by A. J. Gnuse
The antique clock was so unlike what she had imagined one should be. They were supposed to be dusty things, decrepit and cockeyed, something Ebenezer Scrooge would own. The clock wasn’t as huge as one would expect, considering its volume. It stood just above waist-height for a man, or as tall as a short, eleven-year-old girl, and was nearly pyramid-shaped, with a smooth, glossy curve that sloped up the sides to frame the face. Its cedar was bright, almost shiny when the overhead lights were on, and at the clock’s bottom, a narrow glass strip revealed the swaying pendulum, painted with the image of a southern short-tailed shrew.
It was a granddaughter clock, or at least that was what she had heard Mrs. Laura call it. The name sounded made up, but the girl liked it. For some reason, it brought to her mind some other young girl—not so different from herself—who, by magic, had metamorphosed into two separate things at once, changed into a mixture, like a mermaid or sphynx. In her mind, the clock perched in the corner was both a child and a smirking old woman.
On its face, instead of numbers, were twelve painted types of birds. A mockingbird, a cardinal, tight clusters of finches and starlings, a great horned owl, a blue jay, and at the top, a painted bunting with colors like stained glass. And other birds, a couple the girl didn’t know, hadn’t yet found in the hefty Illustrated Guide to North American Birds that was kept on one of the bottom shelves in the small library-study. Every hour, by some process of gears and pulleys more than a hundred years old, the clock thunked, then let out whatever bird’s call the hour hand faced.
The clock began her morning: the faint sound of a blue jay from downstairs that woke her from sleep. In yellow light from the attic dormer window, she would pull herself out from the nook beneath the floorboards. She’d fold up the layer of quilts and winter coats she used as a mattress and tuck them back into the Masons’ storage bins.
Below her, on a weekday like today, her rise was soon followed by the light squeak of Mr. and Mrs. Mason’s bedsprings as they sat up to rest their feet on the ground. The girl waited until she heard them, then she stepped carefully along the plywood that formed the attic floor, swinging her arms in windmills to loosen them. She looked out the dormer into the backyard where oak branches bobbed in a breeze. A leaf tumbled between the parked cars beside the attached garage in the driveway. In a few minutes, Marshall’s alarm clock began its routine of wailing and stopping, wailing and stopping, as its owner slapped at the snooze button again and again.
Below, the hiss of the boys’ shower as Eddie bathed. The AC unit rumbled beside her as it turned on for the morning, and the girl hoisted herself on top and spread herself across to feel the cool metal along her neck, back, and legs. Downstairs, Mrs. Laura had begun cooking breakfast—the girl could smell it, couldn’t she?
Biscuits in the oven?
Sometimes, she imagined the scents of an entire meal wafted up through the rafters: the maple syrup on the boys’ pancakes, strawberry jam spread over Mr. Nick’s toast, the spray of an orange as Mrs. Laura split it into its separate parts. But later, when she went downstairs to the kitchen, she’d be disappointed to find in the dishwasher only the remains of instant oatmeal or cereal and milk.
This was its own cold reminder. Whenever the girl ate breakfast with her parents, her dad always cooked. Hash browns. Plump, crackling sausage. Scrambled eggs with Crystal hot sauce. While they ate, sometimes she’d kick beneath the table, one leg catching the small flags of her dad’s cuffs, the other grazing her mom’s stockings—the feel of them like firm, soft sand. Her mom’s smirk, her cocked eyebrow. “Having fun?”
After the Mason breakfast was finished, shoes stomped up the stairs, rushing to one of the boys’ bedrooms. A few moments later, they thumped back through the hall and down again. Marshall or Eddie must have forgotten a textbook, or a calculator.
Through the dormer, she watched Mr. Nick and the boys appear, the father dressed in his white, collared shirt, Marshall in a black T-shirt and jeans fraying at the heels, Eddie still in his middle school uniform—blue polo and khaki shorts. As she watched them leave, she remembered how, when they left together in the morning, they all went to three separate schools, Mr. Nick teaching at a high school far from their district, east of the river. That thought always surprised her in a small way. Easy to think that, when they were away, they were all together—but they hardly ever were.
