Grandmaster by Klass David

Author:Klass, David [Klass, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Published: 2014-02-25T00:00:00+00:00

18

They don’t normally let you back into a chess tournament’s playing area once you’ve finished your game and left. I told the monitor at the door that my father was sick and I needed to see him right away. I think she could see how worried I was, and her face softened. She waved me through and whispered: “Please be quiet and quick.”

My first impulse was to rip Dad out of there, march him to our car, and hightail it back to New Jersey while he was still relatively sane and healthy. But as I walked past the long tables of silent, concentrating chess players, I felt my resolve slipping.

I could see my dad now, up on the grandmasters’ platform—arms folded, eyes on the board—looking calm and under control and not about to strangle anyone or leap out a window. Was he really in imminent danger of falling apart? What could I possibly say to get him to resign a tight game against a master? I felt myself slowing down with each step and realized I didn’t have the nerve to make a big scene by insisting that he leave right now.

A game ended near me, and as the two players stood and shook hands I saw that one of them was Dr. Chisolm. I guessed from his tight, angry face that he had just lost. He marched to the scorer’s table, and then headed out. “Dr. Chisolm,” I called, following him, but he was already out the door and stalking toward the elevator with long and furious strides, as if he had lost a patient on the operating table and needed to run twenty laps or punch a heavy bag to let out his frustration.

I hurried after him and caught his arm. “Dr. Chisolm. I need to talk to you.”

“Not now,” he muttered. “Damn it, I should have won that one. Give me some space, Daniel.” He tried to yank free, but I held on tight.

“Please,” I said. “It’s about my dad.”

He stopped trying to pull away. “What’s wrong?”

“He may need a doctor.”

“Is he sick?”

I didn’t have a sensible answer to that question. “Kind of. Or at least I think he will be.”

“You think he will be?” Dr. Chisolm repeated, looking a little mystified, and then he led me through the common area to a quiet corner, near a marble fountain. The cascading water masked our words. “What’s going on?”

I looked back at him and remembered the previous night at the steak restaurant when he had insulted my dad. Now I was thinking of trusting him with my father’s deepest secret. I hesitated and pulled away from him, but I had no place to go and no one else to tell. I was surprised to feel hot tears squeezing out of my eyes and running down my cheeks. I hadn’t cried in years, and I was deeply embarrassed, but I just couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I—I just don’t know what to do.”

Dr. Chisolm sat me down on a bench and put his hand on my shoulder.

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