Ralph shuffled around his small kitchen in a pair of worn-out carpet slippers. It was past midnight according to the clock above the mantel, but Ralph wasn’t tired. He set about fixing himself a pot of tea and sat down in an armchair in front of the television to wait.
“In other news, Sen. P. Anderson of Texas died at Sacred Heart Hospital of pancreatic cancer.” The news caster looked blandly upset. Ralph snorted. Another one down. People died all the time, every day. Senators, garbage collectors, movie stars, clerks. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. Or so most thought.
He flipped the channel to something about a celebrity divorce case. The kettle shrieked shrilly. Ralph rose and limped back to the kitchenette, cursing his bad leg. His eyes wandered, as they so often did these days, to the framed photographs on the shelf above the sink. All six were carefully arranged, their frames and glasses wiped daily with a cloth.
The first was of him, an old picture in black and white. If you looked closely, Ralph liked to think that one could still see that strong, handsome face show in the photo beneath his wrinkles and liver spots. He was in his navy uniform, his arm around the waste of a pretty dark haired girl. They were both laughing. The next showed him, looking older and thinner than before, but radiantly happy. He wore a suit and tie, the girl, now a woman, was in a white dress and train.
The third, a color photograph, showed her looking tired but proud in a hospital bed, a small bundle in her arms. There was another of a dark-haired boy, about six years old, on a small, three-wheeler. He had her eyes, Ralph thought wistfully. Then, there was the same boy, in a cap and gown.
The final picture was of Ralph and the woman, both grey-haired, at a parade. Ralph wore his old uniform. He remembered that parade. Pam had been insistent that he marched in it. Afterward, they went for ice cream at the tiny parlor they visited as teenagers. That was twenty-five years ago.
He poured his tea into a slightly-chipped china cup, stirred in a packet of sugar and opened the fridge. Damn. Out of cream again.
He settled into his chair, the cup warm between his arthritic hands. A report came on about a hurricane in some country he had never heard of. Ralph flipped through the channels, stopping at an old movie he and Pam once saw together in the theatres. Movies were still in black and white then, and you could see one for a dime. None of this business where you emptied your wallet for popcorn and a show.
The lead was smoking a cigar, and talking to a glamorous actress. She had been very popular in her time, considered a great beauty with her hooded eyes, husky voice, and full figure. Nothing like the twig-women on screen nowadays.
Ralph woke to blinding sunlight streaming through the window. He had forgotten, once again, to draw the curtains. Damn.
Grumbling, Ralph rose, fixed himself some eggs and coffee. He ate, washed the dishes, and lovingly polished his photographs. The morning newspaper had been delivered to his flat already. Skimming the first few headlines, he flipped to the obituaries.
“Ha! Eddy Cole! Always told ‘im I’d out live ‘im. And Florence Storm. Stupid woman. Oh, and there’s old Harry. Ticker gave out at last. Too bad about that. Don’t know the rest of ‘em.” Carefully, Ralph clipped the obituaries out and shuffled over to an old-fashioned cabinet. He pulled out a black leather scrap book with the embossed title “Friends,” and filed the clippings and filled in day’s date.
“I’ve outlived ‘em all.” Ralph smiled to himself, turning the book’s heavy pages. There were few pages without an obituary or two. “All! Nobody’s gonna outlive Ralph Sty!” he paused on a well-thumbed page: June 21. There was a single clipping: Justin Sty, born December 3rd, 1959, died June 21st, 1978. Justin was the son of Ralph and Pamela Sty. He was a model student, and gifted athlete. However, his true passion was for playing chess. He participated in numerous regional and state championships, and, at age thirteen, qualified for nationals. He went on to Stanford University, hoping for a career in teaching high level mathematics. He was on the chess team, and wrote for the school paper. His future was looking brighter than ever when he became engaged to long-time girlfriend, Sophia Plum. Tragically, he died in a car accident on highway 132 while driving home to begin preparations for his wedding. He is survived by his parents and fiancée. Justin will be greatly missed in the community. Services will be held at the Friendly Street Catholic Church on Saturday.
Ralph wiped his nose on his sleeve and hurriedly turned the page. He stopped again to read the third obituary on a page marked January 5.
