Cameron had his own easy chair in the front room. It was covered with a wool blanket. Nobody else ever sat in that chair, but it was always as if he were sitting there, anyway. His spirit had taken command of that chair. Old people have a way of doing that with the furniture they end their lives sitting in. — Richard Brautigan, 44:40
There was the chair in his study upstairs. Surrounded by books. Piled on the floor, piled on the desk, bending the shelves. To us it was for spinning. Round and round. A winter merry-go-round. Faster, faster, the room a blur, til we were so dizzy we stood and fell sideways across the sloping floor.
There was the one in the living room in front of the TV. The black leather recliner surrounded by pipes and tobacco pouches, books on the floor there too, watermarks on the side table from the highball glass. Bourbon on the rocks with the evening news. Here we lay on his chest when we could not sleep, breathed the warm smells of him with the sounds of Kojack and Columbo and Rockford in one ear, his breathing, his heartbeat in our other.
There was the chair that started the argument. Too big. Too ugly. Brown, teddy-bear soft, a fat throne for the king of the room. That chair started badly, but from that chair he read to us. And soon it was not his chair alone. It was Frodo’s chair, Gandalf’s chair, Bigwig’s chair. Huckleberry Finn, The Mad Hatter, they sat there too.
Sitting in the mother-in-law’s recliner on Mercer Island, WA he read his own future from the Seattle Times. Atomic veterans. Cancer. Thirty years after exposure. I sat on the floor beside the chair, listened as he read the article. I watched him as he ran the numbers on himself: Twenty-four years at that point.
There was the chair at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Green pleather in the shadow of an IV stand. He drove himself to sit in it. But after the IV bags emptied into his blood, he still had the pride, but not the strength to drive himself home. I had a learner’s permit then. I took the wheel.
Then another brown chair. Fat recliner in his study in the house beside the bay. That chair didn’t match the décor, but no one cared. It was chosen for comfort and hope against hope. The chair never moved, but he slid away. That was the last chair.