The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

  “You could move in with Klara.”

  I almost choked on my beer. “No. Not ready for that. I’ve made that mistake before.”

  “She likes you. Watch out. Behind that Bohemian exterior, she’s pretty traditional.”

  I wasn’t sure where she was going, and in this case, I didn’t want to find out. I didn’t know if it was that other side of Celeste coming out again. She closed her eyes when she realized I wasn’t going to respond. We sat in silence for a few minutes before she stood up.

  “I should go check on my mom.”

  It took us almost 14 hours to get from Paris to New Orleans. We had to go through customs in Atlanta. I breezed through, and waited for Celeste and Marianne. It was early evening when I rented a car. I had a connection who got us rooms at a nice hotel on the river for a good price, but our first stop was Tulane University Medical Center.

  Even the best-kept sections of downtown New Orleans have a rough look about them. When you live there, you don’t notice it until you go to another city and realize how clean other places are. New Orleans has a lot working against it. Its low elevation and humidity make it so damp that walls change color, tiny pieces of metal in concrete mix make rust spots that leave long stains as rain sheets over it. Old taxis and buses beat patchwork streets to rubble and buildings are fit together like pieces of broken glass. You never know how people are going to react to the city and Marianne looked stricken. Celeste was quiet as I drove with them both in the back seat.

  After a full day of travel, we were all exhausted entering the hospital. I did the talking as we were directed to Claudette’s room. I offered to let them go alone, but Marianne insisted I join them. I didn’t want to, but followed tentatively.

  I hardly recognized the woman in the bed. She was intubated, and had IVs coming out of both arms. Part of her head was shaved where they had operated to relieve pressure on her brain. I could see that she had broken a tooth. I knew immediately that Claudette was gone, even if the machine next to her showed otherwise. The doctor did a lousy job of telling us that there was nothing to be done. He implied a sense of hope when there was none.

  As he left the room, I followed him out the door. We had a conversation without ambiguity. There was no real brain activity. She couldn’t survive on her own, but she wouldn’t necessarily die quickly, and she wouldn’t recover.

  I went to the door and motioned for Celeste to come outside. “It’s not good,” I said, feeling myself creep into the same false tone as the doctor. I told myself to stick to what it was, and what it was not. “They can’t do anything for her. She will not wake up.”

  “Will they take her off the machines?”

  “They will, with Marianne’s consent. Do you know if Claudette had a living will?”

  “What is that?”

  I searched for a French term. “Last wishes? Um…”

  “Un testament,” she said.

  “That sounds right,” I said.

  “Michael, we know so little about her life here. And I really doubt it.”

  “Do you think your mother is prepared for this?”

  “I hope so.” Celeste turned to look at her mother, seated by the bed and holding Claudette’s frail hand. Marianne looked as worn as we all felt and Celeste sighed.

  Marianne rubbed her eyes. “I need some time here with her. Let’s deal with the doctors tomorrow.”

  I woke up at four in the morning, unable to go back to sleep. It was strange to set out into the familiar smells and light of the early French Quarter morning. I followed the Mississippi River, watching the barges push up river. The last of the late night partiers were trudging to their hotels. It seemed like a dream. A fear crept in that I would be back there, fighting through twelve-hour shifts, opening 400 bottles of beer in a night, stashing dirty one-dollar bills into a cloudy jar.

  Delivery trucks made their way to the market and a few merchants hosed down the sidewalks in front of their establishments. I took a coffee to go and walked back through the quarter. I passed a darkened Ol’ Toons and then crossed over to Bourbon Street where the smell of bleach and trash mingled. Someone once said that the food was so good in New Orleans that even the trash smelled good. It had to be the biggest lie I’d heard about the city. I loved New Orleans, but I couldn’t live there and love it anymore. I sat down and thought about Claudette, letting the sadness finally sink in.

