LiGa

by Sanem Ozdural

Cat?

  “Oh there’s Roland! Do come, darling. I am so glad to see you.” Cat reached up to kiss him.

  Cat… “You are looking … very healthy Mrs. Trahan–” Father Griffith managed uncertainly.

  “Oh thank you. You are a dear. I am feeling rather healthy.” Her laugh was bell-clear.

  Bruce, standing close by, remarked that she was starting to resemble the WildCat of his youth. Cat gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and adjusted her hair. “You wouldn’t know it, but I’m starting to see roots!” She pointed to her coif. “Really,” she nodded for emphasis, “Little black roots!” Looking around the buffet she caught sight of Storm looking relaxed by the window, eating a plate of sandwiches. “It’s not just me – Storm darling, do you mind if I talk about you?”

  Storm shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “His scar’s healing,” she declared triumphantly. “The big scar on his face that all the young girls love so much. Oh yes, they do,” she added, waving away his embarrassed protestation. “But it’s healing.”

  Storm made a noncommittal gesture.

  “Do we have to talk about his scar?” the judge wondered aloud in a low voice to Porter at her table.

  “I’m happy for Mr. Drake, and Mrs. Trahan, of course,” Porter said in a conciliatory tone, but it does seem a little … insensitive. There are some of us who have not always won.”

  “May I join you?” Father Griffith asked, approaching the table occupied by Porter and the Judge.

  “Of course, Father. Please–” Porter indicated a chair.

  “Thank you.” Father Griffith laid down a cup of coffee. “So here we are again. All of us…”

  Porter shook his head slowly. “I thought about pulling out…” he said, addressing the priest. The room grew quiet. “I didn’t think I should continue after losing so many Life Points–”

  “Makes sense,” Father Griffith nodded encouragingly.

  “–But then … I heard – I think it was three days ago – I heard that senator Heath had passed away. Senator Frederick Heath from our game. Our first game, do you remember?”

  “I remember the senator.”

  “The senator died?” the judge asked sharply. “How? When?”

  “Poor Frederick,” Cat shook her head in sympathy, and explained that the senator had suffered a sudden heart attack. “He and his family were driving to somewhere in Connecticut. Such a shame. Poor man.”

  “What happened to his family?” Father Griffith asked. “Were they hurt?”

  “Not physically no, thank goodness,” Cat assured him. “They were able to pull over out of traffic.”

  “That’s right–” Porter interrupted to pick up the thread of his narrative. “It was a tragic loss. A young man. He was young. And healthy. No reason for a heart attack–”

  “That is not true,” the priest pointed out in a gentle voice. “People his age do have heart attacks, and they are often fatal.”

  “Yes, but–” Porter sighed. “They usually haven’t just lost a third of their lives …”

  “That’s why you returned?” The judge’s question held a harsh note.

  “Yes. I thought: I have already lost a lot of my life, and if I quit, I will die early … but how early? The transfer is hard on the body. Isn’t it? Anyone who’s lost time has felt it, right?”

  The judge’s nod was barely perceptible.

  “We’re not aging normally. I’m aging almost twice as fast as I was at the beginning of this game – barely a month ago. How does my body handle those changes? I don’t know–” Porter fingered the plate before him. “I don’t want to end up like the senator: dead before my time.”

  “But–” the judge began. Porter raised a hand to interrupt her.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Martha. It could happen anyway. I could die of a heart attack with or without LiGa. I know… but the chances are much greater now than they were a month ago. And yes, I know I may lose this game – and yes, this could well be the last game …

  “There are at least two players who are likely to hit the 100 life point mark during this game: Storm Drake and Catherine Trahan. I bear you no ill will–” he said, addressing Cat and Storm. “I just think I need to take this one last chance to see if I can regain some of my lost life. If not, so be it…” Porter looked around him, and smiled his small, gentle smile.

  “I understand,” Father Griffith said. “You have made your peace with your choice, Mr. Porter, and I respect your decision.

