The Chair
It sits in the corner unused. Anjanette Guthrie’s daughters come, want her to get rid of it. An eyesore, they say. Matches nothing. But it was his chair: tattered, ripped, faintly tinged with the sweet burl of Sir Walter Raleigh, barely perceptible now that he's been gone eighteen years. If she curls her small, frail frame just right, she feels John’s arms, strong to the end, holding her. Lean in and press her face against the back, and she feels his hands, calloused by time, gently caressing her cheeks.
She hears her daughters upstairs. They sound like chickens clucking away up there, plotting to get me out of my house and into a “home,” one stick of furniture at a time. Good luck, ladies, good luck. She doesn’t say it out loud – they might accuse her of talking to herself in a fit of dementia, further proof she can’t be left alone.
They never really talked about it with her, only between themselves, then softly informed Anjanette of their decision.
“We’ve been thinking,” Marjean said. “This house is a bit big for you to rattle around in alone, don’t you think?”
Beatrice chimed in before Anjanette could answer. “We found a really nice place for you to live, Ma. Nice community, lots of activities, clean.”
“Yeah,” Marjean finished. “Food smells great. You won’t have to bother with dishes anymore. And they come and clean for you. Imagine that, Mother! You’ll have a housekeeper, just like you always wanted!”
“We’re going to help you with the transition,” Beatrice said. “We’ve got some brochures for you to look at. See what you think.”
I never even said yea or nay, but here they are, divvying up my stuff like I’m dead, trying to get me out of my own home. Their father wouldn’t have let them do that. Oh, how I wish he were here! He’d know what to do. He always knew what to do. Like that time Principal Dennison tried to send Marjean home because he didn’t think she was wearing a bra.
Anjanette opened her eyes and looked toward the heavens. You remember that, John? That man wanted to stick his hand under her collar to make sure she actually had one, and she wouldn’t let him do it, so he called and said to come and get her, she was suspended. And you marched right into that office and told him he better not ever lay a hand on one of our girls. Remember? Gosh, when was that? ’67? ’68? Something like that.
And what about when Beatrice got caught skipping class? I wanted to whup her a good one, but you didn’t. You were too smart for that. Took her down to Marvar’s shrimp factory and talked old man Marvar himself into letting her pick for a day. Ten hours of standing in six inches of salt water and shrimp juice and not even bringing home enough money for the newest Elvis album was all she needed, and she never skipped again.
Something heavy scraped the floor upstairs and reverberations flooded the living room.
You hear them up there, John? They’re arguing over whether to take that front porch glider to the Salvation Army or just put it out on the curb for anybody to take it. But they forget that’s where I was sitting when you proposed. I’d rather hack it all up for firewood than let somebody else take it.
Marjean wants to sell her own house and move her brood in. Something for nothing. Don’t know where we went wrong with that one. Beatrice wants to sell the house. Says they need the money to pay for that place in the brochure.
I ain’t going nowhere, John, how about you?
Anjanette Guthrie pulls knees to chin, sinks into the faded green corduroy, and breathes him in.