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  Finally, she sat back down and stared off into space. Rich’s mother was already fumbling through her pockets for her cell phone. Rich stood rooted to the floor, unable to act, to think, or even to breathe. It was as if a giant had sucked all the air from the room, leaving them to gasp and sputter before falling into a heap. Helena managed to take out the cell phone and was about to dial when Grandmother’s hand shot up, grabbed the phone, and clicked it closed.

  She spoke, her voice soft and strained, a bare echo. “That won’t be necessary, dear. I’m fine. But I need to be alone for a while.”

  With that, his grandmother stood, turned her gaze toward the stairs, and left with an even shuffle, leaving behind a half-eaten plate of food and a pair of stunned onlookers.

  Rich’s mother spoke first. “I’ve never seen her act like that. Do you think I should call the doctor? She might have had another stroke or something.”

  Rich considered and then shook his head. “No, we should leave her alone. I’ll go check on her in a little while, if that would make you feel better.”

  It would also make him feel better—and it would be the perfect chance to get some answers.

  Helena nodded and began to clear the table. “I don’t have much of an appetite, and you’re right about the stroganoff.” She sighed. “I think I’ll go lie down too.”

  Rich carried his plate to the sink and balanced it on a stack of other dishes in the left basin. When he turned around, his mother was already gone.

  In his room, Rich tried to get back to the scenario that dinner had cut short. He knew knights would not stop for dinner in the middle of a joust and felt ridiculous trying to pick up the story where he had left off. Then again, most knights probably didn’t live with their mothers.

  He stared at the miniature figures below him, and for once, they seemed to him no more than metal and cloth. He sighed, reached out one finger, and flicked the figure of the dark knight’s horse. It teetered and fell on its side, trapping its rider beneath it. Rich shrugged. That was about how things were going to end up anyway.

  He stood and glanced over at his open textbook. For the first time in many weeks, he decided that it might not hurt to study a little, just to take his mind off things until he could talk to his grandmother about her strange gift. It seemed like the pawn was supposed to mean something, but Rich couldn’t figure out what. Maybe it was some sort of family heirloom made for someone who had the same initials.

  He took his seat, flipped on his desk lamp, and stared down at the open world history textbook in front of him.

  His gaze fell on a colorful picture that graced the bottom half of the page. It was a painting he had seen before of thirteen men at a long table, all facing forward. He scratched his head, wondering at the strangeness of the scene.

  Why would they all sit on one side of the table? he wondered. It looked awfully crowded.

  His eyes wandered to the caption, and he found out why he recognized it—The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci. He read on, and his eyebrows shot up. Apparently, the original was painted on the back wall of a dining room in a monastery.

  That would be something, he thought. His gaze drifted from the book and he felt his mind wander, floating off into a place only he knew where to find and whose guests were those he invited.

  He pictured an army of artists in paint-smattered smocks, brandishing brushes and pallets, descending on his dining room like a swarm of gnats. They painted furiously, their brushstrokes revealing a sweeping medieval landscape where only blank plaster had been before. A knight in full battle regalia sat perched atop a lofty hill, surveying a vast, rolling kingdom bathed in the first glimmering rays of sunrise.

  Rich sighed, and suddenly, he was the knight, perched on his brilliant white stallion, pausing for a moment of quiet, peaceful introspection.

  A sudden clang shattered his dream state. He jumped and grunted in annoyance, realizing that it had only been the clunky old water heater turning on.

  “Why does this always happen?” he mumbled in frustration. Real life had a nasty habit of interrupting his dreams.

  He stood, closed his history book, and glanced at the luminous digital readout of his alarm clock. Nearly an hour had passed since dinner, and he figured it was high time he kept his promise to his mother and checked on his grandmother.

  He snuck out his door and treaded lightly down the hallway to his grandmother’s door. He didn’t want to wake her if she was trying to rest after what happened at dinner. Even when she felt good, she didn’t like to have people in her room, not even his mother. Soft light filtered from the small space between the door and the frame. He couldn’t hear anything from inside.

  “Grandma?” he called into the dimly lit room through the crack in the door. No answer. He reached out with one finger and pushed the door open farther. The old hinges squeaked in protest, and he tried again. “Grandma, it’s Rich. I’ve come to see if you’re all right. And I wanted to ask you something.”

  He waited another few seconds for a response. She might not be wearing her hearing aid. Though his grandmother’s room was normally off-limits, he decided it would be best to go inside. For all he knew, she could be lying unconscious on the floor. With a deep breath, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside.

  The musty air of a room that didn’t get much ventilation smothered him like a feather blanket. A large, lumpy bed with a brown comforter and yellow sheets dominated most of the room, so covered with papers, magazine clippings, and dusty books that Rich couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping in it. A small nightstand stood to one side of the bed, covered with old picture frames and unrecognizable trinkets. The floor was likewise cluttered, creating a minefield of random junk strewn about in an order Rich couldn’t even begin to understand. On the far side of the room, her closet door stood ajar, spilling light into the room from an overhead bulb.

  Rich coughed and picked his way toward the closet, imagining that one false step would set off an explosion. “Or at least a dust storm,” he muttered.

