The Red Chesterfield

by Wayne Arthurson

  I move past her to go talk to my brother.

  Rhonda’s Bedroom

  K, shirtless, is sitting up in Rhonda’s bed, in a spot I sometimes occupy, drinking a cup of tea. A piece of toast with peanut butter and jam, something he would never eat at home, sits on a plate next to him.

  He sees me and responds the same way Rhonda did. A pause. A deep sigh. “You found me.”

  I nod but don’t sit on the bed because, at the moment, I don’t belong. “We were worried.”

  “We?”

  “Me and J. You didn’t come home last night . . . And we heard about the nominations.”

  He blinked. “Who told you?”

  “The lawyer.”

  A brief look of fear comes over his face. “Which one?”

  “The one you hired for me. Because of the foot.”

  “Bastard,” K says, setting down his teacup.

  Some tea sloshes onto the floor and I feel bad for Rhonda: she hates spills.

  “He wasn’t specific, he only intimated there was a problem. I figured out the rest myself.”

  “You were spying on me.”

  “You were careless.”

  “I was . . .” my brother starts to say. He closes his eyes, and the look of indignation fades from his face. When his eyes open again, he looks at me, pleading.

  “I need your help.”

  “Of course. We’re family. That’s what we do.”

  Rhonda’s Bed

  I sit on the bed next to K, place a hand on his shoulder. “Is there any way that they can connect the situation to you?”

  “Of course, they know it was me. That’s why I’m out.”

  “I meant legally.”

  He pauses, then shakes his head. “I did all of the registering away from the house, using public Wi-Fi.”

  “Not with your own—”

  “I’m not an idiot. I bought a Chromebook specifically for the project. Didn’t use it for anything else. No surfing, no Facebooking, so it can’t be traced to me.”

  “Where is that Chromebook?”

  “Long gone. In pieces.”

  “Anything else?”

  He sighs. “Only the membership lists, which I stupidly left in the house.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I do. Someone mentioned asking the police to investigate, which means they may search the house and find them. If they do, I’m sunk.”

  I squeeze his shoulder. “No. They won’t.”

  “But—” He pauses and gives me the look that he always gives me when he realizes again that I’m the smarter sibling. “You found them.”

  I nod. “In the fireplace.”

  The tension he was holding fades into a long, deep sigh.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I stand and move to leave the room. “Finish your toast and tea, then rest, okay?”

  K nods.

  Rhonda’s Hallway

  Rhonda stands in her hallway by the front door, flipping through fliers. I’m quite sure she hasn’t read a single one in the time I was with K.

  “He okay?” she asks, looking up.

  “He’ll be fine. You should go to him.”

  She touches me lightly on the arm. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He needs you now.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m fine. And it’s not my turn.”

  She removes her hand and steps aside to let me pass and leave the house.

  I open the door, turn, and smile at her.

  “I’ll call you later,” she says.

  “Actually, I’ll see you Monday.” A pause. “At work.”

  She blinks several times, wondering how to respond to that. Then she nods, accepting my proposition. “Yes, that would make sense,” she says. “You are ready to come back.”

  “So, Monday?”

  She nods, looks back quickly, then steps up to me, kissing me on the side of the cheek, her hand resting on my side as if we are about to dance.

  “Thank you. For helping him. And me.”

  I touch her hand on my side, hold it there for several seconds, then pull back and leave the house.

  Ashes

  I walk to the nearby mall before calling an Uber. I’m dropped off at the front of the house. I go inside. And clean.

  Dust the surfaces, sweep the hardwood, vacuum the scattered bits of carpet, empty the dishwasher, fill it up again, wash the dishes not suitable for the dishwasher, clean the counter, the stove, sweep then mop the linoleum, move to the bathroom, clean the toilet, sink, and shower, including the tiles, sweep and mop that linoleum.

  Muscles in my back, shoulders, arms, and legs start to ache, especially, because of my accident, my shoulder and neck. My hands are chafed and smell of cleaning liquid. I gather the recycling, tie up the blue bag, and toss it onto the front steps to be removed later.

  I dig out the garbage bag under the sink, look at it for a moment, then head downstairs.

  J is sitting on his couch playing his game.

  “Did you find K?”

  “I did. He’s fine. He’s at a friend’s house.”

  “I didn’t know he had friends.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Did you clean up?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

  “I did.”

  “Well, don’t start down here because you’ll be interrupting me.”

  “I’m only cleaning one thing.” I head to the fireplace and sweep the ashes into the garbage bag.

  “You don’t have to do that,” J says, not moving from his spot. “I can do it later.”

  “It’s okay, I got it.”

  With all the ashes in the bag, I tie it and head upstairs without saying anything. We can talk later, if we talk about it at all.

  I grab the recycling on my way out, dump the garbage bag into the bin, set the blue bag on the ground next to it.

