The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

  The Grandfather Clock

  Title Page

  Preface

  Epilogue

  The Grandfather Clock

  Jonathan Kile

  Copyright © 2014 Well Oiled Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0692313834

  ISBN-13: 978-0692313831

  For Monica, James & Anna

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people have supported me in completing this book. Special thanks to Monica for enduring the late night tap-tapping on the laptop. Thanks also to: Shelly Wilson for her editing prowess and brutal honesty, and the many friends who read early drafts including, but not limited to, Dan Tarleton and Elizabeth Hallock. Much love to my dad for reading my childhood cowboy and Indian stories and almost managing to keep a straight face. And finally, to my brother Steve, for saving the family grandfather clock, and providing the inspiration for this story.

  Preface

  I don’t know which was worse, the punch to my gut or the elbow in my face that sent me to the dirty stone floor. I had always benefited from the notion that people avoid fights with tall people. I hadn’t been in a physical fight in ten years. That was college and it was over before it started. No one was around to stop this one. I tried to catch my breath, and choked. I coughed and a swirl of blood, tears and mucus formed on the floor in front of me. I tried to crawl, make some attempt to flee. Through a wet red filter I could see the legs of both men as they stood watching me. They were deciding who was going to take the next shot. How had it come to this?

  I was powerless. I was in a place that was supposed to hide a man from all men. I crawled. A futile attempt to avoid whatever came next. The short stocky figure moved toward me. His blows had the most force. “Americano tonto,” he muttered. And then his heavy boot sunk into my side. My next breath was agony. I curled up and struggled with shallow gasps. I couldn’t see from my right eye; whether it was swollen shut, full of blood, or just destroyed, I didn’t know. My ears rang and the room spun. The rusty smell of blood hung in the mountain air.

  Then I was moving. Dragged on my belly by my arms. I tried to see where they were taking me. Out the front door. Shoved and dropped down the steps. More blows along the way. Groaning was the only way I could breathe, and they wanted me to be quiet. Not that anyone would hear me. And if they did, this was a land where people might look the other way. Best to stay out of it. People disappear here. Always had. I thought about the mothers who marched for the missing. It was an odd thought, and then I thought of my mom. Grieving the loss of her own mother, she had no idea where I was. If they ever found me, she’d never believe any of it.

  Through the gravel, to an open trunk. I was actually relieved. Unless one of them planned to ride in the trunk with me, the beating would stop. Where the car would take me, I did not know, but it could hardly be worse.

  “Conduce.” You drive, one said to the other.

  I looked up to the glare of the sun and the butt of the gun. I don’t remember them shutting the trunk.

  1

  Less than a year earlier I was sitting in a bar in Orlando, Florida. It was a godawful tourist trap with some sort of surf shark theme. A midsummer baseball game played on four televisions. It was exactly 400 degrees outside and it was almost eleven o’clock at night. My undershirt was completely soaked through. My tie was loose and I was glad that my light colored shirt wouldn’t reveal armpit stains like the guy sitting next to me. His name was Adam and I’d met him that day. Our girlfriends were college sorority sisters. The reception was over, and the party continued in this make-believe beach bar, ninety miles from the nearest sand.

  Adam was sloppy drunk, and I was only better by degrees. Our girlfriends, my fiancée actually, had left in search of a rumored hot dog stand. Between the open bar and the dance floor, no one had consumed much food. Air conditioning blasted my wet neck and I realized that one of the three bridesmaids was talking to me.

  “Where do you live?” she asked over a Steve Miller tune.

  “St. Pete,” I said. “Couple hours from here. You?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Cool.” I guess. All three were looking at me. Matching black dresses. The Atlanta one had snow white skin, and perfectly straight dark hair. Even if she wasn’t my type, she was beautiful. Her friend, on the other hand, was tan, with brown hair and looked like a beach girl. Maybe even a bit of a tomboy, but more my type. She spoke next.

  “What do you do?”

  I took a drink from a clear plastic cup of skunky Budweiser. “I run a bank call center.”

  They both nodded, as if impressed. They were the bride’s age, so, five years younger than me. Still in their mid twenties. By the time they hit thirty, if the answer wasn’t investment banker, doctor or lawyer, they’d start searching the room for someone else. But these women were still at the age where they might date a bartender or a DJ. Or a guy who runs a bank call center. I knew I had been in the business too long when my friends stopped asking me for a job.

  But of course, I had my fiancée. I shouldn’t have cared what these girls thought. I’d made the commitment. We were about to announce a date.

  The conversation continued. The third bridesmaid was a short, dimpled blond, cute as a button, and the most drunk. We talked about college. Two of them went to school in Tallahassee as well, but they were just getting out of high school when I finished college. The tan one went Flagler.

  “Surfer school,” I said.

  “You surf?” she asked.

  “No.” My conversational skills were unmatched.

