The Red Chesterfield Read online

  The Red Chesterfield

  The Red Chesterfield

  Wayne Arthurson

  Brave & Brilliant Series

  ISSN 2371-7238 (Print) ISSN 2371-7246 (Online)

  © 2019 Wayne Arthurson

  University of Calgary Press

  2500 University Drive NW

  Calgary, Alberta

  Canada T2N 1N4

  press.ucalgary.ca

  This book is available as an ebook. The publisher should be contacted for any use which falls outside the terms of that license.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The red chesterfield / Wayne Arthurson.

  Names: Arthurson, Wayne, 1962- author.

  Series: Brave & brilliant series ; no. 11. 2371-7238

  Description: Series statement: Brave & brilliant series, 2371-7238 ; 11

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190103019 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190103035 | ISBN

  9781773850771 softcover) | ISBN 9781773850788 (PDF) | ISBN 9781773850795 (EPUB) |

  ISBN 9781773850801 (Kindle)

  Classification: LCC PS8551.R888 R43 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  The University of Calgary Press acknowledges the support of the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Media Fund for our publications. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada. We acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.

  Editing by Aritha van Herk

  Copyediting by Ryan Perks

  Cover image: Colourbox 8004416 and 34794621

  Cover design, page design, and typesetting by Melina Cusano

  To the memory of my father,

  George A. Arthurson

  The Red Chesterfield

  There is a Red Chesterfield in the ditch at the end of the road. Some may call it a sofa or even use the more common American vernacular, a couch. But it is obviously a chesterfield, big enough to seat three, possibly four adults. Too small to be a sofa. And even though it is tossed haphazardly into the ditch, there is a formality to the piece. Maybe it’s the Davenport design, but when one looks at it, the word “couch” does not come to mind. Couch denotes an informality, like those ubiquitous black leather couches on which young men play video games, watch sports, and spill their beers and snacks. That is a couch.

  The object in the ditch is a chesterfield. Red. Which is what I write in my notebook, noting the location, time, and date.

  Red Chesterfield.

  The Yard Sale

  “Are you connected in any way to that Red Chesterfield?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” The man turns and sees my uniform and changes his language. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he says. I notice that despite his apology, the dismissive tone in his voice is still present.

  He speaks with an Eastern European accent, and despite my efforts not to do so, I immediately try to place it. Polish? Ukrainian? Belarussian perhaps? But I quickly brush aside those prejudiced thoughts.

  “Can I help you?” the man says. The question is followed by a series of deep, hacking coughs and the spitting of some phlegm. Possibly some type of pulmonary obstruction disease. He’s turned to face me, hands on his hips to look more threatening. But despite the many threats I’ve faced for my ticket writing, no one has ever physically assaulted me.

  “Do you know anything about the Red Chesterfield?” I ask, pointing down to the end of the road.

  He squints in its direction. “Nothing to do with me,” he says, coughing and spitting once more. I know he’s only pretending to see. I note that and then look around at his yard. Yes. This is the place that was reported. This is where I’m supposed to be now. I put aside the Red Chesterfield.

  The Yard Sale (Possibly Illegal)

  On a yellow tarp stretched between two upright hockey sticks the words are printed in black magic marker: yard sale. But this is not a typical yard sale. The coughing/spitting man’s front yard is filled with what can only be termed junk—the details did not register at first because junk is just junk. It has no resemblance to the leftover bits that average people collect in their lives, forget about, outgrow, and then sell in their yard sales. This is something else.

  “How long have you held this yard sale?”

  “Two days,” he quickly says.

  “My report says this was running last week. Not really a definition of a yard sale.”

  “The bylaw says yard sales can’t run three consecutive days and I haven’t done that. This week was only two days, last week the same.”

  “You keep the sign up all the time.”

  “So what. I don’t sell stuff then. Only on weekends. So it’s a yard sale.”

  I look over the yard again at tables covered with household appliances and tools, books, faded toys, cutlery, plates, cups, saucers, shoes, boots, boxes filled children’s clothes, nuts, bolts, nails, screws, drill bits, washers, hammers, wrenches, and screwdrivers. Hundreds of hockey and lacrosse sticks, baseballs bats, tennis, badminton, squash, and racquetball racquets, laying on both sides of the sidewalks. A line of vacuum cleaners, shovels, rakes, and lawn mowers. One industrial-sized upright freezer, missing a door. And so much more.

  After a moment he asks: “You going to give me a ticket?”

  After a moment I shake my head. “No. Not today. Just a warning.”

  He smiles, spitting once more on the ground in front of me.

  This Fucking City

  As I open the door to my truck, I hear a voice. “You gonna do something about the yard sale?”

