Well, Chad just finished packing all the while this was happening. And he refused to even look at his father while those vile things were coming out of his mouth. Frank was blocking the door and Chad had his bag ready. And then he walked to the door and just stood there, six inches shorter than his father. Just stood there and looked up at him slowly. And Frank I think tried to stare him down. But then he looked away, looked past him at me and said, He’ll be back, just wait and see, he’ll be back.
I thought someone was going to hit someone. But Frank stepped to one side. And that was the last time I ever saw my own son.
LXXIV(v) As I listen to Chad’s mom I try to picture the farmhouse rooms upstairs, I think of needlepoint roses and orange wood. I see the door frame that the farmer filled, Chad’s room full of the books in which he searched for all those facts to prove his father wrong.
I try to picture Chad in his room. But instead of one Chad I see two of him standing there, squaring up to the farmer. The first Chad is the boy who stumbled over his words while I rubbed my sore hands that first day on front quad. And beside the first Chad stands a second, the one who stared at me across the coffee table when the Game was down to three, the Chad in whose eyes I had seen the daily surge of resolve, the gloss of his strength.
And while I picture this, the second Chad grows immensely clearer than the first. The scene becomes very vivid indeed. And then the farmer, six inches taller than his son, steps to one side.
LXXIV(vi) Chad’s mom starts to weep softly. A buzzer goes off. She gets up and takes a tray of cookies out of the oven and transfers them to a cooling rack.
Mrs Mason, I say, I promise I will speak to your son. I’ll do whatever I can.
She turns around. Her tears flow harder and she nods at me. She tries to smile.
LXXV
LXXV(i) Chad looks at me like a doctor waiting for a frail old lady to begin listing her complaints.
I respond with my own look, a tuck of the chin, a puffing out of the cheeks. And then I say to him, Go home and see your parents, Chad.
LXXV(ii) He tries to act as if my words are only the well-meaning advice of a friend. Well, thanks for the suggestion, Jolyon, Chad says, his cheeks flushing. Obviously it was already part of the plan, he adds innocently. But thanks all the same.
I stretch out on the sofa like a starlet in a silk dressing gown. Oh no, I say, I don’t think you quite understand, Chad. Or perhaps you’re being deliberately obtuse. What I mean is that you must go and see your parents. That going to see your parents is your consequence. And then I laugh gaily. I mean, it’s hardly a consequence at all, Chad. Although obviously I’ll have to accompany you to ensure fair performance, I say. And then I add, I seem to remember it’s quite a charming drive up there. To the old farmstead.
He stares at me. When at last he speaks his voice is low, a guttural threat in the back of his throat. You can’t do this to me, Chad says.
I scratch behind my ear. That’s funny, I say, because I think I can. It was you who offered me first move. And I don’t think there’s anyone would try to argue that a simple visit to the very people who gave birth to you belongs anywhere but the least serious pot. We must remain objective here.
The threat is rising in Chad’s voice. This isn’t happening, he says. And then, louder still and his fingers stabbing the air, Chad says, You can’t do this to me, Jolyon. It’s not right. Because I’ve won. You have no idea.
I remain perfectly calm. I have no idea of what? I say.
And at last his rage rushes out. Of everything I’ve done to you, Chad shouts. He pushes down on the arms of his chair as if he’s about to rise, as if he might attack. But instead Chad falls back, and suddenly his strength is gone. When next he speaks it is as if there has been a key change, the slide from major to minor. You don’t understand, he says. You have no idea of all the ways I’ve beaten you. So you can’t do this to me, Jolyon. I’m winning. I’m . . . Chad closes his eyes and his voice trails away.
I’m sure you’re right, Chad, I say, nodding thoughtfully. So it’s simple. Just go and see your parents.
No, Jolyon, Chad says, his anger pitched quietly now. This can’t be happening. This is not how it ends.
Chad falls silent. He stares over my head, out beyond my windows, his arms flat at the sides of the chair as if he is waiting, as if he wants to feel the earth turn beneath him and the truth will have drifted away.
I say nothing. I watch Chad’s chest heaving up, falling back, as little by little the heaviness in his breathing subsides.
Finally he tips back his head. Jolyon, this is what you don’t understand, Chad says, his voice turning bitter-sweet now. I haven’t been in New York for four days. I’ve been here since before I called. I’ve been beating you every single day and night since that phone call. Chad lowers his head to stare at me. Jolyon, I’ve been running your life for five weeks.
And now it is my turn to pause, to think everything through. And the earth doesn’t turn beneath me, it lurches wildly. It feels as if I am staring through the side window of a speeding car and I can’t turn my head, I can’t find anything on which to focus. Snatches of the last five weeks go spinning through me. My routine, my story, my life. Until gradually everything begins to slow – the world, my thoughts – and my eyes find something on which to focus. I am looking at Chad, his mouth foreshadowing a smile. I stiffen at the sight of it, remembering my edge, recovering my game. Bravo, Chad, I say. That’s really very impressive. Yes, I understand now. So why not simply go and see your parents . . . ? I reach out my hand as if offering him a gift.
Chad’s smile dissolves. No, you really don’t see, he says, beginning to sound impatient. Don’t for one single second make out you understand what I’ve done, he says. I’ve . . . Chad is rubbing his forehead in disbelief . . . I’ve been leaving your notes for you, Jolyon. I’ve been inventing and placing mnemonics, writing half your book. I’ve been pulling the strings of this pointless life of yours every day for five weeks.
Chad begins to look desperate. If you’re high on pills, Jolyon, that’s because of me. More whisky every day? Me! Don’t pretend you understand. I’ve beaten you every single day. Who took away your water? Me! Well, except for the one glass you kicked over yourself, I’ll admit you provided the spark for a good number of the ideas yourself. And who made you drink whisky instead of your water? Who kept gradually changing the line on your glass? And more pills as well, more drugs whenever we felt like it, whenever we thought you were starting to get suspicious.
Chad sees me flinch.
Oh, what’s that, Jolyon? he says. Did you mishear me or did I say we? Yes, we, Jolyon! Me and Dee, both of us together. So you can’t do this to me, you haven’t won, because everything I’ve done, everything I’ve . . . Chad runs out of words as he fights to take in enough air.
I try to hide my feelings. Dee as well? I want to leap up and attack him, I want to punch and kick and choke him. But I know this isn’t the way to defeat Chad. Instead, I lift a knee to my chest and rub the sole of my foot in circles as if fighting off an impending cramp. I applaud you, Chad, I say, feigning a distracted air. I’m truly impressed. If anyone were keeping score, how much do you think they’d say you were winning by? A thousand points? A million? But, to use an old sporting cliché, it ain’t over till it’s over, right? I suppose I’m like a boxer in one of those movies. Bloody and reeling, only one punch left in me. I throw it. And out of the blue, smack. You fall. The count begins, one two three . . . Will you make it up? Seven eight nine . . .