The Home for Wayward Clocks (17 page)

After looking quickly around, James waved at the window clocks anyway, just to give them something to think about, and then he moved on down the street. The restaurant, the Tick-Tock Quick-Stop, was next and the owner, Eugene, stood by the open doorway, drying his hands on a greasy towel.

“Hey, James,” he said. “Heard you’re fixin’ the clock tower.”

James stopped and propped one of his feet on the step. “Well, I’m going to try. I’ve never worked with anything this big before.” James liked Gene. Saturday nights, he sent one of the teenage waiters to the Home, carrying the day’s special. James always found it a treat to eat something he didn’t cook and Gene knew James didn’t like What Cheer crowds.

Gene nodded. “You’ll be able to do it,” he said. “You’re like a heart surgeon. You fix tickers.” He grinned and James laughed quickly behind his hand. “After you’re done, why doncha come back here and have some dinner? It’s Tuesday meatloaf. Comes with mashed potatoes and beef gravy, a biscuit, and for you, even a slab of Molly’s fresh-baked peach pie and a cup of coffee, on the house.”

When Gene sent over the Saturday supper, he always included some of his wife’s pie and James knew it was the best in the world. There was something about the crust, so sweet and crispy, it was a treat by itself. One Sunday, when James bumped into Gene at the Shop Around The Clock, James admitted how much he admired the pie crust and the next Saturday, Molly sent a surprise and a note. “James,” it said, “heard you thought my crust was capital-T tasty. So I made extra dough and made you crust-bites, brushed with butter and sugar. Hope you like them.” James ate every one, even before he ate his proper dinner, and he tucked away the note in a drawer in his kitchen. James never talked directly to Molly, face to face, but he saw her around town and that note made James feel like he knew her. He knew she had to be as sweet as her pies.

Now, James looked past Gene into the restaurant. It was crowded with folks, lots of the town’s regulars and the town’s families. If the clock tower took at least an hour, and it would probably take more, the crowd would thin before James returned. Crowds didn’t bother James normally; he was used to pushing upstream against folks in flea markets. But here, it was different. Here, it was a crowd that would talk to him. “I don’t know,” James said to Gene. “We’ll see what time it is when I’m done.”

Gene looked into the restaurant, then back at James. “I’d give you a special table around back,” he said. “It’s real private. I reserve it for lovers…those folks usually want to be alone.” He smirked and winked. “I’ll give it an hour, then keep the table open for you.”

James breathed deeply. He’d never eaten at the only restaurant in What Cheer, not once in his whole entire time there. He never even ate in restaurants when he was out on the road at flea markets and estate sales, preferring to call out for pizza or room service. But the idea of sitting at a table other than his own, sitting by himself while conversation buzzed around but not at him, eating a good meal, maybe even talking some with Gene and Molly, pulled him in. “Okay,” he said. “If the back table’s available, I’ll take it.”

They shook on it and Gene’s hand was warm and meaty. Then James moved on to the clock tower.

He was dismayed when he saw all the people. He’d imagined it as just being himself, the fire truck, and the clock tower. He didn’t even consider the firemen, somehow thinking that the truck was going to operate itself. But Neal and Ione were there, Ione’s feet actually clad in bright white sneakers instead of her fuzzy slippers. It was like she bought those shoes special just to watch James fix the clock. Several of the guys from the fire department stood by the truck, and in a back corner, James saw Cooley’s band of teenagers. They swung on a low black chain, looped between posts, that kept the clock tower corralled in a square. James hated that chain. As if the clock tower was going to get up and walk away. As if a single strand of chain would keep away vandals. Cooley was there, James recognized her reddish-purple hair. She was smoking a cigarette.

James stumbled for just a minute, the toolbox clanging loudly against his leg, but then he forced his shoulders back and his spine straight and he marched toward the fire truck. The clock tower needed him and he couldn’t walk away now.

Neal met him. “Hey, James,” he said. “Got the cherry picker. Thought it would be safer than a ladder truck.”

“Why are there so many people here?” James asked. “All I really needed was someone to operate the truck.” He wondered if the firemen could clear the area, let him work in peace.

“Well, Ione and I wanted to watch. We thought maybe we’d take you out to dinner at the diner afterwards, to say thank you.”

