Henry met Mr. Thomas a while back. Maybe six months? After that, Henry spent every Saturday with Mr. Thomas at Bigley Commons, except for the one he traveled back home for the holiday weekend and the one with the day-long thunderstorm. Henry knew Mr. Thomas as Mr. Thomas because the old man had only ever introduced himself as Mr. Thomas.
Back in August it was too hot to stay out in the sun as the morning approached noon, so Henry was happy to come to the park around nine to get a couple hours to read by himself or embarrass a willing opponent. Now that the winter days were cool and comfortable, Henry had all day to spend in the park.
The young man abided by this same habit for the past two years. He came to the commons on any nice Saturday, most Saturdays, set up his pieces on one of the five cement chess tables, and took a seat on the bench closest to his table until someone challenged him to a game. He was probably too young to be this consistent at anything; however, Henry enjoyed his weekends immensely. This was his sabbath rest, replacing long ago that which he had joylessly suffered as a child. But he was not so young as he used to be, so he figured this was just a part of growing up.
With no wife or child waiting for him to get back for lunch, Henry was happy to stick to his typical schedule or get swept up in a conversation that would last well into the afternoon. It was not uncommon for him to get lunch at the taco truck before coming back to his bench for a couple more hours. It was on one of these longer days when he first met Mr. Thomas.
Henry was playing someone who might have just learned chess a few days before. When he castled, the fool, frustrated already, shouted “Hold on!” and demanded an explanation that took about 5 minutes for him to accept. As the game wore on, half of Henry just wanted to put the poor kid out of his misery. But months ago Henry had taken to prolonging games.
It was not long after Henry started playing in the commons that he realized he was going to beat everyone who played him. In most cases, he would beat them badly. Because of the quality and uniqueness of the tables themselves, occasionally a player of talent would show up, normally wizened old men who Henry guessed played regularly on weekdays. But even those he almost always beat. He lost three games in his time to all but one of those who challenged him, and those were battles of attrition that nearly ended in stalemate.
Henry played down to his opponent’s level to make the games interesting. When he performed at full capacity it was rare that his challenger would ask for a second game or come back in the future to play again. When Henry dumbed it down a bit, his opponents showed more spirit and would play for a number of games before finally giving up. It was more fun that way.
When he finally finished the game against the particularly unskilled player, Henry leaned back from the table and started to set the board before he would take his seat on the bench again. Just as he placed his last pawn, Mr. Thomas sat down and reached out his hand.
Henry was used to eccentric people playing him in chess. It sometimes seemed as though it was a prerequisite for knowing the game. He was surprised the nerds would even brave the midday sun to come out of their parents’ basements to play in the park. When Mr. Thomas reached out his hand for a shake without speaking a word, Henry wondered if they would play the whole game without uttering a single syllable. It had happened before, a few times. Luckily for the enjoyment of the game, Mr. Thomas, as he took Henry’s hand, said, “Hello, son. My name is Mr. Thomas.”
Henry introduced himself as Henry, and Mr. Thomas took his opening move. Within two minutes Henry had lost half of his pieces and was in checkmate by a bishop, behind a queen-protected pawn. It was embarrassing. Admittedly he played hastefully, but he was still completely outclassed.
Mr. Thomas shook his hand and set up the pieces once more. There was something like a fire in the old man’s eye. The second game took much longer but ended nearly as the first had. Henry took his time and considered his moves, but still was trapped by the misdirection Mr. Thomas expertly employed.
Mr. Thomas stood up from the table, reached out once more, and shaking Henry’s hand tightly suggested, “You shouldn’t toy around with novices like that. Have some sympathy, son.” With that, he thanked Henry for the games and walked away.
Henry packed up his pieces and left shortly after, not knowing what to think and assuming that Mr. Thomas, having taught his lesson, probably wouldn’t be back to play again.
But the next week and every week after that, Mr. Thomas showed up around 11 to play, just as it was getting a little too warm to sit comfortably in the sun. They would play three or four games each Saturday, and as the months passed and the days cooled Henry learned more about chess than he thought he had left to gain. Mr. Thomas almost always won early on, but was gracious enough to talk through his victories, pointing out Henry’s fatal mistakes. Those were often the only words exchanged between the two, more than the pleasantries in their meetings and partings.
Over the months Henry learned very little about Mr. Thomas. He guessed he was at least 70, approaching 80 probably. The twang and drawl that lingered in the pastoral phrases Mr. Thomas loved made Henry assume that he had grown up on a farm in Kentucky or Tennessee. He would say things like, “The soil you’re workin’s a bit too rocky for the tools in your shed, son.” He always called Henry “son.”
Mr. Thomas had referred in passing about not having anyone at home to worry about his extended afternoons out, so Henry thought his family must all be dead or still out East, hunkered down somewhere in Appalachia. Mr. Thomas didn’t seem to grieve their absence, but took it in stride, like it seemed he took everything. The man lived slow, but steady, with the terse grace of a tired farmer who worked the same ground for over half a century.
In February, during the non-event that Valentine’s Day always was, Henry was playing the first game of the day with Mr. Thomas when one of his classmates approached the table. Henry had been taking classes inconsistently, working towards a masters. One of the classes he got to take was in philosophy, a required course that tangentially meant very little to his degree but was a welcome respite from his mostly mathematical schedule. The class was full of his normal classmates, of whom few were serious about philosophy. But Henry relished the opportunity to whet his appetite for thoughtful argument. It was perhaps because of his willingness to let his voice be heard that this woman approached the table with a little too much purpose in her step.
“Did you really mean what you said in class?”