  Monday

  I get up, dress for work, head out the door. I take the bus because my work truck is at the office lot. The bus is full, no place to sit, so I stand the whole way, rocking back and forth as the bus stops and starts along its route. There a couple of people from my work on the bus with me, but they ignore me, trying hard not to make eye contact.

  It’s the same once I get to the office. The space goes quiet as soon as I walk in. The only response I get to my “Good mornings” is people turning and walking away. Or pretending I don’t exist. I don’t care. I go to my office, get my assignments for the day, pack up my work gear, grab my keys, and start out on my shift.

  I walk past Rhonda’s office; she’s sitting behind her desk with her head in a pile of paperwork.

  “Hey, Rhonda.”

  She looks up, pen paused over the sheet of paper. She blinks and then smiles, not showing her teeth, but her eyes are welcoming nonetheless.

  “Good day so far?”

  “Seen better.”

  I nod and we look at each other for several seconds.

  She blinks again. “Get to work,” she says, half-serious. Back to her paperwork.

  I salute. “Yes boss.”

  Graffiti

  There’s a building in the north end with graffiti on one wall.

  I stare at the writing on the wall, turning my head sideways in an attempt to decipher the words. “Jac-Ca . . . acth,” I say as I slowly mouth the words.

  “I think the J is supposed to be a Q and the C a stylized Y or something,” says the manager of the real estate office, a fit guy who looks like that hotel captain character from the commercials. “Maybe it’s a V, I don’t know.”

  “So it’s Qacvyet?

  “Makes no sense.”

  I start writing in my book.

 
The real estate manager sees me and frowns. “So, what happens now? When does the city come and clean this up?”

  “This is private property. This isn’t the city’s responsibility.”

  “Then whose is it?” he asks, his face starting to turn red and his language clipped.

  “Depends on who owns the building?”

  “I own the building.”

  “Then it’s your responsibility to clean it up.”

  “But I’m the one who called it in, using the city graffiti hotline.”

  “Thank you for exercising your civic duty.” I rip the paper from my pad and hold it out to him.

  “What’s this?

  “It’s a notice, saying you have thirty days to clean up the graffiti or the city will come and do it for you and send you a bill.”

  He stares at me like I’ve just told him the Tooth Fairy isn’t real.

  I still hold the paper out.

  “Jesus fuck,” he says, snatching the paper from my hand. He reads it. “Jesus fuck,” he says again before he balls up the paper and tosses it at me. He storms back into his office.

  I pick up the ball of paper, unroll it, and then stick it in the mailbox.

  Supper

  K is back when I come home at the end of the day. He’s standing in the kitchen, a sure sign he’s contrite and wishes to make amends for his behaviour. The smell of roast chicken hangs in the air.

  He greets me with a wave over his shoulder as he pours the rice into the colander. “You want a beer? There’s cold ones in the fridge.”

  I don’t usually drink on a work night but a beer does sound good. I get one, a local craft lager and snap it open. I take a sip and it feels cool and refreshing. I look at K cooking, at the table set. I know his contrition, though honest, won’t last. But I say nothing. Best to just accept it.

  “I’m going to change,” I say, and go into my room with my beer. I set it on the end table, on an old sock so I don’t leave a ring, and change out of my uniform. I think about washing it for tomorrow, but put aside that thought. Sometimes it’s okay to let things go. Although I hang it all in the closet, rather than toss it on the floor like J would.

  And he is sitting at the dining room table. He, too, has a beer, so we silently toast to the fact of K’s actions. Even though we both know it won’t last.

  K comes bearing the food, describing what he has made

  for us.

  J and I both nod and make the right positive sounds, so K serves us, then sits down and eats.

  “Thanks, K,” I say, nudging J under the table with my foot.

  “Uh yeah, thanks K, smells great.”

  And it is great. K is a great cook, but sometimes feels cooking is beneath him.

  We compliment him after our first bites and all’s well and good. We eat, silently, like we always do, but there is no animosity in the silence, no passive aggression. That may come later, but for now, it’s a simple quiet. Which is good.

  Dessert

  At dessert, J speaks. “I hope you two are done with your games.”

  K looks up, angry, seems ready to speak.

  J interrupts before he can start. “You, with your political machinations. That has to stop.”

  K’s anger fades to shame and he quietly returns to eating his ice cream.

  “And you,” J says, turning to me. “You have to stop.”

  “I wasn’t involved, I only helped to end it.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the other games. Yes, finding the foot and that body were terrible for you, but instead of dealing with them in a mature way, you acted like some kind of private detective, trying to solve the crime. That’s not your job, that’s the job of the police.”

  Like K, there is nothing for me to do but to sheepishly eat my dessert.

  “You were a murder suspect. You almost lost your job. Someone threatened you with a gun,” J reminds me. “You almost lost Rhonda, and losing Rhonda would destroy this family.”

  He stares at me, then looks at K, letting his words of chastisement settle in.

  I am beginning to wonder if J knows. He really is the smart one in the family.

