With the remaining money in her pocket, she purchased a plastic chess set, a bottle of cheap red wine—no Wild Irish Rose at this fine establishment, sorry, Dante—and a pack of Camels. The sleepy looking checker didn’t make eye contact, but maybe he was trying to be polite. Nobody knows how to look at someone with one eye.
With her purchases tucked safe in their slick plastic sack, she drove to the family estate, taking the back way to avoid being spotted by the dozens of goons and goons-in-training who were likely keeping vigil there, mourning the untimely death of their patriarch. She doubted they’d identified his crispy corpse yet, but they knew he was dead. Families like hers always knew.
The Maserati wasn’t built to travel on old logging roads, but it handled itself okay and she wouldn’t have to go too far. The path leading to the lake was just ahead. She knew these grounds like the back of her hand. When she hadn’t been in the boathouse with Dante, she’d wandered among the trees and scrub. Some of the old oaks and maples she’d tied with ribbons, giving them names. Somehow that made talking to them less strange. Trees were good at holding secrets.
She parked the car and got out, taking her plastic bag with her. The little revolver she’d pulled out of Victor’s glove compartment the previous night still rode along in her pocket. She didn’t anticipate running into much trouble out here, but it was good to be cautious. The comforting smells of fall filled her nose as she kicked up drifts of orange and yellow leaves littering the path. Birds greeted the morning all around her, declaring their refusal to depart for warmer weather. The lack of foliage on the trees made it easier to see the pristine lake up ahead. She could also see the sloping roof of the Cassini abode way on the other side, but the place she was looking for was much smaller, and it was sitting across the water straight ahead.
Another path branched off from this one, circumnavigating the water, and she took it, being wary of the nettles that still grew, defying the cold weather. Eventually she exited the woods and entered high grasses. She was on open ground now, and she supposed if anyone up at the house was watching, they would see her and sound the alarm, but it was early, and almost no one ventured down this way. This was Dante’s place. This was also his wife’s place, or at least the place she took her own life. The Madam was surprised Victor hadn’t torn it down once he took the estate, if nothing just to spite her, but she supposed even monsters held some sort of reverence for sacred ground. Maybe he was afraid of the spiritual repercussions. Victor had been strangely superstitious, though it didn’t do him much good in the end.
She finally reached the rickety old dock and stepped up. The wood was rotting away, but it held her. Not that there was much of her left to hold. The door wasn’t locked, and its hinges squeaked when she opened it. Air, thick with the smell of old wood and a tinge of mildew greeted her. But there was something else beneath that, likely brought on by the power of her memories of this place. It was the cheap aftershave Dante wore to punish himself, much like the old flannel and cheap bag wine.
The old aluminum fishing boat still clung to its mooring by a length of rotting rope. The table was in its usual spot too, and she walked over to it. The painted on chess grid was faded to near invisibility, but she could see it clearly enough. Would probably be able to see it if it wasn’t there at all. The pattern was etched permanently into her memory.
She screwed the cap off the bottle of wine—no cork—and set it on Dante’s side of the table. Same with the Camels, though she helped herself to one of those. She wasn’t a child anymore. Finally, she opened the chess set, pulling out the pawns and setting them in their proper ranks on the worn wood. Dante would have hated the cheap plastic, but the original pewter set was probably so much melted mess in the ashes of the whorehouse he’d left her to run. Just as well.
The cheap playing board remained in the box, along with the queens. She took the liberty of sacrificing them ahead of time. Leveling the playing field, finding strength in weakness. Dante would have approved. “I have white,” she said. “First-move advantage.”
She moved her pawn to e4 and waited a minute before making her father’s move.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Allison M. Dickson is a writer of dark contemporary fiction. She has several short stories available on Amazon, and two of them appearing in The Endlands Volume 2 from Hobbes End Publishing. Strings is her debut novel, with her next book, a dystopian science-fiction tale called The Last Supper, releasing in 2014. When she's not writing, she's co-hosting a weekly podcast, Creative Commoners. She was born in Oxford, OH and spent several years in the Pacific Northwest before returning to live in Dayton, OH with her husband Ken and her two kids, Natalie and Elias.
For more works by Allison M. Dickson, visit her website:
http://www.allisonmdickson.com
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