Arthur

by Casey Alexander

Ted’s boss wanted an explanation; his eyebrows conveyed that the situation was grave. He stood accused of unauthorized leisure, of shirking a critical duty: in the excitement of filling out the monthly reports, he’d forgotten the Wednesday meeting.

Actually Ted was surprised that anyone noticed. What he added to these gatherings was unclear; usually he sat quietly, rotating the cap on his pen. Maybe the empty chair had made the others uneasy. More likely, it was the injustice of it—the sense that he’d retained the ten minutes for his personal use. He assured the man that this wasn’t the case, that they’d been spent in the company’s service, albeit in the wrong room.

“I’ll overlook it this once,” William said, in a rather menacing tone. The incident, Ted knew, would be preserved like a peach, to be used in some future proceeding against him. He took a deep breath as the man wandered off.

The sharp words, the specter of some disgrace: it was a harrowing moment, but thoughts of Arthur pulled him through. How delightful to have a companion waiting to welcome him home.

He opened the door and found Arthur sitting in front of the sofa, elated to see him as always. How elegant he was—shiny mahogany with solid legs. Ted greeted him, put his jacket away, and took a silk square from the drawer. He had a dozen or so for the purpose of dusting Arthur, which he did morning and evening (to the benefit of them both).

He’d rescued Arthur from oblivion, finding him one night on the curb and carrying him home. Arthur needed him. They needed each other. Furthermore, they had both been dumped for no reason, rejected in spite of their fineness. It was the seventh of April, a date he’d come to think of as Arthur’s birthday (they’d celebrated just last week).

Seeing as it was Wednesday, Ted polished him as he poured out the story. As always, Arthur was on his side. He didn’t suggest that Ted had been negligent in the matter; he didn’t encourage him to consider the boss’s perspective. He didn’t tell a long, dull, dissimilar tale in which he was the reprimandee. No, he simply let the story rain down upon him, tacitly agreeing that it was an outrage.

All in all, a tremendous relief, the perfect balm for his nerves. What luck that the two of them were alone. The next night, he knew, would be different: a third party was going to join them.

“Someone from work is going to drop by,” he’d said, offhand, so Arthur wouldn’t be nervous.

They’d shared two coincidental lunches in the break room at work and one deliberate coffee. The latter was her idea, and she appeared to have others: movies, hikes, and even a seaside picnic were mentioned as possible outings.

At this stage, Ted had no objections to her; he rather liked the way she said his name and the long skirts that she wore. The association was like a program that he’d tuned in to by chance; now that he was watching, he wanted to see the next scene.

That said, before the thing went any farther, he had to introduce her to Arthur. Would the two of them get along? Could she somehow enhance the dynamic? It wasn’t impossible. He pictured the three of them on a Christmas card wearing matching pajamas.

“Do you want to come by for a drink after work?” he’d asked breezily, as if he were a seasoned host and this a frequent occurrence. Elizabeth was a bit leery, but he seemed like a harmless sort (and anyway she had mace and a whistle).

When the day came, he bought pretzels on the way home. As he waited for her to arrive, Ted tried to act nonchalant. He swept the floor and changed sweaters, dusted and dressed Arthur while chatting of other things. He put him in simple beige cloth to keep the night casual (in contrast to Arthur’s birthday, which had been black tie).

The doorbell rang at six-thirty. There she stood on the doorstep: a round, rosy woman holding an angel cake.

Elizabeth had seen him having lunch by himself and approached him one day. He spoke little, so she assumed he was kind; his beard and gold-framed glasses had something poetic about them. Surely he had marvelous things to say; it was simply a matter of finding the right listener.

Ted asked her in and steered her toward the sofa, putting the cake in the kitchen. There was something surreal about having a voice in the house. She was the first woman to occupy the couch since his wife left (declaring that Ted didn’t get her). Actually he and Arthur hadn’t received anyone in some years, not since the Super Bowl party Ted organized for the neighbors. He didn’t really like football, but saw the evening as a toast to the unshackled man. Anyway it had been pretty grim: one of them sang along during the national anthem; the other threw chips at the screen whenever a call went against them.

“I like your place,” she said vaguely.

“I found this table on the street one night,” Ted began with a shy smile.

“Oh, yeah?” Elizabeth said. “I saw a really nice bookcase on the street once, but it was too big to drag home.”

A bookcase? Was she deliberately avoiding the subject of Arthur, and if so, why?

He hoped she would comment on Arthur’s grace, on how supportive he was. Actually there were a hundred traits she could mention. His humility, his beauty; how helpful he was in serving the refreshments, how striking even in casual wear.

Not a word. She chatted with Ted as if the table weren’t in the room. Or at any rate attempted to do so. Alarmingly, there seemed to be nothing to say. He’d assumed she’d be so taken with Arthur that she would forget all about him, that they’d spend the evening singing his praises. Instead, she made a few bland comparisons between her sofa and his (his cushions had plenty of stuffing, which was what you wanted).

During their previous meetings, she’d carried the conversation; topics included the temperature of the office and the fate of the candy machine, which had recently disappeared. The exchanges were painless and brief, aided by the lack of intention (they could acknowledge each other or not; they’d be drinking coffee regardless).