The vision of the back table disappeared. Unless James could convince them to sit there; he thought maybe he could take that. He’d only have to talk to Neal; Ione never said a word. She smiled though, and waved.

Laughter roiled the air and James looked over at the teens. They were bent over, guffawing, but Cooley was a bit separate from them. She raised her cigarette and James thought it might be a wave, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t respond. He thought of the price he put on fixing her clock, the promise taken from her to make the kids stop saying the clock-keeper rhyme, and he wondered if she’d hold to it. He wondered if he could take the clock back from her if she didn’t. If he would even try.

Then Mark, one of the fire guys, shook James’ hand. “Thought I’d give you a lift, James,” he said and smiled. He demonstrated how to stand in the big cup, how to operate the little door so James could step out onto the deck at the top of the clock tower. Neal, Mark and James walked away a bit and looked up.

“See there?” Mark said, pointing at one of the brick legs. “At the top? There’s an entry there. That’s what leads to the insides of the clock.”

What didn’t look far up before looked far up now. The entryway seemed tiny. “I can fit through that?” James asked.

Mark nodded. “Sure. It’s a regular door. Doorknob and everything. Just looks small from down here.” He handed James a key. “It’s locked, just an extra precaution to keep out vandals. Use this and you’ll get right in.” Then he fiddled with a large square flashlight, turning it on before handing it over. The light hit Mark’s face and he shut his eyes and turned away. “It might be dark in there, use this. You ready?”

James gripped the toolbox tighter. “Let’s do it.” Climbing into the cup, James decided to keep looking up, not down. Mark patted the cup, then patted James. “This truck is great, James, you’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s the star of our fleet, our newest one. We call her Cherry.”

James liked old things, but being in a new fire truck made him feel safer. The thing lurched into motion and he rose into the air. James focused on that door, watching it grow bigger and bigger.

Then he heard it. “Clock keeper, clock keeper…” and “Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s…Super Clock Keeper!” followed by more of that laughter. That laughter that James hated, that he heard all his life. He looked down and saw the teens, falling over themselves and pointing up. James couldn’t tell if Cooley was laughing or not. “Liar!” he yelled. “You liar, Cooley!” He got dizzy looking down and he dropped the toolbox to grab hold of the edges of the cup. The noise of metal hitting metal rang out and the lift came to a grinding stop.

“You okay, James?” Mark yelled. “What was that noise?” His voice seemed small and came from so far down. James wanted to see Mark, see his eyes in his upraised face, but was afraid to look. The cup might tip.

James took a deep breath. “It’s okay, I just dropped my toolbox. Keep going.” The lift resumed. There was some movement from down below that James caught out of the corner of his eye. He tried to look without tilting his head. Neal headed over to the teens. In a moment, they all left, except for Cooley. She shook her head and planted herself on the ground. Neal stayed by her. James put his concentration back on the task at hand and he watched as the cup leveled out next to the entry, bumping gently against the bricks.

Carefully, James unlocked the door and then stepped inside. The tower felt solid, stronger than Cherry, safer. James felt the big clock’s shoulders curl around him, protecting him. It knew James was there to help. The sunlight only brightened a small area and he was glad for the flashlight. He lit it and looked around.

It was like James shrunk and stepped into a clock on his workbench. Everything was familiar, but so giant. He moved around, shining the light this way and that. There was scaffolding everywhere, James could move with ease. He thought again about asking the town council to let him in there for regular maintenance. The clock face was plain, but the movement, the heart, was grand. Stopped as it was, James could admire every cog, every gear, as it slid into place, prepared to move. He wanted to be a part of it, to make this clock what it could be, a fine timepiece, not running late or ahead, but letting everyone know exactly what time it was, where they should be, how far along in their day.

James heard a tight hum. The clock was straining to run, but it was stuck somewhere. He moved around in a square, seeing everything lodged tight, but not finding the cause. Then the flashlight lit up a mess of twigs and white and black bird splatter stark against the cream of the brick. A nest, shaped oddly like a round-bottomed cup, was wedged in between two of the gears. James wondered how it got in here. He didn’t see any birds now, just the scraggly nest, chewed in the gear’s teeth. Moving closer, he looked inside. Five black and white speckled eggs. Barn swallows. He wondered if the parents would find the nest if it was moved outside.

