Chapter 5 - Ruth’s chair
The morning after I called Dan, I sat in Ruth’s old chair.
Blue upholstery.
Slight tear near the left arm.
Louis once asked why I did not replace it.
Because Ruth sat there.
Because sometimes grief attaches itself to furniture.
Not rational.
Still real.
I thought about the twenty-two months Louis had lived with me.
The beginning had been good.
He lost two big commercial painting contracts during an economic slowdown.
His crew shrank.
Then a subcontractor sued over unpaid work.
Not because Louis was dishonest.
Because everyone disputed who owed what after a general contractor collapsed.
Cash flow disappeared.
Carla’s job as office manager for a property company covered basic expenses but not their apartment plus business debt.
So they moved in.
I was lonely.
That part rarely entered the story.
Rocky had died six months earlier.
The house was too quiet.
Louis filled it.
Television.
Tools in the garage.
Carla cooking.
Friends visiting.
At first I liked having people around.
Then their stuff spread.
Garage.
Guest room.
Dining hutch.
Kitchen cabinets.
Louis started saying:
“Our place.”
I liked that too.
Family.
Then slowly:
“My house.”
Usually joking.
I let it pass.
One afternoon he replaced a broken faucet.
I thanked him.
He said:
“Somebody’s gotta keep this place functioning.”
Another joke.
Another little thing.
Carla began organizing my mail.
Helpful.
Then opening utility envelopes.
Still helpful.
Then asking:
“Why are you carrying this much cash?”
I stopped answering.
Lines blur because both sides often benefit at first.
That mattered.
I had invited help.
Then resented the way help expanded.
They had accepted support.
Then stopped calling it support.
May you like
The birthday bowl did not create the problem.
It concentrated it into metal.