  “We can’t lose that. Family,” he says, tone softening. “That’s the most important part of life. We have to protect that.”

  Back to Normal

  The frosty attitude from my co-workers starts to melt. A few people wish me good morning, and by the end of the week, it’s all back to normal. The idea that I suffered some sort of minor post-traumatic stress due to my discovery of a dead body and a severed foot has softened the hard feelings my other actions may have caused. I was not completely myself, but I sought help during my time off and returned to normal.

  I have been forgiven my trespasses and welcomed back into the fold. Bringing doughnuts and pastries a few days in a row also helps ease the tension.

  After exchanging some pleasantries (and the doughnuts) in the coffee room, I grab my gear to head out for my shift. I pass Rhonda’s office, and again she is head down in her paperwork.

  “Hey, Rhonda,” I say, standing in her doorway.

  She sees me and smiles, this time open and bright. “The doughnuts are amazing. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, pausing for a moment. “I was just heading out on my shift and realized that today is Friday.”

  “Yes, tomorrow will be the weekend.” She looks down at her work. “Thank God.”

  “You want to see a movie or something? I figure I owe you that.”

  “You owe me a lot more than that,” she says. But there is no animosity in her voice, just playful humour.

  “So a movie would be a good start.”

  “Popcorn included?”

  “Peanut M&M’s too.”

  “You. After my own heart.”

  “That’s the plan. So later? Tonight?”

  “Yes. Later. Tonight.”

  Yard Sale Redux

  I park my truck in front of Yuri’s yard sale, pull out my ticket book, and write. I walk to the door, ring the doorbell.

  Moments later, Yuri answers.

  “Hey, it’s you,” he says, smiling. He pulls the door open wider. “Come in, come in. Have some tea.”

  I want to go in. I want to ask where he was, if he is okay. But my brother J is correct: my job is not to solve missing person cases. Or solve murders. Those are jobs for the police. I have sworn an oath to do another job.

  “You are in continual violation of Part 6, Sections 2a, 2a.1, and 2a.2 of the Community Standards Bylaw and thus subject to a fine,” I say, holding out the ticket. “If you continue to violate such sections, and if you do not clean up your yard according to community standards, the city will be forced to do so and you will be responsible for the cost of the cleanup. Any further violations after said cleanup will result in more fines, up to $10,000 per violation.”

  Yuri’s smile disappears. “What the fuck is—”

  “Do you understand?” I continue to hold out the ticket. A pause. “Do you understand?”

  After a moment, Yuri spits on the ground near my feet.

  “Fuck! You!”

  Slams the door.

  I deposit the ticket and a brochure outlining the Community Standards Bylaw in the mailbox.

  I head back to my truck, my duty complete.

  Red Chesterfield Redux Part 2

  Before I get into my truck, I can’t help but look toward the ditch where I first saw the Red Chesterfield.

  I freeze and almost faint in shock when I see another Red Chesterfield there. It must be an illusion. A hallucination. I close my eyes, hoping it will be gone when I open them again.

  But it’s not.

  The same Davenport-style Red Chesterfield sitting in the ditch. The same incongruous placement.

  I am com
pelled to walk over.

  I climb into the ditch and circle the Red Chesterfield a number of times.

  I can’t help it.

  I sit.

  It is, again, a very comfortable piece of furniture. It’s soft without being too pliable and firm without being too hard. I can easily imagine sitting on this for a long period of time to read a book. Or to watch tv. Or to have a nap.

  I sit there, asking questions I asked myself a while ago. Who put the Red Chesterfield here? Whose foot did I find in the original Red Chesterfield? Who put Pyjama Man under the other Red Chesterfield? Was he murdered? Did Yuri do it? Boris?

  The last time I tried to get answers to these questions, I almost lost my job, my girlfriend, and I had to run and hide from a man who pulled a gun on me.

  I have a family to worry about, Rhonda included.

  Then again, I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and leave the Red Chesterfield.

  A Nice Piece of Furniture

  I pull my truck out of Yuri’s cul de sac. I park on the road on the other side of the ditch, on the grass so I don’t block traffic. I get out and climb into the ditch where the Red Chesterfield sits.

  I grab one end of the Red Chesterfield and lift. It’s a bit heavy, but nothing I can’t handle. It takes me several minutes to drag it out of the ditch and up to my truck. I open the tailgate of the truck and lift one end of the Red Chesterfield to rest on the edge. Then I lift the other side and slide the Red Chesterfield in. Part of it sticks out from the box but I have plenty of rope and bungee cords to tie it down.

  J and K, even Rhonda, will probably question me about this, maybe even make a bit of a fuss.

  But then they’ll see that it’s such a nice piece of furniture.

  Photo of the author by Shawna Lemay

  Wayne Arthurson is a writer of Cree and French Canadian descent. He is the author of five novels, including Fall From Grace, winner of the Alberta Reader’s Choice Award, and Traitors of Camp 113, a finalist for the High Plains Book Award for Best Indigenous Novel.