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The Empty Chair by joseph j duome
Friday, June 10, 2005
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
The opoignant tale of a household with an empty chair that once held the figure of a man, the father of two and the husband of a wife, ever loving...all the residual of 9/11
joseph j duome words: 1,509
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THE EMPTY CHAIR
by joseph j duome
It was a stark reminder…the empty chair.
I stared at the emptiness of the solid oak, wide bottomed armchair. It belonged to Mike, the big doofus of the family. Our guy. A big man, huge shouldered and a solid 6’3”. 280 pounds. It was as if the chair had been custom made for him.
He gave a loud guffaw when he first looked down at the chair, a gift from his girls and me, Carrie Royce, his spouse of 22 years.
“You guys must have taken all my measurements before you went out and bought this beautiful chair,” he said with a big laugh and a stroke of his grayish, trim cut beard. He leaned down and ran a mammoth hand across the gleaming seat.
“Well, sit it in it, Dad” Emma, the youngest, urged.
“Now!” shouted Pam, our eldest.
“O.K…. O.K…”he said, as he allowed his behemoth-like body to descend slowly
into the new chair.
“Wow…man o man…this is one comfortable seat for my….”
“For your what?” I chided threateningly. He wouldn’t dare finish the sentence.
It gave me joy. The girls would be happy now to see our “chairman”, the inveterate joke master in the days and years ahead seated comfortably at the table when we supped or snacked…or just chewed the fat, the four of us, a family. It was a perfect fit for Mike’s forty third birthday.
But that all changed, suddenly, dramatically on Tuesday, September 11th, almost eons ago in 2001. .
It was a day like any other. Emma and Pam were off and running. The younger to her senior class at St. Bridget’s High School and the older one to her new job in our Long Island hometown as a computer designer. Mike was decked out in his slate blue suit, one I loved seeing him wear. Somehow it made him seem slimmer; but I didn’t care. I loved every inch of that man.
“I’ll give you a call as soon as I get to my office, hon” he exclaimed. “Got some potential clients coming in from Tokyo today. Looks good.” And he was off to his office in New York City on the 99th floor of the World Trade Center. Mike, systems administrator with Struck & Starring Associates was considered the spark plug, a “rain man”.
Born and bred In New York, Mike adored the Big Apple. He loved everything about it: the crowded, too often smelly and dirty subways; the brashness of waiters and waitresses; the smart alecky cab drivers; the tough cop on the beat; the "take no prisoners” Mayor Giuliani; the ever losing New York Jets who never had a home of their own and his beloved Yankees; he ate it all up and was, in fact, an integral part of the gotham mosaic.
I busied myself early that morning, looking forward to our upcoming three-day weekend at the Bally in Atlantic City. Just the two of us. It was our escape, our way of getting him to relax with the slots and some great gourmet dining. Pam and Emma would “baby sit” the house while we “sneaked” off.
It was about nine o’clock when the phone rang. There was nothing ominous about its ring. No, although a bit surprised at the time. Who would be calling at this early hour?
It was Mike. Although he tried to conceal it, the timbre of his voice told me, told my gut that something was wrong. There was. Something mighty wrong.
I heard loud noises in the background. Frightened now, I cried: “What’s wrong, Mike...what’s happening…?”
His words came over the phone louder this time. Unmistakably, there was fear in his voice. “What?” I cried out again.
“I can’t talk now, sweetheart…. we’ve gotta get out of here…the build-…the building. An explosion. Gotta get my people out. There’s smoke and fire all around us” He coughed and chokingly muttered:”Sweetheart I love you…I love you…and Pam and Emma…I’ll always love you…” Now, strangely, his voice came through loud and strong: “You three are God’s gift to me, don’t ever forget that…all our precious moments from Him. Stay close to Him…and I will always be there with you…always…”
And then abruptly his words were cut off and no one there. I gripped the phone and screamed into the mouthpiece: “Mike! Mike!” No use; it was only the dizzying sound of dead air.