  “For the rest of us, I consider it advisable to carefully consider whether we should be playing this game. This game today, I mean. The one that could very well be the final game as Mr. Porter correctly pointed out.” He glanced around the room. “And if anyone decides – even at this stage – to withdraw, I for one, would not object. Before we deposit our lives in the LifeBank, please consider–”

  “Don’t you want to play anymore?” Sinclair sneered.

  A slight sound distracted the room. The sound of sliding glass. “The director’s arrived,” Bruce announced as Tanner limped towards them.

  “I have your assignments for the fourth game,” he announced, waving the familiar black booklets. “Peter will distribute them–”

  Peter took the booklets from Tanner.

  “Once you’ve received your booklet, please proceed to the LifeBank…”

  Father Griffith rose from his chair, booklet in hand. He leaned towards Sinclair seated at the next table. “Mr. Davis, have you fully considered the ramifications of your actions?” he asked quietly.

  “You think I’m an idiot?” Sinclair bridled.

  Father Griffith shook his head sadly, and followed Bruce to the LifeBank.

  26

  “Mother Mary, I pray to you. If you can hear me … I don’t even know if I believe in you, but don’t hold that against him, dearest Mother. Please, please, keep him safe…

  “I know I have not been to see you in years…”

  Helen opened her eyes. Staring into the yellow-white flame of the candle hurt her eyes. She sighed. With a slow motion she traced the familiar sign of the cross and recited in a low voice: “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit… Amen.”

  Dear Mary, you are gentle and kind. Be kind to him. He is in a place where kindness and gentleness cannot enter, Helen thought as she looked into the small, searing flame.

  He said this could be the last game. He said he might become immortal …

  “Truly, I don’t not want him to be immortal. Honestly…” I do a bit, she admitted. “No, no. I’m sorry. I don’t want him to be immortal. Dear Mary, is that wrong? I know I should want what’s best for him. I do love him. I really do …” Immortality. What does it mean?

  “Am I selfish? I am, aren’t I? You’re not selfish, dearest Mary. I don’t want to be selfish. I want to want what’s best for him. I want to want that …”

  He is playing now, she sighed. I don’t want him to lose!

  Helen drew back, and gazed at the statue before her. Mary gazed back unseeingly, draped in robes of blue and white, one of her white hands stretched out in a gesture of – forgiveness and compassion. Thank you.

  Helen walked away softly and took a seat on the last pew. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and let her thoughts wander…

  Spa … three years ago. Where we first met. Really met. She had seen him in the paddock for years. Storm amid the champagne and the girls! All the girls. Yes, and he was a great driver. Truly brilliant. Fearless on the track. Even in the rain, taking the Eau Rouge flat out in near-zero visibility! He was always good under pressure.

  His black helmet. Jet black. Under it, an invincible creature from another world. As it came off, a smile. Lopsided because of his scar.

  He can handle this too. What he’s doing now can’t be any more dangerous than what he did for years on the track… Death or life, over in an instant. Hurtling at 200 miles an hour around a track in a flimsy bit of carbon fiber. If he could do that, h
e could certainly play a game of bridge… Right?

  *

  At table 2, the judge, sitting North, laid down her cards as dummy on board 4.

  “Thank you, partner,” Cat said, reviewing the judge’s cards. Easy, she thought. Too easy. Two losers. Four hearts will make five. I can’t imagine it will play any differently at table 1.

  I am glad this is the last hand of the round, Porter thought, sitting East at the same table. He directed a critical eye towards dummy’s cards. It will be the last time I play with Davis as my partner. The very last time, I think. This is probably his last game … unless he wins, which is always possible. But if he doesn’t, I don’t think Davis will be returning, even if there is another game.

  “Please stop tapping your feet, Mr. Davis,” the judge snapped. “It’s very distracting.”

  “Deal with it!” Sinclair retorted through clenched teeth.

  “Excuse me?” She turned to face him frostily. “I said it was distracting.”

  Sinclair shrugged; his feet continued their pitter-patter under the table.

  “Quiet!” Tanner barked from the corner.

