The Chair That Brought Opportunity
by Charles C. Cole
Toby McGuane brought home his new-to-him bounty from a busy yard sale between his house and the mall, surprising his wife. This was not the errand he’d left the house for. No, that had been something about potting soil and flower seeds. Yep, he’d detoured, been compelled, and returned quickly to show off his bounty.
Agnes, Toby’s confused wife, watched him back in the drive, take an unexpected chair out of the trunk and carry it past her into the dining room. The thing was wooden, stiff, from a hundred years ago, black with lots of narrow spindles. Fragile, ornate, yet utilitarian, at least in that it appeared entirely comfort-free.
Toby pulled out one of the existing maple chairs, one of a matching set, sturdy and less than ten years’ old, and parked it in the middle of their underutilized back deck, temporarily out of the way, making room for the new addition.
“Only one?” asked Agnes, an eyebrow raised. This was one of the least sarcastic comments she was considering.
“All they had,” he said with a helpless shrug. “You like?”
“You don’t mind that it doesn’t match the others?”
He noticed as if for the first time, shrugged again. “Do you?” She nodded, subtly. “We can leave my jacket over it if it bothers you. It’ll hardly show.”
She looked closer, seeing as the stray was apparently staying. “What was the attraction, if I may ask? Pretty young thing in short-shorts and a tank top make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”
He laughed, briefly, more like a burp. “Nothing like that, believe it or not. Get this: I had a dream about it. So, when I saw it, I knew I had to buy it.”
“A dream about used furniture?”
“I know, right? Like the universe was talking to me. Check it out.”
“It looks like it’s seen better days,” she said.
“Haven’t we all?” Not a safe argument: retreat. “Seriously. Imagine if it could talk. The stories it could share. I see the head of a conservative immigrant family sitting in judgment of his daughters’ suitors. It’s got to be a hundred years old.”
“That explains the lack of plastic. Or metal, if you overlook the twisted coat hanger wire holding the legs in place.”
“Do you want to try it? I know it looks stiff, but it feels like a throne. I’m not kidding. Whaddya say?”
“I’m good.”
New tact. “My father had a La-Z-Boy recliner. Used to fall asleep during the news.”
“And his father before him. I’m well aware. Wasn’t he buried in it?”
Toby’s turn to raise an eyebrow in disapproval.
“Do you want one? Not for the dining room, but—”
“This is my chair,” he announced.
“Your throne? I see. Should I get you a paper crown to go with it? Something from Burger King. Maybe a couple of large drooling dogs that follow you around the house.”
“I get it; I didn’t ask permission; you need to adjust. It could be worse: I could have come home with a futon. Or a pierced ear. Or a puppy!”
Agnes knit her brows, emphasizing her usually subtle age lines. For a late midlife crisis, this was rather tame. He’d needed a hobby for years. And they could definitely benefit from some new décor. The hand-me-down couch from her sister had seen better days. Her cheap, assembly-required bureau with drawers that successfully and consistently resisted both pushing and pulling needed to disappear.
She’d always wanted, and had mentioned it many times, matching his-and-her sinks in their ensuite, rather than the small one they fought over. A simple vanity like her mother-in-law had, for which there was plenty of room, would give her a place to prepare for life’s little battles or a romantic date. Two could definitely play this game.
“The chair can stay,” Agnes declared suddenly.
“Really?” This was too easy, not that he wanted a fight. “That’s great! Because I forgot to ask for a receipt.”
Agnes grabbed a second existing maple chair and, with a grunt, carried it out the sliding doors to the desk. It was heavier than it looked, and the built-in wide arms had always made it impossible to fit more than one per side of the table, except for narrow, collapsible card-table chairs. She spun around to note the change behind her.
The dining room looked somewhat bigger, less cluttered. Why did they insist on keeping the table extension leaf inserted when there was only the two of them, except for visitors during the holidays? A smaller table meant more room for mingling, full glasses of wine in hand, with the girls from book club.
“We can go on the Internet and look for the rest of the set,” Agnes proposed. “Give the others to the women’s shelter behind St. Anthony’s.”
“I have to try it again,” said Toby. The chair creaked as he climbed in and pulled himself tight against the edge of the table. “It just fits better than the other one.”
“And we owe this to a dream?”
“I lied,” Toby confessed, scrunching up his face like he was entertaining their toddler grandchild.
“So, the salesgirl was sluttier than previously advertised?”
“It wasn’t a dream. I saw a psychic. Last week at the Grange Hall fundraiser. It was ten dollars for ten minutes. She said I’d been a chair in a previous life. It was so ‘out there’ that it had to be true. What she described could have been this. When I saw it, I felt an immediate connection.”
Agnes went to the kitchen counter and retrieved her half-filled wine glass. She sipped her drink and closed her eyes, like she was analyzing a challenging riddle.
“We good?” asked Toby.
Agnes thought of her vanity, her couch, the dripping sink in the guest bathroom. She could see home improvements in her future. One good thing deserved another. “We’re more than good,” she said. “We’re positively golden.”
Copyright © 2022 by Charles C. Cole
