The Couch
The dead man’s home was for sale, unfurnished. Outside the unit, Finch stood under his umbrella facing the concrete steps, red hand-rail and chipped number 8 that had fallen from one of its screws. There seemed near-infinite details to absorb through the static rain, and Finch would have stayed there an hour to consider their meaning if the estate agent didn’t appear in the doorway and thrust his hand into the rain as if rescuing a drowning man.
The estate agent’s name was Ashton, and when he noticed Finch’s difficulties, he stepped out from the covering, wrapped his arm around the old man’s back and helped him tackle the two steps. Once inside, he closed the door to drown out the thumping rain and appraised his prospect.
Finch was wearing an M.J. Bale coat and suit, R.M. Williams boots and an IWC Schaffhausen watch. He’d arrived in a BMW 3 Series with Queensland plates, so Ashton deduced he was a well-off retiree looking to buy for his child or grandchild, which was completely wrong, of course. Finch had no intention of buying the property. He was here for a very different reason.
“Well,” said Ashton. His bronze hands clapping together, the sound like a starting gun. “This is a great little unit. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a sizable living area, as you can see. Not to mention, Upper Beaconsfield is a growing suburb.”
“A growing suburb,” repeated Finch, and in the dead man’s kitchen a faint echo chased his words.
“It’s a shame it’s unfurnished,” said Ashton, before retrieving a wad of printouts from his jacket pocket. “But I have photos that show what it looked like. They might help you understand the size.”
Finch placed his fedora on the kitchen island and his coat and umbrella next to the sink.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” he said. “I can see it.”
Finch turned then to the living area. Over breakfast an old man was watching the news. Crumbs were falling from his mouth like specks in an hourglass as a montage of daily horrors washed over him until, like the fallen crumbs in the carpet, he was consumed by the vacuum-darkness of death, replaced by steamed carpets and a fresh coat of paint, the crumbs and the mess of the man’s life with melded fates: to be consumed, replaced, forgotten...
To be wasted.
“If this were my place,” offered Ashton, “I’d put a nice fern right here.”
Ashton was standing where the fern should go. His arms and fingers were splayed like branches, leaves, and when Finch glanced over, Ashton seized his attention and moved about the space like an athlete. He lunged and pointed to the optimal location for each item of furniture. He became the television stand. He was the Persian rug.
Ashton’s own award-winning house acted as his muse. The way he and his wife, Cassandra, angled their custom leather couch, that’s the way he suggested Finch place a more modest piece. In the kitchen, he first suggested a special temp-controlled tap (like the one Cassandra found in Sardinia), but his enthusiasm blossomed into a complete remodel. They discussed a marble island. They weighed the pros and cons of Roman tiles. Soon, Ashton was sharing Instagram photos of his own kitchen, which replaced the phone’s background image of Cassandra in Monaco, the woman and the flowing silk gown visible only for a moment behind a wall of apps before disappearing.
“That’s all well and good,” said Finch, “but that’s not how it was.”
“No, over there the previous owner-”
“Would have had a circular dining table with one chair,” interrupted Finch. “On that side, a grey recliner would have faced a television you’d find in hard rubbish. In that corner, a waist high bookcase filled with Star Trek memorabilia. There’d be a tennis racquet leaning against the bookcase, and there’d be a floral, circular rug here. There’s no other way.”
Ashton’s gaze rallied between the printouts and the real world. Every detail was correct.
“You’ve been here before,” he said, his voice taking on an accusatory tone.
Finch turned to see Ashton with his hands on his hips. The printouts were crumpled in his right fist, warping the dead man’s world like a fantasy of non-Euclidean geometry, a place where ceiling and floor kiss.
“I’ve never been here, never seen photographs,” responded Finch.
“Then how do you know what it looked like before?”
Finch slid a hand over his bald head. “Well,” he said, “the owner was my brother, so I just know.”
