Folly of the Forgotten

By: Griffin Cobb

James Mckinnely sat before his dementia-ridden father, Arthur Mckinnely, dangling a pocket watch before him with one hand and a “Hypnotism for Dummies” book in the other. A burly man with a holstered gun watched, standing in the doorway to Arthur’s study. Books and pages spilled from shelves while the old windows and wood walls creaked against the fervent winds. There was a storm out, invisible during the night.

“Arthur, gaze into the swaying clock,” James said slowly, reading it off the pages of his book. “Send your mind back, back to when you were whole.” The pocket watch swung with an unsteady rhythm. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Arthur said. 

“I’m your son, Father, trying to help you remember,” James responded. He spoke in a lilted, overly dramatic whisper.

“Oh, why don’t I know that?”

“You have dementia.”

“That would explain it,” Arthur said. He pointed at the hospice nurse. “Who’s he?”

“That’s, a, uh, friend. Dimitri.”

Dimitri waved. “You’re doing great, Arthur.” He was about as wide as the door frame and carried a thick accent James could only describe as vaguely eastern european. He was, in fact, not a friend, but a very peculiar debt collector who’d forced James to interrogate his father. 

Arthur waved back. “Ok, you’re my son. He’s him.” He struggled to keep those things straight, but speaking it aloud seemed to help. “What are we doing again?”

James clenched his jaw but kept the dramatic tone. “You’re a writer. A famous one, Arthur, but your final work has gone unfinished, the ending trapped in your mind. I’m trying to help you remember so that we can once and for all finish your masterpiece.”

Arthur scrunched his face, his eyebrows nearly covering his eyes. He and James bore an unmistakable resemblance in their bushy eyebrows and how their noses seemed too long for their faces. They both looked, and often were, annoyed.

“Huh, a writer, that’s neat,” Arthur said. “Oh, but who are you?”

James dropped the pocket watch and snapped the book shut. “Alright, fuck this.” The fake air of mystique dropped, replaced by very real panic and tension. He tried to push past Dimitri, but the man didn’t budge.

“James, you said this would work,” Dimitri said. 

“No, I said it wouldn’t, and you said to try it anyways.” 

“If we cannot find his book’s ending, we must have him tell it to us.”

Arthur Mckinnely was a renowned author, but his condition worsened before he could wrap up the final manuscript in his primary Folly of the Forgotten series. He was an infamous recluse who kept his notes and manuscripts under lock and key, so the ending remained a mystery. 

“Dimitiri, I can just take his credit card,” James called from the living room. It was similarly cluttered as the study, but instead of books, awards and accolades littered the walls. Several pictures showed Arthur shaking hands with other authors and celebrities. None showed James.

Dimitri stepped out, helping Arthur to a nearby reclining chair. “No, we are not thieves, especially not of great authors. Your debt is your debt. Find the last book, then we talk.”

Arthur and James hadn’t been on speaking terms for years, but while Arthur’s mind sank into the mud, James had sunk into some rather impressive gambling debts. All the time spent during his childhood on writing workshops and networking did little to make James a better writer, but it did introduce him to some prolific names in horse betting. Against Arthur’s intentions, the gambling stuck before the writing. Now, he was stuck with around fifty grand in debts. He had wanted to take ownership of his father’s estate, but Dimitri, a large sponsor of the races and owner of most of James’ debt, turned out to be a big fan of Folly of the Forgotten. He gave James a proposition: get him Arthur’s final manuscript, and his debts would be forgiven. James had planned on leaving his father to waste away, but he’d also planned on getting rich from the races.

James called ahead to relieve the hospice nurse for a couple nights, and the two arrived yesterday. They spent the first few hours tossing the place, hoping to find the manuscript tucked away somewhere. But Arthur had been as paranoid as James remembered. If there was a final book, it was somewhere only Arthur knew. Prying either the location of or the ending to Folly of the Forgotten out from Arthur’s psyche was the next best solution James could think of. 

“Flashcards didn’t work, music didn’t work,” James said. He paced from wall to wall. “And hypnotism’s a bust.” 

“You could try and talk to him normally,” Dimitri said. 

“Haven’t done that in ten years, don’t plan on starting now.” 

Dimitri brought a warm bowl of soup from the kitchen and handed it to Arthur, who gladly accepted. “Feeling better, Arthur?” For as imposing as the mobster was, he took great pleasure in doting on his favorite author.

“What is this?” Arthur asked.

“Soup,” Dimitri said.

“What kind?”

“Mine.” Arthur seemed to take that as an acceptable answer.

Dimitri brought another bowl of soup out and sat down “Well, what now, James?” 

