The Table

There it was—in the basement of the Olde Shoe Antique Store—with all four chairs and the bench. It had been refinished, it appeared. I hadn't seen it in sixty years. Not since I was eleven and my parents divorced. They decided to sell the house and dad bought another with a new woman who reminded me of Tupperware and potato salad. She sold Avon. Mom went to the looney bin—devastated. We moved in with grandma when they sold the house. 

Grandma had a poodle named Charles, named after the young prince of England who would one day be king, they said. Grandma wasn't a lick English, but you would have thought so with all her royal family memorabilia. Her decorative coronation plates and union jack throw pillows.

Grandma's house had floors that croaked like bullfrogs under thin-red carpet and oriental rugs. It was full of junk—interesting things like clocks and porcelain figurines of old people in various states of life. Chalkware persian cats that sat on the floor in front of the cabinet TV. I don't know what happened to all those things. 

Grandpa sat at the kitchen table. He was an Apache Indian. If you called him a Native American, he might have scalped you. He sat there and made arrows he'd never shoot, jewelry, beaded necklaces, and dream catchers. He had big red hands and I liked to watch him squint through his bifocals to string the beads or tie the arrowheads to the arrows. He made those things for the POW-WOW where he sold it to curious people to supplement his modest pension from the factory.

But he is gone, and so is mom and dad. So is my grandma and all those chalkware persian cats, clocks, and trinkets. So is her comfortable old couch, which she called a davenport. The porcelain drunk leaning against the lamppost with the jug marked XXX he raised to his lips to count the seconds. His wife perpetually waiting for him to walk in, rolling pin in hand. Tick-tock. The small illuminated clock above them counting hours that have come and gone. Hours I wish I could have kept in my pockets like marbles. We waste so much time in our youth without even realizing it's value.

I knew it was our table. I knew at first glance because it is just something you know. A kitchen table is something you can feel. It becomes part of your soul and if it doesn't, you got the wrong table. I felt it, though it sat in a strange place amongst strange things. Someone had put a wood goose on top of it as a centerpiece. Mom always had some sort of holiday decoration at the center. A ceramic Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. A jack-o-lantern with a candle flickering inside. 

The wicker bowl of wax fruit was my least favorite centerpiece. I left teethmarks in the apple and pear more than once, duped in my puerility by their realistic appearance. My favorite was the painted glass turkey that came out every November until it was replaced by Santa Claus or the miniature ceramic Christmas tree with the multi-colored lights. That glass turkey was somehow broken, though. I don't know how. I was never told exactly what happened.

Sometimes the table was covered by a tablecloth, but not always, and never for long because one of us four boys would spill something inevitably, and the table cloth, unless it was one of those plastic jobs with jack-o-lanterns and ghosts, or American flags, or lemons, would need to be washed. Mom had at least twenty tablecloths tucked under the dining room hutch, many that she would forget. 

I preferred the table without any covering. Just as it was with the dark-walnut stained wood and all the nicks and notches in it. I liked the way it felt under my elbows when my mom told me to get my elbows off the table. I liked being able to draw on it and how smoothly the lead of my pencil or crayon made lines on the paper. 

I had never seen it so bare in my life—bar that wayward wood goose who had the look that he didn't know how he got there, or why he was there. Many things in the antique store look that way to me. They have that forsaken look of Christ on the cross in those velvet oil paintings. Or the drunk and oblivious look of that drunkyard leaning against the lamppost from my grandma's clock with the jug of XXX.

The table took my breath from me for a minute. I had last seen it at age eleven—61 years ago to be precise. After my parents divorced and went their separate ways, everything in the house was divided, packed up, and went one way or the other. But the table, as though out of loyalty, stayed with the house.

I suppose my father didn't want or need it, and my mom, after her stay in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital, joined us at grandma's already-cluttered house. Our house was soon sold. The money was somehow split. And that table was left behind or put out to the street with the kitchen hutch, the couch and chairs. No one ever said for certain that is what happened, but logic brings one to that reasonable conclusion. 