  We all agreed that the wedding was beautiful and the current bar was not quite the best. My mood lightened. The buzz that had threatened to become angry had taken a turn for the better. The bride and groom were dirty dancing in the space between the bar and cocktail tables. I got the sense that no one ever danced in this bar. It was sort of like dancing in a Hooters. We had a good laugh as drinks were spilled, and the garter made its way up and down multiple legs, female and male.

  Then Christie returned, finishing the last bite of a Polish sausage, mustard gathered in the corner of her mouth. Adam’s girlfriend was not with her anymore. As she approached the table I could tell that it was probably too late for the food to be effective. I was finally having fun, and she was ready to check out.

  I told her that the blond girl was an accountant too. She didn’t want to engage. Then the fair-skinned bridesmaid uttered words that would change the course of my life.

  “Your fiancé looks like Ben Affleck.”

  She meant it as a compliment. Even if the only similarity was height, hair, and a square head, it was nice coming from an attractive woman. I’d be lying if I said my ego didn’t swell a little.

  To Christie, it was something else. She was indignant, “Have you seen Ben Affleck? Michael looks nothing like Ben Affleck.”

  The three bridesmaids looked at me, stunned, the compliment rebuffed by Christie’s insult. It was obnoxious, and embarrassing. I tried to laugh, but it felt pathetic. I felt my face turn red.

  Christie looked at me with disdain. As if the unsolicited compliment was my fault, perhaps brought on by my advances. And just in case the point hadn’t been made, Christie added, “Ben Affleck is hot.”

  I put my hand on Christie’s shoulder and tried to walk her away from the table.

  “Where are we going?” she slurred. “Don’t you want to talk to these girls? Who think you’re so handsome?”

  “Christie, don’t.”

  “Whatever. Screw them and their ugly dresses.” They were not ugly.

  The tan bridesmaid looked at her friends, incredulous.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, attempting again to walk Christie away
from the table. She pushed my arm back and caught her balance on the table, sending beer sloshing out of everyone’s cups.

  Christie laughed and pointed, “Look what you did now, Michael.”

  My blood was boiling. The tan bridesmaid had moved off, and the remaining two gave me sheepish smiles while I drained my beer and poured another from the pitcher. Christie went to the restroom and I walked out to the patio.

  I pulled out my flip phone and dialed my brother. It was only eight o’clock in California. I was ready to answer the question he’d posed a two weeks before. I left him a voicemail.

  “Hey Vince. I was thinking about that grandfather clock. I don’t think we should get rid of it. I’ll, um, take care of it. I’m at a wedding. Call you tomorrow.”

  After the incident at the bar, I found Christie taking shots with the bride. I convinced her to go back to our hotel room. We both passed out until a dagger of light pierced through the heavy curtains. I put my mouth under the faucet and drank for a solid minute. Once I brushed my teeth, I knew I could function. I ordered breakfast of pancakes and bacon. I still felt drunk and the coffee made my heart pound.

  Christie was a zombie, which was perfect. I didn’t know if she remembered the incident. I wasn’t even sure whether it should be a big deal to me. But I was still mad. Still embarrassed. But mostly I was bitter. Bitter at myself for allowing it to get this far. Her antics were sometimes funny, but more often bordered on annoying. She could be the life of the party, but her antics were not just wearing thin with me. I was noticing more eye rolls and sideways glances.

  We packed our bags. I nursed her to the car and made the drive home while she slept, but my resentment grew. This was it. I had the impetus. It was time to make the change. It was never going to be easy, but it was never going to be any easier.

  We trudged into the apartment we shared. She had slept until I turned off the car. We’d hardly spoken to each other and it was already one o’clock in the afternoon.

  “I’m going to order a pizza,” she said.

  I grunted an acknowledgment.

  “You feel okay?” she asked.

  “I feel fine,” I said.

  “What?”

  I paused. “Nothing,” I said. But the pause said otherwise.

  “What’s the matter?” she pressed.

  “I’m just pissed. About last night. The way the night ended with the bridesmaids,” I said. “It was really rude.”

  “Jesus Christ, I barely remember that. I was wasted.”

  “Yeah. But it was still mean as hell,” I said.

  “Yeah, I come back and you’re talking to three girls,” she sneered. This was her typical manner of arguing. Find the thing I did wrong. “Are you mad because I made you look bad?”

  “No. You made yourself look bad and made it pretty clear you have a low opinion of me,” I said.

  “Whatever. I don’t give a shit what they think.” She waved it off.

  “Do you give a shit what I think?” I asked.

  “Fine, you look like Ben Affleck,” she said. And then she ordered the pizza.

  She thought I was being dramatic when I went into our bedroom and started packing my suitcase. I removed the sweaty wedding clothes and replaced them with clean ones. It was a move I’d used before to get her attention. I’d packed a bag more than once; sometimes I even got it to the car. But I never really went anywhere. What she didn’t know was that this time was different.

  She mocked me, “Oh, Michael, quit packing. Where are you going to go? You don’t have any money.”

  She was wrong. I had about five thousand dollars she didn’t know about.

