by Anya Bateman
And now Alex was using the same psychology. Or was he? I wasn’t sure. Maybe he really meant the words. Maybe he really didn’t care. I decided that regardless of whether my brother was trying to get me to go with him to James’s, it didn’t matter— if I decided to go, it would be because I wanted to go.
Chapter Five
•••
Even though the term “living room” suggests a room in which you actually “live,” the rooms I was familiar with acted more as showcases. Ours contains two cream- white couches we rarely sat on; some eighteenth- century chairs we were not to even think about touching; a variety of original sculptures and paintings; several Henredon tables with lamps; and an outrageously expensive Aubusson rug Great- Aunt Beatrice left us when she died.
In contrast, the Wickenbees really did seem to live in their living room. A huge old desk with a globe in one corner was stacked with mail, papers, pamphlets, books, magazines, and newspapers. The bookcase above it, which extended across the entire wall, was spilling over its shelves. There were some additional boxes filled with books that apparently hadn’t been unloaded since the family’s move from Idaho. I walked over and thumbed through a few titles, impressed by the collection.
Next I studied some artwork on the bulletin board next to the alcove that led into the kitchen. One drawing entitled “Grandma” depicted a rather out- of- proportion human being with arms that came to her ankles. It didn’t actually look that much different than some pieces I’d seen in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. The rest of the board was filled with wedding announcements, photographs, and quotes. Then there was a picture of a manger with the question: “Are you part of the inn crowd or one of the stable few?”
A large, square coffee table supporting a stack of magazines, a Boston fern, and an enormous dictionary stood in the middle of the room equidistant from two oversized corduroy chairs and a big blue couch with a sinkhole in it.
I moseyed over to a card table which was set up in the corner and stood with my arms folded, watching Alex and James play on the well- worn chessboard. When it comes to chess, of course, it’s more like watching people not play. For long periods of time there’s not a great deal happening. Still, it wasn’t at all hard to tell what had gone on before. Seven of Alex’s pieces, including a rook, a knight, and a bishop, had been removed from the board. James, on the other hand, had only lost three pawns. It was obvious that my brother was losing badly. James graciously tried to pretend otherwise.
“Alex has been playing a pretty good game,” he said.
“Right, uh- huh.” Alex laughed. “The truth is James is killing me again. But hey, I’m learning a lot.”
“You still have a chance,” I snapped, studying the board carefully. If he concentrated, Alex could at least save himself from complete annihilation. If he moved his rook to the left— why wasn’t he paying more attention? It bothered me that my brother was taking a potential loss so lightly.
James remained kind. “Are you sure you want to move there?” he asked when Alex slid the rook forward.
“Yes, are you sure?” I repeated. I turned to James. “He’s not sure!” My fingers were aching to pick up that rook and move it for my brother, but I restrained myself.
Alex chuckled good- naturedly. “Oh, boy, what am I missing now?” He scooted his chair closer and studied the board carefully. “Oh- ho, dude, I think I see what you mean.”
I looked back at James, confused and a little awed. Had he kept his mouth shut, he could have checkmated Alex’s king in two more moves. Why wasn’t James more interested in winning the game? Several more times during the following half hour, James asked Alex, “Are you sure you don’t want to rethink that?”
Again and again, Alex would study the situation, grin, and once more pursue a new route. At first I felt relief for Alex and gratitude toward James, but then gradually I began to find James’s charity patronizing. Why didn’t he just go for the jugular? Why didn’t he just finish Alex off? That’s what I would have done. It was a game, wasn’t it— a competition?
An hour later, James finally put Alex out of his misery. Actually, maybe I should say that he put me out of my misery. That he’d lost and lost badly seemed to be bothering me more than my brother.
“Good game,” Alex said. “I learned a lot.”
“I’ll play you next time, James,” I heard myself say.
“You want to be cremated too, huh?” Alex joked.
“We’ll see,” I said.
The following Saturday, James Orville Wickenbee and I began playing our first of what would ultimately be many chess matches. Once again, James was irritatingly gracious. Once again, he kept trying to aid and assist, only this time, he was trying to help me.
“Are you sure you want to move there?” he asked when I scooted a knight forward and to the left.
“Excuse me,” I said, lifting my eyebrows at him. “Let me make something very clear. I don’t require any help. Even if I did need your help, I wouldn’t want it. Just play the best game you can and I will as well and good luck to you.”
“Oh . . . okay, sorry.” The next word to come out of James’s mouth was “Checkmate.”
I hadn’t seen it coming, and I stared at the board in complete astonishment. I could not for the life of me figure out how what had just happened could have happened. “Okay, tell me how you did that,” I finally said.
James kindly did an instant replay.
“Hmmmm . . . okay . . . Oh, I see.” Just as Alex had predicted, I’d been humiliated royally, but oddly, I wasn’t that upset about it. In fact, when James got up to get us some glasses of ice water, I rubbed my hands together. James was truly a brilliant chess player. I’d never seen anyone that good. Better yet, if Alex was correct, the guy apparently wasn’t interested in entering any of the chess competitions. That meant I could learn from James— allow him to be my mentor— and then use everything he taught me in my competitions. By being patient now, taking some losses during the next month or two, I’d reap bigger rewards later. Yes, maybe James would be winning every game for a while, but I’d be the big winner in the end.
