"The Guest Room" by Sarah Selecky

James wrote that he might visit this summer. Or sometime before Thanksgiving, at least. She kept his card in the box with the others. It will be so nice to see James! And his wife, of course. Frances has to get the house ready. She needs to buy new towels, new sheets. A better bed for the guest room.

Frances drives to Harold’s shop, which is the garage behind his house. Occasionally, Harold props up a plywood sign that says OPEN. There are other antique stores, with consistent hours and appealing customer service, but their furniture is too expensive. Everyone knows Harold: he’s a curmudgeon, but he’s honest. Frances has been driving by every day for a month now, looking for his sign. And there it is.

Harold sits on a lawn chair, wearing an ancient pair of jeans and a plaid shirt washed down to the grey of tree bark. He’s sucking on the corner of a square of chocolate. When Frances walks over, he nods.

Sweet tooth, she says.

Nah, he says. It’s for baking. Good for your tongue.

I’ve never heard that before.

He smiles. I can make one piece last all day.

A good bed frame is leaning against a wall. It looks heavy, made of cast iron and brass. Frances stretches her tape measure across the headboard to make sure it will fit properly in the guest room. It looks like it could be a hundred years old, but it’s in excellent condition. Frances and James slept together in a bed like this once. Thirty years ago.

I want to buy the bed frame, Frances says to Harold. How much?

Bed’s not for sale.

Frances releases the tape measure and lets it thwack into its metal case.

What do you want for it? she asks.

There is nothing you can give me, he says.

Two hundred.

Harold shakes his head.

She touches the frame again. The brass has a nice patina: it’s not yellowy, like new brass. The wife would want to polish it. James would have to explain to her why it is beautiful the way it is. The metal warms under Frances’s palm.

You forget about that bed, Harold says. You don’t need it.

Frances turns around. Harold has a wide mouth, round gray eyes like a sturgeon, and a nose like a lemon reamer. His breath smells like cheap chocolate.

You don’t know what I need, she says.

Harold picks up a round tin from the ground beside him and lifts the lid. It’s full of screws, nails, hooks, and unidentifiable bits of metal.

An old friend is coming, Frances says. Not that it’s your business.

Harold dips his finger and thumb into the tin. It takes him a long time to pinch out what he’s looking for. The metal pieces scramble against the sides as his fingers root around.

I’m fixing up the guest room, she says. For him and his wife.

He holds up a nail, squints at it. Okay, Frances, he says. I’ll take your two hundred. But you don’t need that bed and you know it.

Harold helps Frances lift the iron bed frame into her hatchback. It takes one trip for the headboard and one for the footboard. Her car slumps under the weight. He tucks her cash into his pocket and walks back to his chair.

Frances drives back to her empty house. There is nobody to help her lift the bed frame out of her car and bring it upstairs. There is nobody to help her find the proper bolts to put it all together. Fine: she’ll just leave the pieces out here for now. She slams the car door. Harold is just lonely. He’s just a lonely old man. 



Sarah Selecky's debut collection, This Cake Is for the Party, was a finalist for the 2010 Scotiabank Giller Prize, shortlisted for the Commonwealth Prize for Best First Book, and longlisted for the Frank O'Connor Short Story Award. She is also the creator of the groundbreaking digital writing retreat, Story Is a State of Mind.