Sometimes, before Joel died, we’d play a family game like Twister or something and be laughing so hard we’d fall on the floor together, and then Dad would tickle us until we could giggle no more. That was a long time ago. Hilarious. Exhilarating. Those were the words Mom taught us back then. The word I learned on Joel’s birthday was juxtaposition. My definition was “joy standing side by side with grief.” I had realized that even though I was sad, I could laugh again.
And the strangest thing was, I no longer feared I’d call my best friend’s mother Fatty Patti.
EIGHT
I wish I had a fancy name,” I said, practicing Abigail Abigail Abigail. “A name like Kimberly or Cynthia or Pamela or Sandra.” I licked my eraser and scrubbed my name so clean, I wore a hole in the page. Now I would have to throw away that paper, too. Despite my longing to learn cursive, the letters came out all wrong.
“Abigail is a nice name,” Mom replied, her back to me as she peeled carrots at the sink.
“Dad just picked it because it’s in the Bible,” I said, pouting, now writing a new line of Abigail across the page, each name bolder and angrier.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Mom said. “Abigail was an important peacemaker. Besides, he could have picked Dorcas or Huldah.” She laughed as I frowned at the mess in front of me. “Or how about Hagar? Or Zipporah?” She turned to me briefly, then wiped the window with her towel. “Isn’t practice usually over by now?” She peered out the window into the darkness.
Of course it was. It was over long ago. Matt never came straight home, and she should know that.
I held up my page, now pockmarked with erasure scars. It was an embarassment. I was supposed to circle the best words, but none were good enough.
“Besides, you weren’t exactly named after David’s wife.” Mom put the pot on the stove and dried off her hands.
“But that’s what Dad said.” I scribbled out the last Abigail on the line.
“Well, I’m glad he thought so,” she explained as she turned back to me. “But I wanted Abigail after Abigail Adams, who was married to John Adams, the second president. That makes her our second First Lady. A very strong woman.” Mom rested her hand on my shoulder. “And you’re my first lady.” I felt her kiss the top of my head, but then she froze and I knew what she had seen as she quickly reached for my paper.
“Abby, why all the scribbles? What are you doing?”
I crumpled the paper into a ball before she could get it.
“Wasn’t that your homework?” Mom grabbed my hand. “Weren’t you supposed to turn that in?” She pulled my fingers apart. “Are you just throwing your work away?” Her voice was desperate. The homework was bad enough. What if she now found out about all the uneaten lunches she packed?
Mom uncrumpled my mess and smoothed it out on the counter. I couldn’t turn that in and she knew it. There was nothing good in that line of Abigails.
“What’s wrong, Abby?”
I shrugged. She wouldn’t understand that Abigail wasn’t good enough. And it wasn’t just in penmanship. It was Roman numerals and rock formations, and keeping my room clean, and telling the truth about Matt, and my upcoming volcano project, which I was terribly far behind in. The project Dad had once promised to help me with much the same way he had with Matt’s project years before. But if I said anything, Mom would be even sadder.
“Abby, this is serious. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I want to help you.”
Matt came in from the back door and dumped his football gear near the washing machine. The odor of dirt and perspiration threatened to overpower Mom’s chicken soup.
“Oh, P-U!”
“Leave me alone, Abby.” He picked up his practice jersey and put it under my nose.
“Yuck! Get that away from me!” I jumped off the seat. “You’re late!” I tattled, thankful for a distraction.
“So?” Matt shrugged. “You wanna make something of it?”
“Don’t start, Matt,” Mom said. “You’re supposed to come straight home after football.”
“What time is it anyway?” Matt asked. Every clock in the house was off the wall and being cleaned. The clock on the oven was our sole navigation.
“No excuse,” Mom said.
Matt poured milk over his Rice Krispies, his usual post-practice snack. I leaned over to hear them snap, crackle, and pop.
“Get your hair out of my cereal!”
“I’m just listening,” I argued.
