Was there a special game you played as a child? A game you still love now because of what it meant to you then?
For as long as I can remember, my grandmother and my father played cards. They taught me pitch and gin. When my aunt was visiting, they needed a fourth, and so they taught me bridge. But the game I loved was Scrabble. Before I really knew how to play, I would sit with one of them—usually my grandmother—and I would watch her form those disparate letters into words and lay down those words to catch the colored numbered squares and fill the board. It was by watching that I learned the rules. I remember the thrill I felt when I was old enough to keep my own letters, to have my own rack. We would play after lunch and after a game or two, my aunt and father would drift off to something else. “You want to play again, Nana?” I’d ask. And my grandmother would nod, light another cigarette, and start flipping over the tiles. We would play game after game after game. Until it was time for her to fix supper. Then we’d eat, clear the table, wash the dishes, I would dry them for her and then I’d ask to play again.
When I graduated from college, and moved to New York, I would drive to Connecticut to spend the weekend with her. We’d play a game the night I came in, usually late, we’d only have time for one. The next morning, I’d go for a run while she had her coffee-cake and tea—then we’d start in, and play game after game. We’d pause for lunch and sit together looking out the window at the swans on the lagoon she loved. Then we’d play until supper, then again after, as the light fell. She had been a concert pianist. And sometimes she played Chopin for me in the evenings—I would beg for that—then she’d have a drink, another cigarette, it would be night by then, I’d grab two cookies from the kitchen, and we’d come back once more to the board still laid out the table. One last game.
The idea for this novel came to me years after she was gone. But as I wrote the scenes of the two women, Ada and Jane, playing Scrabble, I remembered the long sweet hours of those childhood days: the stillness of the house, the light tick-tack as she lay down her tiles, the smell of her cigarette balanced on the ashtray, just resting there untended, dwindling down.
And I remembered too things I did not know I had forgotten, things she had taught me over the years as we played. She played Scrabble for the words, as many women in her generation did. I always played for the numbers. How we play a game can reveal so much about how we tick, how we live, who we are. In Scrabble, some play to keep the board open, some play to shut it down. Some play with an eye to the sum of the total scores of all players; some play, simply, to maximize their own score. Most players will look at the board and see the words that fill it. But a really good player, a canny player—and she was one of those—will also see opportunity in the skinny spaces still left open in between.
As I wrote the scenes for this novel, the game for me became the perfect lens for a story about two women, two families bound together and divided by unspeakable secrets—a brutal past, a murder, a love story. Because what are words if not a bridge? Between one person and another. Thought and reality. Past and present, present and future. Words bridge silence. Words, and the stories they comprise, bridge time.
So reader, tell me this:
What was the game you played as a child? Who did you play that game with? What did it mean to you then? And what has it taught you about life as you are living it now?