Carefully, James put the flashlight and the toolbox down, making sure they were away from any edges, clear of falling. Then he grabbed the nest with both hands and tried to gently tug it free. The dried grass and twigs dug into his fingers, but James kept at it and it seemed to be coming loose.

Then it ripped. To James’ horror, it ripped right in half and the nest crumbled and the five little eggs fell. He tried to catch them and one bounced on his fingers, slid against his palm and he felt a splash of warmth. But when he closed his fingers, there was only air and his own skin. The eggs flew through the scaffolding and on down, turning end over end…and James saw them hit the ground.

That’s when he realized there was no floor. The scaffolding wrapped around the clock’s insides. There was a roof overhead to keep out the rain. But there was nothing solid below. Just the bright green of grass and some gold where the sun was blocked by the tower.

Free of debris, the clock began to work, the hum shifting loose and deep, its gears connecting and rolling forward. James grabbed on to the scaffolding, trying to get his balance, to look around again at the familiar, and not down at the mess of black and white egg shells and what he knew must be splattered baby birds. He looked at the gears and wondered how to reset the time. It wouldn’t be right anymore. Not that it ever was.

And that’s when he remembered the time the clock stopped. A notch before noon. James made a scramble for the door, but then the clock began to chime.

The sound was everywhere. It was solid, pressing down, forcing James flat out on his stomach on the scaffolding. He put his hands over his ears, his ears that were already stunned, and he tried to yell, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. The sound was burying him, the notes began to blend one into the other, and James didn’t know if the clock bellowed the Westminster or if it was on the time, the sound was just a physical thing, holding him down, his face pushed to the scaffold and he looked at the smashed birds and the sound pressed into his ears and his body and over his eyes until he closed them. Until he closed them and everything swirled into a tidal wave of noise. James fell into the wave and kept falling, his arms and legs outstretched, and his mouth open, his voice ringing with the time, and he chimed and chimed and chimed.

A
s I wrapped the cat clock in tissue, I wished for nine lives. Then I decided that was selfish, so I cut back. Nine lives were a luxury. One was poverty. Three lives…three lives would be perfect. One for me with my normal children. One for me with Leatrice. And one for me with me. Just me. Not torn between four with the biggest chunk going to one. Or torn between five, if I was to count myself. And it was time, I thought, to count myself. In my head, I assigned everyone their number.

One, Leatrice, always Leatrice, my special girl, now twenty-four years old.

Two, Annie, my little girl, twenty-eight.

Three, Christopher, my man of the house, thirty.

Four, Leonard, my husband. Ex-husband, although it was never official.

And last, me.

I thought about the middle three, no longer around to be counted anymore. Because they thought they didn’t count.

Leonard left when Leatrice was three. He said he couldn’t handle it anymore, he was sorry. Off he went to Arizona, sending rubber cacti for Christopher and Annie, rubber checks for me and nothing at all for Leatrice. I always found a few spare dollars for little toys for her, telling her they were from Daddy. She tossed them across the room and went on playing with the toilet paper rolls, the paper towel rolls, empty tissue boxes.

Christopher and Annie each left when they were eighteen, off to attend the University of Arizona and to stay with their father, they said because he gave them attention. His cacti counted as attention. Christopher left without a word, but Annie looked sad and said, “Mama, we understand. She’s a lot of work. But sometimes, it makes us wish we were a lot of work too.”

So then there were just two to count. First, Leatrice, always Leatrice. And now, finally, me, about to send my last child, my forever child, to a residential facility.

Then there would be just me. I would be number one. But my heart would be broken in two.

I
just closed the packing box when Leatrice lumbered into the kitchen. She was still in her flannel nightshirt, her favorite, red plaid with torn-out underarms. When I came back this afternoon, it would be the first thing I threw away. I couldn’t send it with her; what would they think of a tattered nightshirt? For a minute though, as I stood there, watching her stretch, seeing the underarm holes lengthen and narrow, flashes of her flabby skin peeking through, I thought how lifeless the nightshirt was going to be that night, when I got back. How it was filled out now, with her, with all her parts and curves and messes and sudden sweetness. And I wondered if tonight, after all the lights were out, after I was supposed to be in bed, asleep, for the first time in twenty-four years without the constant hum of the baby monitor on my dresser, the constant drone of Leatrice’s congested pug-nosed snoring, I would get up, pull the nightshirt out of the garbage and place it, carefully, next to me.