Pamela Sty, born April 12th 1919, died January 5th, 2001. Pamela Sty, born Pamela Dove, passed away at Memorial Hospital in the early hours of the morning. Pam, as she was known to friends lived a long, full life. Born at Memorial Hospital, she was the eldest of three sisters. She graduated Nightingale Nursing Academy, and served as a nurse during the Second World War. At age nineteen, she met marine Ralph Sty. They were married 1945, days after Germany surrendered to the Allied forces. In 1960, the Stys adopted a child, an infant boy named Justin. Pam and Ralph were devastated when he died in a car accident in 1978, at age 19. This refueled Pam’s wish to help save lives, and she started working as a nurse at Memorial Hospital. She retired in 12981 at age 62. However, Pam remained active in the community through her church. She did charity work, and much volunteering. In her spare moments, she enjoyed reading mystery novels, gardening, and playing chess with her husband. She passed away after a long struggle with lung cancer. Pam is survived by her husband Ralph, and two sisters, Lucy and Mina. Services will be held Friday at the Friendly Street Catholic Church.
Ralph slammed the book shut. “No! No! No! They’re all gone! And you can bet that Ralph Sty isn’t going to be next!”
In many ways, Ralph reflected, he was like other men. Death he feared above all else. He had seen too much of it, perhaps. The war, his parents, his son, and then Pam. He longed for comfort; the comfort of knowing he was safe from the void. He longed for those he loved, and for a quiet, pleasant existence. But in one very important way, he was different.
Ralph went into his flat’s tiny bathroom to summon Death. He looked into the mirror and said, ‘Hello? Are you there?”
“Yes.” Lord Death looked back at him. His face was more than skull-like; there was not a scrap of flesh left on it. He wore a crown of yellowed bones, and a robe the color of thunderclouds. His eyes were nothing more than sightless holes.
“Don’t we even get a ‘Nice to see you’? Mortals are so impolite, aren’t they Dee? Oh! It’s you! Dee, it’s that Ralph character, again. Ralph, you interrupted our show. We were watching reruns of that very interesting plague in Europe, weren’t we Dee?” Lady Death scowled at Ralph. Half her body was that of a beautiful woman with milky skin and raven hair, the other that of a decaying corpse. She wore a black velvet dress, and an obsidian tiara.
“Yes dear.” Death didn’t seem to be listening. “Ralph. How unexpected. You’re scheduled for next month. Do you want to come early?”
Ralph shook his head vigorously. “Mr. D, I was hoping to…um…ask a small favor.”
Mrs. Death held up her shriveled hand. “You know the rules.”
“Yes, but-“
“-not buts!”
“Please!” Ralph looked beseechingly at Death. “Please, we’re friends! I’ve known you for years!”
“All men know me from birth.”
“Yes, but-“
“-no buts!” Mrs. Death reiterated.
“But I talk to you. Who else does that?”
“More people than you would expect.”
“Please! Give me a chance! Mr. D, there’s got to be some way!”
Death sighed. “Alright, alright. There is one way. But you can’t go around telling everyone; otherwise they’ll start thinking I’ve gone soft.”
Ralph looked ten years younger. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.” Death chuckled mirthlessly. “What do I need to do?”
“Certain people throughout history have been able to…contact me, in a fashion similar to you. Many have asked for favors of the type you are about to ask.”
“How do you-“
“-Mortals are incredibly predictable. They all want to live forever, and have their loved ones back. Of course I can’t just give everyone eternal life, and let their friends out of the Dead Land. So the deal is, you can challenge me to whatever you want. If you win, I grant your wish.”
“And if I lose?”
“You die.”
“Has anybody won?”
“Nope.”
“Well then.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Let’s get on with it, then. I don’t want to miss the best bit of the plague!” Lady Death scowled at Ralph.
“Yes, yes. Right away dear.” Death clicked his fingers and Ralph felt himself being dragged forward. The glass of the mirror parted like water, and Ralph was falling, falling, falling…
“You can open your eyes.” Ralph was sitting in a squishy old armchair. He was in a sitting room, of sorts. There was a television showing a scene of people in tunics writhing and retching. Tarnished silver frames held photographs of famous cemeteries, and shots of the Deaths in Disneyland. Little tourist-y nick-knacks littered the shelves. There were vases of dried flowers, magazines, and an old copy of Dante’s Inferno, on the coffee table, and at least a dozen black cats seated on a large, brown couch.