“Great question. We could try ransacking the place again.” The first time they did this, the sudden changes and disorientation didn’t leave Arthur in the most calm state, so it was a final resort. “Do I get any soup?”

“No. Are you sure we cannot somehow ‘jog the memory,’ as you say,” Dimitri said.

“Arthur, you remember how your book ends yet?” James called out

Arthur slurped at his soup before responding, “What book?”

“See?” James said. “Dimitri, have you ever known anyone with dementia?”

“My grandmother forgot to lock her doors once in winter and had a bear come in and kill her,” he said.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“But I have read the books,” Dimitri continued. “This is just like Folly of the Forgotten, no?”

Though he didn’t like to admit it, James had read his father’s work. Folly of the forgotten was supposed to be a five book series, where five characters all wake up in the same house with amnesia. Some try to reconstruct their lives, others try to embrace their new blissful ignorance, but all gets increasingly more complicated once parts of their past turn out to be intertwined. Each book focuses on one of the character’s past. The final one was set to reveal Eddie’s past, the main character and one with the worst case of amnesia.

“Kinda. It’s ironic either way” James said. 

“I didn’t realize you were a fan of Arthur’s as well,” Dimitri said. His voice raised in pitch. James assumed he didn’t get to talk much about this interest around his usual company. 

“Definitely not a fan. And I only ever read the first one, I just got the jist of the rest most before I dipped. The man loved to rant about himself.” He thought of the many nights his dad would sit him in his study and rattle on for hours. It was irritating, but it was the only time they really talked, one-sided or not. “But, yeah, I kept up with it when I could.”

“You’re a better son than I thought,” Dimitri said. 

James laughed. “Arthur would beg to differ, even now.”

Arthur was now trying to disassemble a wooden puzzle. He wasn’t making any progress and cursed under his breath every time a piece slipped back into place. James felt uncomfortable watching his father in such a poor state, but recognized the puzzle. 

“Huh, haven’t seen those in a while,” James said. “He used to get those for me as a kid for birthdays.”

“A good gift, to keep the mind sharp, I’ve heard,” Dimitri said. 

“Not really. Mom wasn’t around, and those kept me busy and out of his hair while he worked,” he said.

“Still, he was around, that is better than not around.”

“You would think. There are plenty of stories to tell that kind of speak against that.”
“Then tell them,” Dimitri said. 

James, tired on all emotional fronts and scared to disobey the armed mobster, obliged. For the next hour, he rambled through memories of being forgotten at a few of many seminars and conferences Arthur dragged him to, the verbal lashings after attempting to watch cartoons instead of reading Faulkner. The combination of his father’s weak constitution, demeaning nature, and skillful way with words made him extremely adept at verbal abuse. 

“We had a dog, once. Milton. When he died, my dad asked me to write him a eulogy. My dad refused to call me by name for a year after it failed to make him cry,” James said. 

There were memories with glints of happiness. Getting Milton, for instance. As much trouble as it had gotten him, James recalled his first horse race with fondness. Arthur had only dabbled in betting alongside his editor, and the two had won a modest amount and taken James out for steak later that night. And, of course, there were brief instances where James tried to get back at his dad. Dimitri particularly enjoyed the anecdote about how he pranked Arthur by replacing his manuscript at the time with a Russian translation of 1984.

“You have inherited your father’s knack for storytelling, James,” Dimitri said.
James shuddered at being compared to his father, but accepted it. “You can’t grow up with a writer for a father and not pick up things here and there,” James said. “Hell, for the longest time, he wanted me to write too.”

“You write?”

“Not for a long while, but back in school, Dad was adamant I followed his lead.” James looked at the clock. He and Dimitri had been talking for about an hour. He found it incredibly odd how comfortable he found chatting with his debt collector, but it was overshadowed by how relieving talking about his dad had been.

“My father was not a great man either,” Dimitri said. “I was a rambunctious child, sure, but every time I was naughty my father would give me a broken shovel and lock me outside. ‘Return next week once you have dinner for whole family.’ It taught me great things, yes, but it still child abuse.”

James grew ever so slightly more thankful for his childhood.

“What I mean to say, James, is do not abandon skill just because it came from dark place.”

“Dimitri, you’re incredibly insightful for a mobster,” James said.

“I collect debts, does not mean I am not emotionally intelligent,” he said. 

The conversation died out for a moment while James reflected on his situation, before he said, “Why don’t I just write an ending for you?”

