Posted: Apr 28, 08 7:44am
THE FUTON
By JSutton
I’m going to do it tonight. Rose, my landlady, helped me solve the last problem, although she has no idea what I’m planning. She lets all of us use her washer and dryer, and of course, the clothes line. I love the rough feel of sun-dried towels, so I always hang mine out. One afternoon when it started to rain, I took in a tablecloth Rose had left on the line. When I folded it, I saw it wasn’t a tablecloth at all but a waterproof sheet, an expensive one coated with flannel on both sides. That solved the problem about not making a mess. I think it’s the mess and the thought of the poor person who finds me that has been stopping me all these months.
Not that I’m going to blow my brains out. That’s supposed to be an efficient way to do it, but even if I could get up my nerve to buy a gun, I don’t know how to load or shoot one. I’ve never seriously considered guns or leaping in front of a car or any of those violent ways to die. For one thing, it might hurt. And although I like the thought of warm water and just walking away from the beach and not coming back, the water’s never warm here. So it’s pills for me; I saved all the ones from my gum surgery and the colonoscopy. But the mess I’ll leave behind bothers me. It’s possible I’ll vomit when I’m unconscious, and I’ve read that when you die, a lot of times your bowels just let go. That’s what the rubber sheet is for. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. God knows I washed enough of them when my mother-in-law had cancer.
No one suspects. Today I sent little Caitlyn home with more songs to learn for next week. She sings well. Another teacher will take her on, probably a better teacher than I am. I never wanted to teach; I was a singer. But my life in music is a long boring story of missed opportunities and simple bad luck. It’s good luck, you know, that makes a star. It has little to do with talent. Go to almost any bar or church in America and you’ll find one voice at least as good as most you hear on the radio.
I’m fifty-eight, divorced, a grandmother. A woman with a lovely voice and a double chin that’s beginning to get fuzzy. No one needs me. I would have killed myself sooner, but I had to tidy up a lot of things. There were boxes to go through and closets to empty. Only Rose seemed to notice. She saw me loading the car with bags for the hospital thrift store and came over to suggest we have a tag sale. “I’ve got a lot of junk too,” she said. Then she looked in the car and saw the clothes. “What are you planning to wear, girl? That looks like a whole closet full.”
I made a joke about throwing out everything my husband had paid for, and I think she believed me. Tom didn’t take anything when he left. Nothing we had was good enough for Miss Perky Tits. My daughter says I should just get over it, and in a lot of ways I have. After Tom left, I realized I didn’t love him anymore either. And I regretted all those years: the scholarship to the conservatory I gave up to marry him, and the days I wished would pass in an instant so payday would come and I could splurge on a new recording. I’d even pushed for Sonata to start school early so I’d have more time to practice. I called myself a singer, but my demo tape always came back, and all I’ve really done is shop, clean, cook, wash and drive Sonata to her lessons: voice, piano and dance.
It’s only natural I wanted music for Sonata. I sang to her before she was born and often pressed my growing belly up to the stereo speakers. She can sing, but Sonata hated the discipline of classes, and, like me, married too soon. Her husband is lead guitar in a rock band headed straight to nowhere. And my daughter—she calls herself Sue—works part-time as a bartender while her mother-in-law watches the baby. She seems happy.
Yesterday she called and put the baby, cooing and squealing, on the phone. “See, she can sing already,” Sonata said. “She’ll be taking lessons from Grandma soon.” I cooed back, but I wanted to say: What’s the point? Why can’t dreams be realized in this generation?
I know what I’m doing; it’s what I want. I’m not crazy; no one stares at me in the grocery store. The only really insane thing I’ve done is to insist on paying for the futon. I bought it out on the bypass at a place called Roy’s Bed Outlet. I gave away “our” bed, and I couldn’t face buying a new one, the way you have to rock hopefully up and down on the floor samples and be shy about stretching out and seeing how it really feels. Roy himself waited on me. I asked for a futon, double-size, something not too cheap so my guests—that was my story—would be comfortable. We transacted our business in a large windowless room, amid towering stacks of mattresses and bins of gaudy bedding. I remember the cloth dyes made my eyes burn. I liked Roy. He was rumpled and not at all pushy.
When he couldn’t find an oak frame to show me, Roy dug out a catalog and paged through it with dirty fingers. If I’d been in better emotional shape, I would have walked out, but I couldn’t face finding another store and telling the same story. He wasn’t sure of the price. He said he’d order it and give it to me for $30.00 over wholesale.
Two weeks later, he delivered it himself, wrapping it in his huge arms and straining up the two flights to my apartment. He assembled the frame and helped me ease on the cover I’d chosen. He showed me how to convert it from a bed to a sofa, lifting up the front where your knees would be, and shoving until frame leaped slightly and the sofa back rose into place. It reminded me of a fish gyrating on the pier, touching its head to its tail.
He made me sit on the sofa and collapsed beside me. We were both quiet as if expecting something important to happen. Then he stood and left before I realized I hadn’t paid him. I stopped by the outlet several times, and he took my address again and promised to send a bill. I tried calling, but the machine always answered. Yesterday I went by prepared to stay until he let me write a check.
The store seemed to be empty. I stood around for a while, then called out, and finally went back to my car and beeped the horn several times. By then, I’m sure my face was red, my hair wild.
Roy shambled over and lowered his cell phone to ask what I wanted.
“I need to pay for the futon you delivered three months ago,” I said.
He nodded, cradled the cell phone against his neck and shoved a piece of paper toward me. “Write down your name and address, and I’ll send you a bill.”
“No,” I practically shouted, surprising even myself. “I’m not leaving until I’ve paid for it.” I felt violated somehow, as if he had extended charity I was too proud to accept, or, as if we’d had an affair and I was demanding he take back the gifts.
Fear sparked in his eyes. He put down the phone and began looking for a price list. He mumbled something about how his wife had always done the books. In the end, I think he just pulled a number from the air. I didn’t care. I would have happily written a check for almost any amount. I don’t want to leave any bills unpaid.
So everything’s taken care of. I’ve told Sonata how much I love her. I’ve given her all of her report cards and the blanket I wrapped around her the day I brought her home from the hospital. I burned the love letters Tom sent from Vietnam and the songs I wrote the summer I was fourteen. I made one last run to the thrift shop with my music, threw out all of the perishables in the refrigerator and I’ve left Rose a check on the kitchen table for next month’s rent. Sonata can use the furniture. The futon will go perfectly in the baby’s room. I’m just going to call now and cancel the cable.
