by Joe Clifford
The party didn’t last long after that, guests dwindling down to single digits until there were none. Chloe snuck off with a friend. I stuck around to help clean up, even though Mrs. Balfour told me it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t plan on pressing her about the argument with the old man. She’d looked rattled when she came back in, distraught, face colored crimson.
I wanted to alleviate her pain, not make it worse. Curiosity got the better of me.
“That man you were talking to,” I said, stoking conversation. “That’s who stopped by when I was leaving the other morning.”
Mrs. Balfour carried a casserole dish from the buffet to the kitchen counter, opening a drawer and bringing up the aluminum foil. With focused intent, she wrapped the leftovers into a tin brick, sealing it inside a small rectangular Tupperware container. Busy work for idle hands to keep away devils. How could she stand being in this same house, so familiar yet forever altered? Like an amputee with phantom pain, would she hear Jacob pattering downstairs for a late-night snack? Music bleeding from the basement where our band used to practice? There was nowhere to hide. This home would never let her forget.
“That was Francis,” she said. “Gary’s father.”
I had a hard time reconciling name and relationship right away.
“Jacob’s grandfather,” she added.
“I didn’t know Jacob had a grandfather.” I knew he’d had one at some point. I figured he too was dead. “He never talked about him.” It wasn’t just Jacob. I’d known the Balfour family fifteen years. I’d never heard anyone mention grandparents, and certainly not this Francis character. I knew Mrs. Balfour’s parents had passed when she was young. No one talked about Mr. Balfour, Gary, suicide such a taboo. Through all the years and holidays, monumental occasions and developmental milestones like confirmation and graduation, I’d never heard the name Francis. Not once.
Mrs. Balfour set the caked-on dishes to soak in the hot, soapy sink before wrapping her hands in a dishtowel. I could see she didn’t want to talk about the man, her furrowed brow and grimace making it clear. I changed the subject. I asked how she was feeling. An obvious question with an obvious answer. A stupid, pointless, small-talk question. She didn’t take the out, though. She came around the counter and sat at the kitchen table, patting the seat beside her. Mrs. Balfour was first and foremost a mother.
“Francis Balfour is a sick man,” she said.
“Sick?” I answered, joining her.
“Same as Gary. Same as…Jacob. Unwell. Mentally unstable.” She stopped to pluck the perfect works from the gray matter. “People who don’t see the world for what it really is.” Mrs. Balfour drummed her fingers off the table, glancing around the room, trying to locate nothing at all.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I said. “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to—”
“There were instances,” she said. “With Francis. His behavior. When Jacob was little.” You could see her rolling the words around in her brain as she attempted to explain how the family came to the decision to cut a grandfather out of the picture. Literally. No photographic evidence existed of the man. Not on the walls, not in the dining room memorial, not a single magnet on the refrigerator. Throughout all the random photo albums scattered about the house, under benches, on top of end tables, I never recollected seeing the guy. He was a ghost, a dead man walking. For Mrs. Balfour, the sweetest, kindest, most giving human being I’d ever met, the omission spoke volumes.
“Francis’s behavior was counterproductive to raising children,” she said. “Severing ties was not an easy decision. We used to be closer. In the end, I decided I couldn’t have him around my children.”
She looked at me funny when she said that.
“I understand. I know all about toxic people—”
Mrs. Balfour hopped up, returning to Tupperware leftovers. “After what Francis put Gary through as a child, with his outlandish beliefs…I couldn’t watch him do that to you kids.”
I remembered the unhinged reading material I’d discovered in Jacob’s room. “How outlandish are we talking?”
“Paranoia. Secret agencies, puppet strings. Remember The X-Files?”
“The TV show?”
“Yes. Like that.”
“Lizard people in the government.”
She nodded. So it was the same crap Jacob was obsessed with and writing about.
