Grandfathers Looks

For one reason or another it intrigued me. After me and my family had grieved, perhaps some still are, but regardless the duty of cleaning out Grandfather’s house fell to us. It was different knowing when I entered the front door that I was only greeted with an empty room rather than familiar faces and one day I would no longer be allowed to enter this house.

Dad and my young brother, Dan, started with the lounge room and adjoining kitchen while I was told to clear out Nan’s old room. She passed away first leaving Grandfather alone, well, until now. Grandfather had emptied out the room, anything that was unnecessary like old clothes and furniture, ever the pragmatist, but hung old photos and memorabilia on the walls.

Looking over old golf photos and trophies brought a smile to my face as I took pictures of the room before I took everything down. My progress was slowed since I took a moment with each item trying to recall if I had anything history with it beyond a glance each time I previously entered.

By the time Dad and Dan were finished with the kitchen and lounge room I was barely a fourth done, yet understanding as Dad was, he let me go and told Dan to start in Grandfather’s room. They were weird, past a certain age they decided sleeping in different rooms was a good idea and we all never thought twice about it.

Once I reconciled I had little history with most of the memorabilia on the bookshelf and walls, I looked at each photo realising how much I get my looks from Grandfather. I enjoyed the thought that Dad missed out on the family looks while me and Dan had different features of Grandfather, me having a strikingly similar facial structure and eyebrows while Dan had his eyes, beard growing capabilities and singing voice.

Finished with the walls and bookshelf I turned my attention to the built-in wardrobe, Grandfather loved collecting and the wardrobe was evident of that. In his younger days the backyard was lined with bird cages filled breeds from Australia and New Zealand, eventually he moved into old football trading cards, predictable, then bobble heads, briefly cars and finally books.

The bookshelf held his main reading collection, but the wardrobe was shelved with rare or obscure titles, personally, I have never heard before hearing it from Grandfather. Below that were his remaining bobble heads, some binders of cards he kept and below that boxes and rubbish bags with old toys or VHS tapes but one leather suitcase.

Curious, I grabbed the case but knew it would stay shut seeing the three-number combination lock, trying typical ones like street number, birthday and parts of his phone number none were successful. Calling Dad, he tried several number combinations yet having no luck.

“It is a nice suitcase, though,” he said. “I don’t think we should smash it, I’ll take it to a locksmith later.”

Placing it with other items that were coming home with us, Grandfather had left his book collection to me and Dan, but at the same time, he left his 1972 Gran Torino to us as well. Letting Dan get the car since he was unable to drive until he got his learner’s licence and I thought that was funny, I got the books.

Making sure all the rare titles were carefully placed into boxes, each one was lined bubble wrap and carefully placed on the porch. My progress was quickened since my curiosity for the suitcase overrode pondering memories with old books, each time I placed a box on the porch my eyes always lingered on the suitcase as I returned to Grandma’s room.

Finishing up with the wardrobe, I helped Dan finish Grandfather’s room. Taking out the mattress and bedframe to the tip bin, splitting his extensive DVD and Blu-ray stacks; he never collected them just really liked movies and debating over getting his fifty-five-inch television, I won since he got the car.

Downstairs was easier since all ornaments Dad claimed, the old glass Chess set and the old bulk tv he was putting in the shed for whenever barbeques occurred. The front and backyard were short and sweet, Dad claimed all gnomes, the dartboard and left the shed alone.

With a final once over of the property and our sweatiness becoming unpleasant, we loaded the Gran Torino and my car with everything and headed home.

We showed the suitcase to Mom and was more stumped than the rest of us, so conceding that it was hopeless, we all showered, ate dinner and went to our corners for the night. But stubborn as I am, I refused for the suitcase to win.

Hours flew by with no luck, I tried every significant number related to our family, tried to discover the producer of the suitcase and see if there were any failsafe way to open it, nothing. Forgoing Dads words I ventured to the shed, found the biggest hammer possible and bashed away.

Hit after hit, a string of swear words and inventive angles to strike from I opened it and…was thoroughly underwhelmed. “Photo albums,” I sighed, placing the hammer down and letting my exhaustion take hold. “Damn it, Grandfather. What’s special about these?”

