Thanksgiving night was our first big snowfall of the season. It doesn’t matter how much snow we get in Ohio, the first snowfall always feels new. I opened my bedroom window to feel the chill as I let out the smell of cigarettes. The snowflakes danced in the glow of the streetlights and called me beyond the front porch, where I stood and caught snowflakes with my tongue. I didn’t care how cold it was; I sat down on the bottom step and watched the snow cover the dirt and dry leaves of autumn with a clean, fresh blanket of white.
The front door opened and shut and Mom sat on the step beside me.
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” I wanted to say it was something I had eaten, but I couldn’t lie. Mom traced a line in the snow with her foot. “Maybe it’ll snow enough to make snow ice cream. I know I’ve got some condensed milk,” Mom suggested. “And Hershey’s sauce, too.”
I nodded. We could do it if it was deep enough to skim off the top and then scoop out a clean layer.
“Do you want to talk about this afternoon?”
I stuck my tongue out and caught a few more flakes. They felt refreshing on my face.
“Sometimes it just doesn’t help to talk about it. I mean, nothing really works,” I said.
“Try me.”
I sighed. I wasn’t getting out of this.
“Well, everybody says to ‘start over.’ But how do you ‘start over’ when nothing seems ended?”
“I don’t know,” she said, too honestly. “I don’t know if we’re beginning something new or trying to finish something old.”
There were things that troubled me worse than that. “Do you ever wonder …,” I began and then stopped. I almost told her how many times I relived the event, trying to come up with ways to make it not happen. I almost told her I had a recurring nightmare about that blue car driving without stopping. Mom shivered as if she could read my thoughts and tightened her coat around her chest, then jumped up and returned with a quilt off the front porch. She didn’t say anything, so I continued without finishing my first question. I couldn’t even bring up my guilty feelings.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop crying about all the little things that remind me of him. And that makes me worry one day I won’t feel sad anymore that he’s gone and then I worry maybe I’ll feel guilty I’m not sad.”
Mom nodded and traced a circle with her foot.
“Somebody said it would be so hard at first, and then it’d get easier, but that’s not true. In some ways it gets harder because nothing really changes, except us.” Mom added a smiley face and two eyes. She tried so hard. Something in that drawing reminded me that maybe she had lost more than I had.
“Losing Joel meant losing a part of me and finding a new me,” she said.
“You’re still you to me,” I said, as if that might comfort her. Except, suddenly, I knew it wasn’t quite true. She was my mom, but different than she was the seconds before Joel was killed.
“On the day you were born, I studied you closely, memorizing every detail.” Mom pressed my nose as if it were a button. “I tried to figure out if you got Daddy’s nose, or my eyes, or if you’d ever grow hair!” Her hand cupped my face, a face so unlike hers. “I wondered what you’d look like all grown up.” Mom paused and took a shaky breath. “I’m so glad I have that with you, but I won’t with Joel. I don’t know who he would have been.”
“He would have grown up to be a good kid.”
“I think so, too,” Mom agreed. “A lot like Matt.” We were quiet. As if that were a heavy thought. The goodness in Matt so obscured beneath layers of cold snow.
After five layers of clay and three days of drying, the day after Thanksgiving Matt finally let me paint my volcano with red and purple and a white snowy top. Dad kept me company as he worked on an anniversary clock in silence until a knock at the top of the stairs signaled another client. My handwritten CLOCK Doc sign was still tacked at the top of the stairs. Dad’s basement business was growing by word of mouth, obviously filling some void in Dad as well as in town. Just how many broken clocks could Bethel Springs have—sitting around not telling time?
Today’s guest visitor was Bruce Hanley. Mr. Hanley repaired cars and lived a block down the road. We didn’t know him because he didn’t have children, except on the weekends when he was always driving in and out of his driveway with two kids in the backseat. His daughter looked to be about my age, and I thought it’d be nice to play with her. Somebody explained that Mr. Hanley was divorced. He was the only one on our street who lived alone.
