Carly and her older sister,
Laurel, had been shopping
for couches all day. They
were in their fifth store,
Marta’s Place, and Carly
could smell incense burning
somewhere in the softly lit
showroom. She wasn’t sure
what the scent was, but she
thought it might be
patchouli. Whatever it was,
it was heavy, a scent that
she could feel in her nose
and on her skin. It made her
eyes itch; she wanted to run
outside for fresh air. The
furniture that surrounded
her made her feel the same
way. It was also heavy— big
overstuffed ottomans in
royal blue and deep purple
with gold tassels, strong
mahogany tables that could
seat ten. Carly felt lost
amid all this furniture
meant for families, meant
for more than one. Her
sister Laurel wasn’t
perturbed in the least.
Laurel and their saleswoman,
Melody, whose hair sprung
away from her head in wild
blonde curls, were deep in
conversation about the sofa
that stood before the three
of them.
It was a chipper red number
with a large button in the
center of each of the
pillows that made up its
backrest. “I just think
those buttons look
uncomfortable,” Laurel was
telling Melody. Carly
thought she should say
something, since they were
shopping for a couch for her
new apartment, but she
couldn’t think of anything
to add, the buttons did look
uncomfortable.
“Well, try it out honey.”
Melody was looking at Carly
now, gesturing towards the
sofa with an outstretched
palm. Carly thought she
looked like one of Barker’s
beauties from The Price
is Right. “Go on, make
yourself comfortable.”
Carly perched timidly on
the edge, not looking at the
sofa, but at Laurel, who
stood back and surveyed its
aesthetic with crossed arms
and pursed lips. In Laurel’s
world, the right furniture
could fix anything.
“You’re sure about red? Your
chair’s blue.”
Carly wasn’t sure about red.
She wasn’t sure about
anything. She was taking the
break-up hard, even a month
after moving her things out
of Ben’s two bedroom house
and working out a plan in
her head for thirty
sleepless nights in Laurel’s
guest room.
Carly realized that her
sister was looking at her,
expecting a response. This
couch wasn’t the one. Carly
sighed and said, “I guess
not. I do hate red, kind
of.” Laurel nodded her
approval and stalked off to
peruse the store one last
time with Melody.
It was easy for Laurel. Her
living room was perfect. The
deep turquoise walls were
not only au currant,
but matched the shape of the
room and the light that
filtered through the floor
to ceiling windows
perfectly. She’d searched
for months until she found
the sturdy fifties sofa that
she needed and then had the
sickly green upholstery
removed and replaced with a
deep chocolate brown that
complemented the bold color
of the walls. Over the past
month, Carly had stared in
awe at the way it all
magically came together and
wondered how her sister
could have imagined a room
that wasn’t there, then
executed it perfectly. She
was amazed at how the sofas
could hint at the past and
at the same time improve
upon it to make a room that
was uniquely,
unquestionably, her own.
Laurel’s condo was a
constant reminder of how
Carly had left the house
that she’d shared with Ben
for a year. It hadn’t been
an angry break-up, no
screaming, no accusations.
She’d rented a U-Haul; he’d
helped her load it. He had
barely broken a sweat
loading boxes of clothes,
books, a chair, and a
computer desk, the only
things in the house that had
belonged to her. When they
were done, the small truck
was only half full. He
pulled down the grate, and
Carly had pretended not to
watch the muscles of his
shoulders work underneath
his thin cotton tee shirt.
When Ben turned to her, he
wasn’t crying, but Laurel
thought his eyes looked a
little damp and wondered if
hers did too. He hugged her
quickly but not
perfunctorily, putting his
arms completely around her
and pulling her into his
chest just for a second, but
long enough. When they broke
apart, she couldn’t look him
in the eye; instead, she
looked at the grass by his
sneaker and bit the inside
of her mouth. She would not
cry. That would not be the
last thing he saw her do.
