Curiosity Read Free

leaving. The food was all cold by then, and there wasn’t much to choose from, but it kept me alive.
    I went on paying for my room and board by selling off what remained of our little library. Our only other possessions worth anything were the chess set and my father’s treasured microscope. I knew that, if I asked, he would tell me to pawn them and use the money for my own needs. But I couldn’t sleep nights, thinking of him lying on that cold stone floor and eating stale bread laced with sawdust and plaster of Paris.
    With my sheltered upbringing, I knew nothing about money matters, so I consulted Mrs. Runnymead, who owned the boardinghouse. It took some courage, for she was an imposing, intimidating figure. She didn’t just look large because I was so small, either. She loomed over all her other boarders, the way the chess queen looms over the pawns. “Please,” I said, in what I’m sure was a pitiful voice, “can you tell me where I might go to pawn something?”
    She peered down at me as though I were too far away to see clearly. “What sort of something?”
    â€œA microscope,” I said, feeling much the way a tiny bug on a microscope slide must feel.
    â€œLike a telescope, you mean?”
    â€œNot exactly. It’s more for looking at very small things.”
    â€œOh. Is it worth much?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œHmm. Why don’t I show it to my friend Mr. Wheelock? He’ll take most anything, and give you the best price.”
    I was only too glad to let her handle it. I surrendered the microscope and waited for her return, hoping it would fetch enough to at least buy my father a straw mattress. To my delight, Mrs. Runnymead came back with ten dollars in crisp banknotes. “Mr. Wheelock snatched it right up,” she said. “It seems them things are in great demand.”
    â€œHe won’t sell it, though? You told him not to sell it?”
    â€œOf course, he’ll sell it, you gilly. For twice what he gave me, I’ve no doubt.”
    â€œBut—but I only meant to pawn it,” I protested feebly, “and buy it back later.”
    â€œOh, dear.” Mrs. Runnymead made a tsk ing sound. “Ah, well, what’s done is done. Anyway, a Michaelscope is no good to your dad if he’s locked up in prison, now is it?”
    Though I felt as if I’d betrayed him, I had to admit she was right. Just now my father needed nourishing food and a warm bed far more than he needed a “Michaelscope.” I sighed and held out a hand for the money. But instead of giving the notes to me, Mrs. Runnymead folded them briskly and stuffed them into her already overstuffed bosom. “There. That’ll pay your room and board for a good while, I guess. I’m not running an almshouse here, after all.”
    I had always managed to get my own way with Fiona and with my father, but I knew somehow that no amount of pleading or coaxing would have the slightest effect on Mrs. Runnymead, except perhaps to make her angry, and I didn’t care to have her angry at me. My position was precarious enough.
    I had tenaciously held on to the chess set and the Philidor chess manual, partly because they were a way of filling up the long, solitary days, but more, I think, because they were familiar and comforting, the only relics that remained of my old life. The fact was, though, I didn’t really need them. I had the Philidor book all but memorized and, if it came to it, a person could just as well play chess on a checked tablecloth, with pieces of dried bread.
    Father’s set was a fine one, brought back from China by some Methodist missionary. The board was ebony and maple and the ivory pieces were of an Oriental design; the king and queen wore kimonos, and the knights resembled dragons. When we played at the Chess Club, many of the players had admired it. If one of them were to buy it, perhaps we could get it back when our fortunes