Mr. Hanley came down the stairs and shook hands with Dad almost apologetically. “I know you don’t see me much at your house. I mean the other house.” He looked my way and nodded a hello. Dad’s clients included a lot of people I’d never seen at Bethel Springs Presbyterian Church.
“Don’t worry about that, Bruce. I haven’t been to the other house much lately either.”
“And you won’t see me. Not my style. But I heard you were fixing clocks.”
“I’m trying,” Dad answered. “What do you have?”
“I have this clock of my dad’s. I think it might have been his grandfather’s. I’ve never had anyone check it out. But now I was wondering if you could take a look at it. It used to run for a little bit and then just stop, but now it doesn’t run at all.”
“What kind of clock is it?” Dad asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Is it a wall clock or does it sit on a table? Or is it a grandfather clock?”
“It used to hang on the wall before it stopped working.”
“Do you know the name on it?”
“I can’t remember. What’re you thinking might be wrong?” Mr. Hanley asked.
“I won’t know until I take it apart. It could just be dirty. Could be a broken spring. Do you want to bring it by?”
“I have it in my truck.”
“Then bring it in. I can’t work on it right now, but you can leave it.”
Mr. Hanley returned, carefully taking each step, carrying the clock in a cardboard box.
“Maybe it’s unrepairable,” Mr. Hanley said. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, correcting him—irreparable. “But then I thought how nice it’d be if Grandpa’s clock could be fixed. It being so old and a part of my family.” He took the clock out of the box and set it on Dad’s table. “Maybe one day I’ll give it to one of my kids.” He shrugged. “It’d be nicer if it worked.” Mr. Hanley blew the dust off and then stepped back as if to give it another look.
When Dad whistled through his teeth, I knew he would start work on the clock right then and there.
“It’s an Ansonia Regulator A with strike on the hour and half hour!” Dad was obviously impressed. “I didn’t get to see many of these back in Washington. There are fewer old clocks out west, except for family heirlooms. But this”—Dad pointed at the clock—“this is a piece of work.” Dad reached into his toolbox and took out a screwdriver. He began unscrewing the back. “This could be part of the problem,” Dad said as he tapped a spring. “Looks like the mainspring. And of course, there’s quite an accumulation of grease and dirt.”
“But you think it might be okay?” Mr. Hanley looked like it was important to him. You’d think he was talking about a patient. I glanced back at my volcano. I had been listening so long, a stripe of paint had dripped into an unusual streak.
“It’s well made. It’ll work again,” Dad diagnosed.
Mr. Hanley smiled. Dad didn’t look up; he was already cleaning pivots with something that looked like a toothbrush.
“You see this right here?” Dad pointed to a part. “That’s a click spring.” Dad took out a C-clamp and fastened it to the spring. “If I don’t put on this clamp to hold the spring, the whole clock could just …” Dad’s hands suddenly separated, as if the spring were a bomb.
“Is that so?” Mr. Hanley said in amazement, now bent over the clock, blocking Dad’s light, absorbed by the inner workings of the clock.
“The mechanism is all wound up. It’s under tension. You release it the wrong way and the spring just explodes.”
“And you want to work on that?” Mr. Hanley asked, skeptical.
“I’ll take a look at it.”
“So these hands are in good hands?” Mr. Hanley laughed. I didn’t think the joke was funny, but Dad smiled anyway. I could tell Mr. Hanley liked Dad.
“I’ll let you know about it in a few days.”
“That’d be great, John,” Mr. Hanley said. “I wrote my phone number on this piece of paper.”
“Don’t you have a daughter Abby’s age?”
“How old are you, Abby?” Mr. Hanley handed the slip to Dad.
“Nine. Almost ten.” I applied red streaks to the cracks and bumps on my volcano.
“Jennifer is ten. Almost eleven. Maybe you could come over some weekend.”
“Sure.”
“Not this one. She’s with her mom for Thanksgiving.” Mr. Hanley looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. “But maybe weekend after next.”
“Just let us know.” Dad nodded.
“Will do.”
“Do you fix watches, too?” Mr. Hanley asked.