Dimitri took the soup bowls back to the kitchen. “No. Arthur is a fantastic writer, you cannot imagine something better than what he had planned.” Emotionally intelligent, but a book loyalist through and through. “I still collect debts. If fifty thousand dollars of your own money is not in your pocket, Folly of Forgotten final manuscript better be.”

“And if neither or in my pocket?”

Dimitri pulled up his shirt to reveal his holstered handgun.

“Right, gotcha.” James’ sense of relaxation vanished, but he couldn’t think of any new way to find the manuscript. Arthur still played with the wooden puzzle, now failing to put it back together. Without anything else to do, James sat beside him.

“What, I’m busy,” Arthur said.

“Can I talk to you just for a bit?”

Arthur didn’t put the puzzle down but didn’t reject the idea. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” James said. “Arthur, I’m your son, James.”

“I have a son?” Arthur asked.

“Mostly. How’s your puzzle going?”

The puzzle was on the verge of coming back together before a shaky hand let them fall apart onto his lap. “Piece of shit,” Arthur said. “What do you want?”

James thought about it for a moment and said, “Just to talk, Dad.”

“Huh. Right, I’m your Dad.”

“Yes, you are,” James said. “We haven’t talked in a while, I wanted to know how you’re doing.”

Arthur looked slightly uncomfortable. “I’m tired. Why all the questions?” Despite the memory loss, Arthur was antagonistic to his core.

“Just curious, Dad. You can ask me questions if you want.”

“Hm, okay. Uh, what’s your name?”

“My name is James.”

Arthur seemed to perk up. “Oh, I have a son named James.” 

“That’s pretty cool. What do you think of him?” For the first time, James thought he might hear an honest, good thing about himself from his father.

“He’s a shithead,” Arthur said. 

He was nothing if not consistent, James thought.

“Always wasting my time,” he continued. “Can’t get anything done when he’s around.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work,” James said.

“Who?” Arthur said. 

The puzzle lay in pieces on his lap. He ignored his son and once again tried to fit them together. 

James cried. He pushed his chair and went back into the study. He wanted to scream and throw every book and paper in sight, but refrained from scaring Arthur. At the same time, he wanted to vomit at how his father, something closer to a shell than a man, still had such control over how he felt.

Dimitri followed behind. “James, what is the matter?” He closed the door, and James grew louder.

“Christ, fuck, this is why I went away,” He said.

“I do not understand.”

“I couldn’t handle him, or, fuck. The not him.” James paced. “I left the first time he couldn’t remember my name. I couldn’t take it, so I didn’t.”

Dimitri looked at him with pity. “It is difficult, James, seeing the ones you love slip away.”

“That’s just it. I fucking hate him, and I hate that he gets to forget all that he’s done to me.” As James had told the story of he and his father, bringing all the abuse and neglect back to his mind for the first time in years, it dawned on him that the story would never end. That story of pain and guilt would never be tied up by revenge, or an apology, or even an acknowledgement. Arthur Mckinnley left before he could give any of that to James, and left behind a ghost to gloat. 

“I wanted to tell him how awful he was,” James yelled. “I wanted to explain in as vivid detail as I could how much he failed.” 

Outside the door, Arthur yelled “Be quiet!”

James instinctively closed his mouth, then broke into a slight laugh. “Fuck I’m pathetic.” He leaned against the desk, knees ready to give out just from the weight of his words.

“I’m still under his thumb,” he said. “Even my fucking debts are all riding on him.” 

“James, if you want you still can. Tell him, I mean. He is out there. In fact, there is very little consequence to doing so right now.”

“But it won't stick. It'll slide off. Just like me. Just like everything I said to him before he got like this." James’ breathing had become hoarse and shaky.

“And even still,” he said. “If there’s even some tiny, shitty piece of my dad still left in there — and I really fucking hope there isn’t — I don’t want the last thing he hears from me to be more screaming.”

Wind rapt against the window of the study. James felt light headed. His situation felt too absurd to be taken seriously, yet here he was, tear stained and shaking. He almost forgot Dimitri was in the room before he broke the silence.

"James, you are a better man than your father, it seems." he said, quietly.

Again James stifled a tearful laugh. The idea was absurd and felt wholly irrelevant to his woes. Of course he was better than Arthur, the scumbag father who barely loved him even when it was convenient. Of course James was a better man, right? Despite the debts, despite the mistakes, despite being not a good person, he was still better than his father. 

More tears streamed down, and the seemingly irrelevant words of Dimitri ever so slightly melted a weight off of James’ chest. This story he loathed so much would never end, but fuck if he couldn’t revel in something having changed. 

James sat in his emotionally exhausted state for about a minute before Dimitri spoke up.

