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Upright
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Damn...I'm late. The new challenge has been posted, which condemned my last character to Underdeveloped Hell 
This sure ended up wordy, though...sorry 
* * *
Ironically, the asking price in the ad paid a strange tribute to the era of its beginning.
The bellow of the “Roaring Twenties” was slowly choked to a whimper during 1929 as The Great Gatsbys were swallowed in The Great Depression. In those days, the same $275.00 was an American farmer's average annual income, and life among the non-farmers wasn't much better with roughly $600.00 to show for a year's worth of labor. If you could find labor, of course. It was common to see hundreds lined up around entire city blocks in hopeful response to a company's announcement of three job openings.
Luxuries such as an English armoire ran a distant second (or third...or tenth...) to evading starvation, of course. As a result, when the furniture dealer finished his inspection and offered them four dollars and fifty cents for the ornate cabinet, it was immediately accepted by the delighted owners and, in fact, regarded as divine intervention...a lucrative blessing to help them endure these dismal times. After all, who else would want to buy such an item right now? Nobody was interested in carved mahogany when carved budgets boiled everything down to survival and little more. Very little more.
The dealer had walked to their home from his shop, a half-mile away. All resources were carefully measured out these days, and conserving fuel on a possibly fruitless endeavor was no exception. As he departed to retrieve his moving truck, the couple started preparing the armoire for his return...not that the task required much effort, actually. Some of the first casualties among the couple's assets were their fine clothes and jewelry, so the cabinet was quickly emptied of the very few essentials it held. Once it was bare, Tiffany gently closed the doors and smoothed her hands across the intricate woodwork one final time. Consumed with her own sadness, she didn’t notice the bitter remorse enveloping her husband as he unlocked the last drawer and slid it open. Oddly, this was the first time he'd dared to look in there since their descent into poverty. He never had the strength to confront page after page of the truth convicting him...although, to anyone else, it was simply a benign sheaf of papers neatly stacked inside. To him, however, it was the written archive of his failures. Failure embossed in every border and inked with every pen stroke. He glanced at his wife's reflection in the beveled mirror as her fingers traced the pattern of the burlwood grain, two tears slipping from her tired eyes. He knew her tears weren't made of salt...they, like the blisters and calluses on her once-smooth hands, were formed of his failures. It was getting harder and harder to bear the disappointment etched across her face.
“Hellllllloooooo?! Say now, folks...anyone home, here?”
The dealer's voice at the front door cut through Preston’s reverie and he and Tiffany went out to greet the gentleman again. The short, wiry fellow was remarkably strong, and the armoire - with little help from its former owners - was soon loaded into the Model TT. The money and a hearty handshake were quickly dealt out and the dealer hopped into the driver's seat with a vigorous wave goodbye. As they watched his truck sputter and hiccup down the road, she sighed and returned into the house to hide their new (but terribly temporary) wealth in the empty cracker tin hidden at the rear of the kitchen cupboard. Preston, however, remained at the threshold...watching yet another piece of their life being stripped away, still clutching the pages that condemned them to this.
Two months later, he wrote an amazingly eloquent suicide letter on those worthless stock certificates just moments before he hanged himself in the bedroom.
* * *
As New Deals promised slow hope of restoring the nation, the armoire languished in the dealer's shop for over a decade. Many wistful faces were reflected in its mirror over the years, but frugality always prevailed as the potential buyers decided their financial legs were still a bit too shaky for non-essential purchases. December of 1941 brought a fleet of death planes over Hawaii and, along with them, Keynesian deficit spending in the country's rush to war. The sleeping giant awoke, the economy surged, and victory...over pauperism as well as foreign tyranny...was claimed.
On an April midafternoon in 1946, the timid young soldier removed his service cap as he walked into the used furniture store. Almost immediately, his eyes landed on the armoire and his face brightened. The shopkeeper pushed his own weathered fedora back from his forehead and warmly greeted the man.
“Well, good day to you, soldier...welcome home!”