“No, my grandfather stuck to clocks.”
“I heard there’s a watch that went to the moon,” Mr. Hanley said. “I think Neil or Buzz wore it on the Apollo 11.”
“The Omega—the watch the world has learned to trust,” Dad explained. “The Omega and the Patek Philippe will run till the end of time,” Dad said with admiration.
“But who will be fixing watches then?” Mr. Hanley added with a laugh.
Mr. Hanley left, and before my paint job could dry, I sprinkled sand over it. I wanted to put in some trees and grass, but Matt said it would look fakey. Then he said we had to wait for the volcano to set. I could hardly wait to see it blow.
“Come downstairs, Uncle Troy! The surprise is almost ready,” I called out when he arrived. His timing was perfect.
Uncle Troy slowly descended the narrow wooden stairs, carefully holding on to the wobbly railing.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding out,” Uncle Troy said to Dad, but with a smile.
“I wouldn’t call it hiding,” Dad corrected. “But it is my workshop.”
“Where’s this secret you want me to see?” he asked, and I led the way to the back corner. When Uncle Troy saw the monstrosity, he whistled. “Now, that’s something else.” He shook his head. “You did this by yourself?”
“No, Matt’s been helping me.”
“Good job, Matt!” Uncle Troy said proudly, looking over at Dad as he said it, but Dad had on his special clock glasses and was fixated on a few small pieces. “And just what is it made of?”
I ran my hand over the surface. “You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s just flour, salt, and water. It hardens like this.”
“That’s something else,” Uncle Troy repeated and then cleared his throat. He looked back over at Dad’s table and back to me. “I can’t stay long, Abby,” he said softly. “I kind of need to talk to your dad.”
“Okay.” I suddenly remembered he hadn’t come over to see a volcano. I slipped up the stairs, looking back as Uncle Troy made his way to Dad’s table.
“I wonder if I could talk with you before I leave.”
This was one conversation I didn’t want to hear, and so I clicked the door shut behind me and headed outside.
That night after dinner, Dad was back to working on Bruce Hanley’s clock while I added black streaks to the volcano. I had even picked up some cotton balls to add near the top to make it look like it was blowing up. Matt didn’t like it but I didn’t care.
“Was that Bruce Hanley I saw today?” Mom said when she came down. She wrapped her arms around Dad’s neck and leaned over his shoulder, studying his work. They looked like something I remembered from a long time ago.
“He brought this clock I’ve never worked on before. Amazing workmanship,” Dad said.
“Uncle Troy liked my volcano!” I added.
“Uncle Troy was here?” Mom’s voice tensed as she sat next to Dad. “What did he want?”
Dad didn’t respond. The fluorescent lights buzzed and the clocks ticked.
“Something happen, John?”
“It’s just church business.”
“Church business is our business.”
“It’s about when I’m coming back.”
“Did you have an answer for him?”
“No, I did not,” Dad said shortly. And then there was another gap of only buzzing and ticking.
“Do I have to pull it out of you?”
“It’s about the house and the timing and everything,” Dad said. “Troy’s working on trying to secure a short sabbatical—if we can get another interim. And if the new interim won’t need housing, we can stay here. Maybe through mid-March.”
Mom let out a sigh. But I wasn’t sure whether it was relief.
“And then what?” Why did Mom have to keep asking questions? Wasn’t it enough that we had a little time? “This just delays the inevitable,” Mom said. “All this staying.”
“Renee, you’re going to have to let it go. I can’t go back right now. So just leave it be.”
“Leave it be?” Mom turned his command into a question. “I’m supposed to ignore everything?”
“He also claimed that attendance is down, the budget is suffering, and this interim doesn’t do any visitation,” Dad confessed as if an afterthought.
“Well, you’re just full of good news,” Mom said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “John, nothing’s getting better when you just stay down here with all your clocks. You need to be around people. We need you,” she said. “I need you,” she added softly. Dad set the clock down and really looked at her. Mom continued, “How much time does this buy?”
“I don’t know, Renee. Troy was going to work it out with the session and the presbytery.”