  The sun was beginning to hit the balconies above Chartres Street when I got a call from Celeste inviting me to breakfast. When I got back to the hotel, she and her mother were having French pressed coffee and croissants. Something I’d rarely seen them have in Paris. Marianne startled me with unusual cheer. I looked to Celeste to get a sense of the situation.

  Claudette snapped, “Don’t you two start giving looks. Yes, my sister is gravely ill, and I’m here to say goodbye. I don’t want your long faces making this more dour than it already is.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. But it’s okay to be sad.”

  “I am so sad. But I can’t go through this like that. Isn’t this the place where they have a parade for a funeral?”

  “You want a parade?” Celeste asked.

  “No. Let’s not go that far. Celeste, be yourself. Michael, I will need your help arranging for her to be taken home to be laid to rest in France.”

  “Of course.”

  “This morning, we have to go to the hospital, to let her go. I don’t want her hooked up like that longer than she has to be.”

  Seeing Marianne take the situation in such stride was a relief. In fact, I think I was having more trouble with the suddenness of everything. Marianne had a brief conversation with a doctor before going into the room alone. At my urging, Celeste went with her. I waited more than a half hour, but it seemed much longer. Celeste peeked from the door and waved me in, holding a tissue to her red nose. The space around Claudette’s bed was clear of the machines and monitors. A blanket covered her up to her shoulders. The lights were dimmed. Marianne sat in a chair holding Claudette’s hand. Only she still didn’t look like Claudette to me.

  “She’s gone,” Celeste whispered.

  I nodded and hugged Celeste.

  When the nurse handed me a plastic bag containing Claudette’s purse, the sight of it, and the smell of her perfume and cigarettes, took me back to the bar. She would place it on the chair next to her. Sometimes she’d reach in and pull out something for me, be it a book, a picture, or the plane ticket that took me away from New Orleans. The truth was, I had been closer with Claudette than anyone over the past six months. She had been my dearest friend since ending my engagement and leaving Florida. I could tell that Celeste recognized this.

  When we opened the door to Claudette’s house and the smell was familiar, even if I’d only been there on a couple of occasions. Mail had piled behind the door and a radio was on in the kitchen, tuned to NPR. She had been on the Tulane campus, where she was teaching as an adjunct instructor that semester, when she collapsed. It was heartbreaking to enter a home that someone intended to return to.

  A cat meowed at the living room window.

  “Did she have a cat?” Marianne asked.

  “She fed a stray,” I said. “I should tell the neighbor.”

  I walked outside, with little intention of finding a neighbor. The cat could wait. Being inside the house was too strange. This was unexpected territory for my relationship with Marianne. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt over the dumbbell in the safe.

  Celeste was observing both of us, as if unsure how to grieve herself. I didn’t often “need” a drink but this was one of those moments. I walked back inside to a side table containing a crystal bottle. I had no idea what was in it, or how long it had been there, but I poured a little in a dusty glass and took a drink. I waited for the bite of straight alcohol, and it never came. It was good bourbon.

  Celeste caught me leaning against the mantle with the bourbon. “Share?” she asked. I poured a little more, almost feeling like I was stealing. As if I
should make sure to leave enough for Claudette.

  Marianne looked through the house. “What are we going to do with all of this stuff?” she lamented.

  I looked around, not sure what to say.

  Marianne continued, answering her own question, “I will come back and deal with this after we take her home.” Only Claudette’s body would cross the Atlantic.

  Marianne gathered up a stack of mail.

  “Mother, let me help you with that,” Celeste said, in English.

  Marianne held up her hand. “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.” A tear fell ran down her face and Celeste hugged her. I felt uncomfortable watching their embrace, so I moved to the kitchen. On the refrigerator was a picture of me, Celeste and a Thanksgiving turkey.

  It was dusk when we left the Garden District. I had placed a phone call to a funeral home that promised to get back to me on a price to arrange for Claudette’s body to be returned home. City workers were prepping Canal Street for Mardi Gras and I realized how lucky we were that Claudette didn’t fall ill then.

