The Chifforobe

Honey was very pleased with herself for spotting the chifforobe in the first place. She was driving home, smacking a thick wad of gum between her yellowing teeth. Dark eyes gazed lazily back and forth, scanning the road ahead, until she noticed the dark lump sitting abandoned on the side of the road.
The butt of a cigarette burned dully in her hand that gripped the thin steering wheel and jostled her whole body up and down as her truck bumped along the unpaved country roads. Honey drove the old truck her father had found abandoned on their property and fixed up for her, helping the engine sputter to life. From then on, she took pride in every spot of rust and every deepening scratch on its clay-colored body. It reliably carried her and her found prizes all over town and back home again.  
Honey’s truck seemed to find every pothole as it squealed to a stop. She kept her eyes trained on the dark spot sitting on the side of the road and as it grew, she suddenly realized it was a beaten up chifforobe with one door cracked as if it had bounced out of a truck identical to the lemon she drove– one with a broken tailgate.
If Honey knew one thing, it was that she was strong. When she tried to wrap her longest finger around her bicep to touch her thumb, she couldn’t complete the circle. She did work outside keeping up her father’s farm every day. He was too old to do the hard work himself, and since coming back from his time in service, his legs didn’t allow him to walk without a cane. So, she raked the leaves, and swept the porch, and trimmed the bushes, and fed the chickens all by herself. The chifforobe was a moderate size, about her height. This would be nothing compared to a fresh sack of chicken feed.
Honey let down the tailgate of her truck by unwinding the rope tied across the bed, holding it shut while she drove. It had never locked, and she didn’t have a key for it anyhow, but recently she had bumped along the country roads a little too quickly and the latch had snapped. The tailgate gaped open as she bent down to lift the chifforobe. With utmost care, she jimmied her fingers under the ledge, and quickly realized it was much heavier than she anticipated. She set it back down the one inch she had managed to lift it, taking particular care not to break one of her pristine, long white nails. She stood, patted her thighs, and looked over the chifforobe again.
Those boys up the street always complemented her on the softness of her hands, on the beauty of her natural nails. If she didn’t have her beauty, they wouldn’t help her with her personal business like they were so quick to do now. Plus, she thought, this chifforobe must be real hard wood, heavy and bulky due to the fine craftmanship. The longer she looked at it, the more determined she felt to get it into her truck and into her home. If she could only manage to get it into the bed of her truck, she would be home free.
Honey crossed back over to the road and began waving her arms furiously. Surely a good country man would see her in distress and pull over. To the cars flashing by, she must have looked like a baby bird trying desperate to fly away from this dusty roadside. Honey muttered a quick prayer in between smacks of her tough wad of gum, asking God to send that good country man with massive muscles and a good heart to her aid. Any man who spotted her curvy frame should be desperate to pull over, anyhow. She knew how her hips rolled off her sides in a perfect hourglass shape, her waist nice and compact, compressed from years of wearing a girdle, one of which she was currently strapped into despite how it hindered her breathing and movement.
A few rusted beaters flew by, whistling slyly at her but not stopping, until a mud-splattered white truck spotted her and finally slowed to a stop beside her. Honey analyzed the older man who drove, a thick cigar lodged between tobacco-stained lips. He rolled down the passenger side window to shout out to her.
“Yer chifforobe done fell out, uh?” He chewed slowly and absentmindedly on the cigar as if he had forgotten that it dripped from his mouth. Dark saliva oozed into the corners of his mouth. The man flashed her a sickening smile, that black saliva coating every single tooth. Honey noticed how the cigar was actually lodged in a gap where his front teeth should be.
“Thank you for stopping, how kind of you to pull right over and help little ol’ me. Cracked this door good as it fell out, sure did!” Honey perched her arms on his open window, leaning over the cusp to make sure her bosom was propped up and her cleavage was obvious. She flipped her golden-brown curls about her shoulders while the man only eyed her lazily.
“Need ‘elp, den I presume? Lil’ lady like yerself?”
“Oh please, yessir if you can spare the hand and the minute. Should only take a minute…” She pursed her plump, pink lips. The man dislodged the cigar from his teeth and set it on the dashboard. As he did, a gargling deep in his throat rumbled forward, conjuring up a thick, dark blob of mucus from his lungs which he spat into the gravel, barely missing Honey’s feet. He stepped out of his truck, slammed the door, and let Honey walk him to the chifforobe.
