Frank Baker sat in the wingback chair his wife, Carla, had left him in her will. He thumbed a stray thread on the armrest and thought about how much he didn’t care for the chair. It didn’t recline, and the faded floral cushions were stiff and uncomfortable, like sitting in the backseat of a pickup truck.
He leaned forward and collected a crumpled piece of paper from the living room coffee table—Carla’s will. Frank had read it many times over the past few months, but he never tired of seeing her chicken scratch scrawled across the single crumpled sheet. Sometimes he thought of it as her last physical connection with the world, a pen to a piece of paper, and another humorous jab at her husband of forty years. Frank smiled.
He and Carla had no use for wills. They never had children, and anything they owned would have belonged to the other. But during the final stages of radiation, she’d drawn one up. Nothing legal or notarized. She’d omitted anything of traditional value, instead leaving Frank many of the items they’d often playfully debated the redeeming values of: unusable decorative pillows, a life-size blown glass recreation of a badger, and her grandmother’s wingback chair.
Frank set the will on the coffee table, next to the letters from the bank informing him of his home’s eminent demolition, picked up a sweaty, watered down glass of bourbon, and finished it in one swallow. He’d spent nearly all of their money on Carla’s treatment, and the boxes of their half-packed personal possessions were all he had to show for his efforts.
Earlier that day, Frank had stood behind the screen of his front door when an old Dodge finally parked in front of his house. He’d heard it crunching gravel before it appeared from around a line of pine trees kicking up plumes of earth.
Frank made out two men inside the car, talking, from what he could tell, before they cut the engine and walked past the single Oak tree in his yard.
Father Muller from St. Peter’s and the branch manager of Frank’s bank stood in the shade of the porch.
Father Muller offered sympathy, condolences, and prayers. “You’re not alone, Frank,” he said.
The branch manager offered none. “We’ve been generous with you given your situation.”
“We’ve got a spare room in the rectory,” Father Muller said. “Just think about it.”
“It’s time, Frank,” the branch manager interjected. “It’s coming down tomorrow morning whether your stuff is out or not.”
“Well I guess I better finish packing,” Frank said. “Nice of y’all to drop by.” He closed the door and left them standing on the porch in the summer heat.
“He’s a damn fool,” the branch manager said as they walked back towards the car.
Frank woke the next morning before sunrise. He had slept fully dressed in his sneakers, jeans, and a faded denim shirt he wore when working in the yard. He brushed his teeth in the dull glow of the pull-chain bathroom light, and he walked downstairs in the darkness, past boxes of packing peanuts and rolls of bubble wrap, into the living room.
By fresh lamplight, Frank picked up the wingback chair and carried it down the hall towards the front door. He propped open the screen with a half-packed box marked kitchenware in black marker, and he carefully angled the chair through the door, setting it down on the front porch to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Frank squatted and lifted the chair again, navigated the front steps, and loaded it in the bed of his rusted red pickup truck, careful not to snag the chair’s fabric. Frank turned back towards the house, but opted to forgo closing the door. He got in the truck, turned on the lights, and revved the engine.
Frank drove down the two and a half mile drive that led to Highway 8 and the rest of the world. It was a mix of sand, dirt, and gravel, and the sound of the tires against the drive almost lulled Frank back to sleep.
Halfway down the drive, Frank pulled his truck off to the side. He cut the engine and turned off the headlights, and he sat quietly staring into the wheat fields, watching the lantern light of fireflies play against the grass.
The first slivers of sunlight appeared over the field. Frank got out and pulled the chair from the bed of the truck. He walked to the middle of the drive and set it down facing the highway. Frank dug the decorative, clawed wooden feet into the gravel. He closed the truck’s tailgate and returned, sitting firmly in the chair.
Frank leaned his head back, letting the gray morning light hit his face, and listened to the buzzing of the cicadas as it echoed off the pines. Faintly, he heard the sound of tires on gravel as demolition crews ahead turned from the highway onto the drive. Frank crossed his legs and smiled, thumbing that same stray thread, as the first of several headlights came around the bend, bathing him in yellow and white.
Listen to "Morning Drive"
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