When Eddie reached the car, he paused to wipe the soles of his shoes along the rubber seal at the bottom of the red Saturn’s back door. He seemed to count as he wiped, deliberately and patiently, one sole before the other. She’d seen him do it for a full minute on other days. This morning, Marshall wouldn’t wait. He stepped up behind Eddie. And after Mr. Nick got into the front seat and closed his door, he shoved a quick elbow into his younger brother’s back.
“Hurry up!” Marshall said, gripping Eddie by the shoulder to usher him in.
The girl threw an uppercut into the air, imagining a well-placed swing into the older brother’s teeth. After their car pulled away, Mrs. Laura was soon to follow, flashing into the backyard in a dress and heels, dressed for her real-estate job. As always, when she reached the car door, she paused to bend, place her briefcase between her calves, and comb her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. She found what must have been a speck of dried paint, and she pulled it loose with her thumb and forefinger and flicked it into the lawn. Soon, her blue SUV kicked up dust in the gravel driveway.
The next round of birdcalls rose up from the granddaughter clock below. This was the wren’s hour.
Her time.
Throughout each day she’d hear the clock, its singular, weighty tones on the quarter and half hours, and the birdcalls when the minute hand pointed up, toward twelve, and higher as well, up toward the girl’s own nest in the attic. She counted time by their calls.
The Birds
WHEN THE WREN CALLED, IT OFTEN MEANT A SLICE OF TOAST AND A hard-boiled egg in the kitchen, and cereal when she wanted to be careful. It also meant going to the bathroom, washing her face in the sink, and wiping down her armpits and the dirty soles of her feet with a moist washcloth. She kept the green cloth in the very back of the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink on the first floor, behind the extra toilet paper and cleaning supplies.
Starlings meant she could be as loud as she wanted. It meant music and exercise. Meant turning on the radio in the living room, and if there was a good song on, it meant dancing, and cartwheeling in the upstairs hallway, lying belly-down on a rug and sliding between rooms as though she were on a sled. New songs could be hit or miss. “Don’t Phunk with My Heart” was good enough that she had to stop whatever she was doing to run to the living room and jump on and off the sofa. “Hollaback Girl” might get the radio turned off for the day.
The call of robins meant it was a good time to check out television, since The Price is Right was finally over, and sometimes reruns of Hercules and Xena: Warrior Princess came on. This was usually when the mailman came by, and if there was a package to be delivered, his truck would churn down the house’s long driveway, and he’d leave it on the front porch. The girl had to be careful here. She kept the remote in hand while she watched, in case she needed to put the television on mute. Poised to duck down to the floor, out of the view of the windows, on a moment’s notice. Once, a month or so past, a mailman had heard the TV inside and had knocked and knocked until she thought he would never leave.
The low, moaning honk of the Canada goose meant microwaving whatever leftovers she could find in the fridge. Sometimes, it meant eating trail mix or an apple, or digging through the back of the freezer to find an old bag of peas or strawberries. It also meant prepping: making peanut butter sandwiches, or popping popcorn on the stove and keeping it in a brown paper bag in her attic space for her dinner.
The solemn hoot of the great horned owl meant it was her time to read. Or, if she didn’t feel like reading someone else’s stories, it meant she might make her own. The girl went through each of the rooms, imagining
other people living around her (sprawled out on the sofa with a crossword puzzle, or singing in the shower, or a couple of older folks chatting to one another—like dolls in a dollhouse). Sometimes, the people she imagined were ones she had known: her mom and dad, of course, and others. Elderly relatives with canes and walkers from the small family reunions she had attended as a little girl, or ones she had only heard of, like the great uncle who had owned the house, way back, who had given it to her parents after he passed. Other times, the people whose stories she invented were ones completely made up. Imaginary families, like ghosts, wearing button-down coats and floor-length dresses, ones she imagined must have lived in the house generations ago. Other times, the people she imagined weren’t even human. Centaurs clomping through the foyer. Odin, bending over in the kitchen to open the fridge and pour himself a tall glass of milk. A mermaid in the parents’ bathroom, adjusting the temperature of the water in the bathtub. Giant spiders who whispered to one another in the walls.
