January 3–10, 2002

cover story| fiction and poetry contest

Furniture

by Ryan Starr

First Runner-Up, Fiction. Judge Justin Cronin’s comment: "A cheeky homage to Poe, written with great energy. Some engaging and high-spirited writing here, though not for those with weak stomachs."

Before you draw your inevitable conclusions of me may I say that, above all, I am an artist, and my ventures into the world have never had any purpose other than to further my art. True, I have tasted the finest wines, dined in the most extravagant restaurants, visited the most exquisite museums, and seduced the most beautiful men and women. I have partaken in the sights and sounds of the most cultured cities of our time. Yet, all of my travels were for the sake of my art. My true love. And after all of my travels, I have come to the conclusion that there is no place quite as inspiring as home.

Mr. Keith, or Jeffrey as he constantly reminded me, sat across from me beside the fireplace in my study, silently turning his glass of brandy in his hand. Mr. Keith — Jeffrey, that is— lived only two homes away from me, new to the neighborhood of three houses that sat along this secluded stretch of country. I had been home for the few weeks of autumn, to immerse myself in the beauty of the season and devote myself entirely to my studio, as I do every year. In the morning, I would be leaving. This was my first meeting with Jeffrey, my new neighbor. He had come to discuss the subject of my borrowing his wife, though at the time, sitting across from me sipping brandy, he was not aware of it.

"I’ve been meaning to come and visit you, Mr. Keith. A wise man once said it is good to know his neighbors, yet due to my traveling I rarely get to meet local people."

He was a healthy looking young man, sitting there in his khaki slacks and polo shirt, one leg crossed over the other. He was still young enough to claim a full stock of golden curls, one of which hung down onto his brow. His biceps swelled out of the short sleeves of his shirt. Instantly I could imagine him in a dirtied football jersey, celebrating the big game with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and a cheerleader from the junior squad in the other, crammed into the backseat of the family station wagon.

Tonight, Jeffrey bore his troubles in his absent gaze, his thoughts far from the glory days of his youth. "Mr. Ketchum spoke very highly of you," he finally responded, his eyes never leaving the floor in front of his feet.

"Yes, well, Mr. Ketchum was living here when my home was nothing more than some sketches my architect worked out. I have had the great opportunity to return home each year and speak with him. It has taken me a great while to get to know Mr. Ketchum. I hoped that you and your lovely wife, Linda was it?"

He nodded.

"Well, I hoped that I could acquaint myself with you and your wife before I departed, since I probably won’t return until sometime after the New Year. I don’t want to take so long to make new friends. My travels do not permit me to keep them very long, but I hope that when I return we will all be able to gather such as you and I have this evening and share a drink."

"Yes," Jeffrey agreed with a nod, his mind still somewhere else. "That sounds like a good idea."

I tended to the fireplace while Jeffrey stared into the pool of brown nectar in his glass, the lights of the flames swirling against the crystal he cupped in his hands. I asked some obligatory questions about his profession, to which he replied with uninspired answers. President of the local bank…entire family worked in banking…grandfather once President of one of the larger banks in New York… It was a story he told so often that even he was bored with it, and I found little enjoyment in it either. His eyes glossed over in the orange light of the fire as I took the seat across from him. I decided to take the initiative to drive the conversation. "And your wife?" I asked. "How is she?"

I anticipated what he would say, what lie he would have ready for me should ask about her. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "She, uh, she’s good. She’s good," he stammered

"I’m sorry that she couldn’t join us this evening," I said.

"Yes, well, her mother is sick so she’s gone to tend to her," he replied. I wondered how much sweat on his brow was due to the waves of heat fluttering out from the fireplace.

"That is too bad. Won’t you send her my warmest regards and best wishes for her mother?"

"I will do that."

A brief pause, and then, "So, Mr. Ketchum tells us you’re an artist."

Ah, how I wanted to take him into my studio right then and let him look at my art, experience my art. I bit back the excitement clawing its way from my chest, almost escaping my mouth as giddy laughter. I merely smiled ever so slightly and cocked my head to the side. "Did he now?"

