XVII - Company

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Episode 5

Fork

Part 1

Kentucky, 1966

Company


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It was pouring in Kentucky, and at about 11:30 the taxi driver drove up to the front of the dark house. Honestly, I was scared to go back in. But I had to, and besides, I was desperate to put down my suitcases and Alma's. So I turned the doorknob and entered the house.

All the lights were off. It had a particular smell that I'm not sure I noticed before. It was one of those indescribable scents that each family has one of their own. To me, my closest guess would be that ours— well, now just mine— smelled a mix of Alma's perfume, which she wore seldom, old oak wood furniture, and stale booze. It was a comforting scent, but now that Alma wasn't here contributing to that scent, it left the house feeling eerie.

Someday you're gonna be all alone. So you gotta know how to take care of yourself. My mother once told me that, or something along those lines. Not Alma. My real mother. And scarily enough, she was right. I've lived most of my life all alone, and I've never known how to really take care of myself. One way or another, I guess I'd learn now.

I flicked on a lamp in the hallway and entered the living room. A lone teacup instantly caught my eye. It was empty, except for the cherry red lipstick stain on the rim. God, I missed her. I missed her so much. I knelt down and lay my chin on the couch, admiring that teacup. Even the couch had the familiar yet undistinguishable scent.

The phone rang from the hallway, so I went to pick it up. Before I answered I stared at it for a moment, pondering. The last time this phone was in use was before Alma died. I wonder how many missed calls we got since we've been gone. I wonder if someone had already found out about her death, and if they were calling to offer condolences.

Turns out, the person calling was offering condolences. But not because Alma died, because I lost against Borgov.

"Uh, this is Harry Beltik. From the uh, Kentucky State Tournament." Someone said on the other line, nearly yelling over the pouring rain.

"No, I remember."

"I hear you dropped one to Borgov. I wanted to give condolences."

"Thanks." Now wasn't necessarily the best time remind me of that.

"What were you playing, white?"

"Black."

"Oh, it's-it's better that way. I mean, if you're gonna lose."

"Suppose so." I was still unsure of his reason for calling at this hour out of the blue.

"What'd you play?"

"Closed Sicilian." I knew his next response wasn't going to be a happy one.

"Rossolimo? Really?"

"I let him do it to me."

"That's a mistake." Yeah, no shit. "Uh, look, I'm Lexington for the summer, and I thought, maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Would you like some training?" Training? Really? From a guy I beat at my first tournament when I was 15? "I-I know, you're better than me, but if you're gonna play the soviets, you need help."

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭 ♕From Beth the Eyes of Beth HarmonWhere stories live. Discover now