  The money was from my grandmother. She’d died the previous year at the age of ninety-two, and I’d just gotten it two weeks before. My brother had settled her estate and all that was left besides the money was a storage unit in California that had to be cleaned out by the end of the month. There were boxes of things she wanted to save when she moved into a nursing home. I wasn’t sure what was there besides old photo slides, post cards, a teacup collection, and countless mementos that she and my grandfather had accumulated after almost seventy years together. But my brother had specifically mentioned the grandfather clock. He didn’t want it, but he didn’t want to just sell it without talking to me. I lived in an apartment three thousand miles away. What was I going to do with a seven-foot timepiece? The thing hadn’t chimed in probably four years. I was fascinated with it as a child and it would be a shame to see it go. So I decided I would get it.

  Christie watched me load my suitcase back into the car. I didn’t have much, but I had everything I needed. I could tell she thought that this was just another fight. The truth was, over the past few months I had stopped fighting and started ignoring the things that bothered me. I saw no point in engaging in a disagreement. I stopped pushing for us to spend time with “my friends.” I encouraged her to spend more time “networking” after work. Meanwhile, she showed no interest and rarely asked what I was doing.

  She sneered at me as I drove away. She probably thought I was going to play volleyball with Sam at the beach. I drove out of the apartment complex and got on the bridge crossing Tampa Bay and took the first exit to the airport.

  The next few hours were a dream. Was I really walking out? Just like that? I recognized a certain cruelty to the whole thing. She’d gotten drunk, found me talking to three beautiful women, and reacted. I was looking for an excuse and perhaps I’d overreacted. But everything she did while I waited for my plane reinforced my decision.

  My phone rang incessantly as I made the short drive to the airport. I put my Honda Accord in long term parking and scanned the list of departing flights. My phone continued to vibrate. There were no direct flights to LAX, so I hit the Delta counter. It would be a few hours, but I found a flight connecting through Atlanta that would get me there that evening. Then I made a mistake. Not wanting to use any of my precious inheritance, I used our joint bank card to buy my ticket. Within an hour I was getting text messages from Christie. “I know you bought a plane ticket.” Then twenty minutes later, “I’m at the airport, please talk to me.”

  It was a not a pretty break up. For nearly an hour she alternated between sad crying, and furious profanity. One minute she was sweetly apologizing, the next she was telling me how worthless I had become. To an extent, she was right. I had become lazy. Lazy in our relationship. Lazy professionally. Guilty of avoiding the bigger questions in favor of peace.

  Telling her that she was right only fed the fire. In the midst of this break-up drama, I was aware of the show we were putting on for the traveling public. The whole scene was a metaphor for our relationship.

  “Christie,” I said, trying to bring the level down, “This is better for both of us. We can’t get married. You don’t even like me.”

  “I do, Michael. We’ve been together for eight years. I don’t want to be…” she tailed off.

  “Be what?” I asked. “Single again? Is that it?

  “Just, we’ve been together so long, to just stop.”

  “When then? After we’re married? With a house? Kids? No. This has to be it.”

  She turned angry again. “You planned this.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “We were about to announce a date. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a lot of things. Look at us. This isn’t healthy. We aren’t happy,” I said.

  “I thought we were. You’re an ass. Good luck finding someone like me.”

  The comment made me smile. I tried to hide it.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Christie,” I said, contemplating just how bad my next words would sound. “I promise I will not try to find someone like you.”

  “Go to hell, Michael.”

  “I’m sorry, Christie. You are right. I let this go on too long. You have every right to be mad.”

  “Go to hell, Michael.” And she walked away.

  I surveyed the milli
ng travelers and walked back toward security, not turning to see if she was still walking away.

  I thought about calling my brother, but hesitated. It was Sunday and this was totally out of character. No one in my family lived near each other and no one made unexpected visits. My parents had moved from Southern California to Santa Fe. Vince still lived in our home town of Tustin. He was five years older and had twins less than a year old. I was the wandering son who took a scholarship as an opportunity to find a school far away from the smog and sprawl.

  Low out-of-state tuition led me to Tallahassee where I spent four years having fun, getting decent grades, and enjoying Florida State football. At the end they handed me a degree in business and I went to work for Globe Bank, which is how I ended up in St. Pete. That’s where I met Christie. I hired her. She was funny, a little irreverent (okay, a lot), and she hung at the same cluster of beach bars where I played volleyball.

  I slumped into a seat near my gate and I was suddenly exhausted. It was not even six o’clock. We were about to begin boarding. I called my friend Sam, who was still single, and since I’d met Christie was busy proving that there were plenty of things to do besides hang out in bars. He’d joined kick ball leagues, took up kite surfing, and got an MBA while I dated Christie. And we still had our Tuesday volleyball league.

  “Hey man.”

  “What’s up, Mike?” I could tell Sam was outside. He’d invited me to a barbecue at a microbrewery.

  “I gotta be quick, here. I’m about to get on a plane.”

  “Plane? I thought the wedding was in Orlando.”

  “Yeah, it was. I broke up with Christie.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to California for a few days. Just to get some space. There’s this clock of my grandmother’s I need to get.”