The Little Wooden Chair -or- The Most Unlikely Hero Page 3

  The bear sat on the bed next to Maggy, staring squarely at the chair—like he was trying to tell him something. The bear didn't blink. He just stared, his torn arm around Maggy. The chair realized what it must do. He couldn’t hold out; he had to take action.

  Without hesitation, he flung himself forward. The door slammed open. The chair fell to the ground in front of the doorway. It was still dark, but the chair could see Maggy’s father’s silhouette as he quickly stepped forward. He knew he had landed in perfect position—right between Maggy and her father. As her father moved forward he stepped right onto the little wooden chair.

  In an instant his entire weight pressed down on the little chair. As his wooden legs bent and then broke—for a second—the chair regretted his decision. Snap went his thin leg and a bolt of pain shot up and through his body. As quick as it had come, the intense pain was gone and the chair knew he had made the right choice.

  Maggy’s father lay on the ground, just out of reach of her bed. The chair felt a warm, wet liquid dripping on him. Her father cried out with a pain in his voice that matched the pain in the chair’s heart. After a minute, his cries turned to yelling and then to cursing. He shoved the little chair aside as he crawled out of the room.

  When her father finally reached up to turned on a light, the chair’s suspicions were confirmed. Her father sat on the ground. A half-crushed beer can still in his hand, a piece of the little wooden chair sticking out of his knee.

  Maggy had managed to squeeze her tiny body between the wall and the bed; Teddy and her dolly sat on top of her, as if to shield her from harm.

  Her father picked up the phone, made a call, then reached over to the bag next to his recliner and got a new beer. After several minutes a man showed up, apparently one of her father’s friends. He laughed at her father for a minute or two before helping him up. They left the apartment.

  The little wooden chair steadfastly watched Maggy. At first he was concerned that she might have actually been scared to death. He didn’t know if that was really possible. But, while listening to the TV, he had heard it happen on his aunt’s shows once or twice.

  It wasn’t for some time that he gave any thought to the dull pain that throbbed from his leg. When he did, he was scared to look. He gathered up his courage and took a deep breath. Looking down, he saw that one of his legs was completely broken off and the other splintered badly. His right rocker was almost completely detached. He knew it was over for him, what good was a chair with one rocker?

  Still, he didn’t feel sorry for himself. His only concern was that he would no longer be able to watch over Maggy.

  That night Maggy slept on the floor between the bed and the wall. Her dolly had joined her, but the wise old bear still stood guard on the bed; he watched over her all night. The chair hoped that the bear would be able to take care of her once he was gone.

  The chair, still in pain, slept on and off that night. He had not seen if Maggy’s father had come home. Maggy awoke that morning looking like she'd cried all night; fresh tears still stained her eyes. She went to the bathroom and came back with a tissue, which she used to wipe her cheeks.

  She went over to the little chair and put her hand on him. Her touch, as always, made him feel warm. She used her wet tissue to wipe a few drops of blood from his broken leg, then attempted to turn him upright. The chair felt a sharp pain as he felt to the ground. He had already known that he would never hold Maggy again, but she had to see for herself. Gently she placed the little chair in the corner. She sat on her bed and put her socks on.

  Chapter 10

  Maggy’s father returned later that day with her mother. He was using crunches. His knee and most of his leg were in a splint. For the next three days her mother and father stayed home. Her mother cooked both lunch and dinner, and her father didn’t say anything to Maggy. He just sat on his recliner and watched TV. Only stopping occasionally to curse at it, or yell to Maggy's mother for more pain pills. The chair figured this was how normal families behaved and he wished things were always this quiet.

  After a several days, Maggy’s father returned to work, and her mother started spending less time at home. Things were returning to normal.

  Eventually Maggy’s father stopped using his crutches, but he continued to walk with a limp which was made worse because he had somehow managed to become even fatter.

  Some things did seem to improve. Maggy’s father hardly ever got up from his recliner now. Even though Maggy’s parents fought almost daily, her father was now so slow he was seldom able to hit her mother. The best part was that he was far too slow to hit or kick Maggy. In fact, she could drop chips off next to his recliner and be gone before he could even sit up and attempt to swat or kick her.