When she met his eyes again,
he opened his mouth to
speak, then closed it. Carly
thought that he would ask
her to stay. She had a
speech prepared. She was
going to tell him that they
needed space, that he needed
time to decide what he
wanted from her, what he was
willing to give. But as she
looked at the freckle on his
right cheek, the one she
loved, she wondered if her
resolve would hold.
“I’ll call you, okay?”
“Sure,” she’d said in a
voice that she couldn’t
believe was so level. She
prayed that her expression
didn’t betray what she’d
been expecting.
He had called, two weeks
later. They’d had a strained
twenty minute conversation
about work and mutual
friends while Carly waited
for their talk to deepen
into a breakdown of what had
gone wrong, but it never
did. Just before they’d hung
up, Ben had said, “I really
hope we can keep in touch.”
Carly had said she hoped so
too, but he hadn’t called
again, and she wasn’t sure
if she should. Laurel had
asked her a dozen times
about the breakup, but all
she could say was, “It just
wasn’t working.”
Carly dug her palms into her
eyes and leaned back against
the rejected red sofa. One
of the big red buttons
jabbed her mid-spine, and
she jolted upright again.
She twisted around to look
for Laurel, but a king sized
bed to her right caught her
eye instead. It was
beautiful. Investment
furniture, as Laurel would
have called it, with massive
deep brown posts. The
bedspread was the same crisp
blue that Carly would have
chosen, and propped up
against its polished
headboard were pillows of a
complementary blue. The bed
looked neither masculine nor
feminine, perfect for the
couple that would sleep in
it. She couldn’t help
thinking of the ratty full
bed with no headboard her
mother was giving her for
the one bedroom apartment
she would be moving into in
a week. A full bed only held
one. The spread could be as
girly as she wanted, pink
and flowery, but the thought
of a new comforter only made
Carly sigh. One more thing
she’d have to pick out,
either alone or with
Laurel’s vigilant help.
She didn’t want to choose a
couch today. The different
shapes and fabrics, the
pushy furniture dealers who
wanted to explain how
antique pieces had a past
and how new pieces could
stand the test of time. She
stood and turned completely
around to find her sister at
the back of the store, near
the cash register. Laurel
was speaking to Melody
authoritatively, gesturing
with both French manicured
hands, and Carly wondered
what she was saying because
Melody was nodding, clearly
hearing every word, as if
her sister were quoting
scripture. Laurel shook
Melody’s hand, took her
card, and walked back to
where Carly stood looking
one last time at yet another
wrong sofa.
“Laurel, I’m tired. I want
to eat lunch and go back to
your house.”
Laurel smiled and said, “Uh
huh, just one more place,”
as if she were agreeing with
what Carly had just said. It
was too much, the way Laurel
pretended to listen, and
Carly thought of storming
off, slamming through the
double doors of Marta’s, and
waiting by Laurel’s SUV with
crossed arms and a scowl as
her sister took her time
meandering out of the store.
Carly realized that she
wasn’t being fair, that
Laurel was only trying to
help, but she had felt a
bone weariness for weeks
now, teaching her third
grade class without hearing
herself and spending her
nights ignoring Laurel’s
pleas to go out, lying on
her sister’s perfect sofa
watching celebrity dating
shows on Vh1. Laurel was
right. They needed to keep
shopping; she needed to move
on, but still, she was just
so tired.
“Can we please just have
lunch first, Laurel?”
“Sure.” Laurel parted her
glossy lips again in that
indulgent smile. Carly
smiled back weakly, and the
sisters exited yet another
store.
In the car, Laurel ejected
Carly’s Mazzy Star CD and
put in some upbeat indie
rock Carly had never heard.
“Enough of the sad stuff,
kay?” The two were silent as
Laurel drove up Kirby. She
hadn’t asked what Carly
wanted to eat; she would
simply take them to “some
great new place that just
opened” where Carly would
order a salad with grilled
chicken and bleu cheese
dressing, her old standby.
“So this next store we’re
going to, it’s nothing
fancy. It’s in the Heights
by my condo, some old mom
and pop shop that’s having a
going out of business sale.
