Free Heart Troubles by Stephen; Birmingham Page A

backgammon table became the center of their lives. It was the continent that held them. It was a land that was both safe and calm. Even when they argued—as they still did upon occasion—the backgammon table was like a platform for their discussions, a lectern across which opinions flowed more easily and could be debated more sensibly.
    One night she said, “Justin, do you know what I think?”
    â€œWhat?” he asked her.
    â€œThis table didn’t revive our love.”
    â€œDidn’t it?”
    â€œNo. Our love was there all along. The table simply made us face each other, made us remember that we loved each other.”
    â€œI suppose you’re right,” he said.
    â€œPeople,” she said, “should face each other.”
    He looked at her. “What’s the matter?” he asked her.
    â€œNothing—nothing,” she said.
    Only as they got better at the game did anything that amounted to a quarrel occur over the backgammon table. He said to her one evening, “You know, the thing I like about this game is that there’s no skill involved. It’s all in the way the dice land.”
    â€œWhy, I think there’s a lot of skill involved!” she said.
    â€œWhat skill is there? I don’t see any.”
    â€œThere’s strategy, isn’t there? Don’t you call strategy skill, for goodness’ sake?”
    â€œPlease, Irene. Don’t raise your voice at me.”
    â€œI’m not raising my voice!”
    â€œYou are. You’re screaming again!”
    â€œI’m only saying there is skill to backgammon. Your last move, for instance.”
    â€œWhat was wrong with it?”
    â€œIt was a very foolish move, Justin. Look, if you’d moved this stone to your three point and this one to your—”
    â€œYou always know the right move, don’t you?” he said.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do!”
    â€œDo you mean this move would have been better?” He rearranged his stones in the manner she had indicated.
    â€œYes,” she said. “See? See what I mean? Look—now that stone is protected.”
    He studied the board. “Yes,” he said finally. “You’re right.”
    But despite such moments Irene felt that their marriage, which had been like a dying tree, was slowly beginning to flourish again over the backgammon table—that a new surge was coming to its branches, a new leafiness to its stems. And, along with her interior spring came another spring in the trees on Seventieth Street, outside her living-room windows.
    â€œThis morning,” she said to him one sunny Saturday, “we have our choice. We can walk in the park or play backgammon.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” he said.
    He was right, she thought comfortably, it didn’t matter; whichever thing they did they would be happy doing, together.
    â€œWell, let’s play backgammon then!” she said.
    â€œAll right. You win.”
    â€œWhy? Why do you say ‘You win’?”
    He smiled. “You usually win, don’t you? At backgammon, I mean?”
    She laughed. “Don’t be silly!” she said. “It’s because I think out my game. I use strategy!”
    That evening Irene said, “Darling, do you realize what’s happened? We’ve become so devoted to backgammon that we’ve neglected all our friends! I’ll admit it’s more fun to spend an evening alone with you but we really must have some people in—just for a change.”
    â€œAll right,” he said. “Who’ll we have?”
    â€œLet’s have John and Eleanor Dixon.”
    â€œFine,” he said.
    Irene went to the telephone. She had suggested the Dixons for a reason. Eleanor Dixon—who fancied herself an interior decorator, though she was totally without credentials—had never seen the backgammon table, and Irene was anxious to see what Eleanor thought. She