  Leaving the house, Marianne composed herself, forcing herself to raise her chin. Celeste showed nothing. Getting into the car, I looked back at the house, random thoughts entering my mind. Claudette had mentioned that she wanted to have her house painted gray and white. Her sudden departure left all these things undone. My mind would not rest. I thought about my mother and her grief.

  The word, “Dinner?” broke my trance. Marianne was looking at me. “We should eat. Is there someplace authentic you recommend?”

  It was late afternoon. We went to a restaurant I knew would be quiet. Marianne ordered wine and toasted Claudette. “A full life, not fully lived,” she said. I watched Celeste, who was quiet. No one ate much, but the meal was an act of normalcy after a taxing day.

  The streets were getting busy when we left the restaurant. We walked slowly, without much conversation. Then Marianne stopped in her tracks. “Look,” she said, pointing up at the street sign, “St. Peter. At the gate to heaven.”

  Celeste put her hand on her mother’s shoulder, the pair juxtaposed against Bourbon Street just a few feet ahead.

  “Show me where you met,” Marianne said.

  I led us to Ol’ Toons, taking a deep breath before entering.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Dan said. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  We shook hands and hugged and I introduced Marianne and Celeste.

  “Claudette passed away today,” I said. “She had a stroke the other day.”

  Dan offered his condolences, nervously wiping the bar. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You could make me a drink,” Marianne said forcing a slight smile.

  “This is where she sat,” I said, pointing to the stool near the end of the bar.

  “What an odd place for her to come,” Marianne said, recognizing the drab, unremarkable setting.

  “There’s a guitar player who plays some French songs,” I said. “He always played a song for her.”

  “And then she met you,” Marianne said. “Life is funny.”

  Our walk back toward the car sent us past The Steak Pit, evidenced by a young girl holding an over-sized sign announcing “Huge Ass Beers.” Niel Young’s, “Southern Man,” poured out of the bar.

  “That’s my friend Brian,” I said.

  “Who?” Celeste asked.

  “Playing,” I said, looking in the door at Brian perched on the tiny ledge above the bar.

  “You should go see him,” Marianne urged.

  “No,” I said, “it’s okay.”

  “No,” she insisted. “You came all this way for us. You two go. I’m tired. I’m going to take a taxi back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll go with you, Mother,” Celeste said.

  “Nonsense,” Marianne said. “I’ll be fine. I’m fine. I could use a little time alone.”

  Suddenly, Marianne was gone and improbably, I found myself with Celeste in a familiar New Orleans bar.

  Brian finished the song and declared, “A ghost just walked into the bar tonight, ladies and gentlemen.” He promptly went into his own version of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” with lines like “Micheal owes the rent and more.” He finished his set and came to our table.

  “Brian, this is Celeste.”

  “This the one with the tattoo of the...”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Celeste is my landlady’s daughter. You remember Claudette. Her niece.”

  “Ohhh!” he blushed. “Soccer player guy.”

  Celeste blushed and I apologized for Brian’s lack of manners.

  “It’s okay,” Celeste said. “Klara is my best friend. I let her have him. As a gift. If I couldn’t have him, I wanted her to have him.”

  “You taking her by Ol’ Toons tonight?” Brian asked.

  “Already went,” I said.

  We lingered and listened to the beginning of Brian’s next set before meandering through the Vieux Carré. Celeste insisted on ordering Hurricanes from a sidewalk bar and the street turned into a blur of music and lights.

  “I’m sorry about the comment I made about Klara to your friend,” Celeste said. “About letting Klara have you. It was, I don’t know, conceited.”

  “What? Don’t worry about it.” I was surprised she felt the need to say anything.

  “I’m sorry I was rude to you when we first met,” she said.

  “Ancient history.”

  “I was being guarded. I thought Claudette was just being like my mother. I didn’t realize that she was right about you. A find.”

