The Red Chesterfield

by Wayne Arthurson

  Did Yuri’s disappearance have anything to do with his neighbour’s death? Did Yuri kill his neighbour? Did he put

  him under the Red Chesterfield? If Yuri didn’t, then who did? What about the foot and the original Red Chesterfield? Is there any connection? If not, then who put the Red Chesterfield there? And why?

  In the end, the Red Chesterfield is what gets me out of my indecision. And out the door.

  To get answers. About the Red Chesterfield.

  Empty Ditch

  The first thing I check when the Uber drops me off at Yuri’s cul de sac is the ditch where I found the Red Chesterfield. Where I found both Red Chesterfields.

  The ditch is empty. I am both pleased and disappointed about this, a dichotomy of feelings I can’t really explain. The last few days of my life have been the most unusual I have ever experienced, disconcerting and exciting at the same time. Another dichotomy I can’t truly understand.

  The yard sale is still in place, with the tarp and the junk. I walk through it and up to Yuri’s door.

  I look at the two wires of the doorbell and knock. I hear voices in the distance, whispers that sound worrying.

  The door opens and I’m shocked to see Yuri standing in front of me. My mouth falls open and I stare at him.

  “Well, what the fuck do you want?” he says.

  When he speaks, I realize it is not Yuri but someone who looks like him. A brother? A cousin?

  “Who is it?” I hear Yuri’s wife ask from the living room.

  The Lookalike looks me over. “Some Indian,” he says with disdain.

  A rustle of sounds and, seconds later, Yuri’s wife is at the door, beaming at my presence. “You came.”

  “I did.”

  She grabs my hand and yanks me into house. She pulls me into a hug, squeezing the breath out of me.

  The Lookalike steps back, but the look of distaste is still on his face.

  Wail of Rage

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Yuri’s wife says after she releases me from her hug.

  I start to talk, something along the lines of “I’m not sure what I can do,” when the Lookalike says something in an Eastern European language. I don’t need to understand to know it’s something derogatory, a comment about me.

  The look of happiness on the face of Yuri’s wife changes instantly to anger. She screams back at the Lookalike in the same language. He yells something in return.

  She’s frozen in shock at whatever he says, and I can tell that he instantly regrets saying what he said. But it’s too late. Even though he makes apologetic sounds.

  Yuri’s wife explodes with rage. She pushes me aside, almost knocking me to the floor.

  She swings several punches at the Lookalike. He puts his hand up to block them, but I can tell by the way he winces at each punch that they hurt.

  He tries to placate her, apologizing over and over, but to no avail. She swings at him several times, is blocked repeatedly, and then stands in the middle of the living room. She screams and points at the front door.

  “Wait, wait,” the Lookalike says in English.

  “I said, Get Out!” She screams and points to the door. “Get! Out!”

  He looks at her, hoping for a reprieve, but even I can tell she won’t change her mind.

  He shakes his head and storms out, roughly shoving me aside as he goes by.

  This time, I fall to the floor.

  Yuri’s wife screams once more. Not words in another language, but a wail of rage.

  Short-Term Use

  Violent outbreaks of emotions like I have just witnessed make me uncomfortable, and for a moment I’m pushed into the Blue Zone. And while I see Yuri’s wife stomp out of the room and down the hallway, it doesn’t register until a few seconds later. I’m left alone in the entryway of the house, unsure of what I’m supposed to do. I’m more used to K’s passive-aggressive strategies or J’s quiet non-communication. Rhonda’s emotions are strong but steady. They can rise in intensity, but it’s a slow rise, like a fire that burns so gradually that you’re taken unaware of how warm you can become. And yet Rhonda’s fire will never burn me—that much I know to be true.

  My first desire at Yuri’s house is to leave and go home. I don’t know what Yuri’s wife is doing. And if she wants me to stay.

  Being in the Blue Zone doesn’t help with my decision-making process.

  I sit in the chair by the door, a button-tufted U-bench with dark wooden legs and a cushion the colour of oatmeal. The U-bench isn’t as comfortable as the Red Chesterfield, but comfort is not the point of this chair. It’s for decoration, one of the first pieces of furniture you see when you enter the house, and thus designed for short-term use.

  If Yuri’s wife comes out by the time the Blue Zone fades away, I’ll stay. If not, I’ll go home and forget all of this.

  The Zones of Regulation

  There are three Zones of Regulation that everyone deals with, whether they know they exist or not.

  There’s the Green Zone—the place for optimal learning and living. You aren’t always happy in the Green Zone, but you are safe and fully aware of the world, responding to it from a good place in your brain.

  Then there’s the Blue Zone—sometimes confused with the Green Zone, because from the outside both can look the same. But for whatever reason, you shut down, either due to mood or for a desire to protect yourself from forces you don’t think you can control. Many people live completely in the Blue Zone, thinking they are in the Green.

  Finally, the Red Zone—this is a place of anger, fear, absurdity, and other intense emotions. It is obviously not a good place to live.

