By Lise Halpern
One rainy day Casey and Mason were just looking to escape a sudden squall when they found the little shop in an alley off the square. The door said Welcome, and a bell chimed hello as they entered, stamping their feet on the mat to shake off the raindrops. Soft jazz played through the shop’s speakers. Pale-yellow light warmed the shelves of raku ceramics and set the glass cases of earrings and necklaces sparkling.
The woman at the counter, encased in a hand-knit scarf of soft purples, nodded and smiled as Casey and Mason strolled through the store, their jackets slowly drying. Mason bent to examine the crackle on a vase. Casey held a necklace, admiring the graceful silver swirl of the pendant.
They walked together into the backroom of the store which held handcrafted furniture doused by pink-toned spotlights that highlighted their curves. “Hey Case, these are Thomas Moser.” Mason opened a desk drawer, then slid it silently back into place. “Look, they have those end tables I like. You almost never see them in a store. Online it’s a two-year wait to get an order filled.”
“They’re beautiful.” Casey ran her fingers over the smooth wood. The table was balanced and solid despite impossibly thin, spidery legs. She showed Mason the price tag with a handwritten number way out of their price range. It did not dampen his enthusiasm.
“Our anniversary is coming up next month—let’s buy these as our gifts to each other.” Mason looked at her with bright, hopeful eyes, and before she knew it, they were each carrying a bubble-wrapped table through the still drippy streets. At home the tables took a place of pride on either side of their living room couch, protected by coasters and groomed with furniture oil.
One cold and stormy evening Mason was in a gruesome mood. The snow had canceled their plans to watch his college football team at a bar with his old frat buddies. Casey had not wanted to go. She hated hanging out with some of those guys; at close to thirty they still acted like teenagers drinking beer without fear of curfews. Mason had worn her down, but in the end the snow had been on Casey’s side. Alone, Mason watched his team lose, ripping through beers and yelling at the TV.
She was in the kitchen when she heard the crash. Walking into the living room, she saw Mason sprawled on the floor screaming, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” into the carpet. Underneath his right shoulder lay a toppled end table, one of its spindly legs broken at the knee. Farther away, a beer can dribbled a puddle onto the floor and what had been a ceramic table lamp lay in sharp-edged pieces around a dented shade and shattered bulb. The TV post-game analysis babbled on in the background.
Casey ran to Mason’s side and supported his left shoulder as he slowly rose to his knees, stood, and hobbled to the couch. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled. Casey pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, and held her tongue. She picked up the beer from the floor and took it to the kitchen, returning with an ice pack and a roll of paper towels. The broken end table eventually made its way to the basement, where it sat waiting for someone to repair it.
One bright sunny morning Casey entered the office of Mason’s lawyer, her own lawyer by her side. The lobby had beige walls, beige carpeting, and neutral tweed upholstered chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table, all designed to be professional and calming.
In the conference room they sat across from each other at a long, shiny, dark wood table. There weren’t many issues left to resolve; the money was all settled, the retirement accounts split, and there was no alimony to argue over. Mason had already moved out of their house, taking his clothing and personal stuff along with the guest bedroom furniture, the dining room table, and the sofa and chairs from the family room. Casey was staying in the house until it was sold. There were just the odds and ends to settle: the paintings, the dishes, the books, some remaining furniture. The lawyers had a list.
“I want the Thomas Moser table from the living room,” Mason demanded.
“Mason, we bought two of those tables,” Casey replied. “You can have the one you broke in your drunken stupor. I’m keeping the one in the living room.” She stared him down from across the table.
Mason started to respond, venom rising in his eyes. But his lawyer touched his arm and put an end to it. “OK. I think that’s it. We’ll write this up for the court to approve.”
On the last day of their marriage, Mason picked up his settlement items from the house. The next week the realtor put a “For Sale” sign in the yard.
It was a clear and quiet night when Casey spent her last hours in the house. She sat in the living room, surrounded by boxes and watching the last of the firewood burn in the fireplace. She contemplated the little end table. She stood, placed it on its side, and brought her foot down on its slender legs. She fed the first smooth, polished leg into the fire and watched flames lick the pale wood. It blazed bright, then turned nubby and black on its way to ash.
* * *
After decades of writing creative non-fiction in the form of strategic business plans and advertising copy Lise Halpern has turned her thousand word a day writing habit to more literary pursuits. Her writing has appeared in After Dinner Conversation and CaféLit Magazine. She resides with two crazy border collies in a river town in bucolic Bucks County, Pennsylvania. http://www.lisehalpern.com