In December I organized my time carefully so that I could continue having afternoon practice matches with James every Saturday. Luckily I’d done most of my Christmas shopping far ahead of time. On Saturdays I woke up early to finish papers and homework and chores, and headed to James’s in the afternoon. And when the Christmas break hit, I convinced my brother to stop by James’s several times with me so I could get a really good
w ork out.
I was so impressed with what I was learning that I even declined Mom’s invitation to go to the mayor’s annual Christmas open house for city volunteers at the mansion. Instead I became a human sponge as James openly shared with me his techniques. I considered this highly generous of him and okay, classy.
Once in a while I would notice and appreciate the kind of simple homespun Christmas the Wickenbees celebrated. I’d actually forgotten what a real tree smelled like. It was nice. The Wickenbees’ homemade paper chains and potluck decorations were quite a contrast to the elegant European silk and crystal deco rations that Mom and I had hung on our tree, each one equally spaced apart.
The caramel popcorn Mary Jane kept bringing out was tempting, but mostly I stuck with the fruit that was also in ample supply. I did indulge in a tiny bit of fudge, but knew then as I still know now, that the holiday season can play havoc on your weight if you’re not careful.
In keeping with the Christmas spirit, James loaned me some of his chess books, even the one that was translated from Russian and which he claimed was the bible of chess.
“You realize I’m going to use these strategies against you now,” I said, in an unChristmaslike manner.
“I hope you do.”
“And you don’t care if I defeat you one of these days?”
“It’s just a game.”
“Yes, but that’s all life is anyway, isn’t it— a game?”
James smiled. “Shakespeare says something like that in Macbeth— that life isn’t much more than ‘a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage—’”
“‘A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,’” I quoted with him. We smiled at each other with mutual respect.
“So do you believe that?” James asked. “I don’t, but it’s a good quote.”
“What do you believe?” I almost asked, but I stopped myself. I’d heard about Mormons and how they operated. There was no way I wanted to listen to a lengthy religious presentation. His last comment, I was sure, had been the bait at the end of a fishing line. Well, I wasn’t biting. As a matter of fact, I think I’d been subconsciously waiting for this to happen— much like you wait for the sales pitch when you know someone is selling cosmetics. Still, I had to admit that even a discourse on Mormonism probably wouldn’t be boring if presented by James O.
It had taken me several weeks to figure out what Alex had discovered in just a few minutes: James was extremely interesting to be around. He seemed to know something about everything and, like me, read voraciously. I became so fascinated with the things that he told me that there were a couple of days toward the end of the break that I didn’t even notice what he was wearing or how he looked.
The last Saturday of the break, I finally admitted to myself that James was not only a stimulating conversationalist, but one of those rare and almost extinct beings— a good listener. I had no choice but to acknowledge that I was beginning to highly respect James Orville Wickenbee. It did not, however, mean I planned to allow him to act as a roadblock to my brother’s high school successes in student government! I wasn’t about to let anything or anyone derail me in that endeavor.
“I think I can understand why you like to spend time with James after school,” I finally admitted to Alex the second Saturday into the new semester after we’d come back from playing chess and visiting at the Wickenbees’ house. “But you still need to do your best to stay away from him at school. I’ve already established an appropriate relationship with him. James knows that visiting with me in the halls is off- limits so he barely speaks to me there. But he’s still happy to play chess with me on Saturdays. I really don’t think he’d mind if you avoided him whenever there are people around who might notice. I honestly think he’d understand, Alex. I mean, we can handle James individually— but his friends, Alex? My stars, there’s a whole tribe of them and they won’t leave you and James alone! You’re going to have to do something!” My brother stared at me as if I were mold on a roast beef sandwich.
Later that night, however, he caught up with me in the kitchen. “Look, I know why you’re doing what you’re doing,” he said, his voice compassionate and lower than usual. “It’s not hard to figure out. I know why you want me to be president of Fairport so badly.”
“Oh, are you going to analyze me again?”
“Yes. It’s called compensation. You’re trying to climb your way out of our past, and you think you can use me as some kind of a ladder or hoist.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. Griffin.” My first instinct— call it my debate training— was to counter him. “First of all, I’d hardly call it our past. We had a fairly decent past with the exception of that awful period. We were only in the situation you’re referring to for four or five months— an extremely small percentage of our lives.”
I suddenly had a bad taste in my mouth. Who was I trying to fool? Even a few minutes of trauma could alter a life, and we’d had much more than a few minutes of trauma during that awful period we were all doing our best to forget. Still, I didn’t need Alex’s pity.
“Secondly, I don’t see you as the hoist,” I said, quickly changing my approach. “If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one pulling you up where you belong. Think about it, Alex. You have a chance to lead a school.” Then, appealing to his altruistic nature, I added, “You could make a genuine difference.”
