And so you stumble through the days and the nights and the months and the years and there are so many days that mean nothing to you. The first Sunday in May. The third Sunday in June. Your own birthday, which you only know by the date listed on your report cards, and that allows you to calculate your age. Every December for the first few years of school, you listen closely as your teacher reads stories to the class about a fat red man named Santa and you are amazed at the idea of a stranger bringing you toys, but it never happens anyway. The only trees are outside and they hold leaves, not ornaments. You learn quickly that your mother doesn’t know school breaks from school days and so you slide out of the house every morning, no matter what. Better to wander around the woods, better to take the long hike into town and then take it back, than to do something that attracts her attention and sends you to the root cellar.
Imagine a life without holidays and birthdays and events. Imagine showing up to kindergarten and throughout grade school on Valentine’s Day, without a baggie of red and pink and purple cards for your classmates, and imagine how red your face burns when your teacher forces the other kids to give you the valentines with your name printed, then written in cursive on little envelopes, even though you have nothing for them. Imagine how that burn goes deeper when the teacher follows you out of the classroom, insisting you keep the stuffed shoebox that you decorated yourself, created from a box that she gave you because you never have one from home to bring. Shoes from thrift stores don’t come in boxes.
One year, you try to make valentines for your classmates out of things around the house, but there is never much around the house. You slip aluminum foil out of the kitchen, scotch tape, and you use crayons that you sneak home from school. But your mother hears the crinkle of the foil, the scritch as the tape leaves its dispenser, and she sees the mess in your room, sparkle-silver and red waxy streaks and crooked hearts with sad loopy arrows. You spend Valentine’s Day down the root cellar that year. When you return to school, the teacher still sends you home with your shoebox full of reluctant and unreciprocated valentines. She says she saved them for you special.
In fifth grade, you dare to ask your mother, as you sit at the supper table with a bowl of cereal that you fix yourself because she is pacing the house again, living room to kitchen to bedroom to bathroom, a sure sign that there will be no meal, “What is this Valentine’s Day stuff anyway? All those hearts and I love yous. Where’d that come from? Why do they do that?”
She pauses and actually stares at you for a moment, her eyes suddenly sparkling instead of glassy. “Your daddy loved me,” she says, clear, her voice a charm. “He gave me candy every year, in a big red heart.” And then she walks on.
Your memory of your father is slipping away by this time, into the fog, just as he disappeared into the fog. He left three years earlier. He left you with her.
Imagine.
I know what happens, son.
And suddenly, you fling your cereal bowl across the table, and it shoots off the end and against the cabinet and makes a glorious mess, dripping down the scratched wood onto the floor. The bowl shatters and you know how it feels. When your mother grabs you by the collar, your shirt collar this time, and hauls you down the root cellar, to the belt, the chain, and the cold dirt floor, you don’t care. You don’t care because red hearts and cupids and curlicue I love you’s are fucking stupid.
Imagine a rage that thick.
James didn’t have to. He felt it roil silently under his skin every day, and he swore it forged its own veins that ran parallel to his blood. Veins that formed a river. With all his might, he willed this parallel river to remain under his skin and to never, ever erupt in spatters as thick as cereal thrown suddenly against a cabinet.
In the morning, James followed his schedule as usual. Checking the calendar, he wrote a list of clocks to be wound that day, and then began moving through the house.
It was a Tuesday, which was usually the slowest day for tourists. The busiest weekday was Friday, James figured because these were people on three or four day weekends. James just unlocked the front door at opening time and settled down for a break with a second cup of coffee when he heard the welcome bell ring. Sighing, he put down his mug and went forward to greet. It was another family.
“Hi!” the father said. He had his arm wrapped around the mother and his hand held a little girl, about four years old. “We’re just passing through, but we saw your billboard and thought we’d stop. We never heard of a clock museum before.”