  “I don’t think he can help it,” Cat said quietly. She placed her hand lightly on Sinclair’s rigid arm. “Try to be still, darling,” she told him gently.

  Watch the cards, Sinclair thought. Concentrate on the cards. Nothing else matters. Nothing else is important.

  “Is this going to continue throughout the whole game?” The judge nodded in Sinclair’s direction. “I can barely concentrate.”

  “It doesn’t really matter since you’re dummy,” Cat pointed out reasonably. “I’m the one playing the contract and therefore the person who has to be able to concentrate.”

  From his seat in the corner, Tanner urged them to continue to play without further speech.

  With a dissatisfied shake of her head, the judge turned to her cards, now laid out on the table.

  I hate these glasses I have to wear, Sinclair thought, fingering the unfamiliar lens on his face. What a week! I can’t wait for it all to be over …

  Danny, sitting in the same position as Cat at table 1, stared at Father Griffith’s hand laid out as dummy. The contract was four hearts. I will only lose two tricks, he thought, to make an extra trick. He was right. At the end of the contract he had succeeded: 4-hearts making five.

  “It’ll play the same way at table 2,” Bruce declared.

  “You don’t know that!” Danny retorted.

  “Yes, I do. Even Davis can’t ‘misdefend’ so poorly as to avoid winning a trick with the ace of the trump suit, and I don’t see Porter somehow ‘misplaying’ the ace of clubs. So, yes, I am quite certain that the hand will yield the same result at our adversaries’ table.”

  “You never know…” Danny continued doggedly.

  “Peter, what was played at table 2? Are they finished yet?” Bruce turned to the director for confirmation.

  Peter looked at the tablet in his hand and nodded in assent. “Yes. Table 2 played the board in 4-hearts by South – Catherine Trahan – and made an overtrick. Scoring 650.”

  “See, I told you,” Bruce said. “It’s the same contract and the same score.”

  Peter removed the last board of the round from the table and directed the players to find their seats for the second round.

  “We’re partners for round 2, Father, at this table.” Bruce said switching his seat to South.

  “Yes, Mr. Saber.”

  “How was your week, Father?”

  The priest gave a noncommittal reply.

  “I had a great week.” Bruce grinned.

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “Yes, I have so much more energy these days. Don’t you?”

  “I haven’t really noticed,” Father Griffith said in a veiled voice.

  “Haven’t really noticed? Really? How unusual … Ah, here’s the WildCat!”

  “Hello darlings!” Cat laughed. “Jacob’s on his way. He was having a quick word with the judge about one of the hands. Oops–” she raised a hand to her mouth with mock embarrassment, casting a sideways glance at Peter.

  “Our priest here was just saying that he hasn’t noticed how good he’s been feeling these past few weeks,” Bruce laughed.

  “Don’t mind him, darling. He’s just holding his cards close. Isn’t that right, Father Roland, dear?”

  “As you say, Mrs. Trahan,” Father Griffith replied evasively.

  “After all we’ve been through, Roland!” she cried reproachfully. “Still Mrs. Trahan?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Trahan–” Father Griffith shook his head earnestly. “I am too aware of what we’re doing here to indulge in small talk and inane pleasantries. I don’t share your carefree attitude, I’m afraid. I don’t mean to give offense.”

  “Poor darling.” Cat squeezed his hand.

  A vigorous touch; a young … touch… the priest thought. Unexpected …

  “I’m rather glad you don’t share our dear Roland’s qualms, darling!” Cat turned to Bruce with a clear laugh.

  “No,” Bruce said. A neutral no: devoid of emotion.

  “No dear, I rather like that about you,” she looked at him appraisingly. “It is refreshing.”

  Porter entered the room.

  “We are ready for our first board, Peter darling,” Cat waved.

  “Mr. Davis, I trust you will be able to keep your inadvertent movements under control now that we are partners.” The judge said in a clipped tone to Sinclair sitting East at table 2.

  “I’ll do my best,” he responded, with a vigorous shake of the head.

  “What is wrong with you, young man?” she demanded. “I have never seen such a fidgety, nervous person. Control yourself!”