The rain continued to drum the pavement outside and was for a time the only sound. In the relative silence, Finch recalled sitting at a cafe in Brisbane when the phone rang and the voice said your brother has died. Without thought or logic Finch began driving to Melbourne and was soon lying on a floral bed cover at a motor inn. There was a television behind a cloudy perspex barrier. The phone was in a cage, the numbers pressable through gaps in the wire. There were tubs of industrial cleaner but no soap. On the bedside, a bible, not so much for those inclined but those who should be.
“I didn’t know the previous owner had a brother,” said Ashton.
“We were estranged. I hadn’t seen him in thirty years, and when I found out he had passed away I’d already missed the funeral. Anyway…”
Finch stepped towards his coat and hat and Ashton offered a sympathetic look toward the man whose tone suggested he was leaving.
“I understand,” said Ashton. “These things can be hard.”
Ashton then extended his hand but Finch ignored the gesture and entered the master bedroom. Inside, Finch again listed everything in perfect detail before doing the same in the bathroom. The estate agent had to squint and pull the crumpled image close but he managed to confirm the correct brand of conditioner, in the sink the right style of razor, the type of toilet brush, the toilet paper angle, the bath mat colour. It was all correct.
After the bathroom, Finch led them back to the kitchen and stood before his coat, hat and umbrella. He turned to Ashton, who again had his bronze hand extended, and the two men shook hands.
“Well,” he said.
“Indeed,” smiled Ashton.
“Have you got any tea?”
Still shaking hands, Ashton nodded and soon the kettle was boiled and the two men were resting on the plastic island with their elbows as the steam rose and outside the rain fell.
“Have you got siblings?” asked Finch.
“Only child,” said Ashton.
“Married?”
“Three years, no kids though. You?”
“Me? No, no, no. No kids either. Same as my brother. We were always, kind of, loners,” he said.
Finched looked up from the tea cup made using the Japanese art of kintsugi and constructed a broken smile of grief and no sleep. “Seems like you’ve got it made though,” he added.
“I can’t complain,” said Ashton.
Finch sipped the tea and imagined his brother opening the pantry. Because of the tennis and his age, he’d have trouble reaching overhead. Certain things others might put on the top shelf would accordingly go on the middle shelf.
“Vegemite on the top shelf, probably out of date. All the baking goods on the middle shelf. Coffee on the top shelf, too. He didn't drink it but he’d have some in the house.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I told you: he was my brother.”
“Still, you hadn’t seen him in thirty years, you said.”
“Those years mean nothing though. The only years that matter are the first twenty. After that you are who you are. The first twenty you develop your lens, from then on you just look through it.”
“I don’t know if I agree.”
“You’re young, that’s why. You’re yet to realise that you are who you are. Your strengths, your faults - it’s all set.”
“What if you meet someone important or have a near-death experience? I once attended a seminar on personal growth-”
Finch shook his head. “No, no, no. You are who you are. We are who we are, destined for what we’re destined for, to waste what we’re gonna waste.” His eyes fixed on the living room again, at an imagined man, falling crumbs. “Even if that’s everything,” he added.
Ashton, too, stared at the living room and nodded in deference to the man’s loss. When he turned back, Finch was staring at him, the paper-thin skin around his eyes quivering, revealing the inner workings of his nervous brain. He looked close to tears, and because the weight of the moment had revealed itself, Ashton asked what he wanted to know without fear.
“Why did you guys drift apart?” he asked.
“The stupidest thing,” replied Finch, quickly, as if it were already on his mind.
“An argument?”
“It doesn’t matter what it was; it was the stupidest thing because it stopped us talking, and because it kicked-off thirty years of me saying maybe I’ll call him tomorrow.” Finch searched the shelf for the vegemite, saw a man reaching up. “And thirty years of him thinking the same damn thing.”
Suddenly, Finch pressed off the bench and turned away. He hid his face. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, Ashton,” he said. “I just needed to see his home for myself.”
The coat rested on the tiled bench and Finch clawed at it and rushed to get his arms through the wet coat’s sleeves. Still facing away, he grabbed his hat and reached for the umbrella.
“No, wait,” said Ashton.
Finch froze like a thief caught, the umbrella a prized jewel.
“There’s still… there’s still one more room,” continued Ashton.
