Chair
a short story
--
Vivian. Now she is a real one of a kind. Sturdy and dependable. Independent. Colorful and bright.
A stroll up Walnut Street to the farmer’s market would take her under five minutes from her northside apartment. It was a weekly occurrence every Tuesday afternoon. Donning a pastel floral dress to match the mood of the emerging summer weather, she grabbed her basket — the one she got in France a few years ago — turned the key on the lock and skipped down her front steps.
“Hey, Viv!” Franklin yelled out to her from his front balcony on the third floor. “You off to market?”
“Yep. See ya there?” she asked.
“I have to take Tilly to the vet, so no,” Franklin said. “Hey. Could you pick me up a couple baskets of strawberries and I’ll pay ya later?”
Vivian waved her answer to Franklin and skipped away.
A chair. Sitting on the opposite corner of her apartment building, seemed to beckon her attention. As she approached it, she slowed to a stop. It was an old wooden thing with part of its wicker seat missing. Vivian stopped to inspect it. Take in its size and shape, its general demeanor.
I could maybe fix that seat, she thought. I suppose it’s for the taking, just sittin’ there like that. I like the color . . .
She grabbed the top of the chair, moved it around looking for wobbles. Remembering that she was on another mission at the moment, she let it go and headed for the market.
. . .
Franklin stood on the stoop of Vivian’s apartment ringing the doorbell. He could hear her shuffle as she approached from the other side. Smiling, she opened the door with his strawberries set into a paper box in her left hand.
“Thanks, Viv!”
“How’s Tilly, she ok?”
“Oh, yeah. Just time for some shots. She hates the vet, though, you know. So do I. Anyway, thanks for the strawberries. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Invite me up for shortcake or something,” Vivian said.
Peering over Franklin’s shoulder, Vivian could see the chair was no longer on the corner.
“Shoot.”
Franklin turned around to see what she was looking at and saw nothing unusual.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. Well. A chair. Did you see it? Someone left it out on the corner. I thought I might do something with it.”
Franklin shrugged, the conversation turned to something else and as he ambled down the steps to return to the main entrance to the upper units, Vivian lingered in the doorway, leaning forward in the direction of where the chair had been, as though it might magically reappear.
. . .
Carrying her bicycle down her front steps on Friday morning, she leaned it up against the fence to put her helmet on. Sliding her cycling gloves on and securing the velcro, she did a double take as she caught sight of it. There it was, but a few feet down the street from its original perch. She walked her bicycle over to it for another look.
Maybe someone took it and changed their mind, didn’t quite fit, she pondered.
She didn’t have much time as she was already running late for a doctor’s appointment. As she was stepping through her bike, she noticed a swath of pink on the right arm of the chair.
Hmm. Was that there before?
When she returned two hours later, the chair was, again, gone.
. . .
Vivian paced about her apartment wondering who had taken the chair this time. Why did it even matter, it was just a chair. Why did she think she had any right to it any more than the next person, anyway? She found herself peeking through her living room curtain in the direction of the chair as sunlight filtered through the trees, landing on the empty spot where the chair used to be. A spotlight, waiting for its soliloquy.
It reappeared once, right? It could happen again.
The moon would be almost full tonight, she knew, she could check on it later.
But the weekend came and went without the chair. Vivian tended to her usual things. Cleaning, cooking, enjoying a strawberry dessert with Franklin upstairs in his apartment. Listening to Miles Davis wafting on a warm breeze from a neighbor’s living room through open windows. Preparing canvases for fresh color and story. Reading. Writing in her journal. Coffee with her girlfriends.
Monday rolled around and as she left for work in the morning, there it was.
Making another southward movement from the corner of its origin, the chair was now a few more feet from its previous perch. She skipped over to take a look. Someone had repaired the rip in the seat.
But why fix it only to abandon it, she wondered.
Looking up, she heard her bus approaching, pulled her pass from her pocket, crossed the street and got on board. Taking a seat near the back, she turned to get a last glance at the chair. Once again, it would have to await its fate with her.
. . .
Returning home from work, of course the chair was missing from its spot. At mid-day, she had even considered phoning Judith, her elderly neighbor.
Couldn’t she bring it to my porch? No. I shouldn’t bother her, it can wait.
She walked down the street to the end of the block, just in case someone had moved it again but it was nowhere in sight. She walked up and down the cross street to no avail. Defeated, she sauntered home, changed into her sweatpants, poured a glass of wine, began to draw a bath and sat down on her couch to contemplate the chair.
Leaving her phone behind, she checked the bath, dropped in some essential oils, turned off the faucet and climbed in, sinking into the welcome depth of relaxation and wandering thoughts.
Emerging later from the bath and throwing on her robe, Vivian shuffled to her front window, pulled back the curtain and peered out. No chair. Sitting down on the couch, she noticed a text had come in on her phone from two hours ago.
Oh. From Dr. Eugene, hmm.
It was a terse message simply requesting that she call her first thing in the morning. Scrolling through her phone briefly, she set her phone down and wandered into the kitchen to throw some dinner together.
. . .
“It may be nothing at all, but we should do the other tests to be certain.”
“Sure, Dr. Eugene. Um. What’s the worst that can happen? I mean, should I be worried, or what should I be worried about?” Vivian asked.
“Let’s do the tests and then we can discuss the results. Try not to worry.”
Vivian hung up the phone feeling worried anyway, of course. She scheduled her visit with her doctor for Wednesday at three. Until then, she would just have to be patient and calm. There was a genetic pre-disposition, she knew, but she couldn’t think about that now.
Dr. Eugene said not to worry.
The day dragged on and she did her best to stay occupied. Distracted. Getting off the bus carrying groceries she’d picked up on her way home from work, she was walking slowly towards her building when it came into view.