The soldier nodded at him. “Thank you, sir”, he said as he made his way through the hodgepodge of furniture cluttering the shop to stand in front of the armoire. Gently, he opened the cabinet doors and tested every drawer, smiling at the flawless precision. “Perfect...” he thought, and smiled as he straightened his khaki tie in the mirror.
He turned to the dealer, “How much for the wardrobe, here, sir?”
“It's yours for fifteen dollars, son,” the old man answered.
“I see,” the soldier muttered as his face fell. $62.00 a month in Army pay made it difficult to spare anything, but he'd scratched and saved every penny he could for weeks, now. Only to still fall short of the mark, it appeared.
The old man pressed on, “That's mahogany, you know”.
“Yep, it's quite beautiful...” the soldier replied and ran his hand up and down the smooth wood on the side. “I saw a few of these in Europe...real fancy carving just like this. Never thought I'd find one so close to home, though.”
“You like it, do ya?”
“Sure do,” he said, and looked away from the gentleman to hide his discouragement. The dealer, much wiser in the ways of negotiation than his inexperienced counterpart, decided to test the waters by asking why he wanted it.
“My wife, Melinda...we're...well...we were high school sweethearts and she waited for me the whole time I was overseas.” Suddenly, the story just tumbled out of the usually-reserved young man like he was chatting with an old friend. “That girl wrote me every day...even when I couldn't write back for weeks at a time, she never gave up. I swear -- those letters got me through some of the worst stuff I've ever seen, mister. I dreamed about her every night and, when I got back, she was right there...still right there...prettier than I'd even remembered. Just like I'd never been gone.” He paused for a few seconds, distracted from his disappointment by the memory of her face when she saw him standing on the front porch with his duffle. “Well, anyway, we just got married...'bout a month ago. And I...I've been savin' up to get her somethin'. Somethin' special...somethin' real nice, you know, t-to show her...” and he stopped, the tale now told, but uncertain how to finish it.
The old man who, unknown to the soldier, lost his own wife to diphtheria nine years earlier softly asked, “How much you got to spend, kid?”
“Eleven dollars and thirty nine cents, sir. I ain't got enough. But I sure do thank you for your time...” and, embarrassed, he turned to leave.
The dealer did some quick math in his head. “Well, if I deduct the four dollar delivery charge, it seems you've got yourself an armoire and a few cents' change if you can figure out a way to get it home to the missus.” As he spoke, he casually turned the placard stating “Delivery Charge ~ $2.50 Extra” face down on the counter before the young corporal could notice it.
He couldn't fish the money out of his pocket fast enough and, in haste to cinch the deal with payment, all thirty-nine cents spilled out onto the floor while the old man peered over the countertop, smiling at his anxiousness. The young man scrambled to gather and re-pocket the change, then handed over his eleven dollars. Recognizing what this occasion meant to his customer, the dealer counted out each bill with great ceremony as the soldier's grin grew wider and wider, then he carefully wrote a receipt for the purchase and handed it to him. Next, he shuffled over to the armoire to place a “Sold” sign on the front of it and, as he did, he caught the kid's reflection in the mirror. “Boy's gonna come clean out of his skin in a minute,” he thought...and couldn't help but grin, himself. Ah, young love...to be there once again.
“Alright, then, shop closes in an hour...” he started, but the young man was already on his way out the door. “I'll be back before you know it!” he hollered over his shoulder as he ran out of the shop...and he was, at that. Twenty-two minutes had to be some kind of record for leaving on foot and returning with two more uniformed buddies in someone's borrowed truck. Carefully, the men laid the armoire in the back on one of the old moth-eaten blankets someone had the fortunate foresight to throw in and layered the remaining blankets over as much of the cabinet's surface as possible. The new groom climbed in and crouched down next to it, one arm protectively laid across its top, as the other two jumped into the front seat and fired up the engine. As they pulled away from the curb, the armoire’s newest owner rendered a quick salute to the old man standing in the doorway. He chuckled, returning the salute, and slowly walked back into his store...though it surprised him to feel a slight pang of loss when he saw the empty space where the armoire stood for so many years. He stared at the wall for a moment, but his thoughts soon drifted back to the soldier and his bride. “Young love...” he sighed aloud this time, then he and a few sweet memories began to sweep up for the day.
