by C. S Luis
It was emotionally overwhelming, a beautiful eulogy but draining as I sat there, and I couldn’t help but weep and get filled with guilt as the words of his speech left his lips. Why had I turned him away? Why hadn’t I listened to him when he tried to talk to me? Why did I have to be so stubborn? Some said I had the stubbornness of my father and the looks of my mother.
The ceremony ended with a drive to the burial at the cemetery. A few now joined the remaining from the church: close friends and family were those among the crowds, those lingering around the casket as it sat surrounded by flowers and flower reefs.
I sat by Mr. McClellan as the priest read from the black book and said a few words; tears were shed, but I had no more to give. I already wanted it to end.
Mr. McClellan put a hand on my shoulder as the casket began to descend into the ground, and then, I suddenly lost myself and grabbed hold of Mr. McClellan and held him. I was alone, alone once again. First my parents had left me, and now my grandfather had gone too.
We returned to my grandfather’s house after the funeral. The ride home was a quiet one even after we came to the doorsteps of the humble home of my grandfather’s porch. There were few words said between us, if any at all. And even when we stood at the entrance and I thought Mr. McClellan would say something, I didn’t give him a chance and rushed up the stairs. I thought he would come after me, but he didn’t; he remained rooted at the bottom of the staircase, looking towards me as I slammed the bedroom door.
I collapsed, looking about at the traditional furniture. How I’d hated the style when I’d first come to live with him. And now, I regarded everything I had ever said or thought about him and his home. I wanted nothing to change. I grabbed at the posters I had hung on my wall and ripped them down. I took out the jewelry box that was on the dresser before I hid it in the table near the bed and set it on the table again where it belonged.
I sat on the bed and opened the drawer beside the bed to take out the picture of my parents and me. It was the last picture I would ever have of them with me. I dropped onto the bed near the very edge, holding the picture and then setting it on the table beside me where I could admire it. I now sobbed and sobbed.
I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, I noticed the scattered posters on the floor and the picture of my parents and I set where I left it. I rose and sat up on the bed.
The house was fairly silent and almost scary. Immediately I wondered if Mr. McClellan had left me alone and what, if anything, would happen to my grandfather’s house now. I hadn’t given that much thought, but it concerned me. I wanted nothing to happen to it. Was there a chance I could say something? Was this place to be mine now? If so, I wouldn’t let anything happen to it. I would make sure of that.
I walked to my bedroom door and tried to listen outside for any sounds, but I could hear nothing. Slowly, I opened the door and quietly peeked out, but I could see nothing of the first floor of the house even though the staircase was very close to my bedroom. The door to my grandfather’s bedroom was ajar, and I tried not to look inside as I came out. I closed the door without looking inside the room.
I came to the foot of the staircase and looked down and slowly made my way down the steps, but a few steps betrayed me when my weight descended upon the old wood.
Then, I heard Mr. McClellan; he was in the kitchen on the phone, and he seemed to be discussing arrangements for a moving truck. I guess we would be moving, but I couldn’t let him sell my grandfather’s house.
And when he hung up, I rushed into the kitchen.
“You can’t sell my grandfather’s house. I won’t let you,” I told him.
He looked surprised to see me.
“This is all I have left from him. You can’t sell it!” I angrily shouted.
He shook his head at me. The pots hanging above the kitchen counter began to rattle and suddenly, a few dropped and darted across the kitchen. Mr. McClellan grabbed hold of my shoulders and got my attention.
“Claudia!” He yelled. “Listen,” he said nervously as I gazed up at him; the tears were already racing down my furious eyes as I bit my lip. I pinched it hard and felt a throbbing pain at the side of my mouth and knew I had cut it.
“Listen to me! I’m not selling your grandfather’s house,” he immediately said. The anger eased in me as I now looked up at him, but I couldn’t stop the tears that were already coming down from my eyes.
“I would never do that. Neil left this place for you. This house is yours. It’s what he wanted,” he tried to say.
“Then why did you call for a moving truck? Why are we moving? Why are we leaving?”
He looked troubled, and then I realized. I wasn’t moving out –he was moving in.
“You’re the one moving,” I softly stated, gazing up at him.
He nodded. “I thought it would be easier that way. This is your home, and it’s the right thing to do,” he softly added; there was awkward silence between us as he walked out of the kitchen and into the foyer. He then turned to me, taking his keys from the table by the door.
“I’m expecting the movers at my apartment in a few minutes,” he began.
But before he could continue, I interrupted and said, “Can I just stay here? I’d rather not go anywhere.”
He didn’t say anything at first and fell silent, but it appeared he restrained himself from objection. There was a need to please and be accepted by me, by any means possible. He nodded simply, walked to the door and opened it. He stood there at the entrance.
“I won’t be gone long. Keep the door locked,” he said. He tried to be firm, but he reminded me of a gentle bunny.