Henry was taken aback by her forwardness, which apparently showed. She checked herself and said, “Hello, Henry. And Hello…”
“Mr. Thomas,” he offered.
“Hello Mr. Thomas. I’m Nicole. It’s nice to meet you.”
And then she returned to the question, “Seriously, I need to know if you really meant that. I thought about it all day yesterday. I don’t know why, but it’s really bothering me. I saw you sitting here, and I had to ask. Did you mean it?”
Henry hardly considered the question before replying, “Yes, of course I meant it. I lead a good life, yes, in part because of my parents, but they emotionally and intellectually hobbled me for a significant portion of my life. I can think of few who have had that kind of negative impact on me.”
“I just can’t believe it,” she stuttered. “Clearly you had loving and supporting parents to be where you are and who you are today. The way you described them. The worst? I just…,” she stopped. It looked like she was maybe going to continue. Her face was growing red, and Henry couldn’t tell if she was going to shout or burst into tears. Instead she turned, walked to a bench at the corner of the path, picked up a bag, and headed back toward the city center.
Mr. Thomas and Henry sat in silence as they watched her flicker in and out and disappear behind some distant trees.
“And what was all that about, son?”
“It was just something that I said in class. Some people got pretty worked up about it.”
“What was it you said?”
“We were talking about religion and I guess the ethical ramifications of basically indoctrinating children against their will in religious families. I gave my two cents. I said that when I really thought about it I would say that my religious parents were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me. I guess some other people don’t think that forced religion is that bad.”
“Sounds like you gave your folks at least some of the credit they were due.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. My parents definitely gave me a great start, but for Christ’s sake, it took too much effort to shake all the nonsense that I grew up with. If I was a little less intelligent, I might still be stuck in that ignorant mire.”
“Well, thank goodness you were saved.”
“Mr. Thomas, is that sarcasm? If you don’t believe me, you should talk to my parents. You would realize how bad it was growing up underneath them if you just had the chance to sit down across from them.”
Mr. Thomas sat silently considering the board for longer than Henry knew he needed to. After a minute or so Mr. Thomas looked back up and placed his hands on the table.
“You were homeschooled, no?”
“Yeah.”
“By your mother? Your dad taught you advanced math and science?”
“Yes.” Mr. Thomas could have inferred his father’s part in Henry’s education because of his father’s profession, which had been discussed, but his questioning verged on clairvoyance. Education and upbringing were lumped into everything else personal which was never discussed by the two of them.
“I now know your parents are religious. Over-religious in your eyes. You went to church every Sunday?”
“And every Wednesday night. My brother, sisters, and I were there at least twice a week. Often more.”
“They had strict rules, and you were regularly in trouble? You ate dinner as a family and afterward your dad gave a brief devotional, right?”
“Yes to the rules and dinner, but he did devotions in the morning. We had to wake up early and eat breakfast as a family before he went to work, even though as homeschoolers we could have woken up whenever.”
“They paid for your college education? Did they buy your first car too? When was it that you made it clear that you didn’t believe in their religion?”
“Yes, they gave me money for school. And kind of. I got my dad’s old car, but it barely ran. I had to buy a new one before I graduated. Good thing I worked through school for the extra cash. And I stopped going to church my junior year of high school. It was a big to-do. My siblings were pissed, but my parents didn’t make me go after I told them I didn’t believe in their god.”
Mr. Thomas remained very calm, as he always was. His blinks were lasting a little longer than usual, the way they did when Henry had the advantage in a game. He looked up intently.
“May I offer you a bit of advice?”
“Please,” Henry welcomed. Mr. Thomas, unlike many old folks, never gave Henry any advice, apart from tips and tricks in chess. That made Henry actually want to hear the old man’s thoughts, but the line of questioning made it seem like there was a sermon heading his way. A sermon on appreciation and privileged millennials. Either way, this was one of the longest conversations the two had had, so Henry was curious.
“Your parents gave you the education you needed to reject their faith on intellectual grounds. They gave you the confidence to oppose them so stoutly. They gave you the money to pursue your own interests apart from what they believed most essentially was best for you.”
“Yeah, sure. But…”
“Son,” the old man interrupted, “you might find that those ignorant, provincial folks you couldn’t wait to get away from won’t be there when you come back looking for them. Too late you’ll realize it’s too late. One day you may want to thank them for everything they gave you, for everything you are, but you won’t have that chance.”
Mr. Thomas looked down at the board and moved his rook back to reveal checkmate with his bishop, a move Henry had forgotten was a threat after Mr. Thomas had spent a number of moves setting up an elaborate attack with both knights on the other side of the board. Henry had moved his own knight toward his opponent’s forgetting its defensive value. It was a terribly stupid move that he made five minutes ago now. Having lost the game, Henry looked up at his elderly friend.
“Do not toss aside your blessings so readily, son, even with the best intentions. You may find that you’ll be needing them. You may find yourself craving them more than anything. Their shadows will haunt you, calling you back to a home and to a family that’s not there.”
The old man reached across the table and shook Henry’s hand before reaching down to pick up his canvas tote full of books, his cane, and his hat. He got up from the table and walked away without saying another word, without troubling to straighten the hat now crookedly on his head. The man could not have had an ounce of bad blood in his body. Hardly even a care. He gave his opinion, for what it was worth, and left Henry to work it out on his own.
Henry sat and considered the more experienced man’s words for some time. He sat with the chess pieces still mocking his lapse of focus.
After a quarter hour in this attitude, Henry packed up his pieces and left the park, knowing that next week he wouldn’t be playing chess with Mr. Thomas, but instead in Portland with the man who taught him the game.