Much later that night, he dreamed about the surreal magic of the first time he'd ever seen his wife on that October day back in '05. The vivid imagery was astounding...he could hear the music floating through the fairgrounds...even smell the delicate perfume on her wrist as he kissed her hand. And he was actually smiling in his sleep when the massive heart attack swiftly reunited them once again.
* * *
“Oh, Patrick!” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth as tears came to her eyes (a combination that briefly confused the hell out of the young man still quite naive in the ways of a woman's emotions).
“Melinda? What's wrong? Is it okay?”
“No...no....” she laughed through her tears. “It's perfect! It's beautiful! It's wonderful!” She lifted her hands to cradle his face as she looked into his eyes. “YOU are wonderful...” she whispered, and smiled that smile. The one he'd carried all over Europe inside his heart. His momentary panic subsided and he relaxed in the moment he'd been hoping for. He wanted her to be happy...needed her to know how much he adored her. Judging by her reaction, he'd done it right...and the sparkle in her teary eyes, alone, made him doubt that there was any luckier fella alive than him. They put the armoire in the bedroom, where it absorbed most of the already-cramped living space they could afford. It didn't matter, though...this was theirs. A tangible piece of their joined lives...and that, in and of itself, made squeezing past it to make up the bed a minor inconvenience, at most.
Over the years, the armoire gained and lost many things. The stack of their wartime love letters, bound with a soft blue ribbon, was the first item added to it, safely locked away in a drawer. A small scratch was gained on the front leg during one of their frequent moves between military bases. The narrow-waist dresses were lost in favor of maternity attire...which was, ultimately, replaced with a tiny christening gown. The uniforms of a corporal were whisked away and returned, starched and pressed, bearing the three chevrons of a new sergeant.
Suddenly, the uniforms were removed and nothing replaced them for months until his first letter arrived from Seoul.
“My sweet Melinda,
I'm doing well, but I'm tired and I miss you terribly. We've come about 350 miles and we're still moving. The other day, Private Stephens said he figured that, with all the time I spent fighting the krauts, this ought to be old hat for me by now. He figured I maybe even look forward to it, but he's young and still wet behind the ears.
He hasn't learned yet that nobody prays for peace more than a soldier does.
Please kiss our beautiful Suzanne for me, sweetheart. I'm holding both of you close in my heart.
All of my love,
Patrick”
As the months dragged on, the baby grew and so did the bundle of letters from Korea. Places with mysterious names filled her imagination as she marched alongside him through his letters. Pusan, Inch'on, Pyongt’aek...he described these exotic-sounding places to her so powerfully that, sometimes, she would momentarily forget the danger he was in while she read his narratives about this faraway culture. This, of course, was his intent and, even though her messages were still laced with the unique mixture of fear, faith and loneliness exclusive to the waiting wives of fighting men, he was also pleased to see curiosity and intrigue emerge in her questions about the things he portrayed for her. His letters asked many questions about the baby, their families and the weather back home...hers asked about kimchi, ch'ima and soju.
Every now and then, he would quickly mention areas with numeric titles such as “Hill 863” or “Hill 1051”, but only as they were necessary to clarify a larger portion of the story about his temporary home away from home. He never went into much, if any, detail about these places, and wife's intuition told her to never press him about it. Not only for the sake of his comfort...she had a feeling she wouldn't want to know what happened at these places he didn't speak of.