"Yes. He never said, though, what exactly you do."

"Oh? Didn’t he show you my work?"

"No, he didn’t even mention that he owned any of it."

I sighed. "They were gifts, you see. Despite the fact that Mr. Ketchum never knew the pleasures of a college education or even a place with more culture than this country lane, he is very learned when it comes to his appreciation of fine art. Another drink?"

Jeffrey nodded. "Please." He handed me his glass and I took both of our glasses to the bar. When I returned, I only had his. I wouldn’t be drinking any more this evening. I wanted my senses to be completely focused, so that I could savor the moment. He didn’t seem to notice, swallowing down a mouthful before I was even settled into my chair.

"So what is it that you do, sir?" Jeffrey asked, taking another drink.

I shifted in my chair with nervous enthusiasm and crossed my legs. "I make furniture," I replied with a sigh, desperately trying to remain nonchalant. It was these moments of fervor that made my penchant for the dramatic very transparent.

"Really? Any of the pieces here?" he asked with a wave of his hand.

I smiled. "True, I surround myself with objects of magnificent beauty, but I cannot take credit for any of these." Patience, now. "My work is, shall I say, a bit more risqué than these contemporary pieces. Some men work in pine, others choose an alternative."

"And what exactly is your alternative?" he asked.

I tried to tame the anticipation that was roaring inside of me. "Perhaps it would be better if I showed you. Later, though. Now, I want to hear more about you."

"Me?" he asked, laughing slightly. "Not much to tell, really."

I scoffed. "Oh come now, Jeffrey, I’m of the mind to believe the contrary. I believe there is so much to tell. For instance, the real reason your wife isn’t here with us this evening?"

He looked up from his stiff drink, his brow furrowed. His reaction was one of mixed confusion and anger. "The real reason," he asked, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. "I’m afraid I don’t follow."

I rose to my feet, pacing the floor in front of him. "Throughout my life I have had the honor to acquaint myself with many different types of people, and because of which I have become almost, dare I say clairvoyant, when it comes to turbulence in a person’s life. It’s really uncanny. So indulge me. Why isn’t your wife here with us this evening?"

His back straightened. "I already told you."

"Yes, yes. Her mother. Her mother, indeed. Please don’t insult my intelligence, Jeffrey."

He stood, and instantly the muscle-bound jock I had envisioned robbing a girl of her virginity appeared like a haunting specter. His glass bounced once on the hardwood floor and shattered on the second bounce, spraying the remains of his brandy across the floor. I caught the glint in his eye that had been dead before. "I don’t see how any of this is your business, sir."

"You misunderstand me, Jeffery. I only want to help you. Perhaps it would be best that I show you my studio now," I replied. "I’ve been told my artwork has a calming effect on people, and perhaps we both could use a moment." He stood down for a moment, his act of bravado now seeming ridiculous as his sensibility returned to him. His eyes dropped quickly to the mess on the floor and his face reddened with embarrassment.

"Perhaps it would be best if I go," he replied. I only smiled and shook my head.

"No, Jeffrey. I believe you will want to see this."

So he followed me out of the study, through the living room and out through the front hall, past the rare prints of Picasso’s that I have lining the hallway. We walked down the hall to my studio, the cold of November creeping in through the drafty hallway. I opened the door to my studio and threw on the lights with a snap before backing away to let him enter. The lights flickered and finally came to life with a fluorescent glow, bathing my equipment in its surreal whiteness. Dust hung in the air underneath the lights, making the air thick to breathe. It took him a moment to gather in what he was looking at, my newest piece of art, and before the true horror of what he beheld could reach him I had already quietly shut the door behind him.

