48, 52, 57

Bill pushed his white game piece forward across the checkerboard. “‘57, what a great year. Ya remember 1957, Johnny?”

Johnny nodded, pushing a black piece toward Bill. “Did I ever tell you my grandparents were from the Scottish highlands?” asked Johnny. “I’ve never been. Good whiskey,” he said. “I’d like to go.”

“The cars, I tell ya, they don’t make cars like that anymore.” Bill said, ignoring Johnny. “My ‘57 Chevy. Reliable car that was. Someday, I’ll have that Chevy again; should have never sold it.” Bill reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and retrieving a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, lit one.

Johnny raised a white eyebrow and watched as a small breeze caught what few threads of hair were still left on Bill’s head; the strands were as delicate as spider webs swaying back and forth, guided by the wind in a dance that didn’t need any direction, yet still held impeccable timing.

“What? I’m dying anyway, ain’t I? Leave me alone.” Bill smoothed the silver threads back onto his head while puffing on the cigarette held in the corner of his mouth then grumbled, “Least I got my hair.”

Johnny turned his attention back to the game. He thought the sun felt pleasant today, just warm enough to reach through the chill of the breeze and warm old bones.

“And the women, Johnny, whooo! I tell ya.” Bill said, then coughed. It was hard and phlegm filled, aged as much by time as it was by unfiltered tobacco. It barked from deep within his lungs. “I met Audrey in ‘57. Prettiest wife I ever had. Ya remember that one story about Audrey, don’t ya?”

Johnny pushed yet another piece forward. He was winning.

“Johnny, Johnny, you listening to me?”

Johnny stared at the board in front of him.

“Johnny!” Bill slapped the table with his hand. Slowly, Johnny looked up.

Bill was puffing madly on his cigarette. “Johnny, can you hear me?”

Johnny sighed and reached behind his ear, turning on his hearing aid.

“You crock of—you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said!”

Adjusting his tweed fedora, Johnny cocked his head. “I’m listening, Bill.”

“No, you’re not! You’ve had that damned thing turned off the entire time!” Bill shook a finger at Johnny’s ear.

“It doesn’t need to be on for me to hear you.”

“Horse feathers!” said Bill.

“I hear you because you’ve been talking about the same thing for years. Usually ‘48, ‘52, ’57. It’s always the same… But it’s not ‘57 anymore.”

“You can’t even remember 1957,” Bill spat.

Johnny shrugged. “Usually can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Fine by me, because I’d rather be here. I’m not like you who is still in 1957.”

Bill began to protest, but Johnny cut him off. “Has it never occurred to you that you've wasted years of your life stuck in a place that no longer matters? We’re old, Bill. Yesterday’s gone; it’s been gone for a long time.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Bill asked. Johnny wasn’t the type to bite back and on the rare occasion that it happened it came from so far out of left field it would cause Bill to straighten defensively as he did now.

Johnny waved a dismissive hand, then reached to his ear and turned off the hearing aid. Clearly, he was done with the conversation. After two more moves on the board, Johnny won the game, just as he always had since he and Bill started their Sunday ritual of Checkers in the park 8 years ago. His aged hand reached beneath his jacket, fishing in the pocket of his flannel before he produced his little black notebook to record his win. “You talk too much,” Johnny said, as he steadied himself on the edge of the stone table top to stand up.

***

The following Sunday, Bill sat at the table in silence. The seat across from him was empty.

Bill reached over and moved a black game piece toward him. For the first time in nearly 30 years, Bill was painfully aware of the present.

Johnny was not sitting across from him.

He lit a cigarette and pulled his jacket in closer. He moved his white piece, then paused as a memory struck him.

The two had met some 8 years previous when Bill moved into the 55+ community and much to his own horror attended the Thanksgiving lunch the community had put on for its residents in the outdated community lodge. After Bill finished eating, it was Johnny who suggested the two take their leave and play a game of Checkers in the park rather than the game of Bridge that was about to ensue amongst their peers. “Could get ugly in here,” Johnny said, and it was that very comment that compelled Bill to join the man who he hadn’t even realized was sitting next to him until that moment. And so their games began.

Johnny had been on a 7 game winning streak since that Thanksgiving afternoon when during their 8th game, Bill watched as the corners of Johnny’s mouth turned into half moons of concern. He’d seen a mistake and realized this could be the end of him. As he studied the board, the half moons grew deeper and his eyes dropped knowing that luck had bowed out and deserted him.

As a man who preferred to win, the look on Johnny’s face struck Bill in a way he hadn’t expected: it pulled at his heart. Without having to think about it, Bill decided he would pretend not to see the opening, instead fumbling on his own turn. It was in that moment that Bill realized he gained something he hadn’t had in a long time—a best friend.

So, Johnny never lost a game. And as Bill stared across at the empty seat, Johnny’s winning streak continued when Bill moved the last black game piece into its final position. “Seems I’m here, Johnny.” Bill said.

He pulled the black book from his pocket and held it for a long time. It didn’t feel right to have it in his hands. Johnny was supposed to open it, not Bill. He resisted, partly because it felt sacred but mostly because it felt like an end, and Bill had never excelled at saying goodbye to the things he’d lost. He slipped the band off and allowed the book to fall open to a random, worn, page. One of Johnny’s fingerprints was there in the smudge of old lead; he had always preferred pencils, noting once that erasers were not meant for forgetting, but for making things better. At the top of the page was a date, Oct 22nd. Below the date was a check mark next to Johnny’s name and an X next to Bill’s. The following line contained a note:

Paris, 1954, good food.

And then the next entry, Oct 23nd with the same check mark and same X followed by another note:

Bought new house, Audrey, Chevy, 1957.

Bill began flipping through the pages as fast as his shaking hand could manage. On and on the pages went with their wins and losses and notes and memories—Bill’s memories—all summed up into the simplest of words. He was both dazed and heartbroken by the time he reached the end, feeling the raw tightness in the back of his throat that threatened to cause the prick of tears at his eyes. When he turned the last page, a small, folded piece of paper fell to his lap. He stared at it for a moment in curiosity before he retrieved it and unfolded the paper to reveal a check made out to him for the sum of $20,000 dated some 3 weeks prior. The note on the check read:

Get the Chevy.

Bill closed his eyes and allowed himself to cry. He couldn’t say how long he sat there, alone in his sadness, before he finally lit another cigarette and spoke to the empty seat. “You were right,” he said. “I did talk too much. Let’s go see those highlands instead.”