“Yer sure is lucky it done just broke this on’ door, takin’ a fall like that,” He sniffed wetly and spat another thick glob into the dirt, gently kicking the cracked door. He was much older than her as lines carved deeply across his forehead like tan peaks and valleys. His shirt was grease stained and caked in dirt, stained forever a dull brown. His fingers were dark as the dirt on his shirt and thick and stubby as sausages. Easily, he bent over and lifted the chifforobe up to standing on its little legs.
“Back yer truck ri’ up, Imma lay it ‘own an loa’ it ri’ up.” Another wet glob came up and out of the man’s throat. Honey did as told, hopping in her truck and with her head sticking out the window, let the man guide her until her tailgate just barely touched the back of the chifforobe. With a grunt, he squatted down and boosted the chifforobe up, sliding it easily back into the bed of her truck. Its little legs poked out over the side, her truck bed too small for the large hunk of wood. As the man went to slide his fingers out from underneath, the chifforobe slipped and crushed his little pinky under its weight.
Letting out a curt scream, the man yanked his finger out, shaking his hang vigorously; every word out of his mouth a swear on God’s name. With a huff, Honey revved her truck engine and spluttered away from the man, kicking up dust and spewing black exhaust from her tailpipe. What a trashy, vulgar man, Honey thought. Deserved every bit of dirt and smog she sent his way as she blundered down the country roads to her father’s farm. No man should take God’s name in vain like that, especially in front of a woman of her quality.
Luckily, despite his nastiness, the old man had done a good job and pushed it right up against the cab of her truck and the chifforobe sat contently and securely the rest of the twenty-minute drive back home.
Her truck jolted its way along their long gravel driveway, a cloud of gray dust trailing her. She loved the feel and sound of gravel making way for her arrival. With the confidence of a professional driver, she backed her truck up perfectly to the front door, so her father would have an easier time unloading the chifforobe. Already, she had demonstrated to herself that it was much too heavy for her fragile self, but her father had been a strong, hardy man in his younger years. Surely, he would have no problem getting it off her truck so she could push it back into her room.
Honey stepped out and stood back, hands on the hips that jutted out sharply from her sides, exaggerated by the girdle, and sighed deeply with satisfaction, taking in not only the lovely chifforobe, but also her fantastic park job.
Her father– having heard the truck drive up and knew his daughter would be up to something and force him into the trouble as well– limped out of the front door, smacking his chapped lips to wick some moisture out from his mouth. He leaned heavily on a cane, back arched with age. While he had been a strong young man, serving his country bravely during the war, now he was neither strong nor young.
“Why you bringin’ junk to ma house?” He banged his cane on the cracked chifforobe door.
“Papa, this is a beautiful work of carpentry! It’s as if God knew exactly what I’ve been wanting and dropped if off the side of the road for me! Don’t you see how lovely the carvings are?” He scoffed at that, but when she smacked his cane away, he was forced to stumble and regain his balance.
His face was pale but dark bags dragged down the skin under his eyes. The rolls of loose skin under his neck reminded Honey of a turkey waddle; sometimes when he fell asleep in his armchair, listening to the noise filter in from the TV, she liked to see how hard she could flick it before he was startled awake.
“I don’t know what kind o’ young man ya think I am which could off load that pile o’ lumber,” Her father’s voice was like scraping rocks together next to her ears, but after a lifetime of it, her ears no longer cringed as badly. She attributed it to the fact he had been in the war and had yelled and screamed so much his throat must be permanently damaged. Or it was the cigarettes he smoked. She liked the war theory better; it was one she frequently bragged to new folks in town about.
“Oh Papa, I just know you can help me. You rely too much on that damn cane, like it’s a third leg.” She paused, thinking briefly before adding, “You didn’t need it in the war and you certainly don’t need it now.”
“I haven’t had two workin’ legs since that war and you known it,” He coughed, but it sounded like he was shaking a can of dried beans as he inhaled. That was what the cigarettes did to him.
“Oh Papa, please, just lay your cane down, and I’ll get in the truck…” She rushed over to him and snatched his cane before he could protest. His back sunk down and he basically bent in half, his eyes straining to glare up at his daughter. She tossed his cane inside the door and pushed him gently towards the truck.
