Growing Grounds

Chapter 3: Stories and Rumors

All that week, Matt thought about Adam's story. He knew it was just kid stuff, but for some reason, he could not get it out of his mind. Finally, Friday rolled around and he told Ms. Sullins about Adam's wild stories. Instead of being shocked, Amy nodded, smiling that I-know-something-you-don't smile that irritated the hell out of Matt. She let him finish, never interrupting.

"Matt, you're new around here, I know, but in every small town there are stories and that's even more true for small towns in the country. Rural towns are breeding grounds for fantastical tales. Every small town has its local witch or alien-in-human-disguised teacher. I grew up here and I've heard the stories about Mrs. Todd and her chair for as long as I can remember. Is there anything to them? I don't know; I've never seen the chair. Do I want to find out for sure? No way. The Todds are a very peculiar lot and I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if there was some grain of truth to those scary old tales."

She patted his shoulder, gave him another small smile, and excused herself, leaving Matt in a mild state of shock.

* * * *

That day, on his way home, Matt had decided to stop by Brian Todd's residence under the premise of showing sympathy for the loss of his mother. After all, Matt was new in town and had not known Myrtle or Brian and he thought it was a nice gesture toward one of his closest new neighbors. Really, all he wanted was to get a look at that chair, if it existed. See what all the fuss was about among the townies.

When he arrived at the turnoff to the Todds' long, rutted, gravel driveway, he almost decided against his impromptu visit; there was a pile of big black trash bags--overstuffed from the looks of them--in a wedge of grass where the driveway met the paved road. It just seemed like a place one would not want to visit voluntarily. He thought it also looked like the beginning of a horror movie—the kind of horror movie in which the nosy new-in-town teacher dies first. That's when he spotted the chair. It was sitting there, trash bags piled around it in a semi-circle, waiting to be picked up by the trash truck, he supposed. He knew Brian Todd apparently meant to be rid of the chair that was responsible for the rumors about town no matter what his mother had made him promise before her demise.

Matt pulled off the side of the paved road, left the motor running and got out to inspect the chair. Wading through and over and around the other trash was like trying to climb a small mountain that continually slipped and moved around. The plastic was slippery and seemed to be plotting against him reaching his ultimate goal. Finally, he gave up and backtracked out of the mess. He had seen a clearer path around to the backside of the chair. It was as if Brian had left an empty spot and placed the chair in it after all the other stuff was piled up.

Maybe he was having second thoughts. Maybe he almost didn't give up on his promise to his dying mother.

There were a few torn bags spilling out old woman clothes on the ground, which Matt swept away with his foot, behind the chair.

From the back, the chair looked about as intimidating as any other disused wooden chair. Only when he approached and looked closely, did he see the intricate designs carved into the wood. Brian had come down the road as Matt looked over the handiwork on the chair.

"Hey! Hey, can I help you with something, Mister?"

Matt looked up, startled. "Uh, well, I guess you're wondering what I'm doing here, going through all your stuff, huh?"

Brian was now at the edge of pile. "It did cross my mind. You're not the guy that was supposed to pick up the trash."

Matt shook his head. "No. Actually, well, this is going to sound weird, but I heard that you had this antique chair sitting out here and I thought I would come by and see if you would be interested in selling it." Matt had had no idea he was going to offer to buy the thing until it was already out of his mouth.

"Yeah. Probably heard it from one of them little shithead kids that keep the rumor mill turning about us. That's okay, though." Brian scratched at his stubbly chin and eyed Matt for a moment longer.

Matt, beginning to feel uncomfortable, started backing out of the mess, away from the chair.

Brian held up a hand in a "Stop" gesture and Matt stopped short, unsure whether he had offended the big guy and was about to get into an altercation or whether Brian had made a decision about selling the chair.

"You're the new guy up the road, ain't you?"

Matt nodded. "Yes. Matthew Milner. I teach second grade. My wife, Tammy, is an artist and Web site designer. We moved in about--"

"About a month ago. Yeah, I know." He started around the pile to where Matt stood. "On your way home?" He thumbed in the general direction of Matt's house.

"Yes."

Brian stuck out his hand when he was close enough and Matt was obliged to shake it even though he noticed the man's hand looked like it had not seen soap and water in a very long time and his nails were yellowed, thick and too long. Hoping his cringe was only internal, Matt forced a smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Uh-huh. Same here." He let go of Matt's hand. "Say you wanna buy that hunk of wood there?"

"If you are inclined to sell it."