  Cursed by Apollo

  I’m not sure how long it takes for me to come out of the Blue Zone, but when I do Yuri’s wife is standing in the middle of the living room, looking at me. I blush because I’m not sure how long she has been staring at me.

  She smiles, light and soft, apologetic. “I’m sorry for the outburst, earlier. Yuri’s brother can be so aggravating sometimes, so unlike Yuri.”

  That was his brother, I think, but she nods, and I realize that I spoke those words out loud.

  “I expect it must have been disconcerting to see him answering the door,” she says. “You probably thought it was Yuri.”

  I nod.

  “They look so much alike—not twins, Yuri is the younger one, only a year younger than Boris, but in many ways a lot older. Boris can be such a child.”

  I nod, taking in the words, but something nags at me, something as yet unspoken. And although it has little to do with the Red Chesterfield, the finding of the foot, the neighbour’s body, and the apparent disappearance of Yuri, I can’t continue without getting past that gap.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “In my mind I keep calling you ‘Yuri’s wife,’ but that’s not proper. You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

  She smiles. “Cassandra. My name is Cassandra.”

  “That’s a beautiful name.”

  Her brown eyes sparkle. But then the smile turns sad.

  “Beautiful and clever, say the legends, but insane,” she says. “Cursed by Apollo when she refused to sleep with him. When she prophesied events to come, she was never believed.”

  Then I Am No Barbarian

  I sputter some platitudes, telling her that my presence is proof of my belief in her statement.

  A wave of her hand tells me that she knows that I’m not telling the complete truth and there is no need to continue.

  “Please come in, if you wish. And sit. Or leave. I will not judge your choice.” She stands in the middle of the room, her face blank.

  Leaving isn’t an option, whether or not I believe her story about Yuri being missing. I came here for my own reasons, so I enter the living room, sit on the sofa where I had my nap.

  “Tea?” Cassa
ndra asks. She remains in the spot in the middle of the living room but has turned 180 degrees to face me.

  “Will you judge my choice in that?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says with a laugh that defuses the tension in the room. “Anyone who refuses an offer of tea is a barbarian.”

  “Then I am no barbarian.”

  “I know. That is why I called you.”

  Jumbles

  Cassandra serves the tea the same way Yuri did, in a small, delicate cup with a teaspoon of jam sitting on the saucer. I stir the jam through the tea while she goes back into the kitchen, returning with a plate of round cookies dusted with icing sugar. She holds out the plate for me and I take one, setting it down on the saucer next to my cup.

  Cassandra sits on the opposite end of the sofa, a respectable distance away, crossing her legs. She takes one of the cookies and dips it into the tea, takes a bite.

  I’m unsure of adding more sweetness to my tea, but follow her lead. There’s a honey-nutty taste to the cookie, similar to a jumble cookie, almost a pastry but not quite, with a hint of nutmeg. Very tasty.

  Since I’m not a detective of any sorts, only a suspended bylaw enforcement officer, I’m uncertain where to start. I focus on the tea. And the cookies.

  “These are delicious.”

  “Pyraniki, basic Russian tea cookie. Simple to make. Before you go, I will give you the recipe, if you wish.”

  I nod. Drink my tea. Eat the rest of my cookie. Cassandra lifts the plate to offer me another. I demur but she insists by jerking the plate slightly. I acquiesce and take another one. Dip it in my tea and bite.

  I can think of nothing to start a conversation about Yuri.

  This Time Is Different

  Mercifully, Cassandra begins. “You believe me when I say Yuri is missing?”

  I have no idea what to believe. “You said he’s gone missing before?”

  She nods.

  “But this time is different?”

  She nods.

  “What is different about this time?”

  She drinks the rest of her tea, stands, goes to the samovar on the dining room table and pours herself a second cup.

  “Yuri—.” She starts but stops. Drinks more tea. Takes a deep breath. “Yuri is having an affair.”

  I blink quickly. Nothing comes to mind in response to that.

  “With Boris’s wife.”

  My blinking increases and I turn to the front door.

  “Boris doesn’t know,” she says. “He works in a camp building towers for a new electrical line. When Yuri disappears before, he is with her.”

  “But not now?”

  She shakes her head.

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “A wife knows.”

  “If you want me to believe you, you have to do better than that.”

  It takes her at least a minute.

  “I called her. And she said he was not there.”

  “She could be lying.”

  She chuckles, but not as if she is laughing at a joke.

  “My sister is a terrible liar.”

  Not What You Think

  I’m so shocked that I’m only able to say “Your sister . . .” before my mind shuts down my vocal chords.

  “It’s not what you think,” Cassandra says, waving her teacup at me.

  I don’t know what to think. First, Boris and Yuri, brothers, married to a pair of sisters. One of those brothers—Yuri—is having an affair with the other brother’s—Boris’s—wife. Who, again, happens to be the sister of Yuri’s wife, Cassandra. And not only does Cassandra know about the affair, she has called her sister to ask if her missing husband is there. And because he is not, he must be missing.