Once he was situated– crouched down as if he would actually be able to guide the dense chifforobe out and stand it up on its wobbly legs– Honey hopped up in the truck bed. She was struck once again by the natural beauty of the dark, ornately carved wood. It could use a coat of stain; otherwise, it was perfect.
“Easy,” Her father grumbled out of the corner of his mouth. He was squatted, hunched over, fingers grasping two of the little wooden legs. Surely, he thought, he could do it. He hadn’t tried to lift anything after being honorably discharged due to a small explosion that had wracked through his body and cracked both his kneecaps. Since then, he was dependent on his cane and his knees would click and lock up when he strained too hard walking. Before the war, when he was young, he had been able to carry hundreds of pounds of farm equipment, lift mowers, and moved cows. This was just a little chifforobe, after all.
All of a sudden, while he was still lost in the days before war and broken knees, Honey curved her back, pushed with those pointy hips, and violently shoved the chifforobe with all her might. It shot out like a rocket, socking the old man in squarely in the Adams apple, and he fell backwards onto the porch, letting out a strained, raspy grunt.
“Pa!” Honey yelped, jumping from the truck to kneel by her father. He lay gasping for his breath, clawing desperately at his turkey neck in futile attempts to refill his lungs. Honey helped him up, grabbing and lifting him up by his under arms, and gingerly walked him inside.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Papa, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I swear it I didn’t mean to,” Honey assured him as he settled into his armchair. Her father sucked down air in short spurts and used what little he managed to swear repeatedly at her, his cane once again clutched cautiously in one hand. He would use it to beat her once his chest stopped heaving.
“I’mma go up to the road, Pa, to get them next door to help. Those big gruff boys, with them big muscles, they’ll help me. They’ll do it for me, I know they will.” Her father’s face flushed dark red.
“I don’t want dem’… darkening… dis doorstep…” He gasped, throat still throbbing and tight.
“Oh Pa, they’re just such good boy. Plus, they be real handsome and you known that.” She winked and patted his head gently, but he shirked away from her touch anyways.
As Honey rushed out the door and down the driveway, starting the ten-minute walk up to the mens’ home, she pursed her lips and applied a heavy layer of pink lipstick that cracked immediately once it dried. She knew those desperate boys would do anything for her when they saw how pink and perfect her lips were. She arrived at their gate and stared up at the house.
Dilapidated wood and peeling paint adorned the front side of their rickey house. Overgrown, crunchy grass and weeds decorated the front lawn, the foliage desperate for some rain. Little yellow dandelions dotted the pasture and even sprung up from under the gravel.
“Heyyo, sweet boooys,” Honey crooned, as loudly as she could without her voice cracking like her lips. She waited a few minutes; she would not wait more than ten on their normal selves. But she didn’t need to wait long, in fact only a few minutes, as one of the two tremendous brothers that lived and worked on this farm opened the front door wide and called down to her.
“Please, please won’t you help me?” She called up to him, cupping her hands around her lips. “Just move a bit of furniture for me, won’tcha?” A few quiet moments passed, and Honey watched and listened to his heavy footsteps slowly crunching down the gravel driveway. He appeared before her, his dark face already glistening with sweat. Deep heavy lines carved under his eyes and into his cheeks. His eyes were black as coal but sparkled brightly in the afternoon sunlight. She could hardly stand to look at him and the darkness of his skin, but his arms were busting from the seams of his shirt.
“Ma’am?” He grumbled, spitting a cheekful of tobacco into the dirt and grinding it into the earth with the toe of his boot.
“Please, Tom, oh please sweet Tommy, I bought this beautiful chifforobe,” She blinked furiously, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “And I need a strong man like yerself to help me move it inside ‘cause ya’know, my dad, how old and weak he’s become in his old age,” She sniffed and wiped crocodile tears from her cheeks. He peered down at her for a drawn out moment, sweat beading on his forehead.
     “Yes’am, I’ll ‘elp ya.” He finally spoke in a deep, grumbling smokers voice, then opened the gate and crossed to her side. As they walked back down the road to her father’s house, Tom’s large figure blocked the hot afternoon sun from her face. Occasionally on their short walk, she would sway on her heels, bump lightly against his shoulder, and mumble phony apologies.