“You two stop fighting.” Mom looked at the two of us with a slight smile, as if she might actually be pleased.
“Don’t you have to know something about clocks?” Matt asked, opening the tool chest Dad left on the counter.
“Dad used to sit by his grandpa while he worked. By the hours.” She studied Matt’s reaction. “Those are his grandfather’s very same tools,” she added as Matt fingered the pieces lightly.
“Dad didn’t want the farm; why does he want the clocks?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Maybe because you can see what you’re working with.” She smiled as if pleased with her analysis. “I mean, I never liked vacuuming until I had kids.”
“What does vacuuming have to do with this?” I asked, happy my homework was no longer the topic of concern.
“I like vacuuming because I can see a change. Nice smooth streaks across the shag carpet. I can see when I’m done.” Mom sliced a loaf of bread. “It’s different with kids. You never know if they get it.” She pulled apart the slices. “And you’re never done.”
Clocks, farming, preaching, being a mom. I tried to make some sort of connection and wondered if it’d be one of those things I’d understand later. “Clocks were made to do something. They’re precise. I think that’s why he likes to work on them. Dad can fix them,” she added with a sad smile.
Dad came in from his run. His face was flushed and he wore a sweatband around his forehead. Except for the fact that he didn’t have fancy athletic gear, I had to admit he looked like a runner. We never questioned why he was running. Maybe we all knew the answer. We just didn’t know where. “The usual route,” was all he’d say.
“So you’re the Clock Doc?” I teased. Dad tilted his head to the side.
“That’s not a bad name,” he said at last, nodding his approval.
And so that evening I ran downstairs to see what Dad was up to in the basement, hoping he’d help me with my science project.
Though Dad had turned into a recluse, he didn’t seem to mind when I hauled over a stool and sat across from him. The room tick-tocked with a variety of clocks hung on the nails in the studs. A few clocks lay on the shelves, some clocks were in mid-operation on one table, and a grandfather clock took up the other table.
“So what time is it really, Dad?”
“Hmm?” Dad murmured softly as he concentrated on where to squirt a drop of oil. He frowned so hard his eyebrows nearly met in the center of his forehead. I listened as the clocks ticked in cacophony. Mom’s word for the week. In another ten minutes, the clocks would fight over the precise moment to announce the hour.
“What time is it?”
“Pick a clock,” Dad said.
“But which one? How do you know the real time?”
Dad inserted what looked like a tiny screwdriver into the back of the clock, and I began to wonder if I’d have to wait ten minutes for an answer.
“Is there one clock that’s really right?” I tried, hoping I wouldn’t make him mad. Dad set the screwdriver down and set the clock upright. “Greenwich Mean Time. GMT, for short. Hourly signals are sent out. We coordinate by them.” He spoke in shorthand. “The Royal Observatory in Greenwich, England,” he added as if that would explain everything.
“Sort of like the North Star of time?”
“Good question, Abby.” Dad smiled and nodded, removing the glass from the face and then oiling another part. I had asked a question and Dad had answered. It was sort of like old times. “Some clockmakers have a spe
cial clock to set their clocks by. Some have a Vienna regulator; it’s weight driven. It has a constant source of power and is reliable,” he explained. “I set my clocks by my grandfather’s old clock.” Dad showed me the Seiko 70 and then asked me a question. “Now, Abby, here’s one for you. You asked, ‘What time is it?’ But I’m asking you, what is time?”
That was too easy. There must be a trick.
“Some people think it’s measurable; some people think it’s just a way of talking about measuring events,” Dad continued.
“So how come you know all that stuff?” I asked. It was easier to ask questions than to answer his trick ones.
“Astronomy and a few philosophy courses.”
“Astronomy has to do with time?” With my science assignment pending, this was a perfect lead.