What now, with an entire evening before them? They worked in different departments, and so didn’t know the same people; neither of their jobs was the sort of thing that might enliven a party. They discussed the shape of the pretzels but quickly exhausted the subject.

Elizabeth scanned the space for something to ask him about. It was a spartan room, devoid of objects to prompt conversation. There was no bookcase, no pictures in frames, not even a ship in a bottle. Just bare walls and an imposing TV (the only comment that came to mind, “If that fell, it would probably kill you!” seemed like the wrong thing to say).

Maybe there was something outside.

“What kind of a view do you have?” she asked, happy to change positions. As she walked toward the window, her foot struck Arthur’s leg with considerable force.

“Oh!” she cried, blushing and trying to shake off the pain. “I can’t believe I just did that! I didn’t even see it.”

Ted shared her disbelief; he rather felt as though he had been kicked himself. He wasn’t sure which was worse: the blow itself or the careless way in which she spoke of the victim. To be fair, he hadn’t introduced Arthur by name, but his energy and build were clearly masculine. More to the point, she’d referred to him as “it”, as if he were a can opener or the electric bill.

“I’m okay, though,” she said, sensing his alarm.

“Oh, good,” Ted said mechanically, staring into the distance. He shambled toward the window, not knowing what else to do. “You can see the driveway from here.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “That way you can keep an eye on your car.”

Ted stood dumbly beside her, trying to sort out what he had seen. Arthur didn’t appear to be injured, at least not physically. How could she crash into one of her hosts like that? She hadn’t seen him because she wasn’t looking; she wasn’t looking because she didn’t care. This lack of interest was astonishing to him: it was like ignoring a waterfall, or yawning at the sight of a comet.

A darker question presented itself: had the woman done it on purpose? Ted considered the facts: she entered the home, saw Arthur, and within minutes had savagely kicked him. He reflected on this as Elizabeth admired the mailbox. What reason could she have for attacking him, though? Ted watched her as she drifted back toward the sofa. Chances are, she’d spotted a rival and wanted him out of the way. Anyone could sense the depth of their friendship, the poignant connection between them. Kicking him toward the exit was her way of staking a claim, of making it clear that she had come to replace him.

He didn’t know what to believe. Best case scenario, she was a clumsy myopic; more probably, she wanted Arthur out of the picture. He had to err on the side of caution; Arthur was counting on him. The next accident might involve moving men or a blowtorch. He briefly considered calling the police, but thought better of it; he knew how backward the laws were regarding non-human welfare. Ted recalled his meeting with the insurance man. He’d hoped to designate Arthur as sole beneficiary, but the company wouldn’t allow it (for one thing, he couldn’t sign his name on the forms).

Even if he couldn’t prove malicious intent, something was wrong with her someplace. To meet Arthur and be indifferent to him; this he could not fathom. Anyone in their right mind would be enchanted by him, would adore him from the word go. Ted sighed. Even if she didn’t try to eliminate him, the two of them would never be close. She’d see him as a functional object, as part of the décor. Ted could see it now: her covering him with debris, using him as a footstool. Standing on him in order to kill a bug on the ceiling.

She retook her place on the sofa, a foot or two from the aggrieved. Surely she’d ask his forgiveness now that she’d had time to think. Instead, she crossed her legs and took a pretzel, motioned for Ted to sit down. How could she not stoop to examine him, try to comfort him somehow? The situation called for an outburst, but Ted chose to follow Arthur’s example. He’d borne the ordeal with his trademark stoicism; he sat holding the refreshments as if nothing had happened. Ted pulled himself together. He didn’t want to make a scene in front of Arthur, who had been through enough as it was. Calmly, he asked the assailant if she would care for more soda. (He’d poured the ginger ale into a pitcher to make it more uptown.) He was prepared to offer her a slice of lime, but the gesture seemed unwarranted now.

For Elizabeth, the blow had broken the ice. She’d found her way into a series of subjects expanding on the theme of the driveway. The gaiety wasn’t thawing him out much, though; if anything, he was quieter than before. He also looked rather dejected. Elizabeth wondered if he thought the collision had spoiled the date, that somehow he’d failed to create a horror-free evening for her. Associating him with a wound, she’d sever their connection and limp away to forget. It was touching that he was so worried about her. Yes, she’d been hurt on the premises, but it was nothing, and it wasn’t his fault. It was important to show that she was unharmed and having a wonderful time. She told the next story with greater joy.

“She does have a nice smile,” Ted thought, but quickly came to his senses. Beneath this cheery façade, she was shady and volatile, capable of heaven knows what. Her blue eyes settled upon him. He’d never know what was behind them even if they hiked a hundred mountains together. No way of knowing whether she thought him a fool, wished he were somebody else, stayed with him because he was (slightly) better than nothing. With Arthur he knew where he stood; there would be no revelations.