I thought maybe you could
just get something cheap and
basic while we figure out
what we’re going to do with
your space.” Carly stared
out the window at the
passing book stores, trendy
dress shops, and strip
malls. She hated how her
sister said “your space;”
she sounded like she was at
work in the gallery. She
thought of her space: tiny
white walled living room,
tiny white walled kitchen,
little blue tiled bathroom,
bedroom big enough only for
her creaky full bed. The
entire apartment had the
feel of a tiny white
sheetrocked coffin. “Stop it
Carly,” she told herself.
The new apartment was fine,
plenty big enough for her to
live alone and close enough
to Laurel so that she
wouldn’t be lonely.
Still, it was nothing
compared to the suburban
cottage-style house she had
shared with Ben with its
warm, tofu colored walls.
Ben’s couch had been lovely,
the brown leather buttery
soft. They used to lie on
that couch together, head to
feet, Ben reading a spy
novel, Carly looking at
magazines, reading articles
with titles like “Will He
Commit? Nine Ways to Tell.”
The articles hadn’t
helped; they’d only
convinced her that Ben was,
in fact, ready to commit.
She was so stupid. Carly
realized Laurel was
speaking, but didn’t quite
catch the words.
“What?”
“The shrimp and corn bisque
at Valentine’s, where we’re
having lunch, is amazing.
You’ve got to try it.”
“Oh. Uh-huh.”
Laurel swung into a spot in
front of an obviously new
restaurant. The awning was
pink and black striped with
Valentine’s scrawled across
in elegant cursive.
Valentine’s indeed, Carly
thought. It looked like the
holiday had thrown up all
over the place. The daily
specials were written on the
window in hot pink bubble
letters, unmistakably the
handwriting of a peppy
college girl.
Inside, they ordered at the
counter, deli style. Laurel,
true to her word, ordered
the shrimp and corn bisque
along with a complicated
sounding turkey and sprout
sandwich.
“I’ll have the grilled
chicken salad with bleu
cheese dressing,” Carly
said.
“Come on Carly, at least try
the soup. I’ll buy you a
cupcake if you hate it.”
“And a cup of the bisque.”
Laurel whipped her AmEx card
out of her chic black wallet
and handed it to the cashier
before Carly could even
unzip her purse. She handed
Carly a glass and some
silverware wrapped in a
cloth napkin and smiled. “My
treat. You’ve got a couch to
buy.”
As she watched her sister
fill a glass with iced tea
and add precisely half a
packet of Sweet and Low,
Carly felt an almost
grudging love for her
efficiency, her purposeful
movements. Laurel was tall,
statuesque, and beautiful in
an offhanded way, as if it
didn’t matter. She was
unmarried and unworried. She
dated older men who wore
turtlenecks and blazers, men
named Thad who inevitably
taught history in some
college somewhere and
actually got off on
discussing Pollock.
Carly filled her glass with
Dr. Pepper, accidentally
sloshing some on the sleeve
of her white sweater and
muttered “Damn” underneath
her breath as she followed
Laurel to a black leather
booth near the window.
When they sat down, Laurel
looked out at the parking
lot for a few minutes,
tapping a fingernail against
her glossy lip. Carly
uncrossed, then recrossed
her legs, antsy at this
lull. Laurel was rarely
silent, and Carly wondered
what she was about to say.
But when Laurel looked at
her, it wasn’t with her
bossy couch-picking eyes;
she looked a little shy as
she began to absentmindedly
wrap her napkin around her
index finger while she
spoke. “I’ve enjoyed having
you with me the last month.
I just want you to know
that. When I went to college
in Colorado, you were still
a little girl, then you were
in Austin when I came back.
I guess I’m just saying it’s
nice to know you as an
adult. I’m proud of you for
really trying to do it on
your own for once.”
And then Carly felt her ears
start to burn; her eyes felt
hot. She wasn’t sure if she
was embarrassed or angry. A
little of both, maybe. She
unwrapped her silverware and
gently ran her finger along
the edge of her butter knife
as she spoke. “It’s not like
I have much of a choice, do
I? Anyway, I was on my
own when I was with Ben,
too. It’s not like I was
living with Mom and Dad.”
