There's a word for it!

The ball of acid once again clutches at her, a visceral vice of pain slowly changing her last meal into a tormenting mass weighing on her stomach, filling her throat with bile. It’s Saturday and Saturday is game night.

She doesn’t want to play.

“Well come on woman you know the routine. Let’s get on with it!”

Slowly, compliantly, Christina begins to organise the table. Apart from his winning, this is perhaps the most crucial part. Board in the centre, exactly in the centre of the table. To the right, a very large, brown, leather-bound dictionary, its usual space belied by a large gap on the top shelf where its tome-like companions remained, silent witnesses to the weekly ordeal. The score book is positioned precisely six inches to the right of the dictionary followed by one HB pencil, parallel to, and three inches above, the score book. Nick pushes the wheeled step ladder away from the main bookshelves, leaving it precisely in its allotted corner space, before walking to his chair. Nick is a burly man, somewhat overweight, a fact reflected by creaking floorboards and the shuddering bookcase as he strides past.

Before sitting, Nick moves the pencil about one eighth of an inch to the left, at the same time scowling at his wife who quickly delves into a baize bag, the tiles clacking as she shuffles them before withdrawing one. “D”; Nick follows suit, “F”. There was a half-murmured grumble; she would be the player to start, and he would need to follow her. Not that it made any difference, the result being as predictable as the sunset. Refracted beams of light from the 17th. century windows were already spreading across the white plastered wall above the fireplace like blood red natural graffiti.

To her relief a pattern, long familiar to Christina, shapes the game inexorably towards her husband’s victory. It could not be otherwise. It was clear that she was not even close to his intellectual prowess which made her the perfect partner. She had sometimes dared to wonder what would happen if, by some fluke of luck, he failed to win. The thought made her shudder. The game continues with Nick, rather like a primary school teacher, patiently explaining the meaning, and often the origin, of the more obscure words he conjured from the seven tiles available to each player at each turn. The aim being to belittle her, make her feel insignificant.

By now she had become inured to some extent, yet a soupcon of resentment had taken hold in recent weeks, fomenting within her now burning, griping digestive system, becoming greater with each withering glance, venomous remark and superior stance. They had married for diverse reasons, she to escape poverty, he to own, possess and dominate. Only one of them was happy with the choice they had made.

She had long ago realized that too much self-reflection served no purpose other than to fuel her sense of helplessness and inferiority. Dwelling on such thoughts only made the pain worse. Even now, lost in such thoughts, Christina had missed some of the warning signs that she had come to fear. Nick had become tense, his fingers rapping on the tabletop and, even more disconcerting, going over the scores in an almost panic-stricken fit, bordering on apoplexy.

Nick is so distracted that she risks edging further forward on her chair. A quick glance reveals he is winning, but only by a few points. Today would not be the crushing. overwhelming embarrassment she always considered to be inevitable. She quickly runs through the possible consequences. He had never actually struck her, unless you count the time when he grabbed her sweater in a choking hold and accused her of cheating. There simply had never been a precedent for a close game. Her blood feels like ice.

Finally, he raises his head. Two serpent-like eyes transfix her. She must be closer to actually winning than she thought. He has only two letter tiles on his rack whilst hers held five. The rules said scores from remaining tiles counted against the player so that would surely add to his chances of having the highest score. It must be something she hadn’t seen. “It’s your go, unless you plan on being here all night!”

Was Nick’s certain victory really threatened? His face reflected anxiety, and is that the merest hint of fear? What was she missing? Now she was panicking, tempted to give up, tell him she couldn’t use any of her remaining letters, but something stopped her. They would then spend the next hour or so analysing the game so Nick could tell her of the many ways she could have used her five remaining letters and how stupid she had been not to see this for herself.

Her stomach is now churning, the burning reflux matching her anger. Could she dare, just once? A victory for her held unforeseen consequences, the ritual would be broken. This is unknown territory.

Her eyes frantically search for a suitable move. She takes her time. The irritating rap of fingers continues, nostrils flared, Nick’s breathing by now has reached stentorian dimensions. Yet Christina now feels detached, strangely calm, cold, as though watching the scene as an observer.

There it is! Three words all made by Nick in previous moves, running parallel across the board, each separated by an empty line. Christina checks and re-checks her letters before making her move, after all, Nick had told her many times the rules did not allow for false starts. Yes, it can work, using the aligned B, L and E from Nick’s words allows her to finish the game with no remaining letters.

“Obsolete”, she says, placing the last of her letters on the board.

An arm flashes across the table, the blow landing hard on her left cheek. “It’s not valid, you stupid bitch!” Frantic, he rummages through the rule book before grabbing her by the collar and waving it into her face. “See that! See that! Obsolete words aren’t acceptable so the word itself won’t be acceptable, will it?” He starts to laugh maniacally. “It’s ‘obsolete’ you see so it doesn’t count and that’s what it says in the rule book.”

He backs away from her, a manic grin giving him a fearful countenance, his shoulders shrugging in mock consolation. Retreating backwards, pointing at her angrily the blue veins across his forehead in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. Not seeing its proximity, Nick almost runs backwards into the central bookcase. The bookcase rocks backwards before toppling forward, crashing onto Christina’s husband.

=============

The policemen were very kind as they wrote down Christina’s account of the evening’s events. “’Course it’s more of a tragedy ‘coz of the dictionary.” The police sergeant said gently. “I mean, you’d think the bookcase would’ve crushed anyone, but the doc seems to think ‘e could’ve survived if it weren’t fer the dictionary falling on him. That’s wot saw ‘im off.” He looked at the blood-stained brown leather cover on the huge book, now lying on the floor.

“Yes,” replied Christina, wiping tears of joy from her eyes. “As I said he accidentally bumped into the bookcase as we were setting up the table. The dictionary fell first. It was on the top shelf.”