Mom studied him and then said, “There’s something more you’re not telling me.” She sounded suspicious.
Dad’s expression changed to what Mom had once called exasperation.
The cuckoo snapped out from one of Dad’s clocks as if curious what would happen next. Dad pushed back his chair, took the clock off the wall, and shut the trapdoor with such finality I was pretty sure the bird was a prisoner for life.
“There are some contingencies ….” He looked over at me, remembering I was at work in my corner. “They want me to see someone,” he muttered.
“Hey, Abby, Dad and I need to talk,” Mom said. “Do you think you could go upstairs for a while?”
No problem, I thought as I trooped up the stairs yet again. Just keep moving Abby upstairs and downstairs and outside and wherever she can’t hear fighting.
“That’s good, John,” Mom said with more hope. “That’s a good thing, honey.”
But something about it wasn’t a good thing because their voices got louder and louder. I’m sure if I went back downstairs I wouldn’t hear the clocks or the lights, and I would be cowering by my volcano. Where was Matt?
Then something fell, crashing to the floor, and Mom gasped. Was she hurt? Did she cry? I wondered about the volcano I had just finished painting. We hadn’t even gotten to put the chemicals inside and watch it erupt.
I don’t know what was broken, but it didn’t sound like it could be fixed. Irreparable damage. I flung open the door to hear what happened.
“John, something has to change,” Mom whispered.
“I know,” Dad said. “I know.” More silence. “I was wrong. I can’t believe I said those things.” More silence. I breathed slow and quietly, but my heart raced as I waited for something else. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I let myself out the back door. But when I hit the steps, my legs felt tingly and I lost my balance. I couldn’t get my hands out in front of me fast enough and my shoulder and chest took the brunt of my fall, knocking the wind out of me as I fell down the stairs. I lay facedown on the cold cement at the base of the stairs, surprised at how quickly it all happened. I didn’t want to move. Did I break anything? After I brushed off the leaves and dirt, I slipped into the garage and sat in the station wagon to wait out the storm. I ached all over, but you couldn’t see I was injured from the outside.
The next morning, I checked my volcano; it was in one piece, and whatever Dad broke was cleaned up like nothing happened.
Ironically, that Monday, Mrs. Clevenger asked for a progress report on everyone’s science project. Somebody was making a magnet, someone else a sundial; Rita was creating a model solar system. Mrs. Clevenger pulled me aside before lunch to ask how my project was going.
“I haven’t tried blasting it off yet,” I admitted as we walked down to the cafeteria. “But it’s painted and everything.”
“Did Matt help you?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” I answered, and then worried that maybe he wasn’t supposed to. Besides, how did she guess? Did she know everything about me?
“Good.” She smiled and I smiled back in relief. “Matt loved that project when he was in fourth grade.” As we entered the cafeteria, she inhaled and declared, “Spaghetti.”
“And that means French bread, green salad, and apple crisp,” I added. “It always goes together.”
She had the class sit down and motioned for me to stay by the door. “Like I said, I’m glad Matt helped you.” Her voice trailed off and then she tried again. “But how is everything else?” she asked. “I mean … are things getting better?”
I knew what she meant. She meant Dad and she meant Matt and Mom and maybe even me; and she meant, was our family coming back together? And I thought about the fight last night in the basement. But how could I explain it when I didn’t even know what they were arguing about or what happened or if it even meant anything? There were too many layers of things happening or not happening. This wasn’t a question I could quickly answer and then sit down between Rita and Melody and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The spaces at the fourth grade table were filling up. Pretty soon I’d have to eat with the third graders. I rolled the top of my lunch sack up and down.
“I’ll take that to mean there’s room for improvement,” she said, so knowingly. “I guess I’d better let you go find your seat.” She put her hand on mine. “I’m here if you want to talk. Just remember, sometimes it helps.”
I nodded thanks and escaped to my table.
That evening when Matt walked in the door, I begged him to let me blast my volcano. He dropped his backpack on the kitchen table and paused.
“Get on some old clothes. We’ll blow it up,” he said.