Tom never replied, keeping his eyes trained on the road ahead while his boots kicked up clouds of dust. They hadn’t gotten rain in over a month, and he was bitter about it, so he exaggerated every step by digging his boot’s toe into the gravel as they walked, kicking up billowing clouds of dust. This dry spell was killing their crops and animals, and if another heifer died, he would have to finance the farm out. And who would want to rent a dilapidated farm?
They arrived as the sun beat their backs. Tom easily unloaded the hulking chifforobe from the back of her truck, not even scratching the plastic bed. She guided him inside and into her bedroom on the ground floor. Her father slept upstairs, the floor with the only bathroom in the house. It bothered Honey to no avail and her father insisted on staying in the upstairs room. Recently, the pipes had been rumbling loudly in the walls and ceiling right above Honey’s room; she had meant to call a plumber weeks ago but could never remember silly chores like that. Perhaps one day she could convince Tom to check her pipes.
Tom pushed the chifforobe up against the back wall of Honey’s room, opposite her bed, just where she had pointed that she wanted it. Honey made herself comfortable on her bed, laying her legs out to the side, drinking in Tom’s large, muscly frame.
“Might you stay a while,” She whined, patting the mattress beside her. The color of Tom’s face darkened; Honey hadn’t realized that was possible. The muscles in his face worked hard to disguise his growing pleasure, while his eyes traveled over her body, lingering on her little waist and big hips, then down to the floor as he crossed to her, unbuttoning the shirt done up tightly around his neck.
 
Tom left, his shirt stained with sweat, despite moving the chifforobe half an hour ago. His shirt cuffs were undone, flapping at his sides like clipped bird wings. Honey watched him leave from her window, and as he walked, the sun began to dip below the horizon. She sat at her bedroom window smoking a cigarette, puffing the smoke out the crack in the bottom of the window. She loved smoking after sex and how it calmed her racing heart. She smiled slyly to herself and thought about how those silly boys up the road sure were easily seduced. It was her skin. She knew that’s what drew them in. The softness and paleness of her skin created such a stark contrast between them, and she was sure it made them envious they would never be so white and clean and soft like her.
Honey heard her father grumbling above a whisper and knew that meant he was trying to get her attention. She wrapped herself up in a puffy pink robe, snuffing it her cigarette and tossing the butt out her window. As her father continued to yell and strain his voice for her, she slipped on her slippers and opened her bedroom door. She could hear him over the TV, screaming about his neck being sore and how she needed to get him to bed. She slowly came down the hall and into the living room, taking her sweet, pleasurable time, listening to her father’s grating voice rise and fall.
“Shut up, won’t ya, Pa? Even with a hurt neck you can’ stop.” She clicked off the TV and went to his side, pulling him roughly up from the chair. He yelped like a wounded puppy, yet she felt no pity for him. He survived a war; he could survive going to bed. He limped up the stairs, slower than she appreciated. Honey would advance one step ahead, then he would advance with one foot, then the next, leaning back to the point where if she let him go or he lost his iron grip on her arm, he would tumble backwards down the stairs.
She thought about letting him do just that every single night. What a stupid old man, can’t keep his balance, can’t barely speak, or walk, can’t walk up the stairs, can’t even move a little chifforobe into the house for her. He would die soon, in bed most likely, too tired to wake up and live another day, and she would get the house and the farm and hire those men from up the road to be her farmhands, just to spite him. 
Honey rushed him to his deathbed when they finally reached the top of the stairs, pushed him down onto the stiff mattress, pulled off his shoes, flung his legs towards the center, and pulled a big blanket over his entire body. She tucked the edges of the blanket tightly around his neck and body as he lay with his hands crossed on his chest. She made sure he was nicely tucked in and couldn’t hardly move or leave his bed for the whole night. As a result, his bedroom stank of urine since he usually wet the bed every night and she had stopped changing the sheets. If he was going to do it every night because he couldn’t hold it till morning, he would have to bear the consequences until she had time to clean them. And she was a very busy woman.
“Night, Pa.” Honey clicked the bedroom door shut behind her and she crossed the landing to the bathroom. A claw footed bathtub stood in the middle. She loved this bathtub, even if the porcelain had begun to chip. It needed to be sealed again, but her father’s disability payments didn’t stretch very far every month. She twisted the knobs, testing with her fingers how hot the water was, and once it was scorching, since she really enjoyed how her skin crawled in a hot bath, she plugged the tub and trotted back downstairs to get her nightgown.
