“You need help to beat a twelve-year-old?” Father Domingo asked.

Una wondered if they taught that supercilious little smirk in seminary. Every priest she’d ever met had used that wry my-child smile to trivialize her concerns. It was infuriating.

“He’s very bright,” she explained.

“Hmmm.”

Father Domingo scratched at the stubble on the side of his face. He had a weak chin and would have looked better with a beard. When Una was a girl, she’d asked a deacon why priests were all clean shaven. The lengthy history lesson that followed invoked Pope Alexander III and Durandus but never actually answered her question. She continued to wonder for years until at last, a nun explained it was so their mustaches didn’t dip in the chalice. They’d laughed so hard at that. Una had never looked at priests quite the same way after.

“Let me ask around,” Father Domingo offered. The priest trundled off with her shoebox full of painted birds, in no particular hurry. Una watched, impatient. She was sure she could overtake him, bad hip and all. She stood in the nave and glanced through the stations of the cross. Her eyes fell on Mary in her alcove.

Even she only lost one.

Sunlight caught the monstrance and glared in her eyes. Una turned away and shook her head, struck by her own irreverence. Confession would be rough, if she even went. Each week, it took more effort to force herself to come. If not for the clay birds, she might have skipped mass today. She hadn’t felt a sliver of grace since Robin got sick.

Domingo took his sweet time. She nearly sat in a pew, but she wanted Father Domingo to feel bad for keeping her waiting. It wasn’t the first time she’d become disenchanted. After Hector died, Una lapsed for almost six months. Before she returned, she secretly dipped her toes at a few other churches, just to see how it felt. The Pentecostals were too crazy, the Episcopalians so lax she barely felt like she was in church. In the end she came back to San Felipe de Neri. It was a long drive with gas prices so high, but it felt like home.

’Til now. Solace was gone. She stood in the nave, impatient. With nothing to keep her hands busy, all the things she didn’t want to face seemed to shout from the pews. Money and medicine, bald tires and burials. Overwhelmed, she nearly turned on her heel and left. Father Domingo would probably think she’d gone senile and wandered off. But she needed the new birds.

“Una?”

Father Bartolome Jonás was the opposite of Father Domingo in many ways. The rector was a small, dark man who moved with a sense of purpose and urgency. As his eightieth birthday neared, more and more of his duties fell to the younger priests. His slide into retirement was a large part of Una’s discontent. Something irreplacible was lost.

“Father.”

In spite of herself, Una smiled for the first time that day. Father Jonás was a cornerstone in her life. He’d married Una and Hector right here in San Felipe, baptized Lucinda, visited Hector at Lovelace hospital, and gave his eulogy. If she’d known Domingo would bother Father Jonás over something so frivolous, she never would have asked.

“How is he?” Jonás asked.

Una’s answer stuck in her throat. Her face said everything. Father Jonás set a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you hungry? Let’s get lunch and talk about it.”

“Yes,” Una said, immediately.

* * *

Robin scowled down at the Reconciler. It was a hundred times better than his first few soldiers, but still not perfect. There was a rough patch on the robe where he’d applied a second coat too fast, and his dry-brushing and inking weren’t nearly as smooth as Sandy’s.

“I think I’m gonna strip it and try again.”

“Don’t bother. The Reconciler sucks. Absolute weakest general in the game. There are squad leaders who are better.”

Robin looked up, alarmed.

“Why did Duncan tell my grandma it was good?”

“Because no one else will buy them. Here, let me see that.”

“I think the Reconciler’s ability is pretty good,” Robin protested.

Sandy took the figure and appraised it underneath his desk lamp.

“This is great for your first general, honestly. I think this is about the best you can do.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Painting takes a lot of practice. Don’t be impatient. Besides, you’re facing Vlad’s goblins next. Any work you put into this guy is just making Vlad’s trophy case look better.”

“I don’t plan to lose,” Robin insisted.