“Can you take it outside?” Mom suggested.
“It’s pretty cold out there, and besides, it’s way too heavy now, Mom. Abby put about five layers of clay on that thing.” Mom sighed and resigned herself to whatever would happen in the basement. Besides, it was really Dad’s shop now.
Matt carried the vinegar and a few Kleenexes, and I brought the dishwashing soap, food dye, and baking soda. It was hard to believe these few ingredients would really blow. When he tugged the string, the overhead bulb lit up the basement steps, revealing my volcano in the far corner. Oh, how I hoped it would work. And I could see Bruce’s clock on the table. From the outside, it looked finished, but I knew better about clocks. It was the inside that counted.
Mom followed close behind with a stack of newspapers she added to the perimeter of my volcano. Then the three of us stood over the creation and awaited Matt’s instructions.
Matt poured two cups of vinegar down the hole, then squeezed a few drops of Palmolive, and finally a few drops of red food dye. I closed my eyes.
“Abby, nothing happens until I put in the baking soda.”
Matt put a few tablespoons of baking soda in a tissue.
“We’re creating a chemical reaction with acid and a base. It forms a carbon dioxide gas.” He twisted the edges of the tissue into a small packet, like a tea bag. It seemed to come naturally to him, and then I thought about the barn and my stomach felt funny. I deliberately focused on my volcano and his hands and the tissue and how nice my brother was to help me blow it up.
“Are you ready?” he asked. I plugged my ears and he shook his head. “It’s not going to be noisy, but it’ll be messy. Watch,” he said. “Do you want to drop it in?” He handed the tissue to me. I shook my head. I was afraid. “If everything works right, we should be able to do it over and over and you can do it for your class, too,” Matt said, and then dropped the tissue in the top of the volcano.
It took a while but then red bubbles began foaming over the sides. The dishwashing soap had done its job. The foam slid over the mountain and onto the floor. But that was it? Where was the fire? Where was the noise?
“Is that it?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is that all it’s going to do, or will it make some noise or fire?”
“That’s it, Abby,” Matt said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Isn’t there something else we could put inside it?” It seemed like I had spent too many hours for it to just foam like bubble bath.
“I don’t know.” Matt frowned.
“It’s good enough, Abby,” Mom said, as if taking sides with Matt.
“But a volcano is fiery and explosive and this is not,” I argued. “It needs something inside it to burn and blast off.”
“And you think I’m the one to figure that one out?” Matt asked. “Sounds like trouble to me,” he said as he walked up the stairs. Mom glared at me and cocked her head toward Matt, as if cueing me to do something.
“Hey, Matt, thanks,” I said, late. Way too late.
I don’t know why I moaned in my sleep that night. There was something about falling, and the sensation that I wanted out of that nightmare but my eyes felt heavy.
“Abby, wake up. It’s just a dream. Wake up.” Dad’s voice was near and I felt his hands on my shoulders and his whiskers rough against my cheek.
“It’s okay now, honey. It’s just moving pictures. It’s just a movie. Turn it off.” A movie? Hadn’t I used those words? I felt a sudden dampness against my cheek and was surprised I had been crying. But when Dad pressed his unshaven face against mine, I realized the tears were shared.
“That’s better. Now you’re awake.”
“Why does that happen?” I turned on my side, propping myself up on one elbow.
Dad ran his hand over my back and scratched from shoulder to shoulder. It felt so good to feel his touch again.
“I think maybe our day brain has too many thoughts that we don’t know what to do with, and so our night brain tries to work them out. I don’t know. If I did know, I’d stop them. For you. For me.”
“It happens to you, too?” I said.
“I can’t ever make the dream change. I want a different ending,” he answered sadly. I didn’t need to know what he dreamed about. I didn’t even want to know. “I don’t want it to be like this for you,” he said softly.
And I don’t want it to be like this for you either, I thought. Or Matt or Mom. We sat there together in silence for what could have been ten minutes, and then he got up.
“Good night, honey. Sleep tight.” And I wondered if that would ever be possible.