I went back to the house once or twice when I was told I was moving in with my grandparents and I packed what I could pack—toys, baseball cards, and clothes. My bike, of course. My records. I remember sitting my bags down on that table as I was carrying them out to grandpa's truck, not thinking anything of it. It was, of course, doing what it always did. Being steadfast and loyal no matter what is was asked to do. Doing everything in the world it could in the moment to help in whatever way it could. That is what it had always done. 

It wasn't our table. I mean, we weren't the first to own it, not even the second or the third. My dad or grandpa didn't build it. I'm not even sure where we bought it from. It was there well before me. It was over 100 years old, my mom said. There was a mark burned on the bottom from the person who made it. "CJ," it read. The J was fancy, sort of like a fishhook. We had no idea who CJ was and there was no way to know, really, unless you knew some local furniture historian who knew all the craftsmen of the time who might have had those initials. And maybe the table was a one-off and not a series of pieces made to sell. Maybe CJ made the table and died. 

It was finely-crafted. There was no doubt about it. Never once, under the wear of four rambunctious boys did any piece of it give out or break. It didn't require any wood glue or for the flathead screws to be tightened or replaced. And it is hard to say how many more boys and girls called it theirs and romped all over it like my brothers and I did. It was, after all, just a table.

Charles Jorgansen, I settled. That was his name—the man who made it. I have no idea, really, but I like to think that is his name. I got down on my hands and knees there in the antique store and crawled beneath it. How ridiculous I must have looked—old as I was. Sure enough, right where I expected it to be, there was his mark—CJ.

The price tag was absurd. The fact that there was even a price tag at all made me feel a measure of resentment and disgust. It was priceless. But the price was well below what I expected—$189.00. It dangled there in my hand on a string like a toe-tag. I expected it would have been four or five hundred dollars. I wouldn't have been surprised if it was thousands, even. Or marked the dreaded NFS—not for sale—meaning it was there just to display other things. 

I felt a little sick. Knowing what I knew. Knowing of the things that happened at that table. All the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. I could see myself, sitting there, doing my homework. Making Valentine's Day cards for school. Eating meals I wish would have lasted longer with people who are no longer here. People who I miss, dearly.  

Mom told dad she was pregnant at this table. They figured their bills here. Dad read the newspaper here. Drank his coffee. We played boardgames. I drew pictures. We made school science projects. Traded baseballs cards. Ate pizzas. Cut birthday cakes. Blew out the candles. Cried. Laughed. All at this table. This is where every hard family conversation was ever had. Where arguments were resolved. Sentences and punishment rendered. It was as though people came to their senses at the table. Where my brother told my parents he was going into the military—to a war from which he would not return. Where my other brother told them he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him. Where vacations were planned, coupons clipped, and hair cut on occasions. There was even an unsuccessful séance on it once. 

It was always there. Hiding beneath tablecloths. Bearing the incredible weight of a family on four solid legs. Unwavering. Dependable. And it was nothing I ever really thought about. 

This is where families before did the same things. Where they talked over dinner. When this table was made, the Civil War had yet to be or it still raged. This table knew candlelight and outhouses. It was there for the advent of gaslight, electricity, bulbs, and indoor plumbing. It was present for untimely deaths—children in infancy—mothers during birth. Parents wept with their heads resting upon a pillow of their arms folded upon it. It's walnut surface absorbed their tears. Kids grew up and went to war. World War I and II. Korea. Vietnam. Like my brother, some didn't come back. Western union telegrams lied upon the table, unfortunately delivered and read.

We regret to inform you...

Corsages for dances lied upon it, wilting. Flowers for birthdays, Valentine's, apologies, funerals, anniversaries, all sat in vases upon it and wilted. Dogs lied underneath it. Cats rubbed against the legs, hding from children and dogs. But they are all gone. We made forts under it with bedsheets draped over the sides. It didn't care. Beneath it was my first clubhouse. My best hide-and-seek hiding spot. My parents played cards here with friends nearly every Friday night.

And there it stood. Without getting weak. Without asking for anything. It did whatever it was asked to do. It never relented. Never betrayed anyone. Never fell out of love or folded under pressure. For 170 years it was the rock of every house it was in. The anchor. Something you could count on. 

