The Chesterfield Chair

At just eleven years old, Dennis always dreamt of living in an enormous house, so massive and magnificent that it would earn the right to have its very own name: Lakeview Manor. Or perhaps Driftwood Estate, named after his favorite forest and hiding place in Northeastern America. Either way, In every respect, it would contrast the tiny cabin he grew up in. Gone would be the wooden panel walls, the grungy near-yellow carpet, the brown ceilings, and the clutter. God, the clutter, it was awful. Just to eat at the table, things like papers and figurines and books had to be moved, only to have to be moved later again to reach the telephone. His parents were the definition of hoarders, and they found solace in all of the things they owned. Maybe they saw that the more they had signified wealth and prosperity. They grew up with even less, so perhaps they did see it that way.

Dennis hated it.

He hated his parents for the house they grew up in.

He hated them for the way they treated him.

The beatings.

Was that why he was the way he was? Perhaps that’s why he was drawn to the darkness of things. He found somewhat a beauty in them.

Friends would ask to come over, mainly to play in the creek several hundred yards behind the cabin, but every time, he had an excuse. His mom was sick, his dad was in a bad mood, they had company … sometimes they grew as outlandish as a tree falling onto the cabin and damaging it so they were rebuilding and remodeling. Eventually people stopped asking.

  He preferred to visit his friends’ homes. His buddy, Timothy, lived in a nice subdivision just up the road from the cabin, and while their house was no manor, it was the closest thing in Dennis’ eyes. Timothy’s parents would make them the most refreshing iced-cold blackberry tea for when they came in after running around, playing in the dirt, playing on the slip-n-slide, and riding their bicycles. There were always plenty of snacks. And the place was clean. Everything was updated, the sofa didn’t have tears in it, the floors didn’t creak, the dining table wasn’t wobbly, it was just all so perfect. But then after an argument, Timothy disappeared.

Dennis wanted to be a realtor.

Instead, he found himself doing grunt work as a plumber.

He wasn’t a very good one either, and the constant drinking meant missing appointments and becoming unreliable.

But somehow, as if by destiny, a recently widowed Gennifer had run into him at the grocery store and learned of his trade. She was having sink issues. And her house? It was on a cul-de-sac in the prestigious wooded neighborhood of Auburn Terrace, a golfing paradise. 

This house was a manor. 

As soon as you walked through the doors, the foyer’s shiny white marble floors made you nearly squint. The wide staircase ahead led to a landing where a huge replica of the Mona Lisa - much larger than the original - hung. Chandeliers were scattered throughout the house, the kitchen was practically the same size as the cabin he grew up in, there was just as big of a wine cellar, and the windows were so large the entire house just brightened up. The furniture was so uniquely designed Dennis wondered if everything had been made specifically for Gennifer and the house. 

He tried to hide his amazement, but she saw right through him.

“Would you like a tour?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, and she proceeded to give him one anyway. 

He saw not one but two dining rooms - one informal and one much more formal, holding a table that could seat twelve and a cabinet with the most exquisite china he had ever seen. He found delight in the white grand piano room. Dennis wasn’t a reader, but he was mesmerized by the two story library where mahogany bookcases lined every single wall except for where the brick grand fireplace stood. Two comfy chairs over an oriental rug faced them. He could get into reading if he lived here.

And then there were the numerous guest rooms and even a movie theater with leather reclining chairs. Some rooms just looked like more sitting rooms. How many living rooms did a single home need?

But what about the master bedroom - the most intimate place in a home - a place where people found safety and peace?

Of course she would never take him there. 

Minutes later, he was working on the sink, fighting his hangover.

It was a simple clog. Most people seemed to dump anything and everything down a kitchen drain not realizing that grease and fats did build up overtime.

It was just a few minute fix, but he dragged on to enjoy the house for as long as he could. But he had another appointment, so it was time to collect payment.

Gennifer was nowhere to be seen.

He made his way through the house, searching for her.

Nothing. 

And then he found it.

The master bedroom.

This was the definition of luxury.

An oasis.

Centered on the back wall was the dark wooden bed with four large posts towering high into the air. The white bedding fluffed up, covered in a multitude of pillows one would never use. He admired the large burgundy round rug that covered almost the entire room. Recessed lighting dimmed the room. A seating area with two chesterfield chairs was snuggled in the corner, a thick quilt thrown over one of the chairs haphazardly. A modern abstract light fixture brought the focus to the middle of the room, even though turned off. 

A closed door on the far end of the room caught his attention. What would a manor’s master bathroom and closet look like? He went to take a step.

“What are you doing in here?”

He froze in his tracks. After a few seconds, he turned around slowly.

And that’s when he realized that Gennifer was absolutely gorgeous, covered in adorned jewelry, skin without a wrinkle, blue, captivating eyes, lavished clothing, everything he wanted in a woman.

***

It only took ten minutes. 

Still, he wouldn’t be making his next appointment.

He moved the quilt and sat in the chair, his legs crossed.

He took out a cigarette, lit it, and gazed at Gennifer’s pristine naked body lying in bed. 

Had his parents made him this way?

Had his childhood been so traumatizing that he had no control over his actions?

But why defy pleasure? Why go against the instincts he was born with?

He took a long drag and smiled at her narrow legs. Then her ample breasts.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” he whispered as he contemplated her opened eyes followed by the blood draining down her cheek, soaking the expensive duvet cover.

It would be another trip to Driftwood Forest.

“We have a long car ride ahead of us. Just you and I. I hope you like country music.”