"You’ll get the other five hundred when you finish the job," she hissed.

"Say what?" the man they called Tank leaned in closer. His breath reeked of beer and garlic.

She pressed her back tighter against the booth, her voice rising another octave in a feeble attempt to drown out the sounds of Garth Brooks blasting from the juke box in the corner. "I said I will give you half now and the other half when you finish the job."

"Okay, cool," Tank replied. "I’ll take care of it tonight."

"Good. I’ll spend the night at my mother’s." She tapped the manilla envelope that lay on the table between them. "Here’s the key to the front door and a photograph so there won’t be any mix-ups."

She watched the large hairy paw with the four-letter word tattooed across the knuckles, reach out and scoop up the envelope and stuff it into the pocket of the leather jacket.

"Aren’t you going to count it?"

"Say what?"

"COUNT IT!!"

Tank shook his head. "Nah, I always trust ladies with blue eyes."

Her business completed, she got up from the table and shouldered her way through the thick cigarette smoke, hair and leather, toward the red EXIT sign. Once outside The Bear’s Den, she brushed at her clothing and shuddered, feeling a strong kinship with Goldilocks.

The man got up from the table and sauntered over to the bar. "Hey Jake, did you see that gal who just left?"

"Yeah, never saw her in here before. Who is she?"

"Beats me. I never saw her before either. She is one crazy lady though. She just offered us a thousand dollars to steal a chair from her house."

Jake laughed . "A chair? Man you’re kidding right? We gonna do it?"

"Course we are. Money’s money."

Teresa hurried toward her car waiting at the curb. She looked back over her shoulder toward The Bear’s Den. She hoped she could trust Tank to get the job done. She had taken about as much as she could stand and she just wanted it to all be over and done with as soon as possible. As she pulled away from the curb, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rear view mirror. She noted the pale cheeks and the dark half-moon smudges beneath her eyes. "Good Lord," she muttered aloud, "I must get some sleep soon. I’m starting to look like a raccoon." She joined the flow of traffic headed in the direction of her mother’s apartment.

The problem had all started about four weeks ago, on the one-month anniversary of her husband’s death. At first she thought it was her imagination playing tricks on her, then she decided she was simply losing her mind... She was in the shower on what had seemed like any ordinary afternoon when the TV in the living room came on. She threw on a robe and ran from the bathroom and there in the ragged Lazy Boy recliner, sat her dead husband. He was engrossed in a Mets game on TV. At the sight of him, she began to scream and jump up and down, but he paid her no mind at all. He just kept staring at the TV screen. She screamed again and again, but his eyes never left the action of the game. In fact, it was the same as when he was alive, except now she could see the upholstery of the chair through his ghostly form. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, but when she opened them, he was still there. Finally, unable to bear it another moment, she walked closer and switched off the TV. Instantly the form vanished. I’m going crazy, she told herself. I’m only imagining this. I’ll laugh about this in the morning...

But she didn’t. As soon as her head touched the pillow, the TV came on again. This went on all night. She tried to talk to the ghost, tried to reason with it, but it never said a word. It just sat there lifelessly, staring at the TV screen. Finally in desperation, she yanked the plug out of the socket. But once again, when her head touched the pillow, the TV came on, blasting her out of bed.

Now, after weeks of this same torture, of listening to car races, baseball games, basketball games, soccer, golf tournaments and tennis matches, she had no other choice than to remove the chair from her house. It was here in this chair that her husband had spent most of his life. This was the reason he kept coming back, she mused. If his chair was gone, then he would be forced to tear himself away from the sports channel and cross over to his final resting place.

Teresa tossed and turned all night and when the first rays of dawn began to creep in between the slats in the blinds, she got out of bed and dressed and headed for her home across town.

When she reached her front door, the sound of the TV hit her before she even put her key in the lock. She flung open the door with a bang and beheld yet again the apparition, lounging in the beat up recliner, its hollow eyes following the action of a Dodgers game.

