The Wicker Chair

“W e’ll take it,” the couple proclaimed, looking at the old antique chair that sat before them.

“Excellent,” the small old man replied and jumped to his feet. “It’ll have a good home. I can tell jus’ by lookin’ atcha.” He picked up the money the two placed down on the table and counted it.

“I’d help ye out,” the small old man said. “But me strength ain’t what it used ta be. Can ya two manage?”

“I think we can, sir. Thanks for the consideration though,” the man replied.

The two tied the chair tight in the back of their pickup truck, waved farewell to the old merchant, and drove off.

Along the way they discussed the significance and fortune of such a find. Both were avid antique hounds and thus knew of the chair’s significance and worth. It was from the mid 1800’s. The two estimated around the 1860’s. It had to be. No modern wicker chair they’d ever encountered boasted the same craftsmanship prominent in that time. Such history now rode with them in the bed of their truck and would soon be a part of their lives and home. What history they could mark it with.

“Think of it honey, that chair, sitting on our porch, basking in the sunlight. A whole summer of it,” the man said to his wife.

“I wonder,” he followed. “If it is indeed from the years we estimated it at, do you think it ever saw battle? Do you think that it belonged to a confederate soldier, or even a general?”

“I don’t know, dear,” she responded. “But what an amazing find regardless.”

The sounds of summer were already approaching. The air grew thick with moisture and the noises of insects buzzed all around them as they drove. The sun grew bright with the growing afternoon and danced in ribbons of light that reflected off a nearby pond residing along the stretch of dirt road leading to their home.

Within moments they arrived. The two got out and untied the rope that secured the chair. Carefully, they lifted it out of the truck’s bed and walked it up the steps of the porch. There, to the left of the door, they placed it in a spot of sun where they felt it would be comfortable. The way the two saw it, placing it on the porch in such a manner was a tribute to history, a genuine fashion of the times. And they wouldn’t consider accepting any other way.

The afternoon passed into evening and the sun continued to shine. The man grabbed a cold beer and walked out to the porch. As he passed the threshold that opened up to it, he looked to his left where the chair was sitting in the sun. It looked inviting. Though he appreciated the chair for what it was and knew of the risks in defacing an antique by using it, he considered the greater fact that by his sitting in it, he would be retracing history. To him, it was more a time machine and less an antique: a truly invaluable piece of history.

So with that he sat down. He did so slowly as to examine whether or not it would support his weight. Now firmly in place and back relaxed, he adjusted himself to achieve full comfort. However, as he did this, a groan came from the chair that caused him to cease movement and perk up his ears.

“What was that?”

The man moved off the chair and looked around, uncomfortable. It sounded like the chair was reacting to his weight, but it didn’t sound like any noise made by strained wood. It sounded human. It sounded alive. He put his beer down and slowly approached the chair once more. He then slowly sat down. Nothing. He sat there for about a minute, and then adjusted himself in a like way, as before. Then he heard it once more.

“ohhhhhh.”

The man, now frightened, ran upstairs to his wife.

“Honey, what is it. You look like something’s scared you.”

He just stood there for a moment in the doorway trying to catch his breath. Finally he responded.

“You know that chair? The one we just bought?”

She nodded.

“I know this sounds crazy, but it made a weird noise.”

“What kind of noise,” she asked.

“A noise like a person,” he replied.

“Like a… person?” She scowled in disbelief.

“How many of those have you had?” She pointed to the beer in his hand.

“Just opened this, it’s my first one. Just come downstairs and outside onto the porch and I’ll show you.” He motioned for her to follow him. She sat there for a second, then placed the book she was reading down beside her on the bed. She got up and followed her husband downstairs and outside.

He stood there on the porch looking at the chair that sat in the sun.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he said as he poked at it and pressed upon it with his arms.

“Careful! This is an antique,” she warned him.

“You didn’t sit in it, did you!?” She spun him around so he’d look her in the eye.

“I, I, no. Not really.” She didn’t believe him. She just stood there with accusing eyes.

“Of all people, you’d understand exactly why you shouldn’t sit in this. What if it broke?”

“Dear,” the man replied. “Craftsmanship like this would permit someone sitting in this chair a hundred years from now.” He patted the chair.

“It’s really quite durable.”

She just stood there for a moment.

“If you break it…”

“I know, I know, it’ll be my ass,” he agreed.

The woman walked back inside and he stood there for a moment. After a minute or two of convincing himself that what he heard was nonsense, he sat down to drink his beer and soak in the sun. The chair made no more strange sounds that day.

The next morning came quickly. The woman was the first to get up. The man would too, later. He routinely awoke to the wafting scents of his wife’s cooking. Today was no exception.

“Honey,” the woman said as she heard him amble down the stairs. “Did you bring the chair in with you last night?”

“What do you mean,” he replied.

She pointed to the chair, which was sitting quietly in the kitchen corner.

“No. No I didn’t.” He looked over at her.

“You didn’t, did you?” She just looked at him.

“Well, if I’m asking, obviously…”

“Yeah, I assumed such,” he replied.

“Are you sure you didn’t get drunk and forget.”

“Pretty sure. It takes a lot more than one beer to get me that way. And I only had the one.”

“Did you lock the door when you came in last night,” she asked. Her voice now grew concerned.

“I did. I always do.” His tone, too, now took the likeness of hers.

“Then, how…? You don’t think someone tried to break in last night and, as some sort of bizarre thief courtesy, brought our chair in, do you?” She looked at him, puzzled as she asked.

“I doubt it, he replied. “If anything, they would have taken the chair too. Besides, we don’t get much activity of that sort, or any sort for that matter, around here.”

“Huh.”

The man grabbed the chair to pick it up, but he couldn’t. It felt heavy. It felt like the chair had been nailed to the ground. It wouldn’t budge. He asked his wife to help him. She came over and grabbed the other end of the chair and, with considerable effort, they lifted it up and placed it back in its place on the porch.

“Why’s it so damn heavy,” she asked him, stretching and cracking her back.

“It wasn’t like this before.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe it’s the heat that’s got to us or something. Probably a little tired and sore from going about town all yesterday.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It seems a little too heavy to rationalize that.”

“Well, if someone did try to do us the courtesy of bringing it inside instead of stealing it, they are probably hurting real bad right now.” He stood there for a moment and then spoke again.

“Perhaps they wanted to steal it but couldn’t deal with the weight,” he noted and let out a brief chuckle.

The two looked at the chair for a moment to try and consider the possibilities that would provide a logical answer but came up with nothing. After the moment passed, they decided it was too trivial to worry about and continued on with their morning.