When the cardinal, the bright red bird, chirped, it was a warning. It meant she should expect the Masons to come home.
And now, their time.
Today, Different
WHEN THE CARDINAL SANG THIS AFTERNOON, THE GIRL WENT BACK to the dryer, where she had left her book. She hopped on the machine, curling at the waist over the controls at the back, to reach down and snatch the book from its hiding place. But as she lifted the book, its cover caught on the silver exhaust tubing and pulled the tube free from the wall.
The girl hated mistakes, inconsistencies that the Masons would find when they came home. This one, a disconnected dryer tube, was small, considering. She’d broken a plate before, had spilled a glass of water on the couch and had to spend the greater part of an hour kneading the dark spot with beach towels. The dryer tube at least seemed like something that might take a while for a Mason to notice. Maybe. The girl honestly had no idea what the tube was for.
Regardless, she had to fix it. The thought of it there, unhooked, open to the world, was a steady, solemn whisper saying, “Something’s changed. Something here has changed this”—and the girl knew she wouldn’t be able to think of anything else until night, when she got the chance to fix it, and shut the bleating thing up. She had a few minutes to spare before the Masons drove in. Might as well fix it now.
On top of the dryer, the girl lowered herself, her belly sliding further past the control panel, until the dryer’s timer display was digging into her thigh. She felt the tingle of blood rushing to her face. Her fingers fumbled with the tubing, trying to stuff it back over its fitting. But it wouldn’t go. Her hair caught in her face. She needed to pinch the metal wire around the tube, but her fingers were too short to get a good grip. Then, at once, the girl’s legs slipped free from the dryer and she felt herself drop—sickening lurch—but she caught herself, one hand on the floor. A small wave of nausea passed through her. And then she saw it. In the exhaust hole in the wall, a patch of pink in the dark.
The girl dropped the tubing. With her other hand still propping herself from falling to the floor, she reached into the hole and snatched the pink thing up. A simple, old sock. Dust and curling strands of grayed hair clung to it in clumps. It was exactly what she had hoped for. The girl squeezed it between her fingers, shook the thing off and pressed it to her exposed neck. She knew who it had belonged to. It’d been her mom’s.
The Masons would soon be home, but the thought didn’t worry her as much as it had moments before. Priorities shifted. Growing dizzy from the blood in her head, the girl twisted the rest of her body down into the crevice behind the dryer and righted herself on the floor. She reached as far as her arm would go into the exhaust hole. Was there anything else? She clawed at the sides, top, and bottom. Sifted through the build-up of dryer lint and dust. Anything else left at all? She reached deeper, as far as her fingers could go, until the tips were rubbed raw. Her wrist and forearm scraped against the metal rim. Sharp pain as the soft skin was cut through. When she heard the gravel churn in the driveway, the girl kept looking. What if there was something she was missing? It wasn’t until the keys turned in the front door’s knob that she heard her mom’s voice.
Elise—hide!
The girl pulled back, as if shocked by electricity.
Her imagination only, but enough. Keys were turning in the front door’s lock. She looked around her, heart thumping. She looked to the walls to engulf her.
The Masons Enter Their Home
THE BOYS DROPPED THEIR BAGS ON THE FOYER’S TILES, BESIDE the granddaughter clock. Mr. Nick dropped the mail on the small, oak table. And from the foyer, they separated, splitting in three directions.
Marshall dragging his feet to the living room—drumming his large knuckles against the molding. Mr. Nick heading upstairs, each step measured and slow, hand clapping the banister. And Eddie, his short strides passing into the library—toward her. He stopped abruptly to spin the small globe on one of the bookshelves.
From the living room, Judge Judy resounded from the television. Marshall switched the channel. Mr. Nick’s weight on the second story above, going into the office, his desk chair rolling across the floor. Then Eddie entered the laundry room, where she hid. Eddie passed the washer and dryer. His shoes squeaking against the tile. He left the room and stood in the back porch, plucking at loose reeds in the wicker armchair. Then he opened the door and went outside.