Wipe down the table. Go set the table. Stay at the table until you eat your vegetables. Go red up the table. It knew prayers of gratitude, though no one ever said a prayer in gratitude for it. Why would they? It was just a table, after all. 

I ran my hand over the scratched surface that had been re-done and laquered over, but which still bore the marks of time. The familiar scratches and nicks felt good beneath my fingertips—like braille telling its story. 

There was no one else in the basement of the antique store. They were about ready to close. I sat in one of the chairs wondering if that was once mine. We all had our designated chairs. My place had been the bench until my brothers got older and left home, leaving a chair for me. We all had our place at the table. 

I looked around and could see my dad, my mom, and my brothers. I could hear them laughing. Telling stories. I could smell my father's pipe tobacco. His aftershave. I could see his blue eyes that never changed. We were talking about baseball. About a drive-in movie. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Someone teased someone about a girl.  

I sat there and listened. My mouth must have been agape. Semtimental tears welled in my eyes. They were all gone. They grew up and aged. Two raised families of their own and died. I was at their funerals. Wept with their children and grandchildren and widows. But here they are now—right before me—as though I slipped back in time and found my place at the table as they found theirs. My chair groaned as I leaned back. My mom turned and smiled at me and told me to eat my food so that I could have desert. They were shadows of who they were, but they were there—as sure as I was.

"Are you doing okay, sir?" a young lady asked who I hadn't seen approach. 

I stood abruptly as though I had done something wrong, startled, and wiped my eyes, nervously faking a yawn.

"Yes. I'm okay. Just tired."

She smiled. "Well, we close in about five minutes, but if you need anything, just let me know!" 

"This table," I quickly declared, still a little bewildered, "I want—this table."  

I had no choice but to buy it. What else was I to do? My wife wouldn't want it in the house, surely. She liked the IKEA white "farmhouse" table we had and picked it out not long before.

Maybe I could buy it and leave it here and come back every so often and sit in it when no one was around. I am an old man. No one would mind. I belong here at the antique store with all these old things. Maybe the vendor would need the space for other things, though. 

I bought the table and explained to the kind young lady that I had no truck to haul it and wouldn't be carrying it out in my condition. She seemed relieved being that it was so close to closing time and she would have had to help me carry it. 

"It's no problem," she smiled. "You can leave it here and pick it up when you can. I'll mark it as sold and it will be here for you to pick up whenever. Okay?"

"Thank you," I said. I gave her my name and number in order to reserve it.

I ruined a Mickey Mantle rookie card in the crevice of the table, once upon a time. I was sliding it in their like a credit card to get the crumbs out from a sandwich I ate. My grandpa the Apache gave it to me, not realizing it's worth. He said Mickey Mantle would be the greatest ballplayer of all-time. Maybe he was.

I went home and told my wife about the table in the indirect way I told her everything. I didn't tell her I bought it, of course. Only that I admired it. I didn't think she would understand as she often accused me of being too sentimental over things and inanimate objects. She was not and everything in our house had an expiration date, it seemed. She would often say that things were old and needed replaced, or they "lost their luster." The table we had and raised our children at was replaced long ago, well before the IKEA table she loves so much, which, as she said, matches everything. 

My old table would not match the drapes, simply put. It would not go with the rugs, the light fixture, or the china cabinet. It might not even fit in the door. It was the wrong color stain for our floor. Being married for 50 years, you know things about your wife. And I knew she wouldn't want this "eyesore" table in our dining room. So buying it was my secret and I'd have to figure out where I'd keep it. Maybe out in the garage. Or maybe I'd ask the vendor to hold it there as long as they could and then sell it so I could buy it again. I could buy it every few months. Over and over.

My wife said, that's nice dear, as she turned out the light. I smiled and kissed her as always before we went to sleep. Maybe I'd dream of the table—remember more things about it or conversations that took place at it that I hadn't paid much attention to as a squirming kid. Maybe I'd get to see my mom and my brothers again. Maybe even my dad before everything went to hell. 