  Maggy seemed very grateful to the little wooden chair. She put her blanket over his broken rocker during the day, hoping no one would notice him. A couple times, she draped her blanket completely over the chair to make a tent for her friends and they all went camping under him. He enjoyed this very much; it made him feel useful again.

  After several weeks, he thought maybe no one would notice him and he could go on sitting in the corner forever. But in truth he knew his days were numbered. He had seen what happened to other pieces of furniture when they broke; they would be pushed to a corner for a time and finally taken out with the trash, never to be seen again.

  Then one day Maggy’s aunt arrived. It took her a minute to get through the door as she was dragging something heavy behind her. From his new location in the corner the little wooden chair couldn’t see the doorway, but soon it was clear his replacement had arrived.

  “Maggy, I brought you a new rocking chair,” her aunt said as she pushed the chair across the living room towards Maggy’s bedroom.

  “But I like my little chair,” Maggy protested.

  “Don’t be silly honey, that thing is broken. Besides, I dragged this thing down two flights of stairs.”

  Both Maggy and the little wooden chair knew there was no use arguing, no one ever listened to her. Maggy slowly removed her blanket from over the chair. She ran her soft, tiny fingers down the chair’s side and he realized that they felt wet. Looking up into her delicate face, he saw a tear roll down each cheek.

  “I’ll take this one out with the trash when I leave.”

  Maggy’s aunt moved the little broken chair next to the trash bin. He sat and watched as Maggy’s aunt put the new rocking chair into her bedroom. It was large, with dings and scratches all over it, too big to fit properly in her tiny room. With her father’s injury, the chair didn’t think that guarding the door would be needed. But he was sure that, if required, the large chair could do a fine job holding the door shut, much better that he had done.

  Maggy didn’t sit on the new rocking chair that evening, at least not while the little wooden chair was still there. As her aunt took the broken chair out of the house, Maggy stood in her doorway and stared. The dolly and even Teddy seem to smile as if to say goodbye. The chair held back tears, knowing that he was looking on Maggy’s precious face for the last time. But he was proud that her father would not be able to hurt her ever again. The chair knew that sacrifice was a way to show someone you loved them.

  The Little Wooden chair didn’t know what happened to Maggy after that. He was sure she turned into a fine young lady, moved out and started a family of her own. He imagined Maggy—still with her little dolly and brave teddy bear, perhaps now on a shelf—sitting in a rocking chair with her own daughter, singing her a lullaby while brushing her hair.

  * * * * * *

  Blacktop Bully

  I look down at the cracks in the playground blacktop. "Cindy Jo, what have I ever done to you?"

  She snorts like a pig. "You kidding? Just your smell’s enough to offend me."

  "I don't smell." I use apricot spice shampoo, so I know my hair smells like a country orchard.

  "Do us all a favor and stay home."

  If only I could. Mom hasn't fallen for my fak
e cough since forth grade.

  I miss my old school. I miss my old friends. Thanks to Cindy Jo, all the girls here hate me. She's an evil queen, and they're her royally rotten subjects.

  The bell rings. I dash inside before Cindy Jo pummels me.

  None of the girls let me sit next to them, so I sit in back with the boys. They don't make fun of me, but they're not exactly pleasant. I'm constantly dodging flying pencils, paper airplanes, even the occasion spit-wad.

  Miss Becky stands in front of the class. With rosy checks and thick full lips, she has the perfect smile. Why can't I look like her? I'm short, scrawny and have freckles all over my nose.

  "I have an announcement to make. Kenny, eyes forward."

  I elbow Kenny; he’s drawing two ninjas fighting and didn't even notice Miss Becky call his name.

  "We have a new student." Miss Becky motions to the door, and a girl with long strawberry hair slides slowly in. She has creamy white skin, except for her face, which is red as a tomato. "Class, meet Shelby Jones."

  She's wearing a puffy pink dress with white lace. She looks around, not making eye contact with anyone. I remember, a couple months ago, doing the exact same thing.

