How long would they torture her with their particulars about streamlining investments, market closures, and all the other meaningless foibles of their world? Even if she was lucky enough to avoid the industry chatter, there were always the married couples to suffer through. It was all so phony. She knew, her husband knew, the other couples knew that no one’s life was as perfect as they were each making it out to be. If it wasn’t faking their fortune, it was a drug-addicted child, or an affair, or, worst of all, she and her husband. But their case was different. They didn’t pretend everything was fine, they simply avoided telling the entire truth. Secrets like theirs did not belong in the mouths of gossiping coworkers or behind the hands of bored wives.

She looked at her husband, waiting for her. It was true that he still had the victory, for she had lost her temper. She gathered her strength, and conceded. "Yes, of course. After all, you’ve won."

But he was still holding his knight above the board. He wanted more. His chess piece in hand, he walked around the room, looking at the photos in their frames from a time when they used to take pictures. There were none from recent years. He could understand why she didn’t want to go, he felt it too. But he pushed on, moving forward, and for that he knew she was grateful.

He walked back towards her. "It’s important that we try to change."

She sighed, put out her cigarette, and closed her eyes in resolution.

The knight slid inaudibly into checkmate position. She wanted to push the entire thing out of her mind, but the situation would continue to haunt them, even after the argument was forgotten. They would have the same talk again before the next evening out, and the one after that.

He settled his arm around her shoulders as they moved to the door. "All right dear, let’s get this over with."

***

They stayed at the dinner for as short a time as possible. "You were right," he said as they came in and walked to the sofa, "the whole evening was a drag."

She sat down next to him mutely, trying to contain herself. Her hands trembling slightly, she lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, and was able to remove the strained tone from her voice. "I don’t understand how we got stuck with the Shannons for the entire night."

"Yes, or why they couldn’t stop talking about their children for one moment. 'Michael's just been accepted to Georgetown Prep! And Anita is playing Ophelia in the school’s production of Hamlet!' No one seems to realize how small that part is. I’d be more impressed if she was playing Polonius."

"How can they send him so far away? If—" but she faltered. With visible effort, she cleared her face, took another drag of her cigarette, and snuggled under her husband’s arm. "John, tell me about The City Where Time Has Stopped."

He looked down at her. "I don’t think I can make a very good job of it tonight."

"If you try, I’ll help when it becomes difficult." She looked up at him in quiet desperation, so he gave her a sad smile and thought for a moment. It was their place, and theirs alone, where they could go to escape from every Shannon and untaken vacation of the past six years.

He made up his mind and began. "In the City Where Time Has Stopped, the leaves do not quiver on their branches when the wind blows. No one is born, or dies−" she tensed under his arm, "−or moves in any direction whatsoever.

"Oh yes, the pastry chef still spins and folds a soft, creamy batter in her bowl. The preacher still stands behind his oak pulpit to spread the gospel to the masses. Children still twirl in circles on the playground.

"But when the wind howls and cuts through to freeze the inside, no one bothers putting on a coat. Should a sensual strip of cashmere slide across one’s skin, there is no sigh of pleasure or delight. And when a voice, off in the distance, screams in a terror that electrifies the hairs on the arms, no one moves."

He took a breath and looked down at his wife. She sat still, her focus on some unknown space across the room.

"The people there have nothing but memories. The kind of memories that cram themselves into the mind until there’s no space left. The sort that make you remember the smell of lavender while thinking of the big, unaccompanied candle on your fifth birthday cake and the baseball bat your parents gave you. Memories of your last day at school; memories of cold sodas in the summertime.

"And all these memories jostle each other in their minds, shoving to get to the front, where the main stage is. Sometimes they have to stand still so that nothing spills over the edge.

"And so it is here, after the birthday parties, after the running, after the ceaseless animation, here that they hold fast to each other and are forced to linger."

She calmly dried her eyes, and leaned back. "It was nicer there last week, when the sun was out and the ice cream truck had visited."

"Yes, and there was the children’s baseball championship, when a dog ran out into the field during the middle of the game," he chuckled.

She laughed a little at this too. "No one knew whether they should keep playing or chase it out off the field first."

 He squeezed her softly. "Well, I’m sorry that tonight was a disappointment."

"You don’t need to be. I never had to help you through it, anyway."

"Perhaps next week will be better."

She was unsure about this. "He’ll be turning eleven..." But the effort to finish this sentence was too great. The birthday parties were conflicted affairs, filled with brightly colored balloons in their imaginary world and tears in the real one.

She sighed. "Will it ever get easier?"

He could not answer. He leaned over the arm of the sofa to grab a cigarette, pondering the flame as he lit it. They shared one in silence before going upstairs to bed.