He took another sip of ginger ale. The uncertainty was making him nauseous. This was what came of getting close to someone. Somehow Ted had forgotten. The few bright moments (provided there were any) would cost him a great deal. She’d be forever leaning on him: demanding sympathy, thoughtful remarks, interest in a thousand petty adventures. Far more memory than he could ever muster (anecdotes, however ancient, would need to be remembered in full). He’d distanced himself from several friends for this reason. It was hard to keep up with the goings on in their lives, to carry their woes along with his own.

On the other hand, Arthur had no afflictions. He made no disconsolate speeches. His life was uneventful and therefore easy to follow: he spent the hours without Ted in solitary reflection, never leaving the room. (He had contemplated putting Arthur on wheels and rolling him through the park, but the idea hadn’t come to fruition.) In summary, things were easy: he got to choose every movie, could choose the tone and rhythm of life.

This person offered no such stability. She would be elusive; there would be competition, both for the woman and from her. Every move would require consensus: the style and timing of breakfast, the angle of the blinds in the kitchen. The ratio of neon lights to candles on every vacation they took. He envisioned a cycle of boredom and strife, the serenity of his evenings going down the tubes. Even if he could bear this, she’d find fault with him sooner or later, tell him to hit the trail. Since the split was inevitable, Ted thought, he might as well bring it forward.

He felt as though he were dreaming the scene. Who was this interloper denting his cushions, and what was she carrying on about? (She’d found refuge in an elaborate story involving a camping trip and someone who ate a safety pin by mistake). Accident or not, the audition had come to an end: trusting this character was clearly out of the question. Far from being a pleasant addition, she was an extraneous element, a troublemaker who threatened their union.

“Don’t you think?” he suddenly heard her say. Ted wasn’t sure. What was she talking about? The voice kept piercing his thoughts; she expected his input at regular intervals. This was tiresome in itself. He was used to Arthur’s conversational style—to his smooth, articulate silence. He was a world-class listener, too: he never got bored when Ted talked about media mergers or the War of 1812.

Having her over was a lousy idea in the first place. He didn’t need anyone else. Arthur was brother and son, best friend and congenial roommate. He did have his moods (he shined more when the sun was out, for instance), but on the whole was a steady and peaceful companion. Most importantly, his disappearance from Ted’s life was unlikely: immobile and fully devoted, Arthur would never desert him.

If the table could talk, he would confirm this. He’d declare that Ted was witty and brave, exceptionally handsome and wise in all situations. As it was, these thoughts emanated from him.

Theirs was an indissoluble bond, a love no amount of boorishness could diminish. Arthur loved him too much to expect basic decency, civility, or even personal hygiene from him. And herein lay the beauty of their relationship: Ted could set fire to his belongings, ignore him, push him onto the freeway, and Arthur would never think less of him. (He wasn’t a cruel or violent man, but someday he might want to become one, and he didn’t want anyone holding him back.)

With others, everything counted, and most of it counted against him. All of life a performance review, with every critic finding him lacking: he struggled on warily, one stumble from termination.

Suddenly, the noise stopped; she’d worn out one subject and couldn’t come up with another. Ted let the silence spread out, hoping it would unnerve her and make her go home.

“Why don’t we have some cake?” Elizabeth asked, eager for something to do. She was running out of whimsy; it was like trying to draw out a mime. The man was too shy even to look at her; unless she asked him a question, he kept his eyes on the table.

An angel cake. It was fitting, Ted thought; the moment had something posthumous in it. Weakly, he went through the motions, serving it and praising its sponginess. It was the finest cake on display at the grocery store, she explained at some length. There was a jelly roll that looked promising but was less impressive up close.

The interaction was strained, but Elizabeth understood. Hosting took a lot out of a solitary person, and they didn’t know each other that well yet. All things considered, she found his shyness endearing. It was just too soon for them to enjoy an evening alone.

“I should probably get going,” she said, rising from the sofa.

“I guess we do have to get up early,” Ted said, a touch too brightly.

They had the standard argument about the remains of the cake (he didn’t have the strength to produce a plastic container and insist that she take them). He walked her to the front door.

For some reason, Ted put out his hand (a move that said “The interview has concluded” or “See you next tax season”) and Elizabeth shook it. Things would get easier, she thought. She’d give him the time that he needed.

“Thanks for having me over,” she said. “I’m glad we got a chance to talk alone.”

This was the final straw. Alone! She addressed this pleasantry to him, with no thought to the injured party. Ted nodded coldly and closed the door. The lovely sound echoed throughout the house.

Depleted, relieved, he returned to the scene of the crime. Arthur sat patiently, showing no signs of distress (most likely, he was being brave for Ted’s sake). The sight of him holding the cake was too much.

What was the matter with him? How could he jeopardize what the two of them had? He didn’t know how to apologize, but happily there was no need. No explanation was called for. Arthur wouldn’t expect a grand display of contrition, or even a comforting word.

Needless to say, the coffee table wouldn’t reproach him. It would always be so: he forgave Ted in advance for transgressions he hadn’t yet dreamed of. He was incapable of judgement: in this his nobility lay.

“What a week,” Ted said, exhaling. In this, Arthur read relief and regret, celebration and sorrow. He radiated agreement.