Two Girls, a Clock, and a Crooked House

by Michael Poore

  New and familiar. And wonderful.

  Together the three of them surveyed what was left of the clock machine, which was quite destroyed. Amy glimpsed a cameo and the rabbit bell half buried in twigs. Here and there, at impressive distances, lay parts of the chair.

  Noticing this debris, Amy was not too tired to notice a few other things. Like differences in the trees…Over here, a tree that had been young and slender and not too tall thirty years ago was now wide and strong, with roots like a fortress. Over there, a gray stone the size of a tricycle had waaaay more moss growing on it.

  Time passed and things changed. Amy felt suddenly aware of just how little time she had been alive, and how old the earth was. Old and constantly changing, like a river.

  It hurts my brain, said Moo, thinking about how old the earth is.

  “If that hurts your brain,” said Ms. Goolagong, “think of how old the stars are, and the entire universe out there.”

  Amy didn’t feel ready to try that just now. “Maybe later,” she said. Now there were things that needed to be done.

  At that moment, there was a fluttering in the air, and a large, gray, somewhat shipwrecked-looking bird came in for a landing on Ms. Goolagong’s shoulder.

  Almost crashed but didn’t quite.

  The bird—it was Tuba, of course—steadied himself and said, “I swear I’ve spent a year of my life sitting here watching this dumb computer buffering, buffering, buffering.”

  Amy and Moo told him, “Hi!”

  “I can’t remember if I changed my underwear,” he replied.

  * * *

  —

  THEY ALL HIKED UPHILL to the old cabin, which sat rotting and leaning sideways, propped up on one end by a young tree.

  Ms. Goolagong sighed a little, and they passed on by, headed for the edge of the woods.

  Amy told the witch she was kind of surprised to find Tuba still alive.

  “Hearsay birds can live a long time,” said Ms. Goolagong. “Sometimes he goes out and socializes with the cows, but mostly he sleeps the day away.”

  This was sooooo strange, Amy kept thinking. How often did you say goodbye to someone who was (just a guess) thirty-five or so years old, and then ten minutes later you were hiking through the trees with them and they were sixty-five?

  The answer was: not often.

  “Where’s Oliver?” she asked.

  Ms. Goolagong nodded, as if she found this to be a good question, asked at just the right time. They kept walking, and while they walked, the witch told them the story of the twenty-five years they had just flown through on the clock machine.

  Except it wasn’t really a story, as such.

  “It’s not really a story,” she said, looking off into space, as if focusing on something distant or long ago. “Which is a surprise. You think, when you are very young, that your life is going to be a story, with a beginning and a middle and, sadly, an end. And it IS. But when you get far enough along, you look back and it’s mostly feelings you remember.”

  They passed over a familiar-looking dead tree, blanketed in moss.

  “I remember feeling terrified living with Oliver at first, because I’d never been a mother or a father before, and suddenly I was both. At the same time, I remember feeling like I was waking up, because so much was new suddenly. We bought a secondhand camper and went from place to place. I played a lot of different roles, like sometimes working in a library for a while—we had to have money, after all—and also being Oliver’s science teacher and his math teacher and his school nurse and his basketball coach and…”

  She waved her hand dismissively, saying, “You get the picture.”

  They passed between some boulders. They frightened a chipmunk, which scrabbled away and sat out of sight, scolding them. Tuba, still perched on Ms. Goolagong’s shoulder, woke up long enough to say “Wrinkle cream” to the chipmunk.

  “Oliver did as most children do,” said the witch. “Got older and left. College. Law school. Jobs and cars and girlfriends and boyfriends and moving far away. So I’ve been living this chapter for a while where it’s just me again. I remember there was a comet in the sky once, for three months. I got a job at a museum in the city, working in a laboratory. I met a man named James, a librarian, and we married, and we lived in the city together, and then we unmarried. I wrote a book of poems and collected mushrooms. I have begun to shrink somewhat. Gravity does that. My eyes suffer from an increased sensitivity to light. Beyond that, I am enjoying having arrived at old age with all four limbs and most of my senses intact. Would you like to hear one or more of my poems? Amy, I think you might like this:

  “I am flying high

  But…I’m not a bird! Oh no!

  Aaaaaa­aaaaa­aaaaa­aaaaa­ah! Thud.”

  Neither Amy nor Moo knew quite what to say.

  “It’s a haiku,” Ms. Goolagong explained.

  “It’s…interesting,” said Amy. “But I don’t think it’s a haiku.”

  “Five, seven, five,” argued Ms. Goolagong.

  “ ‘Aaaaaaaaah!’ isn’t five syllables. I mean, it could be, but…” She trailed off because Ms. Goolagong was waving her hand—her long, veiny hand—impatiently.

  “How about this, then:

  “What does winter do in July?

  I’ll tell you what he does. He goes fishing, like

  Anyone else. He haunts creeks and ocean shores

  And avoids bookstores and Kentucky Fried Chickens,

  Where he tends to leave embarrassing puddles.”

  Amy brightened. “Oh!” she said. “Well, that’s better! That’s good! Isn’t it, Moo?”

  I guess, said Moo.

  “See,” said Ms. Goolagong, “because when he’s at the ocean or fishing in a creek, he’s already in the water, so when he melts a little, it’s not—”

  We get it.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Amy. “You should set it to didgeridoo music.”

  “So I should. Or maybe I already did. Can’t quite remember.”

  Ms. Goolagong’s eyes had taken on a distant look, Amy noticed, and her voice had started to sound far away. As if her thoughts were someplace else.

  The light changed. The woods around them were thinning, and, through the trees, Amy glimpsed the pasture ahead, populated by a cow or two.