“Nice place.” Ralph gave Lady Death a weak smile that she did not return.
“Now, what do you want to challenge me to?” Death was reclining in a leather chair. On the table beside him were a very new laptop and a drink.
“Get a coaster for that!” Lady Death snapped. “I don’t want stains on the tables! We got that one in Italy!”
“So sorry dear. Now, to business.”
Ralph wiped his forehead with a large, dirty handkerchief. He was not feeling at all confident. He wiped his forehead again. It had seemed like a much better idea back in his bathroom.
“Any game, sport, or puzzle will do. Board games, card games, dice games, ball games, races, riddles, jokes, dance-offs, karaoke tournaments; anything you want.”
Ralph could feel a bead of sweat gliding down the length of his nose.
“Wipe-out bug-house chess.”
“What?”
“Wipe-out bug-house chess.”
Death was not used to being confused. Exactly 1,632,578 people had challenged him since life, and death, had begun. He had played everything from spear throwing with cavemen to Senet in ancient Egypt; ullamaliztli with the Aztecs to chariot racing with Romans, not to mention a host of others. This was an unwelcome set-back.
“What is this game you wish to play?”
Ralph nervously explained the rules, hoping against hope that Death wouldn’t spot what he thought he might spot. He didn’t.
“And all you have to do is capture all your opponent’s pieces?”
“Yes.”
“This game needs four players?”
“Yes. My son can play on your team, my wife on mine.”
“But how do I know they won’t cheat? They are only souls, after all.”
“They won’t. I promise.”
Death looked skeptical, but he agreed. He blew on a small silver whistle on a chain around his neck. Like two absurd flowers, Pam and Justin blossomed from the ugly tan carpet. Ralph released a tiny gasp. They looked exactly as they had in life: Pam was even wearing her favorite pearl earrings, and wedding band.
Dad! Justin’s voice was faint, but joyful. You’re here! But you aren’t…
“No, Justin, I’m not dead. How have you been, son? What’s it like being…um…deceased?”
Not bad. They’ve got loads of things to do here, and there are so many interesting people…
“That’s great.” He replied, but he was looking at Pam. She smiled that slow, gentle smile of hers.
Ralph, you’re early.
“I know, dear.”
“Can we get on with it? I don’t want to miss the evening rerun of the Crusades!” Lady Death held a TV remote in her living hand and a martini in her dead one. She seemed completely unfazed by the scene before her.
Death rose from his seat and clicked his fingers. Two chess boards appeared on the crowded coffee table, sending a stack of magazines flying. The cats on the sofa languidly rose and stalked away. Death sat on the recently occupied couch, Pam perched uncomfortably next to him. Ralph faced Death, a board between them. Justin was across from Pam.
Ralph gingerly nudged a white pawn forward two spaces. Death fingered a black one, and mirrored his moved. Soon, Death had captured six of Ralph’s players, and Ralph had taken only two of his. Pam passed Ralph a rook, two pawns and a knight she had captured from Justin. She winked at him. Ralph gave her a small smile.
Seconds stretched into hours, hours into days, and, perhaps, days into weeks. Ralph couldn’t tell. Lady Death complained the match was getting too long. You don’t know how long it’s going to be, Ralph thought grimly. Then he smiled.
If you looked into Death’s drawing room today, you would find a peculiar scene: A robbed skull and a slightly faded-looking elderly woman sitting side-by-side on a couch with a man and a pale boy opposite them. They are playing a version of chess. Each time one player takes their opponent’s piece, the pass it to their teammate. The piece is then placed on the board. The game may go, briefly, one way or another, but in the end, it doesn’t change much. The man looks very happy. This is a quiet life, one he had always wanted. Death is absorbed in the game, so absorbed he doesn’t notice eternities have gone by. Occasionally, a very strange-looking woman enters. She appears to be half corpse, has living person. She inquires, loudly and rudely, whether or not the game is over.
It isn’t. It never will be.
“When I was still a rather precocious young man, I already realized most vividly the futility of the hopes and aspirations that most men pursue throughout their lives.”-Albert Einstein
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