The Grandfather Clock

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.