Numb and dazed, I dangled the voiceless phone in my hand. Tears began to well in my eyes. What had happened? What? Emotionally drained, my insides twisted, I placed the phone into the cradle and stared down at it. Suddenly the phone rang again. It was Pam.
“Mom…Mom,”she screamed, “have you seen what’s happening in New York…at the World Trade Center? Two planes crashed into the twin towers and the buildings are all on fire…people are leaping out of windows!”
She was hysterical; crying. “How…how is Daddy?…Is he…? Have you heard from him..? Turn on the TV right away!”
I switched on the set and immediately the image of the 110 story twin towers burning in fiery profusion, glass and concrete crumbling in thick shards was visible. People, like minute frightened ants covered with blackened ash, were scurrying from the carnage as huge billowing clouds of scalding smoke snaked behind them. I wanted to scream, to cry out, but the words wouldn’t come. I saw only pictures of my Mike in his office, as the buildings continued to enflame anew and were ready to fall. Prayers instinctively came to my lips, but somehow I knew I might never, ever see him again, my gorgeous gentle giant.
Day after day…. week after week later…we three trekked to Ground Zero, praying and hoping that Mike would emerge from the debris, dust himself off and smile, a typical broad Michael Royce smile.
It was painful not knowing, as the hours of each day slipped away ever so slowly. Ground Zero, a saturnalia of blood, a grisly massive graveyard, was an image we brought home with us every day. Still no word of him. Heroic fire fighters, police and volunteers worked tirelessly around the clock to rescue and retrieve bodies from the twisted iron and concrete wreckage. The girls and I never stopped inquiring, never stopped hoping and praying. The suffocating fiery tomb of hundreds never gave us the answer we sought. Where was our man?
The lyrics of an old song came to mind and stuck in my throat
“…I don’t want to walk without you…not without my arms around
you…
“…why…oh why did you shut out all the sunshine….”
Big Mike had indeed been our sunshine.
“Why did God do this?” Emma asked one day, as we sat at the dinner table, our eyes focused on the empty chair, Mike’s chair.
One searches for answers but seems to get none. We felt our prayers were not being answered; that God had forsaken us. But then we received our answer one evening as we toyed with our food, our spirits dimmed, our hopes frayed. Pam had gone to the phone and lifted the ID receiver on the message machine.
“Is this the last time you heard Daddy, Mom?”
I nodded.
“May I?” she asked.
“May you, what?” I asked
“I’d like to hear Dad’s voice once more….may I?”
I had forgotten that the last message was still on the ID. .”Of course, darling…of course…” I didn’t know just how I would react to hearing Mike’s voice again. I grasped the arms of my chair and listened…once again to Mike’s last words as they spilled out. The tears flowed freely as each word pounded on our hearts.”I love you…He’ll never let you down…stay close to Him and I’ll always be there with you…”
When Mike’s jarring message ended we looked at each other, our eyes moist and small smiles evident. We reached for each other in one enveloping hug.
“That’s God’s answer, “ I said, finally with a grin, “leave it to your dad to get it to us…”
Three months later we learned that the remains of my husband—my friend, my lover—had been recovered and identified. We held a simple memorial service for Mike and each week the girls and I visit his grave with fresh flowers.
However, it’s not the gravestone, which bears his name that reminds us of his great love for us; his wit, his laughter, the precious moments he always brought to us. . No. It’s the chair that sits silently at our table holding his Purple Heart and dog tags from Nam. One day we will move Mike’s hallowed chair to another place in our home. Right now he is still with us at the head of the table, the spirit of his presence, the chair, no longer empty…
”…a call to God is a call to hold those who died in our arms and forever revere them, their spirit, their love….”
-30-
A powerful write, very heartwrenching, very well written
God Bless
Michelle~
Reviewed by April Smith
6/10/2005
That was a tear-jerker. My father passed away of cancer three years ago and reading your story, I felt that you totally captured that essence of a great father and husband,that "man of the house and home" feeling that so many great men possess. Great job and thank you for sharing, April
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