“I have my phone on me. If you need me, please call me,” he again said, and with that, he walked out the door leaving me alone in my grandfather’s old house. I almost regretted staying behind when I looked about the house.
I ran up the stairs and into my bedroom, dropping to the bed once again. I just wanted it to end. I wanted to think of something else, but the pain inside of me wouldn’t allow it. The guilt, if nothing else, was eating me alive.
You feel guilty because you didn’t listen to him, my inner voice told me. Because you ignored him, you feel guilt, and now he’s gone forever.
I was exhausted but the tears wouldn’t stop, even after I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else. But even in my dreams, I only saw my grandfather. He was standing there in his office. One moment he was smiling, and the next he was falling to the floor, grabbing at his heart as he did, and as his body lie on the ground, a crystal rolled out of the palm of his hand and onto the ground a few inches from him. And there it lay until a bony, pale hand reached down to the ground and plucked it from the floor. The man in the black suit and red tie was standing over my grandfather now, clutching the crystal in his pale hand.
“Grandfather!” The word slipped through my lips at the sight of the man. His head spun towards me.
He pointed a bony finger over at me as he had before when we first met. “You are my answer,” he said. “You are the beginning and end of this. Come to me.”
He made a movement towards me, and I screamed.
Suddenly, I sat up in bed; it was just a dream, a bad dream. I couldn’t make sense of it, and I didn’t want to as I jumped up and walked to the door of my bedroom and slowly opened it. I came out and saw men in overalls coming in and out of the front door of the house, carrying boxes inside.
Mr. McClellan appeared at the entrance directing the traffic, and he didn’t see me as he disappeared out of the door. I walked back into my bedroom and closed the door behind me, dropping on the bed again. I rolled to the side and stared at the picture of my parents and me. I knew then things were going to change. Nothing had ever been normal for me, even when my parents were alive. But at least I had something in common with my father, and I felt I could always feel safe. Now, I wasn’t sure of the future even though I knew that Mr. McClellan was trustworthy. My grandfather had trusted him enough to leave me in his care. I didn�
��t doubt he was a kindhearted man.
We must have said only two words the first two days he was there. I spent most of my time in my room. I could tell he didn’t want to bother me, and sometimes he would leave my dinner outside on the table by the door. It was only after the fourth day that I decided to come downstairs and join him. He was in the kitchen by the dinner table, just finishing his dinner. Standing by the sink, he was putting up the dishes when he turned and saw me standing by the table staring back at him.
“Claudia?” He mumbled, surprised to see me emerge from my hole.
“Are you hungry? Can I get you something?” He nervously stuttered, stumbling with the dishes in his hands.
“No, I’m fine,” I whispered; he immediately dropped what he was doing, putting the last dish in the dishwasher and approached as I took a seat at the dinner table.
“I can get you something. I’m sorry I forgot what time it was,” he said, putting a hand to his head for a moment. Then he looked back up at me.
“I hope this is alright?” He suddenly asked, and I glanced up at him in question as his sad eyes looked over at me.
“I mean, me being here. It’s what your grandfather wanted. I don’t know what he was thinking of when he chose me.” A smile spread over his face as he again glanced over at me.
“Not that I don’t want to, you understand,” he assured me with a serious expression. “But me, well, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said as he put his hands on the chair in front of him.
“And I don’t want you to feel like you have to be with me. I’m sure if you don’t want to be with me, other things could be arranged.” He took a deep breath. With his eyes sad and droopy, he gazed away. “If that’s what you want.” He took a seat in front of me.
“I want you to be my guardian, Mr. McClellan. It’s what my grandfather wanted. It’s what I want now,” I softly answered, and he nodded with a smile.
“Okay,” he replied. “Okay.”
He rose from the table, pushing the chair back as he stood in front of me, nodding his head.
“I made enchiladas,” he said as if he’d just realized it.
I managed a smile as he said that. He seemed to be very proud of the fact.
“You cook?” I asked surprised.
“Yeah,” he grinned, appearing almost embarrassed. “Your grandfather never complained. He was one of my biggest fans.” He laughed slightly, and I could see he missed my grandfather too. His gaze drifted before he realized he was thinking of him and he moved away as if to fix me a plate. He stopped by the sink to gather himself.
“Would you like some?” He asked without turning. I nodded at first and then replied, “Sure, I’d like some.”
He moved quickly, lifting a plate from the cabinet and moving it to the stove to scoop up the food from the cooking dish sitting there. He seemed to really know his way around my grandfather’s kitchen.
Taking a fork from the lower drawer, he put the plate in front of me. His teary eyes made no attempt to look at me. He was embarrassed or perhaps afraid to upset me.
“They’re really good. But I’m not just saying that because…” he started to say, then smiled, and moved away to wipe down the stove. He appeared fairly clumsy, stumbling around and trying to avoid the obvious. It was then that I realized I didn’t know him. I didn’t know any of them, but now I wanted to. I had been too busy being angry that I hadn’t given anyone a chance.
