Christian Kiefer - The Infinite Tides

“Of course,” Peter said.

“Good, let’s do it before you get too stoned. Come with me.” He stepped back toward the light now, back to the cul-de-sac and its ring of concrete, his feet crunching the dry thistle and dead grass and chunks of dirt and gravel and he could hear Peter’s footsteps behind him. “What is this?” Peter said.

“I need you to help me move something,” Keith said.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“OK,” Peter said. “Wait, I will go put down pipe.” He disappeared into the darkness for a moment, his footfalls at a slow jog, and then returned and they walked in silence for a few moments, the houses in the cul-de-sac silent and watchful, the vacant lots still vacant, the only difference a black sedan parked in front of Jennifer’s house. Had the car been there before? Would he have noticed? He was not sure. Perhaps she had another date tonight. Perhaps that’s who she was.

He had left the door unlocked and opened it now and they both passed through.

“She took everything,” Peter said.

“I told you she did,” Keith said.

“You said furniture. There’s more to home than furniture. She took everything. She left nothing at all.”

“True,” Keith said.

“I cannot believe,” Peter said. “I cannot believe she would take all this away from you.”

“Well,” Keith said. He moved to the far side of the couch, next to its overstuffed leather arm. Then he said, “Let’s take this outside.”

“This?” Peter said, his voice incredulous. “This is nice sofa. Leather too, yes?”

“Yes, it’s leather.”

“It is all furniture you have, though,” Peter said. “What she left.”

“I hate this sofa,” Keith said. “She left it because I hate it. It’s like a bad joke that it’s still here.”

Peter looked at him. “Too good to be outside maybe.”

“No, it’s perfect. It’s the perfect sofa to be outside.”

Peter looked simultaneously sad and excited. “OK,” he said at last.

“It’s heavy.”

“I am sure.”

“No,” Keith said. “It’s heavy like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You are a man who brings good times.”

“Tell me that when we’re done with this,” Keith said. “If we can’t get it out the door we’ll saw it in half and take it out in sections.”

“Too nice for that. We will get sofa outside.”

“Let’s do this.” He counted to three and a moment later they held the sofa aloft and were moving toward the entryway.

They managed to get the sofa partially through the door with a fair amount of grunting and groaning, the living room and entryway behind them littered with the fallen cushions that marked their path. The process was not unlike turning an overstuffed key in a huge, oddly shaped lock and there was a moment where Keith thought it might be impossible to go farther, the sofa wedged at some odd angle where he could not move it forward or back, but then Peter rotated his end slightly, saying nothing, neither of them saying a single word, and the whole thing slid through the aperture at last, Keith stumbling forward as Peter pulled both him and the sofa through the doorway.

They tried to set it down in the driveway and ended up dropping it with an awkward clunk and both leaned against the arms and panted wordlessly for a long moment in the yellow glow of the streetlights. The front door to the house was open and one cushion had been kicked through the doorway and now lay like some odd welcome mat placed upon the threshold. Keith was exhausted by the effort but he was also smiling, and when he looked over at Peter he saw that the Ukrainian was grinning as well.

They lifted the sofa again and moved down the sidewalk and were once again panting heavily as they stepped, one leg at a time, over the chain and began to crunch through the thistle, the path irrelevant to their aching arms and slowly slipping grip. “Watch out for telescope,” Peter said, the only words spoken during their walk from the house to the field until at last they crashed the sofa to the ground in the thistle and dirt and once again stood out of breath, leaning on the gray stuffed arms.

“Heavy,” Peter said.

“I told you it was.”

“It is maybe too nice to be left out in field.”

“You want to pick it up and take it back into the house?”

“Not so much.”

“It’s better out here. Let it rot.”

“You have very sharp tongue tonight.”

“I’ve had a weird day.”

“Weird day made you angry.”

“I guess so.”

They walked back to the house and collected the cushions and Keith pulled a six-pack of beer out from the refrigerator and tucked it under his arm. Then they moved wordlessly out into the field again.

They returned the cushions to their proper places and then both sat and Keith cracked open a can of beer and handed it over to Peter, who nodded and mumbled a brief thanks, and then opened another and sipped it, settling into the cushions and closing his eyes for a long moment in the darkness.

The flick of a lighter. A moment later the scent of smoke drifted over from Peter’s side of the couch, and then his voice came: “It is good to sit.”

“Yes,” Keith said. “Yes, it is.” He sipped at his beer.

“Sometimes I bring folding chair here. This is much better than folding chair.”

“True,” Keith said. It was silent for a long moment. Then Keith said, “I’ve been having headaches. Migraines.”

“Migraines? How bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

Silence for a moment. Then Peter: “You have headaches but no smoking?”

“No,” Keith said. “I probably should, though. I’ve heard it works for some people.”

“You want?”

He thought about it. “I think I should stick with the beer,” he said. “I have painkillers for the headaches.”

“This is probably better,” Peter said.

“Probably true.”

Peter offered him the pipe and Keith looked at it for a long moment, held in the Ukrainian’s outstretched hand. Then he took it and put it to his lips and sucked in the smoke. The feeling of burning was immediate and he exploded into a series of choking coughs.

“Easy there,” Peter said.

“Whoa,” Keith said, still choking. He handed the pipe back. “Maybe I’ll stick with the beer.”

They sat in silence for a long time, Keith sipping on his beer, finishing it, opening another. The stars luminous above the giant leather sofa, the two men slumped upon it like discarded manikins. Like crash test dummies.

Then Peter’s voice: “Hey, your girlfriend over there is looking for you, I think.”

Keith opened his eyes and looked up toward Jennifer’s house. Indeed the window curtains were pulled open and Jennifer’s body was framed within its rectangle. Whether she was looking out into the field or not he could not tell and indeed he knew that she could not have seen him in the darkness; the vacant lot would be, from her perspective, simply an empty place beyond the ring of concrete and streetlights. Her silhouette was an apparition in the window, as if floating above Earth in a coffin of light. A moment later another silhouette appeared behind her and then the curtains closed, the only remainder a thin thread of light that wavered and then disappeared entirely.

He downed the beer in just a few swallows. Peter smoked quietly beside him. “This is a comfortable sofa,” Peter said.

Keith said nothing. After a time, he let his head loll back onto the cushions, his face pointing straight up into space. There were so many stars and to him they remained entirely nameless, a fact that, at least for the moment, did not seem to matter at all.

He had just returned from his morning run when he heard Walter Jensen’s voice for the first time, a calm, friendly sound that called to him from the opposite side of the street: “Hey there, neighbor.”