The Armchair

This is a Neorealism short story I had to do for class. Let me know if you find any mistakes, I need to turn it in for a grade. 

“What will we do with it?” Samantha, my oldest daughter, asked.

“She’s not even-!” Micha, my baby boy, raised his voice at her question. He sounded as if he had been crying, or was about to. “We’ll keep it, obviously.”

“You can; I don’t want it.” Samantha said dismissively.

“You know my apartment isn’t big enough for more furniture. Can’t we just put it into storage?” Micha said.

“And who’s going to pay for that? You? I know I’m not.” Samantha said. I could just imagine her rolling her eyes to him, she always was too abrasive to her siblings.

“I’ll keep it.” Janet, Samantha’s oldest daughter, offered.

“See, all settled.” Samantha said trying to end their argument.

“I’m worried about her kids doing something to it. Please Samantha, just hold onto it for a few years, until one of us can take it and care for it properly.” Micha asked.

“I don’t want it. It doesn’t go with anything in my house, and it’s falling apart as is.” Samantha denied. They were talking about my armchair. A rickety ole torn up mess of a chair, but the most wonderful thing I owned. My father bought it for five dollars after he got married to his first wife, long before I was ever born.

“It’s an investment.” He said when I asked him why he would spend so much money on some ole chair. “We’ll have it for years.” He would always proclaim. One time, my mother, his second wife, suggested they buy a new one. “Not until it’s up and cleaved in half.” Daddy spat. I couldn’t tell which he hated more: the idea of losing the last remnant of his first marriage, or the idea of spending another five dollars on a new chair.

I remember the first time I ever sat in it. I was six years old, barely tall enough to properly get into its cushion on my own. Sure, I had sat on my father’s and mother’s knee while they sat in the chair, but that was the first time I had done it all on my own. It was a terrible thing, lumpy cushions, an itchy cover. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would actually want to sit in it themselves. Eventually, Mom forced Daddy to have it re-cushioned and reupholstered. He nearly had a stroke when the bill was handed to him; I almost thought he’d keel over then and there.

“Fine, can I at least have the chair reupholstered?” Samantha said in a huff. The others had convinced her to keep the chair, much to her dismay.

“Sure,” Micha said. I felt someone’s had touch mine. It was rough and calloused, probably Micha. “Is she comfortable?”

“The doctor gave her some meds to help about an hour ago now; she should be fine.” Janet reassured him sweetly. She was always so kind, but motherhood made her gentle too. They were right about the medicine the doctor gave me, I haven’t felt this good in years. If I could move, I might have even had the energy to dance again.

I remember the first time I went out dancing. It was back in sixty-seven, and I had just turned nineteen. I danced until my feet ached, only to collapse after it was all said and done right into that chair. Mom came down when I got home, asking if I knew what time it was and where I had been.

“Are you hungry?” Micha asked.

“Not right now,” Janet said.

“What for?” Samantha asked.

“I don’t know? But I’m hungry. Any cravings?” Micha said.

“Salad. Maybe some soup. Something light I think.” Samantha said.

“Maybe Charlie’s then?” Micha suggested. Charlie’s was a little bistro in town. It opened about thirty years ago. They have delicious spaghetti, but I haven’t been there in a while. It’s too much trouble now. The last time I went there was about six years ago. Well, actually I didn’t go, it was delivery. I sat in my chair and tried to eat it as carefully as I could, a habit whipped into my when I once spilled soup onto it as a child.

A while passed, and Micha and Samantha talked about what they wanted from Charlie’s, before I head them leave. Janet opted to stay, not wanted to leave me alone. She probably thought I was going to die or something if she left. I heard a familiar squeaking sound, Janet must have sat in my chair. I don’t know how old she was when she first sat in it herself, probably about my age the first time, but I remember when her mother first sat in it.

“It’s gunna give me a crick.” Samantha said trying to get comfortable.

“That it might.” I smiled and continued to rock Micha’s crib to help him get to sleep.

“Why do you like it so much?” She asked. “It’s not comfortable.”

“Not especially, no.” I said.

“Then why do you always sit in it?”

“I’ve always loved sitting there.”

She got out of the chair and moved to the couch. “Well, I won’t fight you for it.”

When Micha first sat in the chair, he was just the opposite. He was all smiles and giggles. He was so proud that he was finally able to lift himself into it. “It’s so lumpy!” He shouted, still smiling and pushing his hands into the cushions. He didn’t move from that spot for over an hour, he almost fell asleep in it.

I could picture Janet doing something similar, she always took after her uncle more than her own mother. Maybe she would have bounced around, or maybe shoved everyone else away so that she could have it all to herself for a while. Who knows…

A little while passed, and the doctor said to a room full of sniffling noses. “It won’t be long now.” I could have told them that, no need for any doctor. But still, those medicines sure were nice. I only wish I could have sat in that lumpy ole chair one more time, but oh well. I just hope they all find a chair of their own soon.