  She realized that Ms. Goolagong had stopped and dropped behind. The girls stopped, too, and turned to look at her.

  Wow. She sure looks witchy, they thought. So beautiful.

  “You girls have work to do,” said Ms. Goolagong. “Both of you. Go do it.”

  And she pointed with her chin at the world beyond the woods.

  You can come with us, said Moo, you know.

  “What,” said Amy, “are you going back to your house, with the tree growing in it and—”

  “God’s teeth, no!” cried the old woman. “There must be germs in there big enough to swallow me whole; I haven’t lived there for decades. My home is a hundred times snazzier than that, and I’ve got to get back and check on my pies. Now go on. Don’t say anything. Just go.”

  So they didn’t say goodbye. They simply put one foot in front of the other, marching through an afternoon full of wind and blowing leaves.

  * * *

  —

  THE PASTURE. COWS. AND Moo’s house.

  This time no trucks came barreling down the road. Nothing interrupted the girls’ march across the field, escorted by their big, four-legged friends.

  Then something did interrupt. It was Moo herself, stopping short, suddenly gasping.

  Um, she said.

  “Um?” said Amy.

  Moo grabbed Amy’s hands, squeezing.

  Walking, she said. Me walking and moving around on my own is going to be big news for my mom. The doctors always told her it
was a possibility, but it’s still going to be a surprise. Maybe even a shock. What if she has a conniption and dies? It happens.

  “I think she’ll be very happy,” said Amy. “That’s all.”

  Maybe I should wait a few days. Pretend it’s happening slowly. Or maybe—

  The sound of a door creaking open and banging shut.

  They looked across the street, and there was Moo’s mom taking the trash out. Looking more than ever like something that had gone through the wash too many times, she shuffled down the broken concrete walk, carrying a plastic kitchen bag in each hand.

  MOM! bellowed Moo, jumping up and down, waving like a windmill.

  (So much for caution, thought Amy.)

  “Ms. Kopernikus!” she shouted, trying to help.

  MOM! MOM, MOMMOMMOMMOMMOM!

  Moo’s mom looked up, blinked expressionlessly, and dropped both bags onto the walk, where they tore open and spilled.

  Moo was over the fence, across the road without looking at ALL, across the grass without really touching down, it seemed, and then she was jumping up—

  And her mother caught her, and didn’t drop her, and they were standing there like that, like some old pajamas holding a ball of fire.

  By the time Amy had crossed the road and stepped over the garbage, Moo was back on the ground, and the two of them stood holding hands.

  Moo’s mom—Ms. Kopernikus—glanced at Amy but then went back to staring at her daughter as if she couldn’t take her eyes off her.

  “What happened?” asked Ms. Kopernikus. “It’s…it’s so wonderful. The doctors said maybe someday, but…” She trailed off.

  Amy shrugged. “It’s a mystery,” she said. “I think maybe something startled her, or her neurons woke up, or—”

  I love you, said Moo, but don’t you have somewhere to be? Let me do this.

  Moo wanted this particular scene to herself.

  Oh, said Amy. Oh sure. Of course.

  “Moo—Gertrude—can tell you herself,” she told Ms. Kopernikus. “One way or another.” (Indeed, Amy saw, Moo’s hands and arms were already twitching, as if dying to start gesturing and talking and explaining and making things happen!)

  Ms. Kopernikus raised her eyebrows and said how wonderful that would be. She was like a TV picture that was slowly changing from black and white to color. Her eyes, for the first time in Amy’s memory, looked like there was an actual person inside. Above her head, hearts kept swelling up and popping like balloons.

  “Your head’s bleeding,” said Ms. Kopernikus, reaching out and not quite touching Amy’s bandage. “Maybe you should come inside and—”

  “It was bleeding,” Amy said. “But a helpful grown-up like yourself applied direct pressure and things, and also applied this bandage. Thanks, though. My mom’s going to look at it. She’s expecting me.”

  Ms. Kopernikus blinked and said, “Oh. Well then, okay. Good.”

  Amy gave Moo a quick hug, darted across the yard, retrieved her bike from the grass, and rolled—

  “Amy!” called Ms. Kopernikus. “I’m not sure going down to the field right now is such a hot idea, hon. That ridiculous machine must have kept moving overnight; it’s much closer now.”

  Aw. Moo’s mom was looking out for her. That was good and felt nice.

  “It’s okay,” Amy replied, waving. “I’ll be triple-super-extra careful!”

  And off she went, down the road, into a wind like horses, ahead of an approaching dusk like a storm at sea.

  * * *

  —

  AMY PASSED THROUGH THE woods, and when the trees opened up on the other side, she hit her brakes and put her feet down and wobbled to a halt.

  There was the Big Duke, towering over the field like a cross between a factory and a dragon. Up and down its ponderous metal arm, thick cables whizzed and snapped. At the end of the arm, its humongous claw—a great wheel with massive scooping teeth—turned ponderously.

  And there were her parents, standing defiantly right underneath it.

  All sorts of feelings and electricities ran through Amy then. Fears and superpowers. Time and science and magic.

  Was she brave enough for this?

  A whirlwind of thought and memory sang in her head. It carried her parents and the giant love they had for her. It carried Moo and Oliver, who had so much to overcome but never, ever gave up. And Ms. Goolagong! If the earth and the wind and stars had a soul, it was Ms. Goolagong. They were all people who took what they loved and believed in and went out and did something with it, no matter what.

  Could she be like that? It was time to find out.

  “MRRZZL!” she roared. “This is a bravery experiment!” And she charged forth on her bike, butterfly hood laced tight, antