Ethan can’t quite remember the last time he had the house to himself. It’s been almost a full week without Nancy and the children. Blissfully quiet. He finished all his grading in the first few days so it wouldn’t be hanging over his head all week. Then he did all sorts of things he knew Nancy would disapprove of: he left the bed unmade each morning; he piled dishes in the sink; he ate leftovers straight out of the icebox, spoon in hand. On the morning they left, she showed him the menu she’d drawn up for the week. Each dinner was made and labeled, stacks of glass containers piled on top of one another. She’d made a chocolate cake—his favorite—and a butterscotch pudding.
This morning—his last full day, as they’ll return on the train this evening—he cuts a large piece of the cake and spoons out a generous helping of the pudding. He places the plate onto a tray, along with his cup of coffee, and carries it out to the back garden. It’s a beautiful early spring day when it’s hard to believe there’s anything wrong in this world. That war is being fought on multiple continents. That boys he knows—boys he taught—are lying on battlefields, dying. Even with the rations in place, it’s often hard to feel the war’s effect here. But sometimes, when he stands in line at the post office or the bank, he looks around and realizes that he’s the only man there. Too old for this war, too young for the one prior. It’s a good thing, he supposes. He imagines that he would be a better soldier than he would like to be.
Some of the trees are just starting to bud. They’re going to expand the vegetable garden this year, take over some of the lawn to grow more. A Victory Garden, they’re calling it. Ethan leans back in his chair and stares up at the sky. There are times when he feels so parochial, so unworldly. The farthest away from Boston he’s ever been is Chicago. He’s never been to Canada. They were set to go to Paris and Rome on their honeymoon, but then Nan’s father got sick and they went up to Maine instead. He assumes he will die here, in this house, when the time comes. In the same house where he was born.
It still amazes him that Nancy took a fancy to him back in college. They met at a Wellesley mixer. He hadn’t much wanted to go but his friends insisted. And so he was sitting there, glumly, at a table, nursing a scotch, when this blonde sat down next to him. There was something about her, just the fact she would do that, he supposed, that she would just plop herself down next to him. So tell me, she said, how tall are you? She smiled at him. Someone over there just told me that you’re six and a half feet. Can that really be true? He couldn’t help but smile back. Yes, ma’am, he said. Almost. I’m six-five. Wowzer, she replied. Well, sir, you’re sixteen inches taller than I am. And she placed her hand right next to his. Will you look at the difference in the size of our hands. Here, hold your hand up. Let’s compare. He was smitten by her openness, by her comfort, by her big smile.
Funny how it’s those things that now grate on his nerves. She tells everyone everything. He’ll go to a faculty meeting, and someone will ask him something about the boys, and it’s clear they know things that are private. She wants to be everyone’s mother, including his. He misses the days when there was something between them, something that didn’t include the children. And now, with Bea, it’s overwhelming. She’s trying too hard, all the time, to be a mother to this girl. The way that she told Bea about Reg’s death, not waiting for him, telling him later she was the one who knew the right way to handle it. Time after time he has told her that Bea has a mother, to whom she will return, sooner rather than later. He’s happy to have Bea here—happier than he thought he would be—but at least he understands it’s just for now.
He spends the morning doing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen. He makes the bed. He checks his lesson plans for the coming week. Finally, in the midafternoon, two hours before he must leave to pick up Nancy and the children at South Station, he sits down at his desk and pulls out the card he received ten days earlier. It was the game he and Reg had been playing before he died and he’d put it away, thinking that somehow the card had been found among his possessions, and someone had mailed it back to him. He hadn’t wanted to look at it. Had Reg made another move before he died? Or was the card simply returned to him the way he sent it?
Instead, when he turns it over, he sees that a move has been made but in an unfamiliar handwriting. It’s not smart, either. Checkmate two moves away. Down at the bottom of the card: Forgive my poor effort. But I’m learning! All best to you and Nancy, Millie. Millie! Who would have thought? He smiles and carefully considers his next move. Certainly not one that will lead toward victory. Still, it pains him to record such an ill-advised move. Most certainly Millie will see through this, will see that he’s pandering to her. But he supposes that it’s okay. Nancy always tells him that he’s too competitive, that sometimes it’s okay to do the right thing. And this, he thinks, this is the right thing to do. He looks back at the board. The king, he thinks. The king to f4.