And she was safe. Crouching in the tight, dark space of the laundry chute, she let the clenched muscles in her legs and arms relax. She shuddered, adrenaline still coursing through her limbs. She’d been stupid, and she’d almost ruined everything.
It didn’t happen often. She shouldn’t make mistakes. She was supposed to be an extension of the house itself.
Be better. Only her own voice now. Her own admonition. She wished she had someone else here to scold her, to put their hand firmly on her shoulder and shake their head slow. It didn’t feel like enough coming from herself.
Be better. She took a breath, deep, slow, quiet. She imagined her body growing dusky, translucent. She liked this place, the hidden chute. One of her secrets; it felt closer to the house than many other places she might hide. Like a heart, or a stomach. She held her mom’s sock in her hands. And while the Masons settled into their separate places in the house and yard, she held the sock against her cheek.
Elise held her mom’s sock and wept.
Waking in Smoke
LAST DECEMBER, ON THE ROAD HOME FROM CITY PARK, ELISE crawled on her hands and knees over broken glass. The fire behind her roaring so loud she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to hear anything else. Her palms burned as she pulled herself on, and the fumes of gasoline were strong enough to choke on. She reached the tall weeds of the neutral ground and she sat there, her hands stinging and the length of her back aching from the heat. The feathered heads of weeds itched her cheeks, and her legs soaked up the hard cold of the ground beneath her. She watched the black smoke from the two vehicles, the truck and her parents’ car, pumping in a column high into the sky.
She was a smart girl. She was mature for her age. She knew well enough what she was watching. That her mom and her dad, they were already gone.
When she was found, she was walking on the roadside across the Woodland Bridge, nearly two miles away.
Even then she felt them expanding into the world around her. They were in the roadside weeds brushing against her legs. The dark trees along the sides of the road, those swaying branches like hands, waving. The impact of the barges docking beneath her, far down below the bridge. Their floodlights flitting up into the sky. The clank and thud of the docking chains. In every single thing, they were speaking. But their voices were too soft to understand.
Do you know where she was going? She crossed that whole bridge on her own—that accident was miles away.
Where were you going, little girl? The address we have for you says you live back the other way.
She told me, when she was brought in, that her old ho
use was down there in Plaquemines. It’s another family living there now.
Elise, is there someone else we can call? Anyone in town you know, or your parents knew?
She won’t say.
Is there a relative you can stay with tonight? Or, maybe for a while, while people sort this out?
Chief, you can keep asking her yourself, but she won’t say.
The Chute
THE GIRL ELISE WOULD HAVE TO WAIT THROUGH THE LONG HOURS of the afternoon in the hidden laundry chute until night. They wouldn’t find her here—the chute had been blocked off long ago, rendered useless when some previous owner had added a large cabinet to the upstairs master bathroom. It was Elise who’d brought viability to it once again. A couple months back, when the Masons were away, she’d taken a small saw from the garage and cut through the thin wood in the back of the bathroom closet (the cut slanted, uneven, but her dad would still have been proud). Just the stack of old towels and spare toilet paper hid the crevice that she had created, large enough for a young girl to squeeze through on her belly. Once inside, with her feet using the small crossbeams as grips, she could work the wood cut-out back into place. Though the scar across the wood would be visible, and the white paint had flaked loose in the corners, someone would have to be specifically looking there in order to discover what hid behind. Inside, the chute was narrow enough that she could pin her back against one side to help her descend or climb the tall chimneystack.
But the bottom of the chute, its entrance, was why, maybe more than all other places between the walls, she loved this space. The entrance was the reason she knew the chute existed. When her parents still owned the house, the bottom had been sealed with a square of plywood so ugly that Elise’s dad had used a crowbar to pull it out, which revealed the old, obsolete chute. Elise’s mom was at work, and he’d called his daughter downstairs. They investigated the narrow tower with his biggest flashlight.
