The Red Chesterfield

by Wayne Arthurson

  “Ah, yes, it’s family tradition,” he says. He holds up his spoon for a second, places it in the tea, stirring. He holds up the empty spoon, raising his eyebrows. “It can be a bit sweet for some but sweets are another weakness of mine.” He smiles and sips.

  It is a bit sweet for me, but oddly soothing. I take another sip and lean back on the sofa with my saucer. It’s a comfortable sofa with a well-used support, much like J’s couch in the basement.

  “You like books?” my host asks.

  “I do, although my tastes are more limited than yours. I read a lot of science fiction.”

  He leans forward, intrigued by this. “Space opera? Cyberpunk? Post-apocalyptic?”

  “A bit across all types. Even crime fiction.”

  “Yes, that is good,” he says, waving a finger. “Don’t limit yourself, I always say.”

  He mentions the name of a writer, an English writer I’m familiar with who has recently passed away. And then off we go, into a discussion of his works, and similar works, and whether a certain series of books translated well in the recent television adaptation. It’s a pleasant conversation that has nothing to do with my work or the events of the other day. I have more tea and I find myself relaxing even more into his sofa. Soon, my side of the conversation starts to decline.

  He doesn’t seem to notice.

  I fall asleep.

  Dream

  I dream . . . of nothing.

  Voices

  I hear voices. Soft voices, first male, in another language, then female, laughing quietly. After a moment, I hear footsteps move away. I am lying on the sofa, a knitted blanket draped over me. It is still light out, but the angle of the sun has changed.

  I prop myself on one elbow. The teacups and tray are put away. A small woman sits on the chair across from me. She reads a paperback.

  “You’re awake,” she says. Her voice is not accented like Yard Sale Man.

  “I am,” I say, swinging my feet forward to sit up. “I am sorry for that.”

  “It happens. Yuri said you were tired.”

  Yuri. Yard Sale Man is named Yuri.

  “I was. Tired.”

  “You discovered the foot. I saw you yesterday in your truck.”

  I nod.

  “I’m sorry. But I’m glad Yuri was here for you. He’s got a rough exterior, but he’s a marshmallow.”

  I nod.

  After a moment, while she continues to read, I say, “I should go.”

  “Yuri had to go to work but said you are welcome into our home anytime.”

  “Thank you. Although that sentiment may change.”

  “The yard sale,” she says, her voice putting quotation marks around the word yard.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You have to do your job.”

  “Yes.”

  But instead of handing her an infraction ticket with a fine, the one I had written earlier, I issue a written warning to clean up the yard.

  She takes it with a smile. “Come back, anytime.”

  Weeds

  “You were in there a long time.”

  I turn toward the sound of the voice and see it is the neighbour from before, the one with the pyjamas underneath his bathrobe. He stands at the end of his walk, wearing a hoodie and a pair of shorts. And his slippers.

  “I hope you gave them what for about this mess.”

  I walk over so I don’t have to shout at him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I hope you gave them what for about their mess. It’s ruining the neighbourhood.”

  I nod but say nothing about the written warning instead of the ticket. He takes my silence as a positive development.

  “Good. About time the fucking city did something about that. I’ve been complaining for a couple of weeks now.”

  “We get hundreds of complaints a day and we investigate all of them. I arrived yesterday and gave them a warning. Then I returned today.”

  “Still took your fucking time.”

  I look at the neighbour and then at his lawn. I point with my finger. He turns.

  “What?”

  “Canada Thistle.”

  “So fucking what?”

  “It’s a noxious weed. Better remove it.”

  As I walk away, he shouts at me. “Fuck you.”

  Chastisement

  I storm back to my truck and drive away, my tires spraying gravel. I grumble at the neighbour’s rudeness, about the entitlement some people think they have, about the bylaws. But deep down, I am disappointed in myself. I broke a number of rules governing the professionalism of a bylaw enforcement officer.

  I entered a citizen’s home when I should not have.

  While in that home, I accepted an offering of some type, a small one perhaps, but still an offering. Even though I gave them a written warning, my drinking the tea could be construed as a bribe.

  I also fell asleep while on duty.

  Worst of all, I fell asleep on duty while in a citizen’s home after accepting an offering of some type. Many punishments are available for these infractions, including dismissal.

  Rhonda would be very disappointed.

  I chastise myself as I drive home, my shift officially over even though I spent two hours of it sleeping on Yuri’s couch.

  It is only when I pull up in front of my house that I realize something.

  When I passed the ditch, the Red Chesterfield was gone.

  Photo Radar

  I jerk my vehicle in gear and peel away from the front of my house, my tires screeching, the smoke of burnt rubber blowing behind me. I race through the city, dodging in and out of traffic, breaking the speed limit. A couple of times, the flash of photo radar follows me. I will be disciplined for these infractions, but I don’t care. I need to see for myself that the Red Chesterfield is gone.