“Uh huh. You ever notice how the Loyal Apprentice and the Abaxios Oslune figures have the same face?”

Robin took the Bobbert figure out of his shoebox and compared it to his newly painted general. Now that he knew to look for it, it was unmistakable. The Abaxios model was just Bobbert with a crown and a fancy robe.

“Huh. Wonder why they did that.”

“Lazy sculptors, I guess. There’s no excuse, RSI is raking it in on this game. There are like a hundred clubs in the US alone, probably twice that in Europe.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Wow. I wonder what would happen if all those clubs got together for one giant war.”

Sandy’s face lit with excitement.

“That’s happening! Next year, the world championship in Anaheim. It’s a weeklong tournament called The Day Before Doomsday. Duncan and his dad are on the writing committee!”

“No way,” Robin breathed.

“It’s gonna be huge. They have a battlefield that’s as big as my yard. People are flying in from Europe, Japan, everywhere. The grand prize is ten thousand dollars.”

“No. Way.”

“Believe it, brother. A lot of guys from the club are flying out and sharing hotel rooms. You should totally go with us.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” Robin tried to keep his voice steady.

Sandy paused. Robin could tell he’d forgotten.

“Is it that bad?”

Robin nodded.

“Jesus. That’s rough. Well maybe like, having something to look forward to will help you get better. The power of positive thinking, you know? Just visualize yourself winning the world championship.”

“Maybe, yeah. Did you still want me to teach you chess stuff?” Robin was eager to change the subject.

“Oh yeah, definitely. Let’s go.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing chess. The first game was a bloodbath. Afterward, Robin tried to explain some a few of the key concepts like tempo and active pieces. He began to understand why Sandy was dead last on the leaderboard. Sandy had patience and an excellent visual memory, but no overall plan. He struggled to see more than a move or two ahead.

“Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat,” Robin quoted.

“Just you wait, I’m building to something,” Sandy said.

He wasn’t. One by one, Robin’s rook gobbled up his dangling pawns. The game ended and the next began a little better. This time, Sandy took his advice and he didn’t move the same piece twice or fianchetto both bishops. Still, his moves were passive and disjointed.

“A knight on the rim is dim, his chances are slim,” Robin warned.

“Border cavalry,” Sandy grinned and made the move anyway.

Robin shook his head. Sandy had to learn everything the hard way. Six moves later, the useless knight was still in the same spot. Sandy was checkmated again.

“Brutal.” Sandy winced at the carnage.

“Think positive. At least you didn’t blunder your queen this time.”

“I feel like I’m getting worse, not better.”

“I think this is about the best you can do,” Robin smiled back. He ducked under the pawn Sandy threw at him, it bounced off an Electric Light Orchestra poster and rolled under his dresser. Sandy grumbled over to retrieve it.

“I’m gonna see if I can take on Yvonne now, at least. Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Yes,” Robin said, immediately.

“I’ll ask my mom.”

* * *

High Noon was an ancient pink adobe building with jutting vigas, just a short walk from the church. Father Jonás was well known, they were greeted warmly and whisked to a booth in the corner. Una eyed the place, trying to remember how long it had been since she’d eaten in a restaurant that wasn’t a hamburger stand. Someone had put a lot of thought and effort into decorating the place, everything was new and spotless. Una nodded with approval.

“Que linda!”

“The Villas own this, wonderful people. Very committed to preserving the place. This building was actually built before the church. 1785! Of course, the first church was built earlier, in 1707 right around the founding. But it fell into disrepair and collapsed in the winter of 1792. San Felipe rose from its bones. You know, it’s always a bit odd to sit here. My predecessors and the Sisters of Charity fought a long war against this place, it used to be a brothel. They triumphed, the place became a woodworker’s shop, then it was converted to apartments. Sister May was the last tenant before the Villas bought the place. Dios la bendiga.”

“How’s the food?” Una asked.

Father Jonás smiled.

“Much better than at the rectory. It’s casserole night.” Father Jonás made such a pained expression that she had to laugh.