  I turn to see a middle-aged man approaching me from a house across the street. He wears a bathrobe over his pyjamas, his feet tucked into a pair of slippers.

  “I’m investigating the complaint,” I tell him.

  “Yeah but are you going to do something about it?”

  It’s city policy not to reveal such information, but like the yard sale bylaw, it’s a fluid policy. “I will first issue a warning.”

  “A warning? That’s it. A fucking warning? It’s been like that for weeks. It’s ruining the neighbourhood.”

  “That’s the protocol, sir.”

  The man stares at me for several seconds and then shakes his head. “Jesus fuck,” he says. “This fucking city.”

  The Red Chesterfield Redux

  Unable to shake my thoughts about the Red Chesterfield, I head out of the cul de sac and approach the ditch from the other side. I park by the side of the road and climb out of my vehicle.

  From this point of view, I can now see that it’s a bit more damaged on the back than the front, with a couple of good-sized rips in the fabric. For some reason this bothers me, that someone would treat a chesterfield in such a manner.

  Something sticks out from one of the holes, a shoe it looks like. I step into the ditch to get a better look.

  It’s a shoe. A Nike sneaker. White but with many scuffs. Maybe it’s because I’m looking for some reason behind the discarding of such a decent piece of furniture, or maybe I don’t like how the scuffed sneaker takes away from overall gestalt of this Red Chesterfield—I do have a tendency for order, which is one reason I make a good bylaw officer—but I grab the sneaker.

  To my surprise, there’s more heft to the sneake
r than expected. I pull it out and, to my further surprise, there’s a foot cut off at the ankle still in the shoe.

  I drop the shoe.

  I Have a Headache

  I have a headache. It’s because of the police lights. I don’t know why every police vehicle needs to keep their lights flashing like this. I understand one or two to set up some kind of perimeter. But all of them? It doesn’t make sense, which tells me there must be some kind of policy behind the need to keep flashing their lights. Or maybe they just like flashing lights, like little kids at the fairgrounds.

  Police swarm around the Red Chesterfield, poking and prodding, looking at the ground in the ditch, the road on my side and on the cul de sac, searching for clues. I’m pretty sure the constant flashing of blue and red lights isn’t helping them find any clues. Especially as the sun is starting to set.

  A small crowd of people, including the neighbour in slippers, have gathered on the cul de sac side, watching the excitement. The yard sale proprietor with the pulmonary obstruction disease had been there, but he left, making a call on his phone as he walked back to his house.

  For me, there is nothing to do but wait. Even though I made a preliminary statement to the first responders I know I’ll have to make a more detailed one. I listen to a radio program; someone is being interviewed about a book about the importance of clutter and keeping old things, but the interviewer isn’t listening to what’s being said, only going from prepared question to prepared question.

  My headache intensifies, so I shut my eyes to the lights. It helps but I can still see the flashing through my eyelids.

  Fingerprints

  I jump at the sound of someone tapping on my window. I catch my breath and touch the button to lower the glass.

  A plainclothes police officer greets me with a smile. I chastise myself internally for being surprised at her gender. I should know better.

  “You found the foot?” she asks.

  I nod. Then I fill her in on the circumstances, trying to be as concise as possible. She takes detailed notes.

  “So you touched the shoe?” she asks when I finish.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Am I right to assume that due to your position with the city, you have no criminal record?”

  “You are right to assume that.”

  She takes a deep breath. “We’ll need to get your fingerprints.”

  Fingerprints Part 2

  An hour later. The lights still flash but the crowd of bystanders has dissipated. Pyjama Man remains with a couple of onlookers. Mr. Yard Sale showed up once again, still talking on his phone, but then left again. The interviewer on the radio is talking to a panel of people about the Oilers’ lack of secondary scoring and the need for a right-hand defenceman on the power play. The panelists pretend to disagree even though they agree with this assessment. I’m kept awake by my annoyance of this discussion.

  A uniformed constable taps on my window. He sports a goatee to look older, but it doesn’t suit his face. Or his uniform.

  “You’re supposed to come with me,” he says.

  “Do you mean go with you? Or do I follow you in my vehicle?”

  “That wasn’t specified, but probably best if you come with me so you don’t get lost.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “West District.”

  “I know where that is. I can drive myself.”

  “I’m not sure about that. Best if you leave your vehicle here. I can drive you back.”

  “Please, I live nearby there. It would be much easier if I drove myself.”

  The uniformed officer walks away, saying nothing. I watch him talk to the plainclothes detective. She turns to look at me sitting in my truck. After a moment, she nods.

  “Okay, follow me,” the constable says when he returns.

