The Red Chesterfield

by Wayne Arthurson

  Again, my brother responds without looking up, without stopping his work. “Where do think?”

  Flashback

  My older brother and I decided to go to the movies. To the new theatre thirteen blocks to the east because it had many theatres instead of only one, plush seats, and sound that seemed to vibrate the building. It was glorious.

  As we came out of the matinee, our senses overloaded, I saw that there was a Sylvester Stallone movie playing in another theatre. “I love Stallone,” I said.

  “Come with me,” my brother said, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the bathroom.

  “Give me your jacket,” he said, once we were in.

  I did. He put it on, handing me his.

  “Wrap it around your waist, like it’s too hot and you don’t want to carry it anymore.”

  I did that.

  He turned us toward the mirror and looked us over. After a second, he nodded. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just follow me. Act natural, but don’t say anything.”

  I followed him into the theatre that was about to show the Stallone movie. I acted natural. I said nothing.

  It was glorious.

  Unhealthy Routines

  I fear K is doing what we did in that theatre: creating fake identities out of existing ones. I’d like to talk to him about it, to challenge him, but at the moment the stress of my day tells me to ignore it.

  J

  Anyway, I have to go down to the basement to do my laundry. There, in the small living space that was built into the basement by a previous owner of the house, sits my younger brother J. He is slouched on his black leather couch in front of his tv playing a violent first-person shooter game. His couch is a true couch, the total opposite of the Red Chesterfield in the ditch.

  I watch him from behind, watch him destroy aliens for a little bit, but I can’t help but look at the back of the couch, reminded of the find in the Red Chesterfield. I move to the side of the couch to escape that vision. But also so he can see I am there. I don’t want him to think I am spying on him.

  “Hey M,” J says when he sees me in his peripheral vision. But he does not look at me directly. To do so could cause his avatar to get killed. I have played these games as well and know what kind of concentration it takes to succeed.

  “How was school?”

  “The same, you know. School’s school.” He kills a couple more aliens to get to a checkpoint. “How was work?”

  Again, I feel a small compulsion to tell J my story. I know it would interest him enough to make him stop his game and pay attention to me. But he would have so many questions about the foot that I would have to take another shower to get back to normal again. And I don’t want to stress him out.

  “The same, you know. Work’s work.”

  Flashback #2

  “What should we tell him?” my older brother asked.

  “The truth?” I replied.

  “We can’t do that. He won’t be able to handle it. He’ll cry all the time.”

  “He’ll cry anyway. You can’t stop him.”

  “But I can’t tell him the truth. It’s a stupid way for them to die. I’m going to say they were killed in a car accident.”

  “He’ll find out. Maybe not now because he’s young, but when he’s older, he’ll find out.”

  “I’ll cross that when I come to it.”

  “I think you should tell him the truth. Lying about it will just make breaking the news harder.”

  “No. This is for the best.

  “I disagree.”

  “You’ll never understand. Never.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Why I have to make these decisions. It’s my job.”

  “Your job?

  “To protect you. Both of you. Especially with Momma and Da now gone.”

  Laundry

  I throw my uniform into the washer along with some coloured clothes that the others have thrown down. I see a maggot wriggle out of a sleeve. I jump back, slamming the door. I shake my arm to get rid of any phantom remnants. The laundry gets a full cap of detergent and the hottest temperature possible.

  On my way back upstairs, I ask J if he will transfer them to the dryer before he goes to bed.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  And I know he will, because that’s kind of person he is. K would not do the same. But he has other attributes.

  With that taken care of, I go into my room and lie on my bed, starting to read a book about a forgotten inventor. I only last a couple of pages before I feel my head start to droop. I close the book, saving my page with my bookmark, shut off my light, and lie flat.

  I nevertheless find it difficult to fall asleep in the dark. All I see is the colour red.

  And one single maggot coming out of my sleeve.

  The Next Day

  As soon as I walk through the door, I’m besieged by my co-workers. All of them clamour to know what happened, what the foot looked like, how I’m feeling, whether I need any help, and all those predictable comments and requests. I’m a deer in the headlights, as they say.

  But my supervisor, Rhonda, is pushing through the crowd. Rhonda is a small woman but she has a hobby called cross-training, so she’s strong and fit.

  “Leave M alone,” she barks. “Have some respect for a colleague.”

  There’s a moan of disappointment, but the crowd dissipates, reluctantly. Rhonda stands there for a moment, throwing dirty looks to get people on their way, either back to their desks or out the door for their shifts. “Come on, you all have work to do, so get to it.”

  Once everyone has moved on, Rhonda turns to me, placing a hand on my wrist. Her face softens. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say with a nod. “A little flustered by the attention, but I understand why. They are only curious, like I would be.”

  Rhonda nods encouragingly. But then the touch on my arm becomes a strong grip. She pulls me toward her office, the softness gone from her face.