“I’ve been eating the same stuff as Robin, he can’t keep down much. I never want to see another scoop of cottage cheese in my life.”

“Ha! There’s no cottage cheese here. Order whatever you like, the Villas are good friends.”

Just then, the waitress brought over his drink. It was a martini glass full of milky liquor, sprinkled with chile salt and garnished with a prickly pear.

“Is that pulque?” Una asked.

“Yes! This is the only game in town for pulque. The Villas have an agave farm in Los Lunas. The drink is called Dama Del Magquey.”

“I haven’t had pulque in forty years,” Una recalled.

“Ne dicas amico tuo vade et revertere et cras dabo tibi cum statim possis dare.” Jonás’ voice grew resonant as he spoke Latin.

“¿Que?”

“Ha, forgive me. Proverbs 3:28. No dejes para mañana la ayuda que puedas dar hoy.” He pushed his drink forward in invitation.

Una didn’t need to be asked twice. She took a sip. It was just as she remembered it, slimy enough to coat the throat, with a strange sweetness that popped on the tongue. The taste brought her back to the pink city in the shadow of La Bufa. When she closed her eyes she could almost smell the conchas baking.

“I used to drink this straight from a donkey cart,” Una said.

“Uno más,” Father Jonas called to the waitress. Una didn’t protest.

“Where were you then?” Father Jonás asked.

“Zacatecas.” She felt homesick saying it, even after all this time. Father Jonás asked a few follow ups but he could sense she didn’t want to talk about it and mercifully let the conversation flow elsewhere. Inevitably, they arrived at the war. He knew a bit of her story from Hector. She told him about the WAFS, endless flights in cramped C-47 radio rooms. She mentioned she’d been in Luzon in ’46 and it drew out his own story.

Father Jonás was one of one of three chaplains on the USS West Virginia and was onboard when she was sunk at Pearl Harbor. After the attack, both the priest and the dreadnaught were both fished from the Pacific and thrown back into action in the Philippines. West Virginia fought in the Battle of Surigao Strait, the last time two battleships would ever fight each other. After VJ day, Father Jonás was part of Operation Magic Carpet, ferrying GIs back to Hawaii.

As Jonás spoke, she heard so much that reminded her of Hector. There was a kind of desperate, vital force in both men. The things they’d faced had changed them, given them perspective for the rest of their lives. Una felt a twinge of regret for her uncharitable thoughts about Father Domingo. Domingo was trying his best, it was just a different time. They spent so long talking about the old days that the meal was over before she knew it. They hadn’t even brought up chess. Father Jonás finally came around to it.

“So. How badly is your nieto thrashing you?”

In her handbag was the pad where she’d recorded their last few games. Only one was a draw, she’d lost the rest. Father Jonás looked over the notation. Sometimes he would move an invisible piece with his hand as he went through the game.

“You said he’d only started a month ago?”

“Barely that.”

“You’re not playing a trick on me, are you?” Bartolome leaned over his glass.

“Of course not.”

Una told him about all the chess books Robin had devoured. He’d nearly run through the entire chess shelf at the Los Griegos Public Library. He was on a biography of Alekhine now, once that was done they were going to have to take a trip to the Main Public Library.

“I forgot how intense boys are with their interests at that age,” Jonás mused. Some long-ago happiness drifted across his face, but he kept it to himself.

“He can’t do much but read, at present. I’m taking him to the library three times a week.”

“How were his marks in school, before he got sick?”

“Terrible. They almost held him back in the fourth grade. Some of that was Lucinda’s fault, but not all. He’s a daydreamer, spends half of class doodling. Drove his teachers crazy.”

“These are sharp moves. I’d like to speak with him.”

Una paused, trying to find the right way to word things.

“Robin is angry right now. He doesn’t want to come to church,” Una lowered her eyes.

“Tell him there’s a game waiting for him. He’ll come.” Jonás smiled.