The final room was a second, smaller bedroom that would be offered to future renters as a study. In the centre of the room was a small window facing the carpark and beside it an old air conditioner, the bulk of which was visible outside through the window. Finch surveyed the room, nodded, and then listed everything he knew to be true. Desk by the window, plant on the desk - mother in-law’s tongue. Computer monitor, curved, facing the small window. Another bookshelf, filled with WW2 History, all hardcovers.
Before speaking, Ashton waited for Finch to finish. “You loved your brother,” he said, “and if you knew that, then I’m sure he knew it too.”
The idea had not previously occurred to Finch, who put his hand on Ashton’s shoulder and said, “Thank you, son.”
“No problem,” replied Ashton. “But,” he continued, “you’re wrong, entirely wrong, in fact.”
Then he held up the photo for Finch to see. There was a yoga mat on the floor, weights bench by the window, lava lamp in the corner, and against the wall a maroon couch. The couch had curved, love-heart shaped arms. Its cushions were so embossed a person trying to sit upright would fall into the centre, and the couch back was square, completely at odds with the arms and the cushions.
“That’s the ugliest couch I’ve ever seen,” said Finch.
Ashton allowed a single muted laugh. “Well, it was your brother’s,” he said.
The fedora on Finch’s head pointed to the ceiling as he leaned against the wall. Scratching his chin, he resembled an old film noir detective investigating a murder, but when the answer came there was no look of vindication at an injustice laid bare, or a clear and steely resolve at what needed to be done next and to whom, no, instead the man’s mouth hung agape, his shoulders softened and his eyes seemed to twinkle. He looked straight ahead with amazement, with awe.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, his voice filled with breath.
“What is it?” asked Ashton.
“I imagined what would have had to happen in my life for me to buy that couch.”
“And what was it? What things?”
Finch grasped the lapels on Ashton’s suit and dragged him close. Then he wrapped his arms around the young man, squeezed tight, and together they laughed. The older man’s wrinkled cheeks, climbing and falling with the sound, pressed up against the younger man. He laughed unreserved, uncontrolled, as if it was for this moment he had saved a lifetime of joy.
“What is it? What things?” asked Ashton.
Finch pulled away and looked close to speaking, but then shook his head and skipped to the kitchen. There he plucked his umbrella from the sink and spun on his boot’s flat, worn sole.
“You gotta tell me,” said Ashton.
Finch faced the young man. “Sorry, young fella,” he said. “I can’t tell you. I couldn’t possibly share something that salacious, that mind-boggling with a stranger. My brother would not approve, you understand, even in his grave.”
Finch laughed again as if sharing an in-joke with his dead brother. He shook his head at the naughtiness of it all, glanced to the heavens, and then turned for the door. Outside, he was sure to grip the handrail but he leapt over the two steps, knees be damned, and headed to his car. He made no concessions for the rain, and marched with the umbrella in his hand still tied up like a band leader’s baton.
“Wait, I need to know,” called Ashton down the driveway. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Finch, speaking loud enough for the neighbours, “and I don’t care.”
That night, Ashton returned home through the eleven-foot bronze doors and approached Cassandra. He wanted to tell her all about the old man in the Upper Beaconsfield unit. When he drew near, however, Cassandra said she still had a cold so Ashton left her there with her shows, and headed to his study to eat a microwaveable meal and scroll through Facebook.
Cassandra watched her husband in a reflection cast on the French doors until he disappeared. Then, a few hours later, it was time for bed and like each night she conducted a sweep of the house. She checked the second living area, complete with pool access, and switched off the lights. She checked the dual-access laundry and rear-bathroom, with in-ground spa and double vanity units. In the theatre room, she switched off the projector and overhead lights. Then she checked the other bathrooms and the empty spare bedroom before arriving at her husband’s study. There she saw his laptop open, and Cassandra knows it’s wrong to pry, but she saw the strangest thing.
Her husband was looking to buy a piece of furniture: a couch, a maroon couch, the ugliest maroon couch she’d ever seen.
This was so well written Luke.