“His influence on the kids, Jacob in particular, wasn’t good.” She caught herself, pulling up short of assigning all responsibility for the hardships endured. “I’m not blaming Francis for what happened to Jacob. My son had a predisposition. My late husband too. But Francis stoked the flames. I didn’t want you kids exposed to it. I asked Francis to stay away.” Mrs. Balfour shifted, rehousing salt and pepper shakers, sweeping crumbs into her palm, shaking them loose over the sink, before folding dishrags. “I don’t think he even lives in New York anymore. Last I’d heard, Francis had moved west. Arizona. That was…” Mrs. Balfour paused to do the math. “Fifteen years ago?”
Right around the time I moved in.
“You haven’t heard from him since?” I said.
“First time I’d heard that man’s name in over a decade was when you told me he stopped by. A part of me believed he had passed away, and don’t judge me for this, but I wish he had. He’s malignant. A tumor. I wanted him cut out of our lives.”
Mrs. Balfour, the most tolerant and forgiving person I knew—she’d keep turning cheeks until she was dizzy. What could Francis have done that was so unforgivable? Suffering paranoid delusions wouldn’t elicit this scorn. Or would it?
Mrs. Balfour caught my eye. “This isn’t anything you should be worrying about, Brandon. You have your whole future to look forward to.” She reached over and patted my hand. “This chapter of your life is over.” She attempted a smile. “Don’t let any of this define you. You take care of you.”
I returned a sincere, pained grin, as if it would require all my strength to put this behind me, but, yes, I would do my best to honor my dead friend’s memory by rising above. It was all bullshit. Yeah, I’d live my best life. I’d get what I wanted. But I wouldn’t be honoring anyone but me. I owed reparations. I just wasn’t sure how to make restitution, or whom to pay it to.
CHAPTER TEN
I was up early the next day, sprits brightened, raring to go. With coffee in hand and music playing on my computer—the Garden State soundtrack, which, despite the film’s shortcomings, is a strong compilation—I was feeling myself again and ready to pack up. It hadn’t been long since I’d learned of Jacob’s passing, but I was starting to heal. Somehow, soon as I opened my eyes, it all felt…different, lighter. Slept well, peaceful dreams where I was floating, untouched, instead of being chased or chasing after an unattainable goal. So much of this life comes down to how you see the world. Viewpoint, perspective. Sure, I could succumb to maudlin and melancholic moods—I had my moments. But I was also in charge of my future. Take my apartment for instance, which was nothing special. I could’ve let its tiny size and poor location color my attitude, feel woe is me, boxed in by standard white apartment walls. But it was mine, my space, this time. This life is a gift. Sometimes all you need for the moment to hit you like that is awareness and appreciation of the present. A wave of optimism cascaded over me, the way light fell across frames, how sunshine slanted, so vibrant and creamy I could almost taste it, backed by the syncopated rhythm of a drum machine off iTunes. Possibility. That’s what I was experiencing, how wide open my road was, my future undetermined. I could go anywhere, do anything. There were two thousand recent graduates who felt the same way, but I didn’t let shared commonality water down the sensation. It felt unique to me. This was my story.
I felt empowered boxing up pots and pans and glasses I would drink out of in another apartment, in another town, as this next chapter of my life began.
And if I were being totally honest, a date with Sam Holahan that night
didn’t hurt.
I’d gotten Sam’s number at Elmer’s, and since then we’d had coffee twice and lunch once. I’d steered clear of talking about Jacob, the topic a complete buzzkill. Since Sam was there the night I got the call, I couldn’t avoid the conversation altogether. I also didn’t have to make it the focal point.
Nothing had happened on these previous coffee and lunch dates. Meaning we hadn’t even kissed again. But something was happening. It was that early stage, the getting-to-know-you backstory.
I loved this part of a relationship, that uneasy, nervous, excited feeling you get in your gut when you are going to see her. I didn’t mind not having sex right away. I wanted to, of course. If this went anywhere, it would happen. Sooner or later. I was in no hurry to get there. I’d had several girlfriends. Once you add the sex, there’s no mystery left; and once it’s gone, you can’t get it back, and then you find you miss the mystery. I longed for the mystery. I was happy to take it slow with Sam. Maybe it wouldn’t go anywhere. Maybe my last week in town ended with dinner tonight and Sam and I going our separate ways. I didn’t know her plans, if they included me. I didn’t know if she asked these same questions, despite her kissing me that night. Maybe she was a girl who kissed a lot of boys. The only thing I cared about right then: I had a date with a pretty girl I liked tonight. And when you have that, what else could you want?