I wanted to hold on to that. I wanted one more meal. All together. One more breakfast or dinner—supper, as my mom called it. When did it stop being supper to me? I wanted a plate ot her spaghetti again. Her meatloaf. Her mashed potatoes that she whipped in the pot which looked like an owl when she was done—and owl with a peppered-yellow chest of warm-melted butter. 

I wasn't feeling well the next day. When you get old things hit harder than they used to. You are reminded that you have bones. Muscles get tired and worn out. I had done too much yard work and was in bed with what felt like the flu. I always wondered if I would know. If I would know when it was my time. If I'd know that this was the last time I'd be sick. If this was the one that would take me. My last day in this life. In this body. I wondered if I would know if a meal would be my last meal. If I'd end at supper at the table, or if it would be breakfast last.  

I was much worse than I thought and I was in bed for several days. My wife tried to get me to go to the doctor, but I refused. I thought about my family. I thought about my dad and mom, about my grandpa and his big red hands stringing colorful beads on necklaces and shaping arrows for the POW-WOW. I thought about my brothers and I playing wiffle ball. Smashing home runs over the house—and the neighbors' house—out into the street where they'd harmlessly bounce and roll down the curb.

We lived at the end of a street where no one, besides an occasional ice cream truck, drove unless they were coming home or going to work or to the store. The sidewalk ended five houses down from us—which is where the town ended. There was a creek and a farm field there that are there no longer. The field was leveled and there are condos where we used to hunt for arrowheads and play war. A farmer, it was rumored, would shoot us kids with rocksalt if he caught us. 

That creak isn't the mysterious place it once was. It is hardly anything at all anymore—just a divide between those condos and the neighborhood I grew up in. I go back to and visit every once in a while, hoping to see an old ghost or to conjure up a lost memory.

My wife nursed me back to health with soup and small kisses to the forehead. We still smack lips on occasion, but we are not serious kissers anymore. Our lips spar more than they kiss. We no longer trade our souls through our tongues, anyway. Bodily fluids we keep to ourselves. I don't know exactly when that went, but it did at some point. She asked me if I was feeling well enough to get up to eat supper, figuring I was tired of crackers and soup in bed. 

"I suppose," I muttered. "Since it may be my last."

"Ah, nonsense, you old coot. You got many more suppers left in you. Come on."

I almost didn't notice she said the word—supper. It just wasn't a word in her vernacular. I followed her downstairs, nimble as a four thousand year-old mummy, holding on to the handrail, and admiring her and her grace that hadn't ever abandoned her—or that she hadn't discarded. She was in many ways different than me, but she was a lady in every sense of the word. It is a sad world to me when gentleman and ladies have no place, or have gone the way of the dodo. But maybe that is just the old man in me grousing my silent discontent.

When we got downstairs, she took my hand and held it tightly and walked me into the dining room. And there before me as she flipped on the light was the table—my table—from the antique store. I've wept at very few things in my life, outside of funerals, the death of pets, and the birth of children and grandchildren—but I cried there in our dining room.

She explained what happened. "I went to the antique store the next day and they said it was sold. I was dismayed, of course, but then I asked, well, who bought it so I can phone them up and ask them to reconsider. And when they gave me your name, I had to smile. He's my husband, I said. We all got a good laugh out of it, so I paid them to deliver it when you were sick in bed. And no, it doesn't match the drapes, or the floor, or the china cabinet, but it fits. Yes," she reassured me, "and even more importantly, it belongs." 

For a moment, we were young again. Standing there in the kitchen cooking supper. We made supper that way for decades. We made love in the kitchen without leaving our feet. Without disrobing. We learned to make love without touching at all. I remember watching my parents in the kitchen when they were in love. Dad in his youth was a handsome man in his crisp-white dress shirt and blue work overalls. My mom looked like a movie star. He used to bring her pink carnations.

We sat down that evening and ate a wonderful supper. We must have looked like one of those old couple figurines that live on in the memory of my grandma's house. Then I heard my mother tell me to "go and red the table"—one more time. When did she go from mommy to mom to me, I thought. I sat there afterwards, much too late into the night, my wrinkled hands flat upon the walnut table top, dreaming, and waiting for ghosts or to conjure another memory lost.