SHORT STORIES: The Pity Chair Vignettes

I was one of those children who was always sick. To make matters worse, my older brother, who seemed to have immunity toward every known affliction, would torment me with reports from the outside, germ-filled world of Chicago’s Southeast Side. I’d get reports on events like football games that always turned into legendary fistfights without me, which girl flashed her breasts, which cop-calling neighbor got the windows busted out, running from clumsy paddy wagons, and dirty snowball fights that featured rocks or pieces of slag hidden in the projectiles for extra damage. I’d burn with jealousy on days when he came home with a fresh hickey or blood streaming from one of his eyelids. The only equalizer to this was my spending many lazy days on the desired side of the school’s front doors thanks to a never-ending parade of illnesses and subsequent doctors’ visits. Once, during a touch of strep throat, my mother couldn’t find anyone in her large and growing network of neighborhood caretakers to mind for a Friday, so she resolved to take me to work with her. Ms. Greenbaum, the lone octogenarian owner and occupant of the grand downtown apartment my mother worked in, was out of town.

***

It should be noted that for years, I has a strong interest in my mother’s work world. She often stirred my imagination with details from the luxurious home. I’d regularly daydream to make sense of things she described. For instance, I remember giving a lot of thought to Ms. Greenbaum’s beloved harpsichord. It was described to me as piano that had black keys where the white ones were and white keys where the shorter black ones usually are. It was also said to be very proper and European. In fact, its tones were so plush that the instrument couldn’t be bothered with American music like jazz or blues. I desperately wanted to see and hear it. Also, I wanted to see how they worked a harp into the equation because my mother didn’t describe that part. The Seussian world also included mysteries like massive windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling (how did they stay up when you opened them?), a man who stood in front of the building all day just to open the doors for you—even if your hands were empty, and floors that were heated in the winter.

***

We arrived. The penthouse was otherworldly. A cavernous hallway that was lined long, tall, oak bookshelves greeted me. Glistening checkerboard floors led your eyes to the massive windows that gave unobstructed views of a sailboat-dotted Lake Michigan. From the great hallway, multiple labyrinths of bedrooms, offices, studies, and dining rooms filled up the rest of the flat. The reason for the doubling of essential rooms like kitchens and master bedrooms was on account of the penthouse being two smaller penthouses that Ms. Greenbaum purchased and combined. I was told that I could explore the home freely as long as I followed two rules: Be gentle with everything I touch, and beware of “the money.” Ms. Greenbaum was known to leave bulky piles of cash around her home. Mom believed that this was done to test her character, so under no circumstance was I allowed to touch a single penny, even if it was on the floor or under a sofa cushion.

It took half an hour to visit every room in the luxurious maze at least once. It took much less than that to conclude that living any other way would be intolerable. I quickly devised a foolproof plan that would get me into this lifestyle within weeks. The only thing I needed was my mother’s approval. I knew she wanted the best for me, so I figured she wouldn’t resist. Excited, I leafed through the stacks of homework sheets that I was supposed to complete over the weekend and slammed them into a wastebasket to celebrate my new life. I spent the rest of the morning trying to make sense of the stock symbols in the business section of the newspaper and following the contortions on a yoga diagram I found one of the bookshelves. I gazed at nearby office buildings and apartments with satisfaction because I believed that they were doing the same. Soon, I thought, I’d be leaving money around my apartment to test my assistants’ ethics. I’d reward the honest ones like my mother and watch the deceitful ones cry and beg for mercy after I showed them hidden camera footage of their crimes.

Around noon, mom presented me with a stack of menus and told me to pick a spot for lunch. I told her I’d phone from the reading room when I made my choice. She lovingly smiled at me and announced that we’d also be going to her favorite bakery for a special dessert because she had something important to tell me. I added that I also had very big news that would affect both of us.

***

We carried off into lunch. My outlook on the world was suddenly brighter than ever: I felt that my health would improve. I also believed I’d fit in well downtown. And most importantly, I’d no longer be left out of everything. Content, I sat back to enjoy the music of the café: laughter, ringing telephones, the whoosh of businessmen in shiny trenchcoats, silverware making contact with plates, and women’s heels clicking on the floor energized me. The South Side, where my poor, ignorant peers rolled their fathers’ bowling balls into traffic for fun, could have broke off and floated away on Lake Michigan for all I cared. I shoveled the hot turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes down my inflamed throat as fast as I could so we could make it to the bakery and the big announcements.