Honey entered her room, directly below the upstairs bathroom. The tub faucet grumbled indistinctly from between the thin walls. She crossed to the chifforobe and stood in front of it once again, hands on her hips. She had been so lucky, so, so lucky, to come across such a hardy, vintage piece of furniture, that was surprisingly heavy despite its size.
Honey swung open the doors and admired herself in the mirror on the backside of the left door. She had discovered it right after the man had finished his business with her. She had gotten up from the bed and finally opened the chifforobe to reveal the mirror, dusty, with a black crack which snaked its way straight through the middle of the entire mirror. It split her fine figure right into two. She had stood just as she did now, looking herself up and down, and when the man had been with her, he stared silently at her reflection as well. That’s how she knew he liked her so much. Couldn’t keep his dark, wandering eyes to himself.
Next month, she decided, when her father got his check, she would pocket about ten dollars and say it was for the mortgage, but really she would use some to buy stain and a replacement mirror for her chifforobe, and the rest she would keep for herself. He had paid off the mortgage years ago, but she hadn’t told him that and had been collecting the mortgage payment for herself as a home-helper fee. Yes, he was her father, but still, she needed some money for herself– spending money. She was a materialistic woman, and he should know that by now. The boys up the street certainly did. And now especially, she wanted to fill this chifforobe with lovely pink dresses and walk up the road to catch those men watching her hips sway back and forth.
Honey approached the mirror now and clung to the door. God had blessed her with beauty. She thanked him every day for that. In fact, she knelt suddenly in front of the mirror, clasped her hands together, and began to pray. Usually she closed her eyes, but, being in front of the mirror, she stared up at herself through her eyelashes as if speaking to herself.
“Thank you, God, for me.” Honey began, winking at herself. “And thank you, God, for men.” Another wink. “And thank you, God, for men being so dumb,” At this she laughed, breaking her reverence. When she stood up, it was too fast and her head flooded with blood, starting a ringing in her ears. Honey swayed on her feet unsteadily, grasping at the chifforobe doors to steady herself. She latched on right when she grew dangerously dizzy and fell backwards, and her heavy hips pulled the chifforobe backwards too, right on top of herself, landing heavily and with finality on her chest, legs sticking out at strange angles like the Wicked Witch from the West.
She tried to scream in futile attempts to rouse her father’s attention, or even, if she could scream loud enough, maybe the men up the road would hear her and come running to her rescue. They owed her, after all she did for them. But the chifforobe was so heavy as she had come to realize, and now it pressed all its weight down on her lungs. As she breathed out and her chest compressed, she could not inflate her lungs with any air as the chifforobe settled further onto her chest. Bulky, hardy, real wood forced itself upon her. Honey lay, gasping and sputtering, under her prized possession.
Meanwhile, the rumbling in the wall had not stopped; in fact, there was now a sound, a whining, screeching sound, that began directly over her, right where the bathtub sat on the floor above. Suddenly, a water pipe burst through a circle of the ceiling, raining plaster and steaming hot water down onto her face, into her eyes and gaping mouth. Honey really sputtered now, choking down chunks of ceiling mixed with hot water that turned into a thick paste and slimed down her throat, sticking in a lump right where her esophagus met her windpipe. She tried to cough it up, but it was too thick.
And still, she couldn’t breathe. Her face began to distort, darkening into purple and blue, no longer the pristine, pale white she savored so much.
Chest crushed, choked with plaster, hot bath water pouring from the ceiling that tried to bore a hole in her forehead, Honey limply laid there trying futilely to catch one last breath. She knew she didn’t deserve this. She had done no wrong in her life. She loved people, and people loved her, and never once that she could remember had she ever hurt someone.
She tried to say a quick prayer in her head, shutting her eyes and letting the darkness that creeped in overcome her. The seconds ticked slowly by as darkness dribbled from her eyes through big fat tears. Her chest suddenly tightened uncomfortably, as if dark, firm hands squeezed at her heart and lungs, gripping with all their strength. The light filtering in from the outside window burned Honey’s eyes, even through her eyelids. In one last attempt to find her savior, her glazed eyes drifted lazily to the window and instead, watched the big summer southern sun fade from view, dipping under the horizon while slivers of light emanated out from the hill. Finally, with one large sigh, the chifforobe sank under the weight of its wet wood.