Looking through them nothing particularly was, it was every photo of Grandfather and, eventually, Grandma from when they first met to their wedding and funeral. Simmering my frustration, going back to my room I place the suitcase with my other books, change into pyjamas and collapse into my bed.

“Bloody hell,” I sighed, shaking my head. “All that for nothing.”

“Not necessarily nothing…”

Springing from my bed and grabbing the cricket bat next to my bed, I scan the room, look out my window and peer the suitcase. Just to rule it out, I flick through the albums again finding the same pictures but looking over the lid a rectangular outline caught my eye.

Pulling out the secret compartment, old, worn photos fell into my hands, it was Grandfather in Vietnam. In my personal opinion, Grandfather was the best soldier not because he survived but shellshock or any mental disorders never touched him.

“Ah, I remember that war…”

Rising and ready to swing, my room showed nothing still the voice sounded close. Even behind him, spinning in a circle where I stood nothing was obviously threatening.

“Over here,” it said. “Your desk.”

There was only my laptop, schoolbooks and unlit desk lamp, “Oh, sorry, your bed.”

Only my unkept sheets and pillows, turning back to the suitcase, I kneel and sort through the albums, “Hehe, your fun to play with.”

Wheeling around, I swung wide only hitting air. Readying for another strike, I listened out for anything, but…

“Seriously, I’m on your desk.”

Blinking twice to be sure I was seeing it, a black leatherbound book sat on my laptop. I have never owned a journal, neither does my brother and my Grandfather’s collection possessed now wordless covered books. Cautiously approaching, I turned the cover and like cash cannon money flew into my face and spilled into my room.

Stumbling backwards I tripped over the suitcase ending up with and on my sore arse. Swearing to handle the pain, I watched as my room floor was littered in individual hundred-dollar notes, surely thousands of dollars surrounded me.

“Ding, ding, ding!” it announced. “We have a winner, Gary Forsyth’s Grandson! Inheritance, who needs it? Genies who? Haha!”

Gary Forsyth is my Grandfather, and how did a book know how to talk and know my Grandfather. If I blinked, then I would have missed the book morphing into a manifestation of my grandfather sitting in my desk chair.

“What do think?” he asked. “Better than the Gran Torino? Or those other books, hmm?”

“What-Who are you?” I asked. My mind bounced between comprehending current events and my heart recognising my Grandfather. “You’re not Gary Forsyth.”

He smiled. “I’m his legacy, more so your family’s legacy,” he continued with folded arms and knowing grin. “See, think about this? How did your mother have you and Dan, she’s infertile, you know that? And how did Gary stay sane after Vietnam?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“No way, buster,” he said, pointing at himself. “Gary made deals, with me, obviously. And deals he could never refuse, but unfortunately, he’s no longer with us, but hey now it’s your turn.”

Shifting to the mirror to study my face and Not-Gary’s face, apart from my mother’s eyes I was a younger Gary Forsyth. And yes, Mom and Dad struggled having kids, but eventually I was born and later Dan.

“I am your father,” Not-Gary drew back my attention. “Or the conduit for your true father, amazing what a drop of blood does.”

“You’re lying,” the grip of my bat tightened. “My father is Darren Forsyth.”

“Tell yourself whatever you want,” Not-Gary said unfazed. “But the truth is staring back at you, and the magic maestro of it all is me.”

Out of pure anger, I swing for Not-Gary’s head but only broke my desk chair. Hearing clapping from my bed, I bring down and overhead swing that bounces off the vacant mattress.

“Have this twenty thousand as an apology,” Not-Gary said from the ceiling. “First is always free anyway, but when desperate or your wife cannot have kids, or need for money. You’ll see me again.”

“I’m never making a deal with you,” swinging at him, I collide with my ceiling fan before finding no trace of the black book. Checking every corner of my room, every inch of the shed, my car and the house, Not-Gary vanished.

“Just think about it.”

Those were the last words he said to me. But I see him time-to-time, either the book or Not-Gary, but I-I resisted each time. He is persistent, every date with a girl, big opportunities that came my way.

Whatever my Grandfather traded for me and Dan to be born or come home normal from war, I never want to know because my Grandfather was the weakest soldier, and my birth is a lie. I never told Dan, no one else needs to be burdened with my knowledge or the torment. I never spent the money, but imagine what I could have done with it?