“Welcome to the Home for Wayward Clocks,” James said. He automatically smiled at the mother and daughter. The little girl hid behind her father’s legs. James collected their money and instructed them to walk freely around the house and look-but-don’t-touch and ask-if-you-have-any-questions, but to please-stay-away-fromclosed-doors. On his way back to the control center, he stopped for a moment by the waltzer, the newly repaired four-hundred day clock. Whispering, James told it and the others that everything was okay. There was a child in their midst again, but this was a little one, not even close to the surly black-clad teen that attacked the other day. He promised that he would watch the cameras and be vigilant. Then he went back to his post.
The tour seemed to be progressing as usual. The parents exclaimed over the clocks and stopped several times to wait for a particular one to go off. The little girl got over her shyness and began to wander around, but the mother seemed to always have a hand or a sharp word at the ready. Children really weren’t often a problem and they were usually the most excited over the clocks. But their quick movements made James nervous. Children jumped around and danced during the chimes, swinging their arms and doing odd can-can kicks. They shrieked and laughed and then the chimes seemed to get a little more raucous. James couldn’t decide if the wild chiming was due to fear of being broken or to sheer joy of being excitedly appreciated. Joy and fear both caused a clamoring in James’ body and he just didn’t know how to interpret the clocks when they were in a wild mood.
On that day, James saw the incident begin to happen. The parents stood under a birdcage clock, staring up at the face and waiting to hear the bird sing. The little girl moved off to the side and watched a blinking-eye clock, Felix the Cat. “Mama, lookit da kitty!” she called and the mother nodded and said, “Isn’t that cute?” But she never took her eyes from the bottom of the birdcage. That was the first warning and James scooted forward on his chair. An ignored child was a dangerous child. The little girl seemed fascinated, but she didn’t move from her place. The black and white cat’s tail was a pendulum, swinging back and forth beneath the body of the clock, and as the pendulum moved, so did the eyes, left, right, left, right, in direct opposition to the tail. There was a Cheshire grin on Felix’s face and the little girl laughed and swayed below him, as if she was a pendulum herself. James sat back again and tried to relax as he watched her. She was a miniature of her mother, both of them craning their necks to admire a clock, their arms crossed in front of their chests in anticipation.
Then the little girl looked over at her parents and the set of her eyebrows made James lean forward again. Second warning. Something was up. He could always see the gears working in kids’ heads, but most of the time, the ideas stayed there and the children just smiled and imagined and went on their way. James knew what a powerful tool imagination was, how it was often satisfying in itself to pretend, and so he waited, watching for the little mischievous smile to indicate the plan was over, carried out only in a daydream.
Her parents still stood, waiting for the birdcage. The little girl looked quickly around the room and then went to grab a small footstool tucked in a corner. James used it to wind the higher clocks. Before she even placed it under the grinning cat, he knew what she was going to do. He shot out of his seat and ran up the stairs. The family was in the back east bedroom.
He wasn’t even halfway down the hallway when he heard the crash, followed by the mother’s cry and the little girl’s shriek. When James flew into the room, he found the mother kneeling next to the little girl who held Felix’s disembodied tail. The rest of the clock was in pieces on the floor. The father was halfway to them, his head still turned toward the birdcage clock. The bird, along with the other clocks in the room, was shouting, calling for James, calling for help. Telling him he failed, a clock was hurt, it was hurt!
Not again, James thought, not again. He snatched the tail out of the girl’s hands. “What did you do?” he yelled. He had to yell, to be heard over the clocks. The girl fell into tears and the mother hugged her close. James watched her arms tighten and for a moment, his mind stumbled, trying to imagine the embrace, but then he remembered the scene in the monitor, the little girl’s sly glance at her parents before she turned to the cat clock, and anger seethed just under his skin.
“It was an accident,” the mother said. “She didn’t mean to—”
“The hell she didn’t!” James pointed at the footstool. “I watched through my monitors. She deliberately dragged that footstool over to climb up and grab this clock.”
“I just wanted to touch his tail!” the girl sobbed.
“You watched?” the father said, joining the group.