  My Boss Is Also My Girlfriend

  Rhonda closes the door behind her, not quite a slam but just about. She releases me from her grip, almost throwing my arm aside. She storms to her side of the desk but doesn’t sit down on her chair.

  “I tried calling you last night,” she snaps. “As soon as I heard, I called.”

  “I turned my phone off.”

  “More than ten times I called. I was worried.”

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel like talking.”

  “Not even to me?”

  I sigh. What can I say that won’t disappoint my girlfriend? Sure, she is my boss but she was my girlfriend before she was my boss. I mean in the chronological sense; we were dating before she got her promotion. Everyone knew, but no one really cared.

  “I’m sorry, Rhonda, yesterday was difficult for me. I found someone’s foot in a discarded Red Chesterfield and inadvertently set off a murder investigation. I had to give my fingerprints and DNA to the police so they won’t confuse me with the murderer. I just wanted to go home and calm down and forget the day.”

  The anger in her face fades. She steps around her desk and wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry,” she says with a sob. “You’re right. I’m being selfish.” Her sobs become so intense that she can no longer talk.

  My shirt front, the one I washed last night, is wet.

  Drying Her Eyes

  Rhonda looks up at me, her face stained with tears. “You okay?” she asks.

  “I’ve been better, but I’ll survive.”

  “Your poor thing,” she says, squeezing me in a hug, one that lasts several seconds. My body sighs with relief in her arms. I wish to stay there. But we can’t. We are at work.

  She pulls away and walks around to her side of the desk, dryin
g her eyes with her sleeve. She pulls down on her shirt to smooth out the wrinkles in her uniform. “As your boss, I have to officially ask if you are okay.”

  “And officially, I will reply that I’ve been better, but I will survive.”

  She smiles a smile that fills her entire face and reminds me of why I became romantically involved with this co-worker. “At least you still have a sense of humour.”

  I shrug.

  After a moment, she continues. “There is also a list of counsellors for you to choose from if you wish to talk about your experience.”

  I shake my head.

  Rhonda sighs, disappointed at my reticence. But she doesn’t push it. She knows me well.

  “You can also take time off. It’s your decision. But officially, and unofficially, I highly recommend that you go home.”

  “If I go home, all I’ll do is think about what happened yesterday, and—” I pause, banishing the image of the Red Chesterfield and the foot from my mind. “That will only make it worse.” Deep breath. “I need to work.”

  Rhonda nods and writes in a notebook.

  “You need another hug?” she asks.

  Of course I do.

  The New Red Chesterfield

  I go about my work. The easy stuff, always the weeds. There is a list of what is a noxious weed and what is not. Unfortunately, not everyone reads that list and thinks any plant other than a perfect lawn is a weed. So, there are a lot of complaints to get through. If the weeds in question aren’t noxious, I move on. If they are, I tuck a notice in the mailbox about noxious weeds. This notice is usually all it takes; when I return to check, the weeds are gone. If not, I leave a warning. Ninety-nine point nine per cent of complaints are dealt with after a warning.

  The harder complaints are those concerning community standards. These deal with states of houses, if their conditions are detrimental to the neighbourhood. Guidelines can be vague about peeling paint, discarded furniture in back yards, open compost bins, damaged fencing—the list goes on.

  Again, notices are left, followed by warnings if nothing happens. This is my day, day in and day out, driving around doing my best to keep the city up to a reasonable standard while not being a hard-ass about what that means.

  The time passes well, without my giving much thought to the previous situation. But near the end of the day, I’m in the general vicinity of where I saw the Red Chesterfield and found the foot.

  Although I know it’s a mistake, I decide to drive past, even though it’s not on my way.

  As soon as I turn the corner onto the street, I see it. Plain as day, as obvious as the last time.

  The Red Chesterfield.

  Road Rage

  I brake so hard and fast that the driver behind me almost collides with my vehicle. A long blare on his horn as I stare at the item of furniture that I thought the police would have taken away as a key piece of evidence. Why would they leave it behind? More horn blaring when I don’t move. He pulls into the oncoming lane, but stops right next to me. I turn and look at him blankly. His window is rolled down and he screams a stream of obscenities at me. I don’t hear the words, just the anger. But even that is not enough to move me. I turn away from his shouting and look at the Red Chesterfield.

  Is it the same piece of furniture? Or a different one? It looks exactly like the one from yesterday, even with the rips in the back. But surely the police would not have left it behind. It must be another one. Or would they leave it behind? Could they not find a way to transport it? It must be another one.

  If so, will there be another foot tucked inside the back?

  More importantly, who put it here? Not just this Red Chesterfield, but the other one as well.

  Into the Ditch

  I know I should call the police, call the detective who took my statement the other night. Even contacting the young constable who got lost on his way to the police station would be a better idea than my pulling my vehicle to the side of the road, getting out, and climbing into the ditch.