“Dearest Melinda,
Your last letter still has me in stitches. It seems our girl was gifted with her mother's stubbornness! Thank you for the photograph, I keep it inside my helmet so that your faces are always near me. My letters after this one may be few for awhile, we're moving out tomorrow for Hill 931 and I don't know how long it will take to sort through. But, when I get my first chance, I promise to tell you about the ajushi (an older Korean gentleman) I had the honor of speaking with yesterday. I can't wait to share the fantastic stories he told me.
I miss you both very badly. I can't wait to see you again.
My love forever,
Patrick”
So she waited, and waited...until the next message came.
From the War Department.
“We regret to inform you that your husband, Sergeant Patrick H. Terry, was killed during combat in Korea on 10 October 1951...”
That was as far as she got. As far as she ever got, in fact...she was never able to read the words in that telegram a second time. In the blur of weeks that quickly followed, the armoire gained the black dress of a young widow and the folded flag from a soldier’s coffin.
In retrospect, what came next was probably no real surprise.
Some said Melinda lost her mind. Other folks disagreed, saying it was nothing more than a tragic accident. Her foot just got stuck in the tracks, is all. Those who feared to speak ill of the dead wondered why she was out walking on a train trestle at 2 o’clock in the morning, but they said nothing at all. And none of them would ever know that the impact tore the Purple Heart from Melinda’s hand, launching it into the dark river's current, below. When Suzanne was old enough to ask and be told, her aunt Jean could only say, “Heartbreak took your Daddy and Mommy away, sweetheart.”
And that was probably the most accurate explanation of them all.
Hill 931 was the main objective among several hills on a Korean ridgeline, a Korean ridgeline that took over a month of fierce battle to secure. A fierce battle that actually killed both of her parents...one of them just a little bit later than the other.
But in all ways of the heart that count...Melinda died with Patrick in the battle for Heartbreak Ridge.
* * *
“Suzanne divorced her husband,
She got the keys to the car and the home.
But her friends were really his friends,
And no one stops by to see her much anymore...”
Suzanne threw the nearest thing she could find at the radio, which ended up being the roll of packing tape. It didn’t do anything to silence the song she hated but, rather, hit the wall next to it and bounced behind the pile of boxes she’d ultimately have to crawl behind to dig it out later.
“Great,” she muttered and stopped wrapping newspaper around her china to shut off the radio. She hated that stupid song. Since the recent release of Mellencamp’s album, they ran that song ad nauseum...heavy emphasis on the nauseum, she thought. She tried to convince herself the melody was obnoxious but, truth was, it was hard on the ego. Especially now, at 38...trying to figure out where her marriage went wrong, where she was going to live, where would she get money from, and how to drive a U-Haul van. Life was tiring and love was futile and, God, she could use a hot bath right now.
“Sixteen years sure gathered a lot of crap,” she said to the room full of boxes...then laughed at the duality of that statement. It was better to laugh than cry, though crying usually seemed to take the lead when in doubt.
How could it have all gone so wrong?
As soon as that thought crept into her head, she shut it out. All it ever did was writhe and spin in her brain, folding back into itself until she was a frustrated mess. She checked her watch...it was almost time for the open house. She hoped to sell most of the furniture...she needed cash more than she needed extra things to load and unload and, at the end of that long day, she wasn’t disappointed. Most of the items were snatched up relatively quickly, causing her to second-guess if she’d priced everything too low. But her net earnings were well within the range of what she should be able to at least land in an apartment with. Just for a little while, she promised herself. Until she could sort through it all and figure out what direction her life was taking, now.
“...I don't know how long it will take to sort through...”
Words from a letter by the father she never knew came rushing into her mind and she felt that empty sadness, again. The melancholy void where memories of a mother and father should be. Her aunt and uncle were very wonderful guardians to her and they raised her as their own, but there was always that missing piece of her that she couldn’t overlook. She grew up reading her parents’ letters over and over, discovering the love between them. Even down to the little crumpled receipt for the armoire that her father bought for her mother a month after they married. Knowing the sacrifice put into that purchase, her aunt had stored the armoire - complete with its contents - in the attic so that Suzanne could have it for her own, one day. She knew every word of every written message between them, by heart. Laughed at the stories...cried at the reminders from her father to her mother to kiss “baby Suzanne” for him...and sobbed at the telegram from the Army and the newspaper article about her mother’s death. Letters authored with love and patience and passion. Letters that revealed exactly the kind of love she didn’t have in her life anymore. Exactly the kind of love she’d never had, apparently. She looked across the now mostly-empty room at the armoire and she couldn’t stop the tears this time.