“Right, back to the manuscript.” He began looking through Arthur’s shelves once more. James did what he could to collect himself and joined. Emotional revelations would do him little good dead. 

After a few minutes of searching, James came across a familiar book spine tucked underneath a cabinet.

“No way he kept this,” he said as he pulled out a Russian-translated copy of 1984. Arthur seemed to have used it to level the cabinet legs, as it now rocked side to side. The book had several loose pages stuffed into it, but it was the same book James had given him as a prank years ago.

“Have you found it?” Dimitri asked.

“No,” James said. He thought for a moment, then handed the book to Dimitri. “You speak Russian, right?”

Dimitri inspected the cover and laughed. “This is wonderful, James, thank you.” He scanned through the book's pages. “I will be so kind as to take off one thousand from your debt just for-” Dimitri paused.

“What a kind soul you are, Dimitri.” James said. “You okay?”

Dimitri dropped the book to the floor, clutching the loose papers it had held.

“Dimitri?”

“James, this is it!” he said “This are notes of Arthur’s fifth book!” Despite his large stature, Dimitri jumped up and down like a kid given their favorite candy. 

“For fuck’s sake be quiet!” Arthur yelled once more through the door. 

Dimitri quieted, but still radiated with joy. James, baffled, ran to his side to look at the sheets. Sure enough, they were scattered notes and a general outline of the fifth Folly of the Forgotten.

“Christ, it is,” he said. He felt amazed at the sheer luck of the find. For a moment, he contemplated what significance could it hold, Arthur using a gift from his son as the resting place for his magnum opus. But he knew it more than likely carried little sentiment. It was common in the beginning stages of Dementia to misplace things in odd locations, unable to retrace their steps. By the time Arthur placed the notes in 1984, he’d long forgotten it had anything to do with James.

Still, James couldn’t help but smile at the absurd full circle his father had unknowingly created. The very notes used to pay off his debts, tucked away in some random prank from years back.

Holy shit, his debts.

“Dimitri, does, does this mean my debts are paid?” James was shaking, eager for a response, but Dimitri had tuned out the world. His eyes flit over the page at rapid speed. For about twenty minutes, the two sat in silence while Dimitri read.

“Unbelievable,” Dimitri muttered.

“Well, what happens?” James didn’t particularly care, but if there ever was a moment to feign interest, it was now.

“The main character, Eddie, he never gets memories back,” Dimitri said. “His life go on, and his past, just, not in here. Other characters go separate ways, and then the story ends.”

“Oh, that sounds-” 

“It is terrible!” Dimitri yells.

Outside, Arthur shouted, “Quiet over there!”

Dimitri yelled back what James could only intuit as a string of Russian profanity. His admiration of Arthur appeared to have melted away alongside the notes.

“Horrible ending, satisfies nothing that reader is interested in.” Dimitri ranted for several more minutes before quieting into a huff. 

James let him settle, then asked, “So, my debts?”

Dimitri straightened his posture, switching from his displeased reader persona back to that of a mobster. “I am a man of my word. Debts by me are forgiven, and I will handle those not owed to me.”

A knot of tension that had settled in James’ chest for the past few years finally came undone, and he nearly lost his footing from the release of tension. 

“Thanks, Dimitri, really.”

“It is no problem, really. Horse racing is extremely prolific, fifty thousand is nothing.” To hear his life altering debt be called “nothing” was almost more of a shock to the system, but he let it slide off, and reveled in his new freedom. 

Dimitri laid a firm but gentle hand on James’ shoulder. “But, I would avoid betting in future. There is no sixth book to save you again.”

“You know, I honestly think I worked out a lot of what fueled my gambling in the last couple hours so, I should be good,” James said.

“That is good to hear,” Dimitri said. “Well, then what is your plan now?”

A plan beyond debt still sounded ludacris to James, but he still needed one. He glanced past Dimitri at the door to the living room. 

“I think I might stay with my dad,” he said. “Just, see what closure I can get.” He refrained from explaining his plan to place Arthur’s estate in his name, just in case any lingering loyalties lied in Dimitri. 

“And,” he continued. “I think I might pick up writing again.”

At this, Dimitri smiled, as genuine as when he found Arthur’s notes. “That is a wonderful idea, James.” His imposing stature once again melted into a slightly sheepish friend. “If you ever need a, what do you call them, beta reader…” he trailed off.

Only two hours ago had this giant man made James fear for his life. He felt lightheaded at how little things made sense at the moment, but couldn’t keep a smile down. 

“You’ll be the first to get a copy, Dimitri.” James picked up 1984 and set it on his father’s desk. Outside, the storm had passed, stars shining brightly in the clear sky.