  Lost

  The constable takes a right when he should have taken a left. I debate whether to follow him. I don’t. I arrive at the West District on my own.

  I enter the doors and after a moment the receiving constable waves me forward. He’s older and chubby, probably a couple of years from retirement, hasn’t chased down a suspect in years. He asks why I’m there and I tell him. He chuckles behind his bulletproof glass. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you in a minute.”

  I sit, pick up a magazine about gardening, put it down. I don’t want to read about compost; I just want to go home.

  Lost No Longer

  I hear laughter in the background. It’s coming from inside the station, drifting through the bulletproof glass.

  A second later there’s a buzz, and the lost, goateed constable comes through a door from the back and enters the reception area. He is blushing and there’s an embarrassed yet angry look on his face. I stand up slowly, waving to get his attention but then realize that this is a mistake. The embarrassment flees his face, leaving only anger. I quickly lower my hand.

  “Please come with me,” he snaps. The blush rises again.

  I don’t make eye contact as I come up to the door. I’m pretty sure his colleagues are punishing him by making us wait for almost five seconds before they buzz us in. He opens the door with one hand and, with the other on my shoulder, pushes me through the door.

  I stumble but catch myself. I could complain because I’m not a criminal, I’m only a witness. But I know better. I just step aside as he closes the door behind us.

  “Please keep up,” he says. “I don’t want you to—” He stops himself from saying the words “get lost.” Blushes again.

  I follow him, into the main part of the West District station, into the laughter of his fellow colleagues.

  Fingerprints Part 3

  The constable seems sorry for pushing me through the door. He doesn’t look at me when he takes my fingerprints, he just focuses on the task, saying nothing. His touch is also very delicate, like I’m a piece of porcelain he doesn’t want to break.

  He takes my fingerprints gently, rolling my thumb and each finger onto the ink pad and then onto the paper with simple professionalism.

  When he’s done and I’m wiping the ink off my fingers with the provided towel, I thank him.

  He blushes again. “I’m sorry I handled you roughly before. And the door. If you wish to file a complaint, I won’t contest it.”

  “That’s okay. I understand.”

  “You shouldn’t have to understand. I was wrong in how I handled you. You should file a complaint.”

  “I’m not going to file a complaint.”

  He looks at me and then, after a moment, nods. “Thanks.” He gestures with his hand, showing me the way forward. “Let me show you the way out.”

  Once he realizes what he says, he laughs. I join in.

  Pull Over

  I’m still chuckling as I walk across the parking lot to my vehicle.

  But once I’m driving down the road away from the police station, I’m reminded why I was there. I see the Red Chesterfield in the ditch. I see it from the front, where it looks untouched and harmless. And then I see it from the back, where it is torn, with a shoe that still had a foot cut off at the ankle inside. I only saw the foot for a brief second before I dropped it, but I remember every detail. The bone of the foot, the tendons and muscles around it, exposed to the air, the tangle of skin hanging off the spot where the ankle ends, lines of dried blood, the wriggling of maggots digging their way under the skin, a couple of them dropping onto my hand.

  I pull over.

  It’s a long time before I can start driving again.

  Late

  It’s completely dark by the time I get home. I open the front door to the bungalow, my face clear of tears and anguish. All the lights are on; not unexpected, since everyone should be home.

  I don’t shout out a greeting because no one will shout back. I put my jacket in the closet and hang my keys on the hook.
There is a stack of mail in the basket by the door but none of it is for me.

  I turn left down the hallway and then right into the bathroom, where I disrobe, dropping my clothes down the chute into the basement laundry room.

  It takes several seconds for the hot water to come up the pipes, and several more for me to adjust the temperature. I step in and wash the day from my body.

  It takes longer than usual because of the foot found in the shoe found in the Red Chesterfield.

  After my shower, I go to my room and get dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt. Then into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers, a meatloaf and some rice I made a couple days ago.

  With my bowl and spoon in hand, I go to talk to my brother.

  The Older Brother

  My older brother K sits at the dining room table, a mess of papers in front of him. He has what looks to be a booklet with a list of names and addresses in it next to a small Chromebook I haven’t seen before. He types on the Chromebook, looking at the name and addresses, which gives me the impression he is entering these names and addresses.

  I sit across from him and eat my meal, watching him for several minutes.

  “How was your day?” he asks, without looking up.

  “Interesting.” I contemplate telling him about the Red Chesterfield and the foot.

  But when he says, “That’s nice,” with a casual indifference, I know he is only being polite. He will not be interested. He is deeply focused on his form creation and I’ve known my brother long enough to know that if he is focused on something, there is no point trying to distract him. He is more stubbornly attentive than I am.

  But I do ask him one question. “Where is J?”