“Um...excuse me? Ma’am?...”
She jumped, visibly at his voice. She thought the door was closed. Quickly wiping her eyes, she spun around to face a pleasant-faced gentleman. “Y-yes?” she said.
“I don’t mean to intrude, but...how much for the armoire, there?”
“Oh,” she smiled apologetically. “It’s a family heirloom...this piece is not for sale.”
She could see he was devastated. “Oh...I was very much hoping to purchase it. It’s exactly what I’m looking for...” he continued
She shook her head, “No, I’m sorry”
“I’ll pay you $500.00 for it...” he persisted.
“I’m terribly sorry. It’s not for sale at any price” she reiterated.
Grudgingly, he gave in, but handed her his business card..."If you change your mind, would you let me know first?” he inquired. She assured him she would and, after he departed, she loaded the last of the boxes and unsold items into the U-Haul. When she came back in, just looking at the heavy mahogany armoire tired her out, so she opted to load it in the morning before it was time to leave.
She locked the doors and made a cup of tea, then called aunt Jean to fill her in on the day’s sale and proceeds. She closed her eyes and smiled at the excited tone of her aunt’s voice...yes, Suzanne was coming home. Quite a bit older, a fair amount wiser, and a great deal more injured than when she departed as an optimistic, 22 year old newlywed. Listening to the ecstatic tone of her aunt’s voice, Suzanne decided to tell her about the apartment after she got there...she didn’t want to wreck the happiness for Jean right now. Besides, it wouldn’t be too bad. She’d still be nearby, in town...she just didn’t want to burden them by moving into their home again. For any length of time.
Jean extracted several promises from her to call when she was leaving in the morning and from a pay phone every so often along the way. Suzanne assured her, over and over, that she would. After their exchange of I love you’s, she hung up and she settled down on the anorexic foam pad that was doubling as a bed tonight. Within minutes, she wondered if her already-aching back would survive it until morning.
That was the last thing she remembered before the alarm went off at 8:00 a.m.
Still yawning, she rolled up the foam pad (growling a variety of curses at it as her back groaned) and dressed in her chosen driving outfit of jeans and a sweatshirt. Force of habit shuffled her feet toward the front door to get the paper from the driveway, even though the subscription had been canceled a week earlier. As she opened the door, it was debatable if she was the most scared...or if her startled scream shocked the man standing there more.
“I am so sorry, Ma’am!” he said, with his hand frozen in mid-reach for the doorbell.
“Wh-WHAT do you want?!” she said to him, recognizing him as the gentleman who’d asked about the armoire yesterday. She put her hand on her chest as she caught her breath.
“I came back about the armoire. I’d like to offer you...”
Didn’t this guy know how to give up? “Sir, really...it’s not for sale,” she interrupted. “As I told you it’s an heir--”
“...fifteen hundred dollars,” He finished.
She couldn’t believe what she just heard. Fifteen hundred dollars? A few weeks ago, when she’d briefly toyed with the notion of selling it with the other furniture, she hadn’t expected anything more than $150.00 or so out of it.
Guilt from somewhere within that void stabbed at her.
“I-I can’t. I’m sorry...I just can’t....”
“Two thousand” he countered.
This was unbelievable. Her head was swimming. An apartment for at least a few months, even furnishings...time to find a job. But her mother and father. Oh God...what should she do? What would they say?
“Two thousand five hundred” he pressed, sensing her indecision.