That’s it, isn’t it?
It had continued on its journey south and was now at the top of the next block under the stop sign. Picking up her pace she arrived at the chair with a laugh.
“You’re back!” she said, as though it was an old friend returned from a trip.
“But you’re . . . different, somehow.”
She eyed the chair in its new incarnation. Its seat was fully restored now, the arms painted in turquoise. The legs were still a tan color except for one, the rear right leg had been partially painted in pink and gold.
“You wait right here while I drop my groceries off. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back!”
. . .
The new day came with some anxiety. She wished she had made her appointment for the morning instead of having to wait all day.
Soon enough. Stay calm.
Walking out onto her stoop with her coffee, the chair was gone!
She’d left it on her porch and someone had come and taken it.
What the…!
Padding down the steps, she peered down the block where she had found it. Not there. Looking in all directions, it was nowhere in sight. Going back inside and closing the door, she got ready for work, a bit perturbed about the missing chair.
. . .
When Vivian got off the bus that afternoon, her medical tests done, the alarming results revealed, she had all but forgotten the chair. As she approached her building, she saw Judith in her front garden, on all fours. She was chatty and would hold you hostage if you let her but Vivian welcomed the distraction today.
The elderly woman was pointing out how well her roses were doing along the front fence, the warming weather, the extra watering that would need to be done, when Vivian noticed the chair. Sitting peacefully. Solitary. Having moved back up the block towards her, not quite at its original starting place but somewhere in between. She excused herself from Judith and walked down the street for a good look.
It’s the same chair, isn’t’ it?
It seemed so, yet someone had changed its colors again, it sat dismal in muted grays and brown. It would hardly be of any use to her now.
. . .
“You believe in reincarnation?” Vivian asked.
Franklin had arrived home just as she was sitting down on her front stoop. He had joined her on the steps, the two of them facing out towards the street, talking idly.
“Mmm. I’m not sure,” he said. “I believe in reinvention. Exploring all the different parts of ourselves while we are alive. All the various sides and angles, potential colors.”
“Yeah, you’re kind of a master of that,” Vivian said.
And he was. A musician, an artist, a great cook. A carpenter, a fix-it guy. A waiter by day, and so much more the rest of the time.
Vivian started to tear up, leaning her head onto his shoulder. She began to reveal her story to him, the test results, what was ahead of her in the coming months. They sat quietly then, watching the world go by, the sun slowly lowering in the sky.
. . .
“Thanks for the lift, Alison,” Vivian said, slowly getting out of her friend’s car, returning from her usual treatment.
“Want me to stay a bit?” Alison asked, leaning down to look through the passenger side window from her seat behind the wheel.
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m just gonna take a nap, anyway. Thanks again, friend,” she said, giving a wave.
As the car pulled away from the curb, the chair was revealed.
There it was sitting at its original starting place. Vivian went over for a look, to say hello to a long-lost friend. It had been months since she’d seen it, where must it have been! The seat had been completely gutted, the arms and legs, the back of the chair discolored by someone, a novice someone, having attempted to strip it clean of its paint.
Vivian stood with the chair, under the stop sign, face to face with it, in solidarity. In recognition of its difficult journey.
. . .
She sat with her morning coffee on the stoop. The weather was changing again, getting cool enough for a sweater, even for late morning. Franklin came out the door of the main part of the building, coffee mug in hand. They often met up there on a Saturday morning if the timing was right. Sitting next to her on the stoop, he noticed the new addition to her porch.
“That’s a fine-looking chair, Viv,” he said, nodding at it then looking back to her with a smile.
Vivian smiled back, feeling some clarity finally. That she had turned a corner, moved forward just a little bit. Woken up anew. She turned her gaze back outward.
“It is, isn’t it. Sturdy, dependable,” she beamed. Taking a sip from her mug.
“So colorful and bright!” Franklin added. “Aren’t you worried someone will come and steal it off your porch, though?”
“Nah,” she said. “If they need it, they can have it.”
Silence.
But for a few crows chasing each other across the sky.
“Funny. How a nearly imperceptible change — a little tweak here, a bit of color there, can change the way you see a thing,” Vivian said.
“I’m not sure what you . . .” Franklin started.
“Like a chair. Left on a corner. Just in need of a little work. Some re-invention. I thought it was so important for me to have it, to give it new life. But every time I saw it again, it was never the same chair. It changed. Or I did, I don’t know.”
Franklin scratched his chin, not quite grasping her meaning or how to respond. Set his coffee mug down on the step next to him. She looked at him then turned her gaze across the street to the corner across from their building. Barren. Just concrete squares and a stop sign.
“You okay, Viv?” he asked, rubbing her back with his palm.
Silence.
“How awake are we, do you think?” she said, still gazing out across the street. “I mean. Franklin, what do we notice? What do we miss? Do we feel the passage of time, the incremental movement farther and farther away, second by second . . . inch by inch?”
She turned to look him squarely in the eyes for an answer.
“I don’t know, Vivian. I’m not sure how awake I really am half the time,” he said, with a little laugh, releasing his arm from her and reaching for his mug.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Yeah.”
“What say you, Viv?”
“Mostly? I think we’re just sittin’ there watching the world go by. Waiting. For something or someone to come along and make us feel of use. If we’re lucky, we find a good collaborator or two to help things along,” she said.
Franklin nodded, looking over at her staring off across the street. He knew she was measuring time differently than he was. Counting it out in her head. They sat in silence together. A woman in a Toyota slowed down at the stop sign opposite their building. Getting out of her car, she ran to the back, opened the trunk and pulled a small table out and set it on the sidewalk.
. . .
From The Tenants collection, © Mary Corbin 2020