“You guys were good friends?”
Although it sounded like a question, it wasn’t. It was obvious they had been close.
“Yes,” he said, turning and resting his hands on the top of the chair in front of him. “We were very good friends,” he said, finally looking up at me. Then he lowered his head; he was fighting the urge to cry, and I felt foolish for asking anything.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bring up memories.”
His teary eyes looked over at me and widened with guilt.
“Oh no,” he said. “Don’t be.” He took a seat on the chair nearby. I put the fork down, feeling my lips quiver uncontrollably.
“He wanted to talk to me, and I wouldn’t listen. I treated him so badly. I’m sorry,” I again whispered, swallowing the tears in my throat, but they still managed to escape the corners of my eyes.
“You didn’t know,” Mr. McClellan said.
“If only I had listened to what he had to say. If I only…” I couldn’t hold the tears any longer. Mr. McClellan immediately kneeled beside me.
“How could you have known? You can’t blame yourself,” he reassured me.
“But I should have listened when he wanted to talk to me. Now it’s too late.” I said.
“Claudia, you can’t feel that way; he wouldn’t have wanted you to feel this way,” Mr. McClellan brushed the hair away from my face. I dropped into his arms and a long sigh escaped my lips.
“He was my grandfather, and I turned him away. Now I’m alone.” I wept as I gripped him tightly, sensing him hesitate until I said those words, and then he hugged me tightly in return.
“Mr. McClellan,” I whispered. “He was all I had, and now he’s gone.”
He pulled me back and looked at me, brushing the hair from my face again.
“You have me,” he said. “I made a promise to your grandfather that I would protect you no matter what, and I intend to keep it.”
I again reached for him.
He held me tightly like I was his child, and I felt him exhale and perhaps even softly sob.
“Now,” he said with a struggle. “Enough of that Mr. Stuff, okay?” I heard him swallow with difficulty; there was indeed a smile forming on his face, fighting through the sobs that had managed to drown his own voice out at first.
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore, not if you don’t want to,” he softly said, but I think it was more for his benefit.
“Michael,” I whispered, unsure of what he meant, his promise to my grandfather. His words rang with uncertainty.
“Protect me from what?” I asked, feeling his grip tighten and suddenly shake. And through his thoughts, I heard him panic:
The burden to speak the truth of him has fallen upon me!
4
New man on campus,
John Black
The New Principal
* * *
I arrived at the safe house. It was a very beautiful, two-story large white Victorian house with an old antique fence surrounding it. The house was empty this evening, but I knew that at any given time it wouldn’t be for long. Agents came at different hours, but not too many at a given time, so as not to arouse suspicion. Tonight, it would be me, and tomorrow it would be another.
It was late when I climbed up the porch steps, and the porch light was lit. I used the key that had been left in my Shelby Mustang by The Company. I entered, hearing my steps on the hard, wooden floor echoing throughout the beautiful decorative interior. The entrance was lit and quite welcoming with a beautiful large mirror on mustard walls, decorated in crown modeling. A vase with decorative plants sat upon a lovely mahogany table. I admired taste, style, and beauty, and there was plenty of it to go around in this place.
The kitchen was modern and seemed freshly renovated, and the living room was full of white leather, mahogany tables, decorative plants and vases, and even a grand piano at the far end. The large windows were covered in white flowing curtains that draped down upon the glossy clean wooden floors. The second-floor stairs were just a few steps away from the entrance, leading up into a twisted staircase above where a beautiful chandelier hung like crystal daggers.
All of the wood in the house was beautifully polished. The entire place was empty, yet well-kept. The place looked frozen in time, almost too clean. There were details that still appeared to have been part of the house when it was freshly built, and yet there were also parts added for modern times like the kitchen. It had appliances that were all stainless steel, with an added island in the center, pots and pans hanging
from above the centerpiece, and a bowl of fresh fruit sitting on the counter. I helped myself, but then I realized it was only seemingly-real décor fruit.
Dropping the plastic apple back into the bowl, I made my way up the second floor and entered the hallway; the floors on the second floor were no different, all lovely with decorative hardwood. The walls were a pastel green, and there were framed photographs of boats used to decorate the long extended hall: all kinds of boats, fishing boats, old boats, abandoned boats, and even World War II military boats.
The house had five bedrooms; I headed to the one at the end. Upon opening the door, I found myself in a large bedroom. White curtains draped the window, and there was a large bed at the far end, decorated in satin red sheets and encompassed by mahogany bedposts. But at this moment, I wasn’t the least interested in the bed. I was interested in the mahogany desk and the black leather briefcase upon it.
I very slowly closed the door and made my way inside. There was nothing much in the room; a few antique rugs under the bed covered the beautiful glossy floors, and there were two side doors to the closet and bathroom. On the walls were a few framed old photographs like the ones on the hallway walls, but these were of men in uniform. Nazi uniforms. Who’s sick idea for decoration was this?