The Spanish Game

Several newspapers lay open on the dining room table. A boy stood over them, his hands held primly behind his back, his eyes scanning down the pages with a practiced dispassion, searching for his fathers name. His mother, sitting across from him, watched his neutral face with large unblinking eyes, occasionally biting her thumb with tremendous violence. Two cups of tea cooled before them; a few slices of toast sat unbuttered.
The boy’s eyes halted. They ran back over a certain name twice, three times. His mother, perceiving this silent aberration, released a sharp, hard breath, as one who has misplaced the last step of a darkened staircase. But the boy’s eyes soon went on, flicking in a forced march down the remainder of the list until they at last arrived at the bottom of the page. His father was not among the fallen. And though the other name had drawn goose pimples and he felt now as if he could not swallow or hear his breath, yet none of this he showed to his mother. He smiled like one of the wounded soldiers from the club, the younger men in bandages, in crutches or in casts, the older with more permanent supports, whose bravery now consisted only in the endurance of their pain, and then he shook his head, casting aside the stray ringlets which fell to his eyes. His mother cleared her throat, and the boy did not reach for her hand to comfort or reassure her. He reached for a piece of toast, which his mother promptly snatched from him and began to butter vigorously.
“I can do it myself,” said the boy.
“Nonsense,” his mother said. “You’re due for a little pampering today.”
The boy held his palm over his steaming teacup, shivering from the warmth which invaded his body’s chill. “They said it might rain today,” he said, looking out toward the living room. The slats of light which fell in from the windows were too strong for rain, but if it rained he would have an excuse not to go to the club. The delay was futile in any case, but to confront her–Mrs. Burns– without an excuse, was equally impossible. He glanced at the newspapers again, moving randomly from headline to headline, the portrait of a colonel, the words “Your King and Country Need You” in a white box, advertisements for pantyhose, then, inevitably, back to the name. There could be no doubt. Stuart Burns. 2nd Lieutenant Stuart Burns.
“I think I’ll go down to the club today,” he said, very softly.
His mother cast him a sharp glance. She placed the buttered toast on his plate and proceeded to break a biscuit into small pieces, to dip in her tea. “You go there much too often,” she said. “All those old men. Those soldiers…”
“It’s only on the weekends,” the boy said. “It’s not that often.”
“I don’t care how you divert yourself, but your studies mustn’t suffer. I’m sure your father would agree, if he were here.”
The boy did not mention that he was still among the top of his class, even with his recent slump, and, of course, he said nothing at all about Mrs. Burns. His mother was not yet aware of her existence.
“You forbid me, then?” he asked.
His mother looked at him as though he had just threatened to strike her. She was, by nature, a nervous woman. The boy had once overheard his father remarking that she had the disposition of an upturned beetle.
“I won’t pretend to believe I can forbid you anything anymore,” she said. “I’m quite sure you’ll do as you please.” She seemed to be trying very hard to maintain an expression of professional indifference, but could not help clearing her throat at the end.
“I won’t go,” said the boy. And briefly, the thought of his painful obligation lifted from his mind and the name Stuart Burns sped away like a cockroach caught under a strong light.
“No, that’s not right,” his mother said. “Today, you must do as you please. Don’t listen to me. Go if you want to.”
“I don’t want to,” he said.
“Go,” she insisted. “But do come home before dark, there’s a surprise for you. Your father’s idea.”
“What is it?” he asked.
His mother dropped her chin and smiled.
“Right,” he said. “Surprise.”
“It’ll be in your room when you come home. You’ll like it. It was your father’s idea,” she repeated, munching her biscuit contentedly.