Saltered States
by Bruce Salter
EN ROUTE TO, CA—(Weekly Hubris)—5/24/10—Jack and Jean were what some people might call typical. Jack was 27, worked in a loan office, liked to drink imported beer while watching sports, and always worried about his weight, which tended toward the excessive. Jean was 28, worked as an auditor for a faceless corporation, liked to watch cartoons, and always worried about her weight, which tended toward emaciation. They had been married for three years, had no children and considered themselves reasonably happy, although each had settled for considerably less in a partner than either would ever admit.
One thing they both loved was going to garage sales. They had plenty of disposable income, and the possibility of fantastic bargains and rare finds added a little excitement to their otherwise mundane lives. Together they would scrutinize the classified ads every Friday evening after dinner, selecting promising targets and plotting itineraries for their regular Saturday “adventures.”
It was on one of these routine quests that Jack and Jean made the discovery that changed their lives.
The ad said “ESTATE SALE” and the address was in one of the older parts of town, so Jack and Jean circled it and put a red star in the margin, meaning it would have priority as an early Saturday stop. But, as they drove up Lime Avenue checking house numbers, they began to have second thoughts. These houses weren’t just old, they were ancient to the point of complete dilapidation. Many were boarded up and overgrown with wild hungry weeds, and the few that seemed inhabitable were barely so. Still, there was always the chance of finding “diamonds in the dust,” as Jean’s mother always said, so they proceeded on, expectant but wary.
Number 6646 was set well back from the road, concealed, or, more accurately, engulfed by a solid wall of exotic-looking vegetation. Jack would have driven right by had Jean not seen the small yellow sign with the red lettering reading “SALE” fastened haphazardly to the remains of a rusty gate leaning against a spreading willow, and shouted out. They parked beside a shallow ditch (there was no curb or sidewalk), studied the narrow stone path winding into the trees toward the unseen house, exchanged a silent glance and, taking a collective deep breath, clasped hands and walked into the shadows.
Not much of the house was visible, even at close range, due to the thick growth of vines and limbs enveloping it. Only vague hints of ancient wall or shingle peeked through the layers of foliage that likely held the building together. It looked to be two-storied, but even that was uncertain as the dense greenery completely swallowed everything above the top of the decrepit porch.
Jack tapped gently at the front door, fearing a more solid blow might knock the rotting thing from its hinges. After several seconds, steps could be heard approaching from within. A bolt was drawn, the door swung open, and Jack and Jean were confronted by what looked to be a very old woman. While the gender of the person was problematic, there was absolutely no doubt about the figure’s hoary age. “She” was quite small, little more than four feet tall, with a frail, thin body bent into impossibly absurd angles. Deep wrinkles filled a pale, almost transparent face, yet the gray eyes darting restlessly in their oversized sockets housed an alert and refined intelligence.
“Why, you must be here for the sale,” she whispered hoarsely, waving a twisted hand and bidding them enter. “Come in, come in. I have many a fine item you’re sure to want. Do come in and see!”
Hesitating momentarily, Jack and Jean smiled politely at their fragile host and, still hand in hand, crossed the threshold.
It was dark and clammy inside. It took their eyes several moments to adjust to the dim light and it would take their noses much longer to adjust to the stale, rancid air, longer than they intended to stay. The room they found themselves in was surprisingly large, with a ceiling that disappeared unseen somewhere in the coiling mists above their heads. They assumed it to be a living room or parlor of some kind, although it was hard to be sure. So engorged with furniture, statuary, crates and boxes was it that its original function was now of little consequence. There was hardly room enough to squeeze through the vast conglomeration of ancient detritus and the couple, growing more apprehensive by the minute, were hard-pressed to proceed.
“All must go . . . all must go,” the tiny twisted woman croaked as she shuffled up behind them. “Choose what you will! One per customer! All must go!”
Jack had seen enough. The putrid air was beginning to burn his throat and his head was starting to swim. He turned back toward the door but Jean tugged at his arm and pointed to a large, overstuffed, green chair partially buried under some disturbing paintings in the corner.
“That would be perfect for the new den, don’t you think?” Jean whispered. “Let’s see how much she wants for it.”
Jack really didn’t want to bother with the ugly thing. He wanted only to return to the sunshine and fresh air, but he was a compliant husband so he composed himself and, facing the woman, who was now shaking almost spastically, casually asked, “How much for the chair?”
“You want the crying chair?” the old woman purred. “Five dollars. Five dollars for the crying chair and it’s yours!”
Not one to pass up a good deal, Jack quickly pulled five dollars from his wallet, pressed it between the bony claws of their host and said, “Sold!”