***

The bright, chrome, storefront bakery smelled of coffee, fresh bread, and frosting. I ordered a slice of pie with ice cream. It served to me on a chilled plate and came with an ice-cold fork. Mom said it made the food taste better; it did. I loved how downtown people thought of everything. My mother sipped her tea, gently put her hands on her lap, and I smiled at me. I knew that that was my invitation to speak. I sat up straight and brushed the childish dessert to the side. What I was asking for was very serious and grown-up, so I had to look the part. I told my mom that I was quitting fourth grade to come work for Ms. Greenbaum, or, if needed, one of her well-off friends. I then pleaded my case with what I thought would make my decision impossible to reject: School, I argued, was not going to get me anywhere. For example, mom, we had to take a class called English—every year—even though I already spoke the language. They also made us waste time and paper on math problems even though most of us had calculators. We’re killing trees for nothing! I said with panic in my voice. And it’s not just my mind and the environment that’s suffering, mom. Gym class moved from kickball to a three-week unit of square dancing, even though we weren’t from the South, where they kept slaves and hated Abraham Lincoln. Honest Abe, mom. There was even a part of the dance –I put my hands into the prayer position and closed my eyes for effect– when we had to lock arms with the other boys and swing each other around. If you really are my mother and you really love me, you will stop all of this before it gets any worse.

My mother gave me big smile that was very encouraging for a moment. She then proceeded to tear my new life apart, idea-by-idea. She began by telling me that I was too young to work and that I was staying in school– no exceptions. School was the best place to be for a guy like me. Why worry about work and money when I could go to a place with kids my age, learn new things, make friends, dance with girls—and guys, I interjected— play sports, go on field trips, visit the library every day, and get an education that will help me for the rest of my life? She even added that she was jealous that she couldn’t go to school herself. (I thought it was bad enough that she was breaking my heart, but there was no need for her to lie and say foolish things at a time like that.) Anyway, we didn’t need money. We were already doing fine and now we were doing even better: she had a new job. Her time with Ms. Greenbaum was over. That was her big announcement. She later said something about a more satisfying job and not dealing with rush hour traffic, but I was too upset to pay proper attention. I couldn’t finish my dessert. My fork went from downtown cool to South Side room temperature.

***

We returned to the penthouse to wrap up the workday. Mom spent her time on the phone coordinating Ms. Greenbaum’s exciting life while I retrieved my schoolwork from the wastebasket. Hours ago, the world was bright and promising. Now, I observed, the sun was on the other side of the building and an unwelcome dimness crept across the home and into my stomach. I downgraded from the nobility of the newspaper’s business section and yoga poses to pushing myself around the massive apartment on a wheeled office chair and trying to nab a fish out of a bedroom aquarium with my bare hands. I was about to put on the suit of armor that stood at the end of a short hallway when my mother called for me. She said that there was one last surprise before we left– for what I knew was going to be forever.

I was led to a small room that required two different keys to gain entrance. Earlier, I figured that the unassuming door led to a closet, so I paid no mind to it. But now it was a room so important that it had extra security. The room turned out to be a bland, half-painted bedroom that contained nothing more than boxes and furniture. Mom walked me to a corner and took the top off of a wooden crate, exposing a chair. She put her hand on her chest and whispered something about beauty. She looked at me and asked me what I thought. I could tell she loved the chair, so I forced a smile and nodded. She said it once belonged to French royalty who had it in their palace for many generations. I was handed a booklet from the auction house that sold it to Ms. Greenbaum. She said I could stay in the room and read about the chair and the palace and kings and the queens as long as I kept my hands to myself and closed the door on my way out. She said it survived generations of royal blood feuds, multiple wars and revolutions, Hitler and his bad guys taking over France, and even Chicago, so hopefully it can survive me and my imagination that was running on high lately.

I combed through the catalog and looked back at the chair. It was hopeless. I’d be going back to waste my life in school while the chair would waste away in the old woman’s home. I left the room and found myself back in the library, collapsed onto a regular chair. I thudded my feet on top of a nearby writing desk and explored its drawers. The handle of a shiny brass letter opener caught my attention. I brushed away a stack of hundred dollar bills and picked up the tool. I appreciated its smoothness and sturdiness. I walked over to the fish tank and tapped the glass to coerce the swimmers. They looked at me indifferently and swam away.

***

I don’t remember much about walking to back to the room or what I was thinking when I flipped the royal chair over, but I do remember how difficult it to carve the letter “B” into the strong wood. The “T” was much easier as its form was straight and neat. Marking the chair with my initials felt empowering at the moment, but it later haunted me because I understood that it was nothing but another episode of my immaturity and weakness. I often wonder if my young father felt the same after he made me.