Without a backward glance, she turned and ran back to her car. She peeled away from the curb and headed in the direction of The Bear’s Den. All the way there she fumed about the double-cross Tank had pulled. He had taken her money with no intention of following through on their deal. Well, she would show him. In her state of mind she felt she was capable of just about anything, including knocking out Tank’s few remaining teeth.

When she entered The Bear’s Den, a strange silence dropped like a blanket over the room. Fourteen pairs of eyes followed her as she stomped toward the end of the bar and grabbed the big man’s arm, yanking him off the bar stool.

When Tank saw her, his face turned a sickly shade of pale and he began backing away from her. "Now look, Lady, I’ve decided I don’t want no part of the deal." He reached inside his shirt and handed her the manilla envelope. "Here’s your money, now just take it and go away." He started to walk away, but Teresa reached out and grabbed him by the sleeve.

"We had a deal, remember? You took my money and promised you’d do the job for me. You owe me!" Teresa’s hair had come loose from the clasp that held it back and fell in wild strings about her face. The glitter in her eyes bordered on insanity.

"Please, Lady, just leave me alone," Tank whimpered. He reached inside his jacket and took out a roll of bills. "Here, " he said, shoving the money into her hand. "Here’s all the money I have and it’s yours if you’ll just forget you ever saw me." He turned and ran as if he was being chased by the devil, out the back door of The Bear’s Den and down the alley.

Teresa looked around her, feeling helpless and not a little puzzled by Tank’s reaction. "What is wrong with him?" she asked, directing her question to the others in the room. No one answered her. Instead, the men kept their eyes downcast, refusing to look in her direction. With a bewildered sigh, she turned and walked out, her head down and her footsteps dragging.

Now, what do I do, she wondered as she drove back to her house. Tank had been her last hope. She couldn’t move the chair by herself and she certainly couldn’t ask her friends for help. She didn’t want anyone else to know about the ghost in the chair. She cringed in horror at the thought of all the publicity it would bring. She closed her eyes and imagined her house being invaded by reporters and camera crews, Montel, Opra, Dr Phil or Barbara Walters.... Arrrrgh!

There just has to be a better way, she thought. If only she could find it...

By the time she reached home her nerves were raw and her temper was one degree past boiling over. She stalked into the house and covered her ears to drown out the dreadful play-by-play coming from the TV. She went out to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

"I give up!" she shouted, above the horrible racket coming from the living room. "If you won’t go away, I’ll just buy some ear plugs and pretend you’re still alive."

She took the beer out of the refrigerator and walked back to the living room. When she approached the chair she popped the top on the can and for the first time the ghost turned its gaze in her direction. She had finally gotten its attention.

"Hello, Harry", she shouted, handing him the beer. He took it and drank a huge swallow, then turned to her again.

"Thanks Teresa," His voice was barely audible above the hysterical sports announcer and the screaming fans.

Teresa moved until her body blocked the screen from his view. "Harry, this has to stop. If you won’t leave, will you at least turn down the volume? The noise is killing me."

The ghostly form cocked its head to one side as if puzzled. "Of course, Teresa. Why didn’t you just say so? I didn’t realize it was that loud."

"Harry, I’ve been screaming at you for weeks now."

"But you always scream at me whenever I watch a game,"

"Will you just keep the noise down, please Harry?"

"Of course, Dear." Suddenly the volume went so low that Teresa could barely hear it. He turned his attention back to the game and she started to leave the room. His voice stopped her.

"By the way, Dear, some movers came last night. They were almost out the door with my chair...with me in it...when I stopped them. I told them they would have to come back when the lady of the house was home. Actually, now that I think about it, they didn’t really look like movers. Teresa, you need to be more careful about locking up when you leave. These men could have been trying to steal your furniture.

Teresa wound her hands into her hair and yanked until her eyes watered. "Gee, Harry. You think so?" she yanked her hair again. "With you here, Harry, I don’t think I'll need to worry."

  Copyright © Leeuna Foster
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