“I have a security system.” James nodded toward the camera hovering near the ceiling in a back corner. He lowered his voice now that the chiming was done, but he felt the clocks huddling close, holding their breath, waiting to see what he would do. James knew what they were thinking. He’d failed twice. Twice. Wasn’t he capable of doing his job anymore? He felt sobs rising from his core, echoing the little girl’s, but he choked them back. Not in front of the customers. Not in front of people. “I saw her look at you, then go get the footstool. She knew what she was up to. And this clock is…” He bent over the cat, its eyes still, staring straight up. “Dead.” He scooped it up, tried to reattach the tail so at least the body would be whole. “Dead, unless I can fix it.” The tail wouldn’t reconnect; there was something wrong with the pendulum wire.
The father picked the little girl up, cuddled her under his chin. “It’s okay, Sheila,” he said, and for a moment, James was struck dumb, looking at the two of them so close that way. The mother stood up too, put her hand on the little girl’s back. James stared at her fingers, so pink and soft against the girl’s dark blue sweatshirt. So pink and soft. He pictured this mother, cupping the little girl’s chin in those fingers, bringing her lips down, kissing her cheek, all as she tucked her into bed. A nightly routine. An every-night routine. Her fingers moved, stroking the little girl’s back, and James wanted to reach out and grab that hand, place it on his own back or under his own chin, offer his own cheek. Oh, to feel that.
Then the father said, “You should have told us this place is inappropriate for children. It’s not hands-on.”
James blinked. Hands-on? He forced himself to look away from the mother’s fingers to study the destroyed clock, his Felix. “I told you that you were to look, not touch.”
“This is a child, children touch,” the father said and he started to walk away. The mother moved with him, in sync, her touch on the girl unbroken. Sheila looked at James over her father’s shoulder. Tears rolled down both cheeks, but she looked at James. And smiled.
“Children can be controlled,” James said sharply, then instantly clenched his fists. Another part of the clock snapped. James remembered hearing those words. He remembered being told not to touch, not to play, not to make a mess, not to leave his room, not to sass. His mother said that. Children can be controlled. She said it through bared teeth. James remembered her hand and he shuddered.
The father stopped and turned around. The mother swiveled with him. James was glad to see the girl’s back again. He didn’t like her face, that smile and those tears, letting him know she had everything and he had nothing. “We’d like our money back,” the father said. The mother looked up at him. She was proud of him; James could tell by the tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders.
“No.” He said it as forcefully as he could, even as sweat dripped down the inside of his shirt and his knees trembled. He held out the battered clock. “It will take all you paid, plus more, to fix this.” His voice died, though he willed it to go on, to tell the man how much this clock would cost to fix, how much to replace, as he had the last father. But seeing them there, the two of them, mom and dad, wrapped around that child, took his tongue away. He couldn’t risk speaking, it would lead to tears, and his mother said tears were to be smacked away. It took everything he had to say this much in their presence. So silently, he just held out the cat clock, the bruised body in one hand, the amputated tail in the other.
The father started to say something, but the mother shook her head. She made a sound like, “Shhh.” The little girl lifted her head, twisted in her father’s arms. The smile was still there, faint so the parents couldn’t see it. The father sighed. “Christ, keep the money,” he said. “It’s just a stupid plastic cat clock.”
They all pivoted and left, walking as a unit. James stood there, looking at Felix, trying to keep the tears down, trying not to think of his mother’s hands, trying to swallow her words back down to a place so deep within himself, they would never emerge from his mouth again. As the family’s footsteps echoed, as they reached the landing by the stairs, James heard the mother’s soft voice, followed by the little girl’s strident whine. And then the father.
“You know better than to touch things that aren’t yours!”
A smack. A smack and a wail. Then the flurry of footsteps down the stairs.
She got hers. That was another thing James’ mother used to say. The words came flying back up unbidden and James was powerless to push them back down. He was horrified. You’ll get yours. Her hand drawn back like a pitcher ready to throw a fastball. James sat down on the closest chair and rested Felix on his lap. She got hers, that little girl. But his own cheek stung and he placed his fingers against his face and stroked.
James waited until the door chimed as it opened and slammed. Then he went to the control room, checked the monitors to make sure that no one walked in as the family walked out, and then went down the basement to the workroom.
