Chapter 5 - The Man Who Asked About My Chair
A week later, I found my old armchair listed for sale online.
June showed me the photograph on her tablet.
“Isn’t that yours?”
The fabric was faded at the arms. Margaret had chosen the pattern because she said it would hide evidence of actual living.
I recognized the small repair near the left leg.
“Yes.”
The listing described it as an unwanted vintage chair from a smoke-free home.
Price: forty dollars.
There was something almost funny about it.
My son lived in a house supported by my money, and my favorite chair was worth less than one restaurant appetizer to the person selling it.
June watched my face.
“Want me to buy it?”
“No.”
“Want me to insult the listing?”
That made me laugh.
“No. But thank you for offering both services.”
I sent the photograph to Nina.
The chair appeared on the inventory of property I had requested back.
Within an hour, Logan called.
“I’ve taken it down.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t know she listed it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.”
The difference was that this time he did not sound defensive.
He sounded ashamed.
He asked whether he could deliver it himself.
I considered the request.
“Saturday. Ten o’clock. You’ll need help carrying it.”
“I can hire movers.”
“Good.”
Saturday arrived bright and windy.
Logan came with two men, my chair, Margaret’s recipe box, the blue serving bowl, and three cartons of belongings I had been told were lost.
He stood in my apartment after the movers left.
It was the first time he had seen where I lived.
The small kitchen.
The secondhand dining table.
The flowers on the windowsill.
“This is nice,” he said.
“It is.”
“You could have afforded something bigger.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me, finally beginning to understand how little he understood.
On the table lay an estimate for a community center bookkeeping project.
“You’re working again?”
“Volunteering a few hours.”
He nodded.
Then he sat on the edge of a dining chair without being invited to make himself at home.
“I sent an email,” he said.
“To whom?”
“Everyone at the dinner.”
I waited.
“I told them you weren’t confused. I told them Chelsea treated you badly and I let it happen.”
My throat tightened.
“What did Chelsea say?”
“She called it humiliating.”
I looked at him.
He gave a small, bitter smile.
“I told her I was starting to understand the word.”
For a while, we said nothing.
Then he asked about the loan.
I felt the room change.
He noticed.
“I’m not asking you to forgive it,” he said quickly. “The bank says refinancing the whole amount isn’t realistic with our other debt. We’ve spoken to a Realtor.”
I nodded.
“We’re going to list the house.”
“That sounds sensible.”
“It doesn’t feel sensible. It feels like failure.”
“Those feelings are sometimes cousins.”
He looked toward my armchair.
“Did you ever feel like you failed?”
“Every day after your mother died.”
His face changed.
“You never said.”
“You didn’t ask.”
The words were not an accusation.
That made them harder for him to hear.
He rubbed his eyes.
“I thought having you there meant you were okay.”
“I thought being needed meant I was loved.”
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
When he stood to leave, he asked whether he could visit again without discussing money.
I said yes.
Not because everything was repaired.
Because he had finally asked a question whose answer he did not assume he owned.
After he left, I sat in my old chair.
May you like
The cushion sighed beneath me.
For the first time in six years, it felt like mine.