  A new girl. Maybe, just maybe, we can be friends.

  "Shelby, there's an open seat next to Kenny." Miss Becky points to the open desk at the back of the class.

  Shelby quickly heads to the back of the room while most of the girls giggle and whisper.

  Miss Becky begins reviewing our math homework, but all I can think about is the new girl sitting two desks away.

  I look over. When she glances my way, I smile, and guess what? She smiles back.

  I quickly take out a piece of paper and scribble: Hi, my name is Kiki. Where are you from?

  I try passing the note to her, but Kenny grabs it. He reads it over, decides it's okay, and passes it to Shelby.

  She smiles as she reads it, then takes out a pencil case covered with horse stickers. I love horses!

  She jots something down and returns the note. Again, Kenny inspects it before handing it over.

  Hi Kiki! I love your shirt. I'm from Kansas.

  She noticed my Zooey Dare shirt. She must have good taste. Maybe her mother forced her to wear that dress for her first day of school.

  Excitedly, I jot down a list of questions: Where is Kansas? Do you love horses? I do. Have you ever ridden one? I take lessons.

  I don't want to seem too eager, so I stop with the questions and pass the note to Kenny. He glances at it, but decides it's too long to bother reading.

  By the end of class, we’re practically best friends—even though we haven't actually spoken yet. Not only does she love horses, she owns one. It’s back in Kansas with her uncle. But her parents promised they’ll go back during Christmas break.

  As class ends, I want to run out and talk to her. But, I never get up right after class. That's when Cindy Jo waits to pick on me.

  I hope Shelby will wait inside, but she gets caught in the rush of boys charging the door.

  I'm dying to talk to her, but what would she think if she sees everyone making fun of me? I decide to wait just a couple of minutes.

  Two-minutes and thirty-five seconds later, I dart out of class.

  "Nice dress, where'd you get it, 1962?" Shelby looks at Cindy Jo in horrified silence. She's obviously never dealt with anyone as nasty as Cindy Jo.

  "What's a matter? Don't they speak English in Kansas?"

  "You’re mean. There's nothing wrong with my dress." Shelby crosses her arms, but her eyes dart around, looking for an escape.

  I want to help. But I'm unpopular enough without defending a new girl who looks like she dressed up for pioneer day.

  "Even Kiki wouldn't be caught dead in that." Cindy Jo reaches out her big pasty arm and wraps her stubby, but vise-like, fingers around my elbow, "What do you think, Kiki?"

  What can I do? I have to say something. "Looks like she belongs in Little House on the Prairie."

  When Cindy loosens up her sausage fingers, I make a run for it. I hear laughter behind me—I wasn't sure if Cindy Jo could read, let alone knew about the Little House books.

  *

  That night I dream I'm in my old school, laughing and playing with all my old friends. Then I feel something wrong with my hands; I look down and...Oh, no--stubby sausage fingers!

  When I arrive at school the next morning, the playground is dangerously silent. Only one teacher's on duty and her hands are full making sure none of the kids get run over by parents speeding around the circular drive.

  Everything has stopped. Even the boys playing soccer pause to watch. This can only mean one thing: Cindy Jo is about to bring some poor kid to tears.

  Cindy Jo's shrill voice rings out, "Did Mommy buy you new clothes?"

  If I just walk away, Shelby'll become Cindy Jo's new favorite target. But I can't bring myself to do that. Maybe it's because I know how she feels, maybe it's because I feel bad for making fun of her dress, maybe it's because I'm afraid I'll get stubby sausage fingers, but I march straight into the crowd.

  Shelby isn't wearing a dress today. She’s in jeans and a cute pink baby doll top. Unfortunately, her eyes look like they're about to gush tears all over her pink top.

  My knees are weak. I can barely stand. No one says a word. They're probably stunned that I'm not cowering in a corner somewhere.

  "Hi Shelby, that's such a cute top." I smile and take her by the arm; she hesitates for a second, like she thinks it might be a trap.