He placed Felix on the bench. Taking inventory, he made his prognosis. Felix would run again, if he had the parts. Pieces of the broken body would have to be glued, which ruined the clock’s value, but he would run again and that was all that mattered. Clocks didn’t care if they had to limp along. Just so they lived.
One by one, James examined all of Felix’s broken parts, then dove into the skeleton boxes and found replacements. Lining them up, broken to whole, side by side on a soft towel, James made sure all were present and accounted for. All the whole parts had to be washed, prepared for the transplant. The broken would be placed on a piece of velvet and buried. The delicate wire that held the pendulum and attached it to the clock’s workings was stretched straight; it couldn’t be used again. One more search in the boxes and a new wire was found, the slim triangle at the bottom ready to grip Felix’s tail.
James stood there for a moment and eyeballed everything, connecting one piece to another in his mind. And he came up short. Again, he went over it, then one more time. There was definitely a gear missing. James looked inside Felix’s body to make sure it wasn’t rolling around loose, but he was empty. The missing gear was small, but important; all gears are important because they’re interdependent, but at least it was only one.
James returned to the back east bedroom. The gear couldn’t have gotten far. Its roundness would enable it to roll, so he got down on his hands and knees and crawled, trying to put his face as close to the carpet as possible.
And then he remembered Cooley, scooping up those two tiny old springs from her Baby Ben and tucking them into her pocket. The little girl wanted a part too, Felix’s tail, but maybe she kept his gear. Maybe she took it.
James kept crawling, pushing back the anger that threatened to erupt out of his blood. A piece of one of his clocks in a stranger’s pocket. He tried to control his breathing, blinked away the new set of tears that threatened to spill, tears of anger and frustration this time. But then he found it, threaded into a tiny pulled string in the carpet. Relief poured over him in a cold sweat and he cupped the gear in his hand and returned to the basement.
The clock was all there. Felix just had to be put back together. A feline Humpty Dumpty.
What could be replaced would be replaced. What was split would be glued. James sighed and lowered his head. It would be a full morning, gluing the clock, waiting for it to dry. The afternoon would be spent putting the movement back together and attaching the pendulum wire and gear. And then he’d have to hang Felix carefully on the wall, maybe a little higher this time. Out of the reach of little girls. Then the clock tower climb at six.
For the moment, even as James held the glue and the broken pieces of plastic in his hands, all he could see was the mother’s pink fingers. James knew, just looking at them, just remembering them, that those fingers were warm. Warm and soft, maybe just the slightest bit moist.
But not cold. No, not cold at all.
At six o’clock, James locked the front door of the Home. Lorraine, the lady who ran the bed and breakfast, Time To Sleep Inn, across the street was out on her porch, shaking out some rugs. She flapped one in James’ direction. “Hi, James!” she called.
He nodded and started walking. It would take about ten minutes to reach the clock tower. He carried a metal toolbox filled with his most often used tools and he took great pleasure in the banging sound as it hit against his thigh, the rattle as the tools shifted inside. It was a good sound, a going-to-work sound. It reminded James of the old metal lunchbox he used to carry to work when he was a janitor. The thermos inside always made a pleasant busy rolling-around sound. It always mashed the sandwiches, but he kept it anyway. The lunchbox made him feel good, like he was doing something important. Now, the toolbox made him feel the same way and his steps grew long and purposeful.
Downtown was quiet, which was typical for a Tuesday evening. Neal’s and Ione’s gift shop, It’s About Time, was closed up tight, but James stopped and looked in the window. Battery-powered clocks ticked away, their faces blank and dumb. When clocks didn’t run themselves, they didn’t have anything to do but sit there. That’s what these clocks did…they just sat on the bright green crushed velvet material Neal bought on overstock at the fabric store. James could see the shelves and counters, lined with more and more of the vacant clocks. One whole showcase carried the brass miniatures. Once, Neal showed James a replica of a grandfather clock. It was beautiful, James couldn’t deny that. Its brass was finely etched and the detail of the clock’s sun and moon movement above the face was perfect. But the plain white watchface and the battery-thin tick ruined it. It was pretty, but it had no personality. Neal offered to give it to James, to display at the Home alongside a business card for the gift shop, but James said no.
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.