  What about Boris? Does he know? Was that why he was so angry? If so, does that mean he’s involved somehow in Yuri’s disappearance? Did he cause harm to his brother because he discovered Yuri was sleeping with his sister-in-law? His sister-in-law from both sides.

  And what did he say to Cassandra to make her so angry, to make her explode in a scream of rage and throw him out of her house?

  Questions, thoughts, and confusions whirl about in my mind so fast that they almost push me into the Blue Zone. Almost, but not quite.

  Still, I have no words to offer Cassandra, just a look of incredulity.

  She looks at me, again waving her teacup.

  “It’s not what you think,” she says again, as if she’s just read my thoughts.

  Skirting the Edges

  I pull myself back from the edge of the Blue Zone. “How do you know what I think?” It comes out a lot louder than I expect, almost a shout, which surprises Cassandra to her feet. But sometimes I need to jolt myself with a sudden movement or sound to get out of the Blue Zone.

  Although I’m not sure if I’ll fall into the Red Zone and completely lose it, which has been known to happen, or if I’ll just get back into the Green Zone and skirt the edge.

  “How could this affair of Yuri’s with his brother’s wife, who just happens to be your sister, not have anything to do with his disappearing? Perhaps Boris found out.”

  “Boris doesn’t know.”

  “Maybe he does.”

  “He doesn’t. I’m a quite sure of that.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because if Boris knew that Yuri was having an affair with Helene, then Yuri would be dead: Boris would not hesitate to kill him.”

  I stare at her, my mouth wide open, my thought obvious from my expression.

  Cassandra shakes her head at my look. “Boris doesn’t know. Yuri isn’t dead, he’s just missing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he called me and told me to tell you that.”

  I Beg Your Pardon

  “I beg your pardon?” I say. “He said you should tell me he is missing?”

  Cassandra nods.

  “Then he’s not missing?”

  “I don’t know where he is, so technically he is missing.”

  “But not enough to go to the police?”

  She nods. Lifts the plate of cookies to offer me another.

  The movement is so incongruous with what we are talking about that I look at her as if she’s insane. She shrugs and puts the plate down. There is a slight probability that she is insane. A spark flashes inside of me and starts to grow into a burning flame. It’s the urge to flee and forget everything in this cul de sac. But I push it down, still skirting the edge of the zones but so far on the right side of green.

  “Why me?” I ask. It’s a question directed at Cassandra, but also at the universe in general—a response to all the events of the past several days.

  “Yuri said you could be trusted.”

  “Yuri and I barely know each other. And I am the bylaw officer who keeps bothering and warning him about this yard sale.”

  “But you fell asleep on his couch. Yuri said that showed a lot of trust on your part.”

  “I was tired.”

  “Tired or not, if there were no sense of trust about Yuri and this house, you would not have fallen asleep.”

  “That’s just silly.”

  She shrugs: “That’s Yuri.”

  I Am Not a Sexual Being

  I put down my teacup and saucer and run my hands over my face. It’s taking all my strength to stay centred. “And what does Yuri want me to do?”

  “He didn’t say. He just said to call you and tell you he was missing. ‘Play it up,’ he said. ‘If you act like a damsel in distress, the bylaw officer will come.’ ” She gives me a shrug.

  I look at her, wondering if I’m always so easy to read.

  She nods.

  “So I’m just supposed to take it from you and go searching for Yuri. A man who may or may not be missing.”

 
She nods again.

  “This is insane.”

  Another nod. “That’s Yuri.”

  “Why do you stay married to him?” I ask after a pause.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “He sleeps with your sister.”

  “She’s better equipped to deal with that side of our relationship.”

  “I do not understand this.”

  “I am not a sexual being—”

  “I don’t mean that,” I shout, cutting her off. “I’m talking about all of this. It’s completely insane.”

  She opens her mouth to speak and I leap to my feet and point at her. “And don’t say ‘That’s Yuri.’ That means nothing to me because I don’t know Yuri.”

  “Then maybe you should.”

  Recipe

  I throw my hands up in frustration. “This is just stupid,” I say, making my way to the door. “If you hear from Yuri, tell him I’m going home and if he wants to stay missing, he can. I wish to have nothing to do with this anymore.”

  Cassandra stands as if she’s saying goodbye after a normal visit. “Thank you for coming.”

  The situation remains absurd, but manners and protocol force me to speak. “Thank you for the tea. And the cookies.”

  She leaps to her feet as if she’s forgotten something. “Yes, the recipe. You asked for the recipe for the cookies and I promised it.” She moves through the dining room into the kitchen.

  “That is not necessary,” I say, but she ignores me. I hear rustling in the kitchen, the opening of a drawer or two, the snapping of paper. I know I should walk out of this house, never to return, but again, manners long ingrained force me to remain and wait.