  As he approached the door, he called once again for his grandma. No answer. He paused for a moment, wondering if she could be buried under mounds of junk. He dismissed the idea, stepping forward to grasp the doorknob.

  The closet proved to be an extension of the rest of the room, cluttered with every kind of useless item. However, in the center of the floor appeared a small, open area of carpet with a single unframed photograph in the center. Rich stooped down and picked up the photo.

  It was black and white, the edges ragged and yellow from advanced age, and it depicted a young man with his arm around a young woman. Both smiled, their faces carefree and vibrant. Rich stared at the picture, considering each face. More than anything, the woman’s smile gave it away—it was his grandmother, and that meant the man in the picture could only be his elusive grandfather.

  He was a tall and muscular man with carefully kept hair and intense eyes. Rich sighed as he gazed at the man who had a face for the movies. If only some of those qualities had been passed down two generations.

  Rich realized with a start that he had no memories of his grandfather. He had disappeared when Rich was a toddler, and his grandmother had never shown Rich a picture before. He squinted in the dim light, noticing something else that was strange. He touched the surface to be sure, his brow wrinkling in confusion. There were two damp splotches near the bottom of the picture, round splatters that made him think of raindrops.

  He set the picture down, nervous and uncomfortable at the sight of it. The moisture was fresh, and that meant someone had been looking at it recently. It had to have been his grandmother. But where was she? He turned and made his way out of the closet and back across the junk-littered room. He slipped again through his gr
andmother’s door and sprinted down the hall, taking advantage of the clear running space.

  Frantic, he looked through every room, calling her name. With each successive attempt, he could feel panic welling up in his throat, threatening to overwhelm his common sense. He knew there had to be an explanation for her disappearance.

  After making sure that she was nowhere in the house, he approached his mother’s door. He tried to tell himself that his grandmother was in there, having a chat, but he couldn’t silence that little nagging voice of doubt. No light came from under his mother’s door, which meant that she had gone to bed. He didn’t want to wake her up, but in this case, he felt as if he had no choice.

  He rapped three times, making sure the knocks were loud enough to be heard. A patter of footsteps sounded from beyond, and she swung the door open a crack. “Rich, what’s wrong?”

  The story of his search came spilling out like a water balloon meeting a nail. Together, they searched the entire house, calling her name, checking even the most unlikely places. At last, his mother broke down and called the police to report a missing person.

  Exhausted and confused, Rich collapsed on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was as if his grandmother had gone in her room and vanished into one of her old photographs.

  As he closed his eyes, the image of the black pawn took form in his subconscious. Not for the first time that night, he wished he could take back the answer he had given. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that if he had rejected the challenge, his grandma would still be around.

  Chapter 2: Striking It Rich

  The search for his grandmother lasted for days. The police came and combed the house, fliers went up around town, alerts flashed on all the local TV stations, and neighbors spread the word.

  Despite everyone’s best efforts, no body surfaced, no ransom demands followed, and no genuine leads appeared to give them hope. It was as if Grandma Minerva had dissolved into the air. Her hearing and eyesight were so poor that there was little speculation that she had run away, and a charge of kidnapping seemed absurd. Who would want to kidnap a helpless old lady?

  The questions hung in the air of the Witz home like stale cigarette smoke. Rich’s mother stumbled about the house with blank eyes. Since her husband’s disappearance, his mother had found her last remaining anchor of strength in Grandma Minerva, as the only person on earth who she felt understood what she was going through. She tried to maintain some sense of normalcy for her son, but most of the time, she failed.

  It was a cool, breezy day in January, and though Rich missed his grandmother, he had given up looking for her. In absence of an explanation, his mind wandered, conjuring up crazy notions about his grandmother being a secret agent who had gone underground to avoid detection. He shook off the thoughts as quickly as they came. Though rambling through his imagination was all in good fun, this was painfully serious. He saw his mother crying all the time now when she thought no one was looking, and this hurt more than any bully. Though he didn’t cry, he still felt an incredible emptiness every time he walked by his grandmother’s room.

  It was the first day of school after Christmas break, second semester, eighth grade, at a junior high a few blocks from Rich’s home. He woke with a sigh, observing a moment of silence for the demise of the holidays. He hadn’t slept well, thanks to the recurring images of dark chess pieces that formed in midair. Whatever game he was expected to play, no one had made the opening move.

  Grunting, he rolled from his bed and dragged himself around, preparing for the day. Dressed in a pair of slacks, a blue polo shirt, and cleaned glasses, he peeked into the kitchen. His mother was nowhere to be seen, but she had left a brown lunch bag on the kitchen table. He sighed again as he popped open the cupboard. He poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms and opened the fridge to find that they were out of milk.

  Glancing at his watch, he decided instead to grab a handful of dry cereal from the bowl and stuff it in his mouth. It would have to do until his mother’s hastily constructed PB&J at lunchtime.

  He opened the front door and stepped out into the chill. He could see the school from the porch, and already, masses of teenagers were trudging toward it. Rich had the brief impression of orange-jumpsuit-wearing criminals lumbering back to their cells, having taken their frustrations out for a few hours chipping away at rocks in the yard. Without a backward glance, he joined the sauntering crowd and hugged his body for warmth.