“As long as I step on a friend or two to get there? No thanks.” It was obvious that my brother still wasn’t planning to cooperate, and it frustrated me when he grabbed his coat, walked out into the cold night, and slammed the back door, refusing to talk about it anymore.
I sat at the table and stared at the door with my chin on the heel of my hand, blinking profusely. The truth was I wasn’t happy myself about some of my methods. The more time I spent with James Orville Wickenbee, the more I admired, respected, and cared about him. In fact, it was more than that. I think that was the moment I finally and completely admitted to myself that I genuinely and sincerely liked this deep- thinking interesting guy with his dry sense of humor and his quirky “Who cares?” appearance.
Chapter Six
•••
The more I associated with those I secretly called “the hollow people” of Fairport, the more I looked forward to Saturdays when I could relax in the Wickenbees’ cluttered, but fascinating living room. The two to three hours I spent there felt like an oasis in my otherwise arid life. Social climbing for Alex’s sake was really beginning to take its toll on me. Pretending I was one of the shallow lovelies of the school took a supreme effort on my part. In James’s living room, on the other hand, I could relax and be completely who I really was. Alex, James, and I talked honestly about books, music, philosophy, politics, and life. Sometimes Alex would bring an old classic movie from his vast collection and watch it while James and I played our game.
On the Saturdays when Alex had soccer practice, just James and I would play chess, talk, and hang out with his family. Absurd as it sounds now, I went to great lengths to avoid being seen going into James’s house by anyone from school, however. I not only parked around the corner, but I would pull my hat down or wear sunglasses or sneak from bush to tree like I was a spy or a common thief.
I considered it fortunate that most of the elite lived nearer to Lake Erie, but Brittany Cunningham, the editor of our school paper and one of Lyla’s most devout followers, lived only two blocks away. I was completely paranoid that she’d catch Alex or me going into James’s house and snap our picture. Brittany was notorious for catching Fairport students in embarrassing situations. That fall she’d sneaked to the rear of Cassie Beudka and snapped her picture just as Cassie bent over to bob for apples at the Halloween party. It was something Cassie had mentioned several times and laughed about a little too often.
Every so often Phil and Ruthie stopped by the Wickenbees’ with Chinese, pizza, chicken, or even sushi and Alex and I would stay and eat. Though the Wickenbees invited Alex and me to eat with them at other times as well, we always declined in spite of the fact that the simple meals began to look very appealing after a while. Finally the stews, casseroles, Crock- Pot dishes, and even leftovers, though far from gourmet, began to look so good to me that I asked James if his mother would like a part- time job, explaining that our mother had been trying for months to get some decent help in the kitchen.
“My mother already has a part- time job,” James said. “She’s a freelance chemist for Packer- Done.” It turned out Mary Jane had a Ph.D. He took me down to the family’s basement lab one day and filled me in on the things his mother had been cooking up
outside her kitchen. Then he happily showed me some of his own experiments.
Although it was obvious Mary Jane didn’t subscribe to House Beautiful, she was nevertheless no different than any other woman in that she was concerned about her home’s appearance. “I cleared out so much when we moved that I thought we’d be clutter- free in this new larger house. But now it’s almost as if it’s all back again,” she complained. “I guess I’m going to need to hire one of those people who organizes the lives of complete strangers and really get some help getting rid of more stuff.” She’d apologized for their couch several times and lamented over the fact that she and Rudolf hadn’t taken the time to look for a new one.
It was obvious James had inherited his height from Mary Jane. She towered over her husband, Rudolf, who was a short, plump physic
ist with a mass of grayish- white hair that stuck up in peaks. Didn’t these people ever comb their hair? I wondered. And did they all get their glasses at the same discount store?
I became fascinated by how little some people could care about appearance. I knew it wasn’t necessarily a Mormon characteristic. Even though Cassie and Bud, according to Alex, were Mormons, Michelle Wilcox, whom I’d gotten to know through AP classes, always looked smashing, especially her hair. I wasn’t sure at the time if Emma Smith Pratt in my geography class was Mormon or Quaker, but for the most part, the majority of Mormons I’d seen dressed modestly but stylishly.
I’d even seen a few Mormon missionaries with perfect haircuts, good- fitting suits, and lint brushes. If anything, the Tabernacle Choir members on television looked a bit too well- groomed, even a little stiff, but then most of them were old— in their forties, possibly.
No, the style problem was unique to the Wickenbees themselves. They were so involved in intellectual pursuits that they simply didn’t bother themselves with certain other aspects of life that most people regarded as important. For instance, not only did Rudolf often wear mismatched socks, I once saw him start out of the house with a black loafer on one foot and a brown boot on the other. Luckily Mary Jane caught the oversight.
Other than some basics, such as keeping themselves and their clothing clean, James and his parents didn’t seem concerned about other aspects of fashion. Details, such as what actually fit or matched, did not seem of importance to them. It was almost scary how well I was beginning to relate to and understand these people— except, of course, their affiliation with a church I considered abnormally strict and structured. Why the intellectual Wickenbees would belong to such a church remained a mystery. I finally risked bringing up the topic.