  “Can we start?” Storm asked, sitting North.

  *

  Natalya unlocked the door with her key. Gingerly, she pushed the door. It swung aside silently.

  “Oh!” she cried, retreating back into the corridor. “What have you been doing, Sinclair?” she muttered, standing uncertainly at the entrance. What is that disgusting smell? Should I go in or not? Should I call someone?

  After several indecisive seconds, she reluctantly pushed at the door with her arm outstretched. The door creaked gently as it swung slowly inward.

  “Ah! What do you have in here, Sinclair?” She spoke out loud to give herself courage, stepping into the apartment like a cat touching water with its paws. Her first action, upon entering the foyer area was to run to the thermostat – while holding her breath. She exhaled, hoping the air would clear soon.

  In the living room, heavy drapes covered most of the floor to ceiling glass. The couch of black Italian leather was strewn with soiled bedding. Bottles lay about. Bottles of wine, bottles of whiskey, bottles of pills.

  Natalya looked around her in shock. “What have you been doing, Sinclair? This, I didn’t expect! This is what happens in two weeks?” She shook her head in disbelief, as she pulled the drapes aside to let in light.

  She looked with mounting concern towards the closed door of the bedroom…

  Perched on five-inch heels, her chin thrust forward, Natalya soldiered on towards the bedroom. As she expected, the door was closed. Taking a deep breath, she knocked hesitantly. She counted to ten under her breath, grasped the doorknob and turned it decisively. She pushed the door open …

  *

  Helen looked up at the soaring dome. Celestial saints flowed towards one another under the golden glow of the afternoon sun. She did not recognize them, and they were too far away to offer comfort. She returned her gaze to the things of this earth – the tangible things. She felt the hard comfort of the wooden pew under her. The same pew, polished lovingly, on which thousands – no, millions – had sat before her. Her hands gripped the hard, rounded edge of the seat, its chinks and splinters worn away in worship. She felt a warmth in the wood that was missing from the angelic beings depicted above.

  But they were people too; they had lived. The Saints had been a
live once. They came to church and prayed – like me. They had families and friends. They had work. They had lives – at times hard – real lives.

  Before they became immortal…

  Helen sighed: a deep, discontented sound.

  Immortality, Storm… is that what you want? Do you know what you want?

  What is immortality? Oh God, what does it mean to be immortal? Never to grow old … never to die?

  She leaned back against the rigid bulwark of the wood, and let her gaze roam upon the figures above: idealized statues depicted in reverential poses, painted forms, caught in mid-flight, robes flowing.

  This is a form of immortality, Storm. It is the only kind I know. I don’t look on it often. When I do, it is upon the dome of a church, or in the pages of a book…

  Christ … She transferred her gaze to the form on the cross. Do I believe? Believe what? I believe a great number of things. But do I believe in you? In God? Believing in someone… I believe in my love for Storm. Is that the same thing?

  I don’t know what I believe.

  Jesus Christ on your cross: did you live? Did you rise again?

  Are you immortal?

  I believe in one thing for sure: I am not immortal…

  *

  “Oh, Sinclair…” Natalya stood before the detritus of a bedroom, her hands on her hips. A shuttered, cave of a place in which nightmares, like fetid vultures, fed on living flesh.

  “What a silly, weak boy, you are, Sinclair,” she shook her head, reaching for the light switch.

  Glass.

  Shiny, glittering shards littered every surface.

  Natalya leaned forward fastidiously to examine a palm-sized, jagged piece of diamond-bright glass lying in the middle of the soiled sheets of the unmade bed.

  A jagged piece from a broken mirror: accented with droplets of dried blood.

  Natalya picked her way carefully through the room to the master bathroom. This time what she saw did not surprise her …

  “It looks a bit like those ridiculous artistic installations,” she commented, dispassionately surveying the scene. “All sorts of junk jumbled together. No taste whatsoever.”

  “Honey, I think it’s time I came back,” she said out loud, walking with determination back to the bedroom. “I knew you couldn’t handle this. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.” She waved at the scene before her disdainfully.