Wasting no time, Jack and Jean cleared the clutter away from the chair, made a path across the spongy carpet to the door and half-carried/half-dragged the heavy thing out of the house, through the trees (which seemed to have grown even thicker while they were inside) and back down the path to their truck, only resting when they finally reached the roadside. After catching their breath, they managed to wedge the chair into the back, jumped into the front seat and raced home with their new acquisition.
Jean made sure the chair was thoroughly cleaned before allowing it into her spotless house. There was no telling what might be living in that thick upholstery and she wasn’t about to take any chances. She vacuumed, shampooed, fumigated, de-flea-ed, de-loused, scrubbed, scoured, sanitized and sterilized it until, after a full week of “quarantining” it in the garage, she was satisfied that it was safe to admit into her home.
The thing was so bulky that Jack and Jean had a great deal of trouble simply maneuvering it through the front door. But they were persistent and, after several attempts, at last had the chair where they wanted it, positioned neatly in the far corner of the den, between the birdcage and the aquarium.
Jack had never noticed it before, but in the bright morning sunlight streaming through the south window the chair looked positively other-worldly. The curious patterns in the fabric, now discernable after the thorough cleaning, seemed to shift obliquely, and the subtle greenish hues rippled almost like water. Even the finely carved mahogany feet appeared to flex, cat-like, against the yielding carpet. “It must be my imagination or a trick of the light,” he thought, saying nothing to Jean. The chair was her project and he didn’t want to dampen her excitement.
Jean was darting around like a sparrow. This was her first genuine antique and she had spent many hours making sure that its inauguration into their lives would be perfect. She would be the first actually to sit in it, and Jack was ready with the video camera to document her triumph. She had even made a cup of chamomile tea (her favorite) to sip as she luxuriated in the massive thing.
On Jack’s signal, Jean stepped boldly to the chair. Turning to face the camera, she smiled broadly, curtsied slightly, extended her teacup toward the ceiling, and gently lowered herself into the waiting green cushions.
The chair was surprisingly comfortable and Jean, who was a petite woman, seemed almost afloat in the voluptuous folds of its deep, soft skin. But as she sipped at the lip of her fine bone teacup and prepared to address the camera, a disquieting sense of sadness began to nibble at her.
Glancing at Skipper, her parakeet, hopping about on his little perch, she was struck by the pathetic nature of his life. Bred at a bird farm, taken from others of his kind, confined in his tiny cage for her pleasure—suddenly, Skipper’s isolation and loneliness came home to Jean. She knew what he was experiencing because she was in his head!
Panicking, she managed to tear her eyes away from the bird, thus breaking her newfound contact when, just as quickly, she focused on the fish in the aquarium to her left. “Poor pitiful devils,” she thought, “swimming around and around and around that little tank until they die.” The joyless, stagnant lives of the fish ate at her. She now realized that two were sick and in terrible pain and she could do nothing for them.
Wrenching her gaze away from the fish, she desperately turned to Jack, only to be overwhelmed by wave upon wave of oppressive sorrow. The grief over his mother’s death, the friends he had lost, the misfortune he had witnessed, the dejection at the very core of his being, of which he was consciously unaware, all penetrated her soul like so many nails being hammered into a board.
She covered her eyes, hoping to end this psychic assault, but that only made it worse. The anguish and despair of total strangers was enveloping her awareness now. The floodgates had been opened and the collective sorrows of the world poured into her.
She cried out once and then began to weep, inconsolable. She was still sobbing 15 minutes later when the ambulance came, an hour later as the doctors examined her in the emergency room, a week later while undergoing a host of tests at the psychiatric facility nearby, and she was still crying while being fed intravenously at the state mental institution four years later.
The doctors were never able to diagnose Jean’s condition with any certainty. Jack’s video, which was studied exhaustively, simply showed a seemingly normal woman taking a seat, violently jerking her head from one side to the other, dropping her teacup and facing the camera while attempting to stand, before unleashing a most plaintive wail and crumbling back into the chair in a burst of tears. It all took less than 20 seconds.
Jack tried to understand what he had witnessed, but he was at a total loss. He sat in the chair himself, but nothing happened. His attempt to return it to the old lady was completely unsuccessful. Apparently, the vegetation had won the day and thoroughly overrun the house, for there were only a few scattered pieces of rotting lumber amid the silent shadows where it had once stood.
The crying chair was finally sold at auction by a local charity and its whereabouts are unknown to this day.
Jack now lies alone at night and often catches himself sobbing softly in the darkness without knowing exactly why.