“Well, they do kind of go together. The moon measures the seasons of time, but we need clocks to measure the minutes and the hours. Can you think of anything else that measures time?” I thought about the sundial at our grade school, but I was afraid to answer because Dad was talking and I didn’t want him to stop. “Sometimes people burned candles to measure time. Or how about an hourglass?” he asked. “A captain needs a clock to be accurate or he sails off course and can’t determine his position. But for the high seas, it can’t have a pendulum!” Dad almost—almost—laughed. And then he returned to his work and I watched. The ticking of at least five clocks measured time.
“I have a science experiment. It’s about rocks and time and change …,” I began. “I might need a little help.” Or a lot of help, I thought to myself. “We studied the hardness of rocks and the order from talc to diamond. We studied three types of rocks. Metamorphic and sedimentary and ig … igna …”
“Igneous,” Dad finished.
“That, too,” I agreed.
“You know, I think Matt had to do something like that once. Ask him about his volcano project. I’ll bet he remembers.”
Didn’t Dad get it? Didn’t he remember he had helped Matt? I felt embarrassed about asking for his help. I had thought if I could figure out something to do with clocks or astronomy or rocks, I could have Dad’s attention and time. But I was wrong.
NINE
Look what I made!” I displayed an old T-shirt to Matt, on which I had written #72 in permanent black marker. It was a big weekend. Tonight was #72’s sixth football game and the night after was Halloween. Dad hadn’t gone to one of Matt’s games yet, but Mom and I hadn’t given up hope.
“Do you even know what position I play?” Matt ignored my shirt and turned to Dad, who sat behind the paper, drinking a cup of coffee. “Or my number?” he asked a little louder.
“Seventy-two!” I said, holding up the shirt. Please don’t fight. Please don’t fight. Tonight could be good.
“Offensive line and defensive tackle.” Dad filled in the rest and then lowered his newspaper to point out an article from the front page. “There’s been some vandalism at the cemetery. Some kids have been tipping headstones.”
“How disrespectful,” Mom said. “And #72, you’d better get your uniform out of the laundry room.”
“I wouldn’t want to hear about any of my kids doing that.” Dad folded his paper and eyed the two of us. I thought of Joel’s tombstone so solid in the earth. It wasn’t going anywhere. Then I thought of Matt watching movies in empty graves. He wouldn’t push over tombstones. Or would he? I studied his face. He didn’t look guilty. But could I tell?
“Do you remember that volcano project you did?” I asked. “I have to do one this year.” Fourth grade was a long time ago for him, but an exploding volcano had to be significant enough to remember.
“That was a mess,” Matt said. Dad shook his head at the memory, and Mom laughed and rolled her eyes. I think she had misgivings about us doing it again.
“Could you help me with mine?” I pleaded first with my eyes, then mouthed please with my lips.
“Abby …” Matt drifted off and looked over to Dad, who was back in his newspaper. Mom gave Matt a go-ahead nod. “Well, it was pretty cool,” he answered. “But I don’t know.”
“Matt, do you want to take Abby trick-or-treating tomorrow night?” Mom asked suddenly.
“Okay, I get it,” he said. “I’ll do the volcano, but I’m too old for the candy thing. Besides, I have a party.”
“Oh really? Where?” Mom sat down with her cup of tea. Matt looked over at me, as if making some sort of agreement. “Some kids from the team are getting together.” I had my doubts about what kind of party he was going to, but I didn’t want to risk losing my tutor, even if he was only doing it to get out of trick-or-treating.
Matt slept in on Saturday, tired from the big win we didn’t see. After I practiced my piano, he called me outside where he held out a bottle of Orange Crush.
“Thanks, but it’s kind of early for soda,” I said.
“It’s not to drink. Hold your thumb over the top and shake it for thirty seconds.” While I shook the bottle and counted in my head, he continued, “There are three types of volcanoes. We’re going to make the caldera kind. It’s the champion.”
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” I said.
Matt waited a few more seconds. “Okay, take your thumb off.”
The soda shot out, spraying into the air and foaming down the sides of the bottle. My hand was sticky and wet. “Cool!” I laughed at the orange mess.