"How much?" He grinned then and Matt saw that Brian's teeth were in no better hygienic shape than his hands.

"Oh, I never price another man's things." That was the truth. He had never been one to name a price for another man’s things and he rarely ever dickered with a price once the other man named it. His father, on the other hand, had been good at both those things. His father had actually traded a man a pair of Converse tennis shoes for a Volkswagen Beetle when Matt was young. Only thing wrong with the Volkswagen was that it needed a carburetor.

Brian scratched at his chin again, obviously thinking. "How's fifty bucks sound?"

Matt glanced at the chair--seemed in good shape and nothing was broken or scratched. "Sounds like a deal."

Brian grinned again, something Matt really wished he would stop doing, and clapped his hands once and then rubbed them together. "Well, Matthew Milner, it seems you just bought yourself a chair." He leaned over and threw the bags of clothes and trash to the side, efficiently clearing a wide path to the chair as Matt backed away.

Brian hoisted the chair, making it look very light, and held it upside-down over his head as he walked it toward Matt's Toyota Forerunner. "This was Mom's, ya know. She had it hand-made by an old-timer who lives up on the mountain yonder. Old man's a loon, if you ask me. Nevertheless, Mom liked him enough. They visited each other a lot 'fore Mom took sick, that is." He gently put the chair on its back in the bed of the truck and turned to Matt.

"Thank you for loading it." Matt fished out his wallet. "Are you sure you want to get rid of this, if it was your mother's?" He counted out fifty dollars.

"Mom's gone now and all this stuff just brings back painful memories. Every time I look at her clothes or this damn chair, I think about her not being there to wear the clothes or sit in the chair anymore." He reached out and took the money. "You enjoy that thing, now. Hell, Mom did. More than she should have, I guess. Wouldn't let nobody sit in it. Almost like she was addicted to it.

When she started losing her marbles, she'd talk about riding that chair up the mountain where the gods grew." He laughed a short bark of laughter that contained no mirth and started walking back toward his house.

"Thanks again, Mr. Todd," Matt yelled after his retreating back.

Brian gave him a backward wave and kept walking.

****

Looking back now, he knew the chair had significantly changed since he had picked it up from the pile of trash. There had been no faces on those three round knobs across the top of the backrest, there had been no taloned feet at the end of the legs and the damn thing definitely did not feel warm to the touch, let alone leathery.

It had been a normal chair made by a craftsman and probably handed down through the generations as an heirloom. At least that was what he had thought on the day he acquired it.

Driving to the local China Kitchen to get supper, he wondered how much of the stories were true. He doubted little Adam's wild stories a lot less now that he had seen with his own eyes the transformations of the chair.

How could he tell Tammy why he had bought the thing for fifty bucks? That was fifty dollars they did not have to spend on a piece of wood.

Too late for all that now. He had lied to her. Told her he picked it up off the side of the road. Why tell her the truth now when it made no difference one way or the other.

He pulled into a parking spot in front of China Kitchen and tried to put the stories behind him. That's all they were--stories, after all. Surely. Could not possibly be anything more. Still he was glad when it took the chef twenty minutes to prepare his take-out. It gave him more time to think about what he had felt when he touched the chair. How it had felt, and the visions of s*x he had. The kind of s*x acts that made his stomach knot up and his head hurt. He could never tell Tammy about that. How could he tell her about something that had no rational explanation?

He just wouldn't do it.

Hearing sirens, he waited in the parking lot until the police car passed and eased up to the pullout spot, wondering what had happened in the little town after dark.

Must be a wreck out that way. "That's okay, I'll just use the back road. Gives me a few more minutes to ponder the shitstorm situation I've potentially created at home." He started to pull out onto the road when he heard another siren. This time an ambulance whizzed by him. "Definitely a wreck." He turned left instead of right and drove to the lesser used road that everyone in town called Elm Street because of all the huge old elms lining it on either side, though it's name was really Union Street. One thing about small towns, you could never know everything about it, no matter how sure you were to the contrary. Matt was less than thrilled sometimes with his new choice of a place to live, but, hey, everybody had to live somewhere and here was just as good as there, he supposed. By tomorrow, everyone in town would know exactly what had happened, where the ambulance had gone to and who it had carried to the hospital. By tomorrow evening, everyone would know the condition of the person it carried to the hospital, whose fault the wreck (if indeed that was what had happened) was, how much their insurance premium would rise because of the wreck, and family history for all involved parties.

Matt chuckled and pulled out to take the scenic route home.