The Chair

A Story by Heart Attack

It was all about the chair

I remember it just like yesterday, Grandpa sitting in the chair, smoking his huge Cuban cigar, like the ones rich criminals smoked in the movies. He'd fill the house with his sent of some rancid alcoholic drink and stale smoke making the baby cough and spurring Bet's asthma.

I should think we all wanted to do away with him and his filth. But it could hardly be said that any of us made a move to do so.

I guess it was his money that held us. He never put me or any of the kids in his will, nor did he give us any of his money while he was alive, but... maybe it was the simple smell of it that made us let him come so often.

He was filthy rich, and though unspoken, it wasn't a secret. He always wore these expensive suits and lived in a rand house driving a beautiful car. We lived comfortably. As did the rest of the family. Even Grandma, who was far too sweet to even consider divorcing him, (Despite all his affairs.) lived in a separate house. A smaller, neater, more cozy house that smelled of sweets. This kind of house I liked to take the kids to.

Grandpa was more than just unfaithful though. He was nasty. I couldn't put a stop to what I only suspected though, that Grandpa was mistreating my Billy in one of the most horrendous ways.

Oh I tried. I confronted him, begged Billy to tell me, I even talked to Grandma who was content to take poor Billy for a few days that Grandpa insisted on visiting over night. But he always seemed to get his hands on Billy. He'd always give Billy these looks. Sneaky, creepy, sleazy kind of looks that sickened me. Whenever he came in, demanding hugs from his grandchildren, he'd always hug Billy the longest. Till it grew awkward. Billy's face was always as pale as the moon after those hugs. I finally told Bill he didn't have to hug ol' Gramps. He refused to touch him henceforth. Though Grandpa forced some scenes on him.

He would sit in that chair now. I'm not sure why he would, but he always did. Crowing for his grand kids to gather round. Bet would hide in her room, and the baby would be fussing, so it was always poor Billy who ended up on Grandpas knee. I had a million excuses to get my boy away from him, but only half of them stood up against him.

I still remember when the chair went missing. There had been a break in "Good riddance to worse than bad rubbish." Billy had grunted. Bet and I agreed. Even the baby seemed pleased, crawling contently to the now vacant spot.

It wasn't till a week later we saw the chair again, with Grandpa in it. Frozen to the river bank. Underneath the layers of ice we could tell he had been duck-taped to his chair, and had several screws drilled up his arm. His face was a mess, but we recognized him. Even with half a cigar frozen and mushed against his left cheek

It was Billy who spoke first, a pleased note ringing through his voice. "At least we don't have to wonder why he wouldn't come."

I though it was a site I'd never forget in all my days. But in a week, I had erased all memory of Grandpa from my memory and the carpet had lost the chair leg grooves.

I recall however, Billy dancing around the house with his sister Bet whispering, 'Can't touch this' together over and over again. Now there is a picture I'll never forget.