  “A find?” I laughed.

  “You... if you were available, are a find,” she said.

  “It’s not like I’m some stable, established career man,” I said. “Believe me, most mothers don’t want to meet me.”

  “That’s why you’re a find,” she said. “You’re going places.”

  “I am? Where?”

  “No one knows. But you won’t miss an opportunity. I see that.”

  Music blasted from the open doors of a corner bar. It was someone’s rendition of “American Woman” and Celeste grabbed me by the hand and danced us through the door. Before I knew it, we were in a crowd and she was dancing in front of me, while I held both of our drinks. She was playful and sultry at the same time, singing in her French accent. We both began to sweat in the lights and the crowd. Her black blouse came down a button as she held the neck open for air.

  “I can’t believe you left this city,” she said.

  “There aren’t many I would have left it for, but Paris is one of them.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  I could see where it was going. I could see it from a mile away. I was getting drunk and so was she. I couldn’t stop watching her body. Her shirt was open just enough that I kept thinking that I could see more, only to have it disappear again. She wore tight gray pants and I caught quick glimpses of her pale stomach and back as she danced. Her dark hair was loose. I was in danger of making a mistake, and karma was not going to be kind.

  I woke up at 4:30 in the morning with a pounding headache, my sinuses full from booze and cigarette smoke. The bathroom light was on and the fan was humming. Celeste was lying next to me, completely naked on her side. The blankets were on the floor. I wanted to forget everything, but I remembered it all. We said things like, “We shouldn’t do this.” And, “It would have happened eventually,” and “Just this once.”

  And once the act was committed, we continued to explore each other’s bodies and then we did it again. I hated myself. I had the control. I didn’t blame Celeste, although Klara would hate us both. In spite of the alcohol coursing out of my system, I lay awake for an hour. It was midmorning in Paris and Klara was probably enjoying her Saturday, waiting until it was late enough to call me.

  When the sun broke through the window Celeste stirred and pulled her body against mine. She straddled me and sat up. I looked at her through dry squinting eyes.

  “Michae
l,” she said. “Last night … I have wanted that. I have thought about it. But it was a mistake.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I can’t believe I did this to Klara.”

  I reached for her face to console her and she fell on top of me in embrace. She kissed my neck. Then she stopped and was still. We must have lain there for an hour without moving, each knowing this couldn’t happen again. She was the irresistible wrong woman. The one who alternately beguiled me and turned me off. She had shown me the way to Klara, who was open, free, and beautiful in her simplicity. But I didn’t trust Celeste. And I didn’t know what she would do now.

  The events of that night had one positive effect. It erased all tension in the air between Celeste and I for the remainder of the trip. By the time our plane touched down in Paris, I was feeling relatively comfortable in the thought that Klara might never know. We had never discussed monogamy, and while it was a horrible thing to do, we had only been seeing each other for a little more than a month. Had it been any other woman, it might be chalked up to the early stages of dating. But it was Celeste, and that complicated the matter.

  On the flight home, Celeste encouraged me to stay with Klara. And I did. It was Wednesday morning when we landed back in Paris. I went straight to her place and I slept all day.

  I was nervous about seeing her and sleeping with her again, afraid she would see my shame all over me. But we shared a bottle of wine in her room when she came home. She wore a loose tunic with no bra that erased my anxiety. The next morning sent us back into routine. I went to the museum and Klara went to teach. The night with Celeste was just a few days removed, but it faded quickly. Maybe it was a false sense of calm that had set over us. I don’t think even Celeste knew then how unrealistic we were to try and forget it.

  What I didn’t know was that Celeste’s return to Paris coincided with Marco’s departure. I also did not know that she had decided that his punishment for leaving her was to tell him about us, two days before our flight back to Paris. Celeste’s effort to hurt Marco was blatant, and Marco reacted. Long before we landed in Paris, the next chapter of my life was already unfolding.