  I must know if I was just too distracted by the events of the afternoon—my falling asleep on Yuri’s couch, dealing with the angry neighbour—to see the couch, even though it was there. Or is the Red Chesterfield, or rather the second Red Chesterfield, gone? And if so, where did it go?

  I turn onto the road that the ditch runs alongside. But I’m going in the other direction, so I make a U-turn, so fast that the edge of the vehicle skids away. I fight the truck, turning the steering wheel in the other direction, but the vehicle overcompensates and skids back the other way, onto the road.

  A car coming toward me swerves to avoid my flailing back end, its horn blaring. Another turns the other way, but I panic and forget to take my foot off the gas. The back tires screech on the pavement, the rear end goes the other way again, and my vehicle roars forward.

  The momentum sends me sideways. My back tires bite into the grass and the truck lifts up on one end and, ever so slowly, tips onto its side.

  The Blue Zone

  The panic attack that occurs immediately after the accident passes relatively quickly. My heart and breathing rates slow and I’m hanging from my seatbelt, my feet drifting towards the passenger door.

  My shoulder hurts. Or my neck? Some type of soft-tissue injury that could have long-term consequences. Part of my brain suggests that I move, but I can’t. I just shut down, overwhelmed. The Blue Zone.

  I can hear someone pounding on the outside of the window, shouting at me.

  “Are you okay?” Over and over.

  But the conscious part of my brain doesn’t register. It’s very difficult for me to react to outward stimuli when I’m in the Blue Zone.

  I hear grunting. My door opens. It closes again.

  “Fuck,” someone shouts. “Give me a fucking hand, will you—shock’s starting to set in.”

  The door opens, stays open, voices grunt in effort, hands reach in and grab me, almost drop me when my seatbelt is undone. But over several moments, and w
ith a lot of effort, I am dragged out of my vehicle and deposited on the grass near the shoulder of the world.

  Faces stare at me. I stare back but am unable to make a human connection.

  “Jesus, no response at all.”

  “Yeah, but 911’s on its way.” Sirens in the distance.

  “The dog,” I hear myself say. “Did you see the dog?”

  “What dog?” an excited voice asks. “Is there a dog in your truck?”

  “There was a dog on the road. Did I hit it?”

  Maybe a Dog

  “There was something about trying to miss a dog.”

  “Did you see a dog?”

  “Nope, only swerving all over the road.”

  “So, no dog?”

  “We only saw the truck swerving before we had to get out of the way. So maybe a dog or something ran in front before we got a chance to see it.”

  “Did you see a dog or any other animal after the accident, sniffing around, running around or anything?”

  “Nope. But maybe it got scared, or it got hit and it’s hiding over there?”

  “Where?”

  “You know, in the ditch back there. Underneath that couch.”

  “What couch?”

  Flashlight

  I jump to my feet and start to run.

  “Hey,” someone shouts.

  I don’t run far. Just about twenty metres from my upturned vehicle into the ditch where the Red Chesterfield sits.

  Unlike this afternoon, the Red Chesterfield is upside down, its stubby wooden legs pointing to the sky.

  “It’s here! It’s here.” I point at the piece of furniture, jumping up and down like a little kid.

  The constable catches up to me, breathing a bit heavily for such a short run. He places his hand on my shoulder. “What? Is the dog there? Do you see it?”

  “You see it too? You see the Red Chesterfield?”

  “Yeah, I see it. Is the dog underneath?”

  “You see it! You see it!” My mind is full of joy and relief. I was not imagining it; the Red Chesterfield was returned. It had been moved, yes, but it is here now.

  “Did you find the dog?” another constable asks.

  “I don’t know, I’m gonna look,” says his partner. He steps forward, flicking on a flashlight. The light shows the red of the chesterfield as he walks around it, bending down to look under.

  “Yep there’s something under there,” he says to his partner. Then to me, “Give me a hand, will ya?”

  He sticks one end of the flashlight in his mouth and grabs the chesterfield. I grab the same end and push it up, the other end on the ground. I hold it there as he shines his light on what’s underneath.

  “Holy fuck,” he says. A moment later I see what he sees and drop the Red Chesterfield on him.

  Pyjamas

  “So, you knew him?” I’m questioned again by the female homicide detective. This time in a room downtown.

  “The dead man in the pyjamas? Not personally, no. I met him, in the course of my duties. It was the day I found the foot.” Pause. “And today.”

  “Today? Alive?” Her eyebrows rise.

  “I had filed a warning against one of his neighbours and then noticed his noxious weeds. Canada Thistle. I suggested he remove them.”

  “Did he? Remove the noxious weeds?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to come back later to check.”