Then came the knock on the door.
Through the peephole, I recognized Francis, Jacob’s estranged grandfather and Balfour family pariah. I’d seen him twice in the span of a few days, with that last appearance still burned on my brain, the way Mrs. Balfour banished the old man. Seeing him at my door created a sense of displacement. Like when you run into an acquaintance from the gym at the grocery store or a professor inside Target.
Standing barefoot on my cool linoleum floor, I opened the door, squinting into the shining sun, wondering why this strange, unwanted old man was here.
Francis didn’t exude urgency. Which I found odd. Like that bit from Seinfeld. You’d think the aged would be the ones most in a hurry, given the limited time they have left. He was dressed in a loose-fitting button-up as if stepping off the Jersey boardwalk, short sleeves rolled and wrapped around a pack of cigarettes. Like a hood from the 1950s: cuffed dark jeans, penny loafers, Ray Bans, silver hair slicked back—another bowling alley hipster you’d find at Starbucks at two in the afternoon working on a novel they’d never finish. But he owned the look, I had to give him that. However old he was, Francis still carried himself a lot cooler than I’d ever be.
“Saw you the other day, remember?” he said without offering a hand.
“I know who you are.”
“And I’m guessing Lori’s warned you to stay away from me.”
I didn’t respond.
That made Francis chuckle. “What did she say about me?” He had a voice like a beat-up pick-up truck caught between gears.
The fierce sun beat on my face, its bright stream incriminating, putting me on the defensive, like the hot light in a precinct.
“She said you were sick.” I didn’t like being so blunt but I couldn’t see much, my good mood interrupted. I wanted the guy gone.
“She might have a point.” He nodded past my shoulder. “Mind if we talk inside?”
I did. I was in the middle of packing, riding high on tonight’s date with Sam, and whatever Francis had to say, I didn’t want to hear. Plus, he was smoking a cigarette, which stank. Smokers don’t realize that smell never leaves; it attaches to their person. I also eschewed confrontation.
“Fine. But you can’t smoke in here.”
“You can’t smoke anywhere anymore, boy.” He flicked his butt over the rails.
When Francis breezed past, I caught his scent. Not cigarettes so much. More old man aftershave, Old Spice or Brut, one of those cheap colognes nobody under eighty buys anymore. Strangely, the scent evoked a pleasing wave of nostalgia for a time that never existed. Which left me wondering how I had associated the smell emanating off Francis with anything positive. Other than pop culture having its way with me, a cool detective or badass cowboy.
Standing in the middle of my kitchen, which was growing sparser with each passing day—packed boxes, Sharpie-labeled bags—Francis took in the college student décor; I’d never bothered to spruce up the place. I wasn’t rolling in money, and I didn’t entertain enough women to invest the time. I’d spent more than a few winters riding the ramen train until the next student loan check cleared. All my furniture was discounted, picked up at either Goodwill or off the curb, walls adorned with tacked-up movie posters—discarded ones they gave out at theaters at the end of runs. And since my favorite local cinema recycled decades-old B-flicks, there was a lot of Don Johnson, Virginia Madsen, and Tom Hanks before he was famous.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I didn’t want the guy to stay, but Mrs. Balfour had raised me to be polite and respectful of my elders, which, at that moment, was ironic, given how much she disliked the man.
“Got any whiskey?” he said.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Beer?”
“I was thinking more like coffee, but, yeah, I think I have a beer left.” I couldn’t even remember how the beer had gotten there. Maybe this past Super Bowl when a couple guys from statistics came over to watch the Patriots win. Again.
I retrieved the final overpriced IPA that had been sitting in my fridge, untouched since February.
Francis snatched it from my hand, pulling back to study the label, scowling, as if I’d passed him the Koran in Korean. “Extra hoppy?” It wasn’t a question, more a spat-out admonishment. Then he shook his head at me like I was the black sheep son heading back to art school, forever disappointing.