"I finished the chair itself last night," I began, motioning towards the piece centered in the middle of the studio sitting on a gray canvas covered in white dust. I could hear his breathing becoming labored, heaving out of his lungs. His bewildered eyes took in the chair. I had his complete, rapt, attention. "I used her femurs and tibias as the legs, though I did have to trim a little off of the femurs to balance the chair. The seat itself is made up mostly of the smaller bones that I had left. I had to break up most of them up, and I even threw in the carpals and the metacarpals to add a little flare to the design pattern of the seat. The pieces are held together with a strong epoxy, which I picked up in Italy last summer. It is really the strongest I’ve ever used, and I’ve been doing this for a while. True, I don’t build these things to sit on, mind you. I believe they work best as conversation pieces, but if you did mean to sit in it, it could support a man up to two hundred pounds, which just shows true Pennsylvanian craftsmanship. You may recognize the backing as part of her rib cage. I actually had to turn it upside down, you see, so that the rib cage would be facing out toward you rather than in. I had to sand that damn spinal column down before I’d even attempt to sit in it. All those vertebrae would be hell on your back. I finally got her skin tanned just right and stretched it over the back this afternoon."

I didn’t mistake his collapse to the floor as one from shock. The concoction I’d mixed with his drink had finally taken its toll, another supply I had picked up on my jaunt to Italy. And the next day I would be off to Paris, one of the many stops in my constant journey to fulfill my desires to create art. When I would come back the following year, I could count on another couple living in the home two houses down from me, perhaps even a family if I were lucky. Mr. Ketchum would fill them in on their elusive neighbor, who only returned when the autumn leaves started to turn. An artist, he would say, though he’d never let on that he actually owned any of my pieces.

"You see, Jeffrey," I continued before he slipped totally out of consciousness, "you shouldn’t torture yourself with the details of your poor, innocent wife’s demise. Linda really wasn’t all that innocent, you see. I watched her during the day slipping into the house, your house, with some stuffy-looking overweight man. I’m sure you must know the man I’m speaking of. He probably shook your hand at one time or another, his eyes on your wife the entire time. Maybe even worked in your bank, eh? I paid her a visit last week, just after one of his usual visits, and invited her over for a drink, so that we might be more neighborly. The smell of their sex was still hanging in the air when she answered the door, and she had an unmistakable glow about her. She was invigorated, and agreed to a drink. She had beautiful, long red hair. I must admit I had my heart set on the design of this chair when I first saw your wife’s bone structure, but looking at her hair I almost reconsidered, trying to think of something I could create that would accentuate the beauty of her thick hair. The drug didn’t even take half as long as it did on you. She was really quite a drinker, you know. Probably a habit she picked up from her lover.

"You were hardly innocent, though, were you Jeffrey?" I asked, kneeling down in front of where he had slumped onto the floor against the table saw that had used to saw through his wife’s carcass. "There was a reason that she looked somewhere else for love, wasn’t there? I believe most psychiatrists would call you a workaholic, but I’m hardly a psychiatrist so I’ll spare you my analysis. I can imagine you sitting behind your desk after hours, pretending to save the world with your ridiculous paperwork, dreading returning home to hear her incessant complaints about your absence. A night she had already gone to bed when you got home were considered good nights for you, nights you could enjoy a drink and the scores of the local teams on the eleven o’clock news. You probably weren’t even sleeping together towards the end. In truth, I’m surprised you even noticed she’s been gone for the past week.

"You suspected she’d run off, and frankly, you just didn’t care, did you? You see, I may have all of this experience building furniture, but my real art is people. I understand all the intricate parts of the whole, and I recognize the potential that lies within. Murderous intent, jealousy, rage at opportunities lost. I have an instinct for these things, you see. As I said, a clairvoyance. I was as sure of your mutual unhappiness as I am that you will make a better hat rack than your wife made a chair. And I don’t think I would have been far off in assuming that you really would have loved to have been over here with me, wouldn’t you have Jeffrey? Maybe throw in a few pointers here and there?"

And Jeffrey surprised me. He really did. After all the experience I had with my little game, I had heard almost all the snide comebacks a dying man has to offer. Go to hell or fuck off seemed to be the usual favorites of the vulgar, and sometimes someone came up with something that I would even repeat at cocktail parties when I joked with the socialites and collectors who pretended they understood my work about where I’d really gotten my building materials. Instead of any of those things, the last thing Jeffrey could say was this:

"Tell me how you did it again." And he was smiling.

And I obliged. After all, I truly did love to talk about my work.