  “Do you do a lot of bylaw enforcement checks at night?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, let’s just cut to the chase, okay? A red chesterfield is found in a ditch with a severed foot in it. The next day, another red chesterfield is found in the same ditch, this time with a body underneath it?”

  I nod quickly. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, the most incredible part is that the same person discovered each of the red chesterfields.” She gives me a look.

  I deflate in my chair. “I know. It’s . . .” I search my mind to find the word to describe the situation, how it is affecting me and making me feel.

  “Suspicious. That’s the word you’re looking for,” says the detective. “I’d also add an adverb. Like highly.”

  Candour

  I come clean. I don’t worry about the professional repercussions because being fired is always more favourable than being tried for murder. Or any other crime. I tell the detective everything, from the time I first discovered the Red Chesterfield, to the finding of the foot, to having tea and falling asleep in Yuri’s house, then racing back and causing the accident.

  To give her credit, she does not interrupt me, even though she has heard some of this story from the other day. She takes notes, nods, and lets me ramble. Which I do. A lot.

  When I think I’m finished, she says nothing. Just waits. And I add another ten minutes of rambling to fill that silence. This happens once more when I add an apology for not including information that I forgot to mention at the beginning.

  She smiles. “Thank you for your candour, this was extremely enlightening.” Closes her notebook, pen in pocket. Stands up, adjusts her jacket. “We’re going to ask you to wait here for several moments. Someone will bring you a sandwich and a drink. Any requests?”

  “Any sandwich will do.”

  “Drink?”

  “Anything—no wait. No cream soda. I hate cream soda.”

  “Done. And thank you again.” She turns to head out of the room.

  “Detective?”

  She turns back.

  “The constable . . . um, the one I . . .”

  “Dropped the chesterfield on?” she asks with a smile.

  I nod.

  “He’s fine. Pissed at you, which is why he won’t be involved in this case, but overall he’s fine.”

  Worries

  I wait and wait and wait, and wonder what is being said about me, who is doing the talking, and what they will decide.

  I wonder if they will handcuff me and charge me with murder, lock me up in the Remand Centre until a trial. I wonder how a charge like that would affect my family. Will it dash my older brother’s political hopes?

  Will J’s marks be affected?

  And Rhonda? No doubt she will end our relationship, but will this affect her position, especially since she was just promoted?

  So many worries.

  Especially the cost.

  We cannot afford the legal fees.

  Release

  “You can go.”

  I snap awake to find myself resting my head on the table. A puddle of drool. I look up. “You,” I say.

  The constable from the other night, the one who got lost trying to lead me to the West Division station, is standing by an open door.

  “Yes. Me.” He smiles. “You can go.”

  I sit up. “I’m not charged with murder or anything like that?”

  Shake of the head.

  “Wow. That’s fantastic.” It takes me a minute to process that information. And yes, it’s a whole minute—sixty seconds—not just a vague description of time. Finally, I stand up, wiping the drool from my face.

  I sign some papers, without reading them but happily, because these papers will allow me to leave the building.

  The constable leads me through a maze of hallways but he does not get lost here. We reach an outside door and he opens it, standing aside to let me pass.

  “You can go. But I must tell you that technically you are a suspect.”

  “A suspect.”

  He nods. Then smiles.

  “But not a serious one. More of a person of interest. Someone will be in touch with you later on, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I nod a thanks and step to the door. When I am halfway through he lays a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

  “Don’t
leave town.” Hand lifts.

  Greetings

  Rhonda shouts my name and rushes to greet me. She pulls me into her embrace and I accept it fully, wrapping my arms around her. Tears flow, especially mine.

  It’s hard to describe the joy I’m feeling. A few minutes ago, I was held against my will. Legally of course, but no one wishes to be held in custody by authorities, no matter how respectable and friendly those authorities may be. My people have a long history with the authorities, a lot of it bad. And now, I am not only free to go but Rhonda is here, wrapping her arms around me. She takes all the negative energy that has been in me for the last couple of days and sucks it out of me. But she doesn’t take it on herself, she just takes it away from me and lets it drift and fade away, like smoke in the wind.

  “Rhonda,” I whisper.

  She grabs my head in her hands and kisses me, deeply, tongues entwined. She’s my lover, so this is how we kiss when we are so glad to see each other.

  After a moment, another long embrace.

  Then a hand on my shoulder. We pull away.

  J is standing next to us, smiling. Glad to see me. “Glad you’re out.”

  “J.”

  I hug him, not as deeply as Rhonda because he’s my brother. But it’s a strong hug. We have that relationship.

  “Where is—” I look about.

  J shrugs. “In the car. You know what he’s like.”

  I do.

  Backseat

  I make a move to get into the front seat, the shotgun seat. “Get in the back,” my older brother says.

  “Don’t be a dick, man,” J says to him, standing behind me. Rhonda says nothing but climbs into the seat behind my older brother, quietly making her point.