Francis was born in the snow, in the back of a taxi on the way to the hospital. The only St Cloud child whose birth to which his father had been witness, sitting beside his wife and trying to make space for the life that was forcing its way into the world before it was welcome. He was the only boy, and maybe that would have made a difference to his relationship with his father if it hadn’t been for the manner of his birth, the effluvia of it, which had spilled onto his father’s shoes and cost the St Clouds $400 in taxi cleaning fees.
He’d liked science as a kid, chemistry best of all, loved watching things bubble and boil over in beakers at school. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that chemistry was everywhere, in everything: a delicate balance between elements, chemicals, people. It was visible, to Francis, in a way it didn’t seem to be visible to anyone he knew. Like how a painter sees yellow and green and knows that it will yield blue.
It was also how he knew when people liked him, which they often did, the colors sparkling and obvious above their heads. Francis didn’t know what his own color was. He never knew what new thing they’d make together, so the first time he’d noticed someone looking at him and lighting up, he’d thought, Well, let’s try it and see, and they became the first of a string of failed experiments, the beginning of his collection.
“‘Anybody called Francis is elegant, unbalanced and intelligent and certain to be right not about everything, but about themselves. At least such has been true of any Francis in history or as I have known them,’” Adelaide had read to him once, her voice soft and her free hand threading through his hair as they sat by the big fireplace in the living room. They were home alone; Agnes had gone with their mother to look at some painting and Cecily was at the apartment complex’s gym, shrinking herself to nothing.
He had laughed. “Unbalanced?”
“Don’t blame me, blame Gertrude Stein,” said Adelaide, giving the book a little wave. “Anyway, she also said elegant and intelligent so it’s not all bad.”
He had huffed to himself, snatching the book from her hand and leafing through it. “And what does Ms. Stein have to say about Adelaides, huh?” he wondered.
“No one ever has anything to say about Adelaides except for Adelaides themselves,” his sister laughed, grabbing the book back and bopping him gently on the forehead with it. “‘I know not these my hands and yet I think there was a woman like me once had hands like these.’”
Francis blinked. “Who’s that?”
“Adelaide Crapsey. She died at thirty-six after inventing the cinquain, which is sort of an American version of the haiku. She’d cheat though — she used the title as an extra line.”
“Well,” Francis reasoned, “if you make up the rules it’s only fair that you should be allowed to cheat. Creator privilege.”
Adelaide laughed, hitting him on the head again but gently. “So the point of inventing rules is to make yourself the only one who’s permitted to break them?”
“The point of inventing rules is to be the one best positioned to win,” said Francis. “Obviously.”
Adelaide gave him a considering look. “Surely there are some games worth playing where everybody can win.”
Francis reached up and gave his sister’s cheek a condescending pat. “If there is, I’ve never played it,” he laughed, and she sighed, shaking her head.
“No,” she said. “I suppose you haven’t.”
*
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to the chilliad to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.