The Official Dictionary

Sunday afternoon is traditionally reserved for peace and quiet in our house.

The box hedge had been clipped into obedience. My laptop was shut inside its bag. Even the cat was lying on the windowsill instead of shouting at it.

My wife suggested we open the cupboard in the attic and bring down the old Scrabble board.

Just letters and wooden racks, she said.

No updates. No passwords. No small glowing screen asking whether we were still there.

I thought this would suit me perfectly.

I spend most days keeping the alphabet in order at the library. The transportation and storage of language hold very few mysteries for me.

I reached into the velvet bag and drew seven tiles.

Three Qs.

Two Ys.

An X.

And an E.

There are moments when the alphabet seems less like a system and more like a practical joke.

I moved the letters around for several minutes. I leaned closer. I leaned back. I tried looking at them without appearing desperate.

The best I could produce was a doubtful little word that may exist in a medical encyclopedia, though probably only beside a diagram no one wants to see before lunch.

My wife, meanwhile, began laying down words with the calm efficiency of someone stocking a pantry.

Within two turns she had found a triple-word square.

Then another.

She placed long, useful words across the board as though she had swallowed the official dictionary sometime during breakfast and was now returning it one line at a time.

I finally spotted an opening.

There was a K already on the board, and beside it enough empty space for what I considered a perfectly vital word.

I placed my X against one of her letters and began building what I intended to be wax.

Unfortunately, I discovered halfway through the operation that I had miscounted the squares.

I put the tiles down with enough force to send two wooden racks skidding across the coffee table.

That is one advantage of old-fashioned games.

When they disappoint you, they make a proper noise.

My wife studied the board.

“That is not a word, Marcel.”

“It nearly is.”

“Nearly is not one of the categories.”

I pointed at the letters.

“The intention is perfectly clear.”

She looked at me over the top of her reading glasses.

“Now, Marcel…”

There it was.

The small opening ceremony for a defeat.

“You are trying to negotiate with the alphabet again.”

“I am trying to help it reach its full potential.”

She wrote down her score in a little notebook and pushed the velvet bag back toward me.

“Take three new tiles. Try something manageable.”

“Such as?”

“Hen.”

I lost by one hundred and fifty points.

An honourable result, considering the hostile conditions.

Afterwards, I gathered every tile and arranged them neatly in alphabetical order before putting them back into the bag.

My wife watched me.

“They are supposed to be mixed up.”

“I know.”

She smiled.

Next Sunday I may suggest shuffleboard.

There are fewer letters involved.

And, as far as I know, the official dictionary has no authority over it.

Outside, the street had gone quiet again.

The cat opened one eye, decided nothing had improved, and closed it.