I lost, more quickly than usual.
“He’s all yours,” I said to the man. I stood up too fast. I could feel the air between us, which was suddenly too dense and too thin at the same time. I felt that somehow there would never be a distance between this man and me that would be acceptable, no matter what; that closeness and farness both were going to be forever unendurable. I was standing up then, and he was sitting down. There was a whirring in my ears like an oncoming train.
“You should stay,” said the man. “To see how it’s really done.”
They played, and the man was terrible, far worse than I am. He barely knew the rules—he seemed to think it was checkers—and he lost dramatically, with flourish and good humor. Lars seemed increasingly agitated, despite the coming dollar. He seemed to know that this game had stakes that weren’t really about chess, and I could tell that this annoyed him. He respected the game and didn’t like to see it used for sillier ends. He didn’t shake the man’s proffered hand at the conclusion of the game.
“This isn’t Parcheesi,” said Lars.
“I realize that,” said the man.
“Don’t come back until you’ve studied some,” said Lars. “I’m a busy man.”
“I appreciate your indulgence.”
“Must have been bad luck this time,” I said as the man stood up.
“Very bad luck,” he said. “I’m usually a menace on the chessboard.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said.
“I’m Jonathan,” he said. “Maybe sometime I could give you some pointers?”
I don’t know. I don’t know. He was funny, sure, and smart, but there were plenty of men in Boston who were funny and smart—Boston’s major export is people who are funny and smart, who have advanced degrees, who read on public transportation. And I don’t want to go too much into the gruesome details. Personally, I find other people’s witty banter disgusting. Whenever the kids in the office started in on it, I’d plug my headphones in to an episode of Frontline on the computer.
But I will say this: it unfolded with the inevitability of a fatally flawed chess game. We met for the first coffee, which led to the art show, which led to the sex—and that was the first time in a long time. He brushed his lips along my neck, and multicolored constellations exploded behind my eyelids, and I was struck by the unfamiliar feeling of not being furious at my body. Afterward, I traced my fingers along his perfect form, the sturdy convexity of his perfect brain—perfect because it wasn’t doomed, or at least not any more doomed than is typical—and I realized that I didn’t resent it, not really, for its normalcy. And that, I’m afraid, was that.
It was a good spring. Leaving Boston has cast it with a bittersweet sheen, which makes everything seem poignant. But at the time, it wasn’t. Jonathan and I drank coffee and talked and had lulls in our talking. We walked through the red rain-soaked bricks of Cambridge. We watched the Citgo sign reorganize its colors against the night sky. Sooner or later, we started talking in hypothetical about the relatively short-term future. And that was when I realized—or maybe remembered—that I had a problem.
I stopped calling him. I let his calls go to voice mail, even though I didn’t like the thought of my stupid voice-mail voice—overly solicitous and frightfully high-pitched, like a chipmunk prostitute—talking into his ear over and over and over.
Before I’d started dating Jonathan by accident, I’d been careful to avoid romantic relationships. This ban of mine was not an affectation, nor was it the outgrowth of a willful and baseless social isolation. It was my attempt to carve out for myself some space to manage without anyone else watching too closely. It was my attempt at sanity. And—let it not be forgotten—it was also my slim, feeble, selfish attempt at selflessness.
I thought about the day I beat my father at chess. It’s too much to say that this was the day I stopped knowing him, but it was certainly the day I started to stop. I wondered what my equivalent day would be, what my corresponding departing gesture might look like. I wondered if I wanted Jonathan to be the one to see it.
I started fantasizing about running away. I saw myself walking through cobblestoned streets in generic European capitals; I saw myself riding a camel against a bright blue desert sky. I tried to think of a way out of this—some bargain that would mean I could stay with Jonathan, and call him back, and love him without worrying about the day when the person who loved him would stop being me, because there was no me anymore, in any meaningful sense.
I still hadn’t told him.
In the end, I couldn’t tell him, so I had to show him. I took him to meet my father.
In the car, I explained. I told him that my father’s and my shared fate was in no way unique—in fact, it might be the only thing that’s truly universal. Death, anyway, is universal. And even losing our minds doesn’t really set us apart—we all lose our minds, after all, it’s just that some of us lose them with death, and some of us lose them a bit before. All we miss, really, is thirty to forty years. When you think of the time we spend alive versus the incredible amount of time we spend dead, thirty to forty years doesn’t amount to that much. But when that time is filled with the particular events of your own life, one finds it does take on an inordinate significance.
I told him about the nucleotides, the genetic test, the prognosis. I told him that atrophying of basal ganglia starts years before symptoms present, and that right now—in this car, in this moment—parts of my brain were dying, parts that I didn’t know I needed, but parts that I would never, never be able to get back. I told him that there wasn’t an emotion or an impulse or a stumble that I could completely trust; I told him that one day—if I let it—everything I did and said and thought would be nothing more than the entropic implosion of a condemned building or a dying star.
He listened. He held my hand lightly. I don’t know if I can call that understanding.
The nursing home smelled, as it always did, of stewed carrots and antimicrobial cleansers and the singed coffee that the first shift had made and not had time to drink. There was a part of me that didn’t like showing my father off like this, as though he were a scientific exhibition and not a former person. At the same time, if there was a way to make Jonathan see what I looked at when I looked in the mirror, then this was it. You could talk about the degradation of cortex tissue forever. But real understanding was in the inverted mouth, the yellow concavity of the face. The dark eyes that shone like those of a prisoner who knew he’d be executed at dawn, though I tried not to sentimentalize. I didn’t think my father really knew his fate anymore. This, for him, was the easy part.
We went to him. I rubbed my father’s thin shoulders. I gave him a chocolate. He looked somewhere beyond us. He gummed his mouth and made cork-popping sounds. His fingers forked like the shriveled arms of a dinosaur, and he pressed them so fiercely into the table that they turned white.
“Hello, Mr. Ellison,” said Jonathan. My father, of course, said nothing back.
“Genetics,” I said.
“Will that be you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
In the car on the way back, we were quiet. I let Jonathan drive my car. Route 2 broke into a view of the city, silver buildings catching the receding light, the Prudential Building flashing palely in the murk. I opened the window and thought about my father. Like most people, I was not my best self at twelve. And it bothered me sometimes to think of this version of myself as the last vision my father had of me before his mind went—as if this made any sense. As if he was standing on the opposite end of some magic beam of rainbow light, remembering me in my youth, carrying around a smudged mental snapshot of who I used to be. Really, it was the other way around. But in weak, sentimental moments, I wanted to tell him: look. I grew up with a sense of humor, anyway. You would have liked me if you didn’t already.