“Fine.” She said, all doubts erased, and they both stepped inside as he counted twenty-five $100.00 bills from his wallet. She scanned around the room and spied a large empty box to relocate the armoire’s contents into. She didn’t feel any remorse at the moment...she was absolutely numb at the idea of $2,500.00. The letters in the locking drawers...the medals...the flag...the christening gown. All of these things were taken from their home of forty years and folded into a cardboard box.
“I’m going to be leaving in a couple of hours,” she said when she finished.
“That’s fine, I’ll arrange for its removal right away,” he said. He handed her the money, wished her luck with her move, and the strange little man left as suddenly as he had arrived.
She couldn’t help herself...“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she rubbed the brass handles of the armoire. She felt like she’d let her parents down, somehow. But, they would have wanted her to have a good future, wouldn’t they?
“I’m holding both of you close in my heart...” Her father’s words became her own.
Within two hours, there was a knock at the door. She greeted the two gentlemen and they came in, draped the armoire with heavy moving tarps, and secured them tightly around the cabinet with plastic sheeting. They easily maneuvered it into the van, tied it down securely and drove away.
Just like that. Gone. Another loss in a line of many, lately.
She was tired of crying. Today was going to be a difficult day...it was best to just “get gone”. Get in, get gone, and cry herself all the way home. She loaded up the last few things, locked everything up for the last...the very last...time and climbed up onto the U-Haul’s bench seat. She sat for a moment, looking at the house she’d loved...so many dreams started there. So many nightmares ended it.
“The hell with it...let’s get out of here,” she said to no one in particular and turned the key. The loud engine roared into life and, before putting it in gear, she leaned over to turn on the radio.
“I want to live the real life,
I want to live my life close to the bone.
Just because I’m middle aged, that don’t mean
I want to sit around this house and watch TV...
I want the real life...
I want to live the real life.”
She didn't offer any resistance to the song, this time. If it was chasing her, fine...it had her, ego be damned. With tears streaming from her eyes and defiant laughter tumbling out of her mouth, she shook her head and put her foot on the accelerator, driving away from the last sixteen years without one glance in the rearview mirror. After a couple of miles, she actually started singing along.
After a couple of hundred miles, the brakes failed on an unfortunate curve.
After 38 years, her void was finally filled.
* * *
He slept fitfully as strange images curled through his mind. Soldiers and farmers and, in that crazed logic that only threads itself together in dreams, his great-uncle Preston was eating kimchi at a county fair, telling him to buy the train trestle for eleven dollars.
He awoke, marinated in the sweat of his disease as his scarlet eyes painfully focused on the objects around him, one by one. The clock on the bedside table lost its furry fringe and became clearly...well...a clock. The bureau to the side of him. The armoire on the opposite wall from his bed...although, after waking up to the armoire facing him every morning for nearly eighteen years, it could just as easily be his memory telling him he saw it there.
He could feel it coming...or, rather, going. Like trying to grasp and hold onto a wisp of smoke. This was it and he would die alone, after all. Though it didn’t surprise him...he’d secreted away one small sliver of hope that it wouldn’t happen like this.
It did.
And the sanctimonious prick of a brother he’d shared nothing in life with, beyond mutual hatred, was less than pleased at cleaning up the mess of an intestate. The fool had once had more money than any bum like him should have been allowed, he thought. And now, except for a couple pieces of fancy furniture and a mattress that should be incinerated, he had nothing but an assload of unpaid bills and a sucker of a brother who was going to get stuck with whatever this “estate” of his wouldn’t cover.
“May as well begin somewhere”, he snarled and called the newspaper.
* * *
She flipped through the newspaper while she stirred her coffee.
"For Sale: Antique Mahogany victorian armoire; circa 1920's; beveled mirror; 5 locking drawers, skull key; dimensions 6'x5'x3'; good condition, $275.00"
“Unreal...this is the deal of my life!” she thought, excitedly, as she picked up the phone to dial...
* * *
Last edited by Rainyshoes; 03-21-2005 at 11:18 PM..
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