“Why are you here?” I asked. Which lacked tact, but I was starting to see why Mrs. Balfour didn’t like him. While Francis hadn’t demonstrated any behaviors that would’ve led me to say he was sick, the man exuded abrasive, rude, uneducated, ignorant, and irksome. Showing up this early without first calling? No email? I didn’t care that he didn’t know my email address or have my phone number. You don’t show up at someone’s house, asking for alcohol at ten in the morning.
He set down the can of beer on my kitchen table next to a pair of puzzles I’d been working on, one a sudoku, the other a crossword, avoiding the several coasters.
“You like puzzles,” he said. Again, statement not question, and one with an obvious answer since I had two of them two feet away.
“A hobby of mine.”
The old man scoffed, picked up his beer. “You were Jacob’s friend.”
“I knew Jacob, yes.”
“I didn’t ask if you knew him. I asked if you were his friend.”
He hadn’t asked anything. As I mentioned, I avoided confrontation. I’d get into it if I had to, and then God help you—I had a temper, inherited from dear ol’ Dad. Until tripped, however, I treated life like Bruce Banner on a breezy, uneventful day. Stay calm. Don’t get heated. Don’t get mad.
“Yes,” I said, annunciating. “I was Jacob’s friend.”
“Good.”
Francis sat at the table before I offered a seat, a breach of etiquette, whipping something from his back pocket. I didn’t flinch. Not like I thought an old man had come to my house to whack me. But Francis treated it like I had flinched, smirking. Which pissed me off. I hadn’t flinched. He showed his hands, laying down what he’d come to share, smoothing it out with exaggerated peaceful pats. Jerk.
A copy of Illuminations, Jacob’s lunatic fringe zine.
“Yeah. I know all about it. So what?” I stopped. “Where did you get that?” I’d seen the police carting out all the copies, evidence cataloged after his death.
“You read it?” he asked, ignoring my question.
Studying Francis, I found his insanity’s tell, the tip-off that the man wasn’t all there. It was in the eyes. They were screwy, hyper focused. Like he c
ould see deep into the defective parts of your soul. Creeped me out.
I nodded. I knew what he was going to ask next, hoping he wouldn’t. Because there was no right answer. Jacob was gone. What did it matter what I thought about his descent into madness?
Outside, a bus pulled past my apartment complex. Through the slated window, I could make out a long advertisement. Dentist. Or maybe music festival. Junk removal? I didn’t care. I wanted to be on that bus, headed wherever it was going, shipping far away from this conversation.
“I hadn’t spoken with Jacob.” The words trailed from my mouth with more remorse than I’d intended.
“Didn’t ask if you’d talked to him,” Francis said. “I want to know what you think of his magazine.”
“It’s called a zine. Photocopied and self-published. Magazines have publishers, fact checkers, distributors.” I hoped he caught my meaning: gatekeepers ensure quality, merit. This was an arts and crafts project. But Francis’s stare only intensified, that penetrating gaze unwavering. “What do you want me to say, man? Yes, Jacob and I used to be friends. Yes, I read his crazy rantings. He wasn’t well. It’s sad. I feel bad I wasn’t a better friend. It’s too late to do anything about that now.”
“Feeling bad won’t do a damn thing, boy. You want to make it up to him, here’s your chance.” Francis swilled his beer. “Jacob didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
Sam and I had reservations for Delmonico’s at seven. Granted, that was nine hours away, but those plans hinged on my getting back in the right headspace. I didn’t want to be thinking about any of this. Did I think Jacob committed suicide by throwing himself down a gravel pit before setting himself on fire? No. Probably not. I didn’t know. The police said it was an accident, I had to accept that. It was weird, sure, but Jacob was weird. If he went off his meds, I wasn’t placing any fate outside the realm of possibility. More importantly, I wasn’t throwing my hat in the ring with a headcase like Francis. I wanted to focus on Sam. Shower, pack, and take a nap. I regretted opening the door.