  "Come on. Miss Becky usually opens her door early." I clear my throat. "You just have to tell me what it's like to have your own horse," I say as loudly as I can—let the girls chew on that.

  We walk towards the refuge of Miss Becky's classroom. Shelby whispers into my ear, "Thanks."

  I can tell, we’re going to be best friends.

  * * * * *

  The Price of Friendship

  What’s a best friend worth? You’re asking the right guy, that’s for sure. For my former best friend Joey, it was exactly $189—the price of a new pair of Kobe Bryant Slam-dunk high-tops.

  It started as we were walking home from school last week. Joey was complaining his mom wouldn’t fork out two hundred bucks for a pair of Kobe Bryant Slam-dunk high-tops. Personally, I couldn’t blame her. That kind of money could be spent on something important, like a battery-powered pitching machine.

  A bunch of guys I knew were standing around trading baseball cards. I’m always on the lookout for a good card, so we stopped to have a look.

  There was this older kid doing all the trading. He had just about everything: a minor league Mark Maguire, an old Will Clark. Guys were snapping up cards left and right, but giving nothing in return.

  “Got a ‘95 A-Rod I wanta trade.” I pulled some cards out of my backpack.

  “Hold on boys, be with you in a moment.” The trader’s smile reminded me of a used car salesman. He even smelled oily.

  The crowd dispersed and several hundred dollars worth of cards walked away. This guy had a serious collection.

  “So, you’re looking to make a trade?”

  “Wow, that’s a J.D. Drew hologram card. Man, I want that one, but I didn’t bring my cards.” Joey shook his head.

  “I’m not trading for cards. I’m looking for something... a little less tangible.” He handed Joey the card. “You can have it for, say, two hours.”

  “Two hours, what, then give it back?” Joey looked just as confused as I was.

  “No, for just two hours of your slightly used, second-hand memories. No big deal.”

  “Umm, Okay. How you going to collect on that?” I was almost laughing.

  “Will it hurt?” Joey started putting the card down.

  The trader broke out with a big toothy laugh. We chucked nervously with him.

  “Naw, won’t hurt a bit.”

  “How about two hours of math class?”

  He laughed again. “Not math class, not memories you ac
tually need. In fact, you’ll never even miss them.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Joey pocketed the card.

  “How about your friend? Anything you need to round out your collection?”

  He did have an impressive collection, but not the one card I laid awake at night thinking about. “A Sammy Sosa rookie card.”

  “I might be able to help you out, let’s see...” He dug around in his backpack.

  “Here we go.” Enclosed in a plastic protective case was the card of my dreams. “It’s signed, too.”

  “Wow,” Joey gawked as I took the card and held it reverently in the palms of my hands –I could never afford this.

  “How many hours for a card like that?” asked Joey.

  “Maybe I could sell the memory of my little sister,” I joked, but didn’t laugh. This card was no laughing matter.

  “Would it be a big deal if you forget your little sister? She’d still be just as big a pain, you’d just forget the misery she’s put you through.”

  “I don’t think so.” I had no love for my little sister, but I didn’t want to forget her, besides my mom would give me another one of her lectures on the importance of family if she ever found out.

  “No sisters then, something unimportant, a memory you really don’t need.” He pushed the card towards me.

  “Nick, take the card and let’s go.” Joey obviously didn’t think he could collect.

  “Listen to your friend -it’s a one of a kind card.”

  I slowly closed my hands round the card like I was closing a prayer book. Joey grabbed my arm and pulled me along.

  “Don’t forget,” the trader called out, “all trades are final.”

  When I got home there was a strange dog roaming the yard. He kept barking and jumping. I wasn’t normally afraid of dogs. I’d wanted one for years, but this dog had me spooked.

  “Get out of here, go home!” I ordered, but he kept jumping on me as I made my way to the door.

  “Nick, is that you?” Dad hollered from the kitchen. “Did you feed Max?”

  Maximilian—the name I had set aside for a dog. Were my parents surprising me or…

  “I swear. You never take care of that dog. Why just tonight I almost stepped in a pile of-"