  But I must see if this Red Chesterfield is real. I must make sure that this is not some post-traumatic hallucination.

  Down into the ditch I go, up to the Red Chesterfield. I reach out to touch it, but then pull my hand back. I don’t want to make the same mistake again.

  For a moment I stare at the Red Chesterfield, look at its Davenport outline, conjecture that if this is not the original, it is an exact copy. A second later, I decide there is only one way to determine if this Red Chesterfield is real and not a hallucination.

  I sit.

  Heebie-Jeebies

  When I sit, I don’t fall to the ground. The Red Chesterfield is real.

  It is also extremely comfortable, further supporting my belief that this is a chesterfield and not a sofa or a couch. Only chesterfields have this kind of bearing. The springs are well maintained, the fabric soft to the touch without being rubbery. My hands have tactile sensitivity, making them defensively reactive to materials. Velvet and velour give me the heebie-jeebies, while some leathers can be too smooth.

  The fabric covering the Red Chesterfield is just the perfect material for my hands, as if designed for me. That thought sends a shiver through my soles. I immediately dismiss that idea as folly. I can be single-minded at times but never to the point of narcissism.

  How could anyone have known that I called in the original complaint? And how would they know I would pass the scene again? Whatever is at play cannot be aimed at me. I am just a random link, a player because I found the Red Chesterfield.

  The foot.

  A random player.

  I relax into the Red Chesterfield and think about what I should do.

  The Yard Sale Part 2

  As I sit on Red Chesterfield #2 my mind turns over thoughts of what to do next. Call the police? Call Rhonda? Look under the cushion? Or just sit and enjoy the comforts of this high-quality piece of furniture. Sitting is the most comfortable option. But while my attention drifts, so does my vision. And on that cul de sac, the most prominent piece of visual stimulus is the yard sale.

  The sign is still up, the tarp flapping in the wind whenever a sharp gust blows through. The tables full of junk are still full of junk. In fact, it looks like there is even more junk in the yard, like that spitting man made a run during the night to load up more and place it in his yard.

  Some lighter bits have blown off, books and plastic plates, bits of children’s clothing, landing on the yard next door, the sidewalk out front, and even the street.

  Seeing that debris galvanizes me into action. I have only been able to give a warning because the yard sale was confined to the yard. But now it is causing a public hazard. I rise from the chesterfield and hitch up my belt.

  A Ticket

  I make my way up the sidewalk, through the tables of junk and old appliances. I write up the ticket as I move, noting the infraction and the fine as I climb the steps to knock on the door. City policy states that employees approaching private homes are to ring the doorbell. There is no doorbell for this house, only two disconnected wires hanging from a small opening at the side of the door. I must knock.

  There’s no answer to my first knock, nor my second. I switch from knocking to banging my fist.

  Inside the house, I hear angry words in another language, the tones suggesting something derogatory.

  The door is flung open and the large Eastern European man with the pulmonary obstruction disease stands angrily at the door. “What the fuck do you want?” he shouts. His fists are clenched, as if ready for violence. But his tone calms when he sees it’s me.

  “You,” he says, his face softening. After a pause. “Are you okay?”

  I am confused by his question.

  “That must have been difficult. Terrible.”

  I am unable to speak because my plan to be a tough bylaw officer is thrown by his kindness.

/>   “You want to come in for some tea? You could talk about your ordeal. Or not. Although sometimes it’s best to talk. Even to a stranger.”

  When I blink, continue to stand silent, he reaches out, gently pulls on my shoulder. “Come,” he says. “Have some tea.”

  The Bookshelves

  He ushers me into his house, gesturing for me to sit on a sofa in his living room while he makes the tea.

  I cannot help but be surprised by his abode. Unlike the front yard, his house is tasteful, tidy. The furniture is a mix of modern and classic, and the overall gestalt works. His walls display a mix of artwork and family photos. A tv hangs on the wall across from the sofa, not too big but not too small. It does not dominate the room like some tvs do.

  What does dominate the room are the two large bookshelves on either side of the couch. The only untidy spaces in the room, they overflow with books—paperbacks, trade and mass market, hardcovers, large print, coffee-table style, board books for kids, all jammed haphazardly onto the shelves. The subject matter is the same, a jumble of styles, seemingly un-curated.

  “Ah, you have found my weakness,” my host says in a voice that reminds me of a supervillain. “These are only my favourites. You should see my other rooms, they are filled with books. I can’t help but buy books, much to the chagrin of my wife.”

  Again, I am surprised by this. He has a wife and he loves books.

  “Sit, sit,” he says, gesturing toward the couch with his chin. He is holding a silver tray. “Have some tea. It will help because you, my friend, look like you need some help.”

  Tea for Two

  He hands me a delicate cup filled with tea, a tiny spoon of jam sitting on the saucer next to the cup. I look at the spoon, not sure what to do with it. Do I eat it? Spread the jam on the cookies sitting on a plate near the teapot?