  A thick fog settled over his glasses the minute he stepped inside the school. He snatched them from his nose, wishing that someone would invent a miniature version of windshield wipers. He wiped the lenses on the end of his shirt and froze. He didn’t need 20/20 vision to make out the ungainly figure stomping toward him.

  “Hey, Heiny,” growled a deep voice in a mocking German accent. “Which way to the gym?”

  Joe Stockton towered a good head over most of his peers and could beat anyone in an arm-wrestling match with three fingers. Rich’s mother had always told him he’d grow tall and strong if he ate his vegetables. He wondered if Joe always asked for seconds.

  Joe’s blond hair was kept short, and his dark eyes sat so close together that he looked angry all the time. Despite his considerable size, Joe had never been on the football team—or any team, for that matter. No one quite knew the reason, though the coaches had tried to recruit him ever since he hit junior high. Some said he was lazy, while others figured he didn’t work well with others. In any case, he didn’t let his size go to waste. He used it nearly every day to intimidate anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.

  “Oh, wait,” he continued, “I forgot. How would you know? You’ve never seen a gym.”

  Rich chuckled out of necessity, “Yeah, not yet, but I’m sure I’ll get around to it... sometime.”

  “See that you do,” Joe grunted. “If you can manage to take your nose out of that calculus book.” He stopped to think, his face adopting a quizzical expression. “Then again, maybe you should bring the book to PE. It might shield your face when I pummel you in dodgeball. Wouldn’t want to hurt your precious glasses.”

  Unfortunately, Joe did just that. He thrust his finger out toward Rich to emphasize his point and jabbed the glasses right from Rich’s nose. They clattered to the floor and a lens popped out, skidding across the busy hallway into the middle of a group of students. Rich’s face crumpled, and he felt a little sick as he imagined his lens being smashed into hundreds of pieces.

  Joe’s gaze followed the lens, and he shrugged. “Oops. Hope you’ve got a spare.” He melted into the crowd.

  Rich snatched up his damaged glasses and stood fuming for a solid minute, pondering all the ways he could get even. He imagined himself taking up karate, confronting Joe in the hall, and sending him packing, wailing for his mother. Then Rich pictured himself mixing up some foul potion to slip into Joe’s water bottle right before gym class. Then they’d see who would get pummeled.

  The two-minute warning bell rang and snapped Rich out of his vengeful daydream. He shook his head, realizing he couldn’t do any of those things. It wasn’t in him. He wasn’t a bully and never would be, no matter how others treated him.

  Did he always have to be a victim, though?

  He replaced the broken glasses on his nose and squinted out of one eye to bring things into shaky focus. The frames themselves had also bent in the fall and barely stayed on his nose. With yet another sigh, he made his way toward the main office. He wouldn’t be able to continue with one eye. “Three eyes,” they’d call him, instead of the usual “four.”

  He tried to call his mother, but there was no answer. When he explained that he’d need to go get his extra pair from home, the school nurse let him leave. Rich waited for the halls to clear and then slipped out the front entrance.

&
nbsp; In a matter of minutes, he slunk in through the back door and up to his room. He wasn’t in the mood to explain his presence to his mother, if she was around now. At the top of the stairs, he glanced at her bedroom door and stopped. It was open. He inched toward it, masking his steps in the deep carpet.

  Cautiously, he peered inside. Her bed was made, and she was nowhere to be seen. He reached out to feel the smoothed-over sheets, making sure it wasn’t an illusion created by his impaired vision. It wasn’t. She had been here, but now the house was silent. Maybe his grandmother really had been kidnapped and they had come back from his mom. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe not.

  His spine tingled with apprehension. It was the same feeling he’d had when his grandmother disappeared. His caution forgotten, he called out for his mother. Nothing.

  Rich bit his lip, trying to get a handle on his rapid breathing. There’s nothing wrong here, he tried to tell himself. She had gone out for a while, and he was overreacting.

  He returned to the hall, intent on retrieving his good pair of glasses. However, on the way, something much more interesting caught his eye—a light coming from his grandmother’s room.

  “Stop it, stop it!” he muttered under his breath, trying to rein in his overactive imagination before it ran away with him.

  The room lay much as he had last seen it, cluttered and stuffy. He called to both his mother and grandmother, but once again, he received no response. Light spilled out of the closet, but it didn’t look like light from a normal bulb. It filled the space with a soft glow that he could only compare to starlight. His hands shaking, he stepped into the closet, feeling drawn toward it.

  As he walked deeper into the closet, the light grew brighter, and a warm, tingling feeling of well-being spread from his feet to the top of his head. He navigated the clutter and found his way to the back of the closet, where he stood motionless and closed his eyes. For a long minute, he basked in the incredible feeling, like a warm shower. The blood in his veins buzzed like an electric current, and all his muscles unknotted. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so good, like a combination of all his Christmases and birthdays wrapped into one. His eyes drifted open, and his breath caught in his throat. For the first time he could recall, he could see perfectly without his glasses.