“That’s what happens when a volcano blows. But for ours, we’ll use vinegar and baking soda. It makes a chemical reaction,” he explained. “But first we have to build the volcano. And it takes lots of layers, so we need to get started now.”
Matt took me down to the basement, where he spread out newspapers and a piece of cardboard. Then he told me to mix flour, salt, and water to make wet clay. Matt then set a bottle in the middle of the cardboard and we covered it with clay to form a mountain. Though it looked far from done, we left it for later. Matt said we’d add more layers over the next few days.
That night was chilly, but Mom took Rita and me trick-or-treating to the neighbors on our short street. If we hurried up one side of the street and down the other, we could do it without wearing coats—coats always hid our costumes. Whites’, Henrys’, Miss Patti’s, Petersons’, Scotts’, Uncle Troy’s, Morettis’—eight houses total, counting ours.
My favorite Halloween stop was at Uncle Troy and Miss Mary Frances’s house, because they were always excited to see us.
“My goodness! Who’s this?” Miss Mary Frances asked. “Troy, will you look here: a television and a ballerina. Who on earth could they be?”
Miss Mary Frances dropped a huge Hershey candy bar in each of our sacks.
“Well, Mary, we could give strangers another candy bar, don’t you think?” And Uncle Troy dropped another candy bar in each of our sacks.
“It’s Abby and Rita!” I blurted out, and we all laughed.
“In that case, here’s another one for each of you!” Uncle Troy smiled, seemingly pleased with himself.
Then it was back to Miss Patti’s, where she sat on a bench on her front porch, covered in a white sheet with holes for her eyes and arms. I’ve never seen such a large ghost. More like a cloud. She was unmistakably Miss Patti.
“Whoooooooo’s at my doooooooor?” she hooted.
“She sounds like an owl,” I whispered to Rita and we giggled. It was funny until she reached out and grabbed us both, holding us close. I knew it was her. But still!
Miss Patti gave out Dots and Milky Ways and invited Mom to stay while we finished off at the Morettis’, where we collected a haul of Tootsie Rolls and a load of grief.
The Moretti house was really decorated. Fake spiderwebs dripped from their trees and porch. I had always thought spiderwebs were so pretty until then. The Morettis set skeletons next to their VOTE DEMOCRAT signs like dead people sitting on tombstones. Election Day was close but wouldn’t compare to two years ago when we’d chanted, “Nixon, Nixon, he’s our man, Humphrey goes in the
garbage can.” Of course, the Morettis reversed the chant. When I found out the Morettis attended the big brick Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church on West Maple, I was surprised. Our church was so full of Republicans, I didn’t even know Democrats went to church.
“So what’re you doing after the party?” Kevin Moretti asked us as we left his yard of bones, his younger brother Kyle tagging behind.
“Just playing at Rita’s.”
“Wanna have some real fun?” Kyle continued. “We’re goin’ to the graveyard.”
I thought he must be crazy. One visit to the cemetery was enough for me and certainly not on Halloween. Couldn’t he just hang out in his own front yard?
“Abby’s scared,” Kevin taunted.
“I’m not scared.” I looked to Rita, who was turned away and studying something hanging from the tree.
“But not in the dark.” Kyle’s voice rose and fell. “And not on Halloween,” he said in his creepiest voice.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“You have to be brave to go on Halloween,” Kevin hissed.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, my frustration growing. “You’re just …” I couldn’t find the right word. “Aggrascusting.”
“What did you call me?” Kevin asked.
A word I had made up, combining aggravating and disgusting. He wouldn’t know the difference.
“Aggrascusting,” I repeated as if in a spelling bee. “The condition of being both aggravating and disgusting.” Maybe Mom’s dictionary game was paying off. Kevin and Kyle both looked insulted by my creation, though neither would challenge it. But they would retaliate.
“Your brother will probably be there!” Kyle taunted.
“No, he won’t!” I answered too quickly, knowing full well he might be there already.
“Are you sure about that?” he sneered. Kyle knew enough about Matt. Maybe even more than I did.
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