“No, you were with Ben.”
Laurel said this quietly as
she stopped twirling her
napkin and carefully folded
it.
It was true. Carly had never
lived alone. She lived with
a roommate for four years at
UT Austin, then with her
parents in Clearlake while
she did her masters at U of
H. But when she imagined the
house in Katy twenty minutes
outside the city that she’d
shared with Ben, she still
thought of it as theirs. She
thought of the ivy that
curled around the top of the
doorway, the house number,
315, in white tile above the
doorbell. It had felt like
something they’d shared. Not
“on her own” as Laurel
imagined, but “on their
own,” a team, in a way that
had felt right, at least to
Carly. She would never
vocalize any of this to
Laurel; it sounded pathetic
even to her, and she was
relieved when the food came.
She no longer felt hungry,
but she plunged her spoon
into the bisque as if she
were ravenous to avoid her
sister’s words, still
hovering noxiously around
her.
The soup felt about a
million degrees, and Carly
could feel the roof of her
mouth singe as a molten
shrimp burned a path down
her tongue. She held it in
her mouth for a moment
weighing embarrassment
against pain before she
chose the former and spit
the soup back into the cup
as inconspicuously as
possible, then sucked cool
Dr. Pepper through her
straw.
“Well, blow on it first,
silly.” Laurel looked amused
as she took a prim bite of
her sandwich, like Carly’s
burned mouth had proved her
point precisely.
As they left the restaurant,
Laurel made good on her
cupcake offer, and Carly
selected a yellow cupcake
with chocolate frosting that
reminded her of childhood
birthday parties with
balloons and paper hats and
no worries. In the car she
took careful bites, just
nibbles around the edges,
trying to hold on to some
sugary pain-free memories
before the next furniture
store brought her back to
the thought of a tiny bright
white apartment.
The store was a chunk of
nondescript concrete with
the name Eloff’s in red
block letters above the
front doors. It was a relic
of another time, a time
before Houston’s Heights had
become a mecca for young up
and comers who wanted a
condo near downtown and a
Starbucks on every corner.
The neighborhood had become
a strange mix of abandoned
looking working class
bungalows with condos that
looked so new they virtually
shimmered in the late
afternoon sun. Carly felt
the same pang of amused
sadness at seeing the store
wedged next to a bright
yellow building with a
cheerful sign that read
“Nan’s Doggie Day Spa” that
she did when she tried to
explain to her grandmother
how an iPod worked. Somehow
Carly preferred the raw
concrete to the facades of
its neighbors. Eloff’s was
the only building on the
block that looked natural;
the rest looked as if Laurel
and her contemporaries had
dragged them behind Land
Rovers from a better
neighborhood.
The inside of the building
matched the outside
perfectly; it was leftover
from a time when merchandise
wasn’t so dressed up. Carly
thought the walls must have
been white a few decades
ago, but now they were just
the decrepit no color that
comes with age and neglect.
The overhead lights were
fluorescent, so the
furniture around her looked
harsh, too bright.
“God, this place,” said
Laurel, crinkling her nose
as if the place were filled
with rotten eggs instead of
sturdy, no frills furniture.
“Well, I guess since we’re
here, we might as well have
a look around.” She walked
toward a cluster of leather
sofas without making any
indication that Carly should
follow, so she didn’t.
Laurel would find her if she
found a couch she thought
suitable for Carly, although
Carly thought it unlikely
that they would stay in this
store longer than ten
minutes.
She stood awkwardly for a
few seconds and thought of
her half-eaten cupcake,
wrapped carefully in its wax
paper bag on the floorboard
of the car; she wished she
were back at Laurel’s lying
on the sofa, unwrapping that
cupcake and watching
Wheel of Fortune.
She tried to lean casually
against the back of a nearby
chair, but it turned out to
be a recliner, and she
nearly tripped as the
backrest gave way under the
weight of her elbow. When
she recovered, she gave a
furtive little glance around
to make sure no one had
seen, then retreated quickly
to the back of the store to
pantomime interest in junk
she didn’t want until her
sister found her.
In the farthest corner, she
pretended to study the
fabric of a particularly
worse for wear black sofa.
It was god awful, a faux
suede that had been out of
style for years. The edges
of its pillows looked a
little dingy, and she
noticed that its feet were
starting to fray. She hated
to agree with her sister,
but Carly could understand
Eloff’s drop in clientele.
“That couch has been here
nearly six years.”
Carly jumped at the sound of
a raspy voice, and she
turned to see an old man in
a brown corduroy suit had
sat down in the sofa’s
matching chair. “No one’s
even looked at it in two. I
knew it was a dog when I
brought it in, but I thought
‘Hey put it on sale,
someone’s bound to take it
home.’” The man paused and
fidgeted with his wide red
tie. “I’m Gene Eloff, by the
way. This is my place.” The
man stood up and extended a
yellowish, liver spot
covered hand to Carly.
Judging by the deep wrinkles
that had worn tracks in his
face, she decided he had to
be at least eighty. He
looked as tired as she felt,
with purplish bags
underneath his eyes, and
Carly thought he looked like
the ghost of Willy Loman.
“Carly.” She smiled and
quickly looked away. She was
at a loss for what to say;
she couldn’t comfort him.
This was a horrible sofa.
She looked for Laurel, and
saw her leaning over a bland
beige loveseat; she had
pulled a tape measure from
her purse and a pockmarked
salesclerk was holding the
end as she frowned over the
dimensions. Carly wanted no
part of that beige loveseat,
so she sat timidly on the
black couch, on the end
farthest from Mr. Eloff. He
sighed loudly, leaned back
in the chair and closed his
eyes.
“You ever had a day that
dragged on forever?” he
asked.
“Yeah, this one.”
Mr. Eloff let out a laugh
that sounded too robust for
such a frail body, but his
age caught up with him as
the laugher turned to a
shallow, dusty cough. “Been
shopping for furniture all
day?”
“Yeah.”
“Try doing it for fifty
years.”
Now it was Carly’s turn to
laugh. They were quiet for a
few moments after that, and
Carly wondered for about the
thousandth time since she
drove that U-Haul away what
she would be doing in fifty
years, in ten years, next
year. Two months ago she’d
thought she knew. Mr. Eloff
spoke again; Carly jumped
again. “My oldest son passed
a few years ago. My youngest
son’s a podiatrist. The
grandkids are in dental
school and business school—
hell, one’s in art school.
No one wants this place.
Just as well, neighborhood’s
changed.” Eloff looked
around the store, his eyes
moving slowly from corner to
corner, taking in every
futon, every outdated
dinette set, each unwanted
bed. He looked lost, mildly
surprised, as if he were
seeing the place for the
first and last time
simultaneously.
“How much for this sofa?”
The words just slipped out.
Carly wanted to cheer the
old man, act interested in
the furniture that no one
wanted, but as she said it,
she realized that she could
simply buy this sofa and be
done with this whole
horrible day.
“What?” Mr. Eloff was
looking at her, mouth
hanging open slightly. “ No,
you don’t want this.” He
gestured dismissively toward
the sofa. “I’ll get someone
to show you others, nice
ones.” He started to stand,
a complicated procedure
which involved him using
both his arms and legs to
propel his old body from the
low chair.
“No. This one.” Carly had
locked eyes with the old man
and wore what she hoped was
a serious consumer face, one
that said she was capable of
talking business.
He lowered himself back into
the chair with a plop and
sat Buddha still for a
moment. Carly thought he was
probably calculating the
largest number he could say
without having her laugh in
his face. Finally, Eloff
smiled, revealing a row of
teeth so even they had to be
fake. “Oh, I guess...” Then
he stopped and studied her a
little more closely. “What
do you want with this old
thing anyway? Pretty girl
like you should have nice
things.”
“I told my boyfriend I
wanted to marry him, and he
said no. I had to move out.”
She wasn’t expecting to tell
the truth, but there it was.
At least she’d said it. The
sentence she’d been
repeating to herself over
and over for the past
thirty-one days but had
spoken to no one. Not even
Laurel. With the words, the
shame was gone, the utter
humiliation she’d felt since
a month ago, when instead of
saying “Fantastic” or even
“I’ll think about it,” Ben
had said, “I don’t want that
Carly.” She had been on a
different sofa that day, not
this cheap feeling black
thing, but Ben’s soft
overstuffed couch. A piece
of furniture that, in her
memory, still felt like
home. She had looked away
from Ben and picked at the
fingernail polish on her
left thumbnail, completely
unsure of what could
possibly come next. Carly
had never imagined that the
answer would be no. She
remembered looking back at
Ben after what seemed like a
lifetime had passed between
them. He was still in his
charcoal grey work suit;
they’d had reservations at
eight. He had still looked
to her like a man who wanted
to get married: early
thirties, professional, a
homeowner.
“Do you just need more
time?” she asked.
“No. I don’t need more
time.” And what she’d seen
on his face shamed her. That
look had been with her for a
month now, even as she spent
every waking second trying
to forget it. It was pity.
Instead of loving her, he’d
pitied her. He had taken
Carly’s hand in his, that
way he did, that way she
loved, and said gently, “I
don’t want that.” With
you. Carly had inferred
this last part, but it was
unquestionably there. He
hadn’t wanted to get married
to her. At that exact
moment, Carly began to lie
to herself, tell herself
that she didn’t want to beg
him to let her stay and just
continue as if she’d never
said anything. To ask him to
just let her live in the
hope she’d had before their
conversation. She wasn’t
supposed to want that. It
was pathetic to want that.
But her unexpected
confession to Mr. Eloff had
started a chain reaction of
honesty. “I’d go back if he
asked me. I’d still go
back,” she thought.
She didn’t realize that she
had been crying until she
put a hand to her cheek and
it came back damp. She
quickly wiped the moisture
from her face and looked to
Mr. Eloff, certain that she
would find him horrified at
the crazy lady weeping on
his ugliest piece of
furniture, but he wasn’t
even looking at her. Instead
he was staring at what was
left of his store, at the
customers browsing through
what had been his life,
looking for a deal. He
nodded his withered head
once to indicate that he
understood everything Carly
hadn’t said.
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Yes sir.”
Just then Laurel appeared,
her heels clicking briskly
on the tile floor; she was
clutching her purse to her
side and wore an impatient
expression that said it was
time to go. She threw a
cursory smile toward Mr.
Eloff without even looking
at him, just a quick flick
of the upper corners of her
mouth.
“What are you doing all the
way back here? Come on.”
“I’m buying this couch.” Her
sister slowly looked at the
couch from armrest to
armrest, then barked a short
little burst of humorless
laughter.
“Quit being silly. Let’s
go.”
“No, I’m buying this one.”
Carly dug around in her
purse and retrieved her
debit card from its pocket
in her wallet. “Mr. Eloff,
can you ring this up for
me?”
“Sure thing.”
The old man pulled himself
out of the chair and took
the card. Laurel looked at
him suspiciously as if he’d
somehow hypnotized her
sister into making such a
bad decision. When he was
out of earshot, Laurel sat
close to Carly and took her
hand as she whispered, “I
know you’re tired, but you
can’t just buy a couch
because you want to go
home.” Laurel’s face was
sympathetic, but it wasn’t
sympathy Carly wanted. What
she wanted was for her
sister to shut up. To just
be quiet and understand.
“Yeah, Laurel, I can. I’m
buying this one.” Carly
stood up to follow Mr. Eloff
to the register, but her
sister remained in place,
wearing an expression of
hurt confusion. Carly
recognized the expression as
a milder version of the one
she’d worn a month ago.
She’d hurt Laurel, but just
then, she didn’t care. Carly
was hurting too, and no
piece of furniture could fix
it.
Liquidation by
Emily Alford