set, the pieces carved of marble. My little hand could scarcely wrap around the base of them. He never knew, but I used to play house with the pieces, acting out this elaborate soap opera on the chessboard. I never really enjoyed playing.
Chess, to my father, was like the law—a way to move pawns and go for the jugular on your opponent. He played ruthless chess—striking fast and without mercy—defeating me time and time again as a way to “build character” in me as a little girl. He didn’t care that half the time, my eyes were brimming with tears.
I wandered the park, as in-line skaters sped past me. I needed to talk to Harry. Instead of taking a cab, I rode the subway. I remembered August telling me he liked trains—but hated elevators. His rules made no sense to me. I worried about him, with his eccentricities like his dad. Maybe I had just been so swept up in the idea of a summer romance with a really cute guy. I started to wonder if this was just one of those relationships that starts out hot and then dies just as fast.
When I finally arrived at Harry’s apartment, he wasn’t home yet, and Gabe had already left for the theater. I opened the fridge and scoped the nearly barren shelves. I grabbed a Diet Coke. Shutting the fridge door, I looked at my cell phone. It had been on silent. There were four messages. All from August, but I didn’t listen to them.
I shut my eyes and pictured Miriam’s in the dark. August was so self-assured, and when we kissed, it had been intense. He was like no one else I’d ever met—from the instant I first saw him, I was infatuated. He wasn’t like any other kind of guy. Maybe I just needed a little bit of time to chill out. After all, at the end of the summer, I’d be heading back to Boston. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Calliope, be practical , my father would say. Except, for a mistake, it felt so perfect.
At loose ends, I wandered into Harry’s small office area and started pulling the “Mom books” down from his bookshelf. He had photo albums from their childhood, and then from when they both moved to New York City together after college. They’re hilarious. Can I just say big shoulder pads in the ’80s were a huge fashion tragedy? I’m not sure what my mom was thinking—and Harry was worse. There are even a few pictures of him in some kind of refugee-from-a-New-Wave-band getup. Positively horrifying!
It was comforting to me to go through the books. One after the other, I turned pages. There were pictures of my parents’ wedding. My mother wore a sliplike dress of long ivory satin and carried a simple bouquet of daisies, with a couple of flowers in her hair, no veil. She and my father looked happy—in fact, it was an uncharacteristic picture of him, since he usually favored what I called “the Scowl.”
There were pictures of me when I was first born. Then there was a lengthy gap in pictures, which was where I usually stopped looking at pictures. But for some reason, today I pressed on to just a few pages of photos of her with no hair, wearing a scarf, deep circles under her eyes. Harry was in a few of them, lying next to her in her bed, the two of them smiling for the camera. In two, there was a man I didn’t recognize. I made a mental note to ask Harry who he was.
Bored, I opened the doors to cabinets beneath the bookshelf. I wasn’t intending to snoop or anything, I was just looking for more Mom boxes. There was a box with my name on it. It wasn’t a present, but a box filled with more old stuff of my mom’s. I could tell, since a high school yearbook peeked over the top of it.
I pulled it out, excited. Harry had never shown me this before, and I wondered why. Her old yearbooks were haphazardly stored with a trophy from a singing competition and several cards from old boyfriends. They were the things of a girl’s teenage years, the treasures of her life. I had things just like them in my room at home.
Except for one envelope. I picked it
Chess, to my father, was like the law—a way to move pawns and go for the jugular on your opponent. He played ruthless chess—striking fast and without mercy—defeating me time and time again as a way to “build character” in me as a little girl. He didn’t care that half the time, my eyes were brimming with tears.
I wandered the park, as in-line skaters sped past me. I needed to talk to Harry. Instead of taking a cab, I rode the subway. I remembered August telling me he liked trains—but hated elevators. His rules made no sense to me. I worried about him, with his eccentricities like his dad. Maybe I had just been so swept up in the idea of a summer romance with a really cute guy. I started to wonder if this was just one of those relationships that starts out hot and then dies just as fast.
When I finally arrived at Harry’s apartment, he wasn’t home yet, and Gabe had already left for the theater. I opened the fridge and scoped the nearly barren shelves. I grabbed a Diet Coke. Shutting the fridge door, I looked at my cell phone. It had been on silent. There were four messages. All from August, but I didn’t listen to them.
I shut my eyes and pictured Miriam’s in the dark. August was so self-assured, and when we kissed, it had been intense. He was like no one else I’d ever met—from the instant I first saw him, I was infatuated. He wasn’t like any other kind of guy. Maybe I just needed a little bit of time to chill out. After all, at the end of the summer, I’d be heading back to Boston. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Calliope, be practical , my father would say. Except, for a mistake, it felt so perfect.
At loose ends, I wandered into Harry’s small office area and started pulling the “Mom books” down from his bookshelf. He had photo albums from their childhood, and then from when they both moved to New York City together after college. They’re hilarious. Can I just say big shoulder pads in the ’80s were a huge fashion tragedy? I’m not sure what my mom was thinking—and Harry was worse. There are even a few pictures of him in some kind of refugee-from-a-New-Wave-band getup. Positively horrifying!
It was comforting to me to go through the books. One after the other, I turned pages. There were pictures of my parents’ wedding. My mother wore a sliplike dress of long ivory satin and carried a simple bouquet of daisies, with a couple of flowers in her hair, no veil. She and my father looked happy—in fact, it was an uncharacteristic picture of him, since he usually favored what I called “the Scowl.”
There were pictures of me when I was first born. Then there was a lengthy gap in pictures, which was where I usually stopped looking at pictures. But for some reason, today I pressed on to just a few pages of photos of her with no hair, wearing a scarf, deep circles under her eyes. Harry was in a few of them, lying next to her in her bed, the two of them smiling for the camera. In two, there was a man I didn’t recognize. I made a mental note to ask Harry who he was.
Bored, I opened the doors to cabinets beneath the bookshelf. I wasn’t intending to snoop or anything, I was just looking for more Mom boxes. There was a box with my name on it. It wasn’t a present, but a box filled with more old stuff of my mom’s. I could tell, since a high school yearbook peeked over the top of it.
I pulled it out, excited. Harry had never shown me this before, and I wondered why. Her old yearbooks were haphazardly stored with a trophy from a singing competition and several cards from old boyfriends. They were the things of a girl’s teenage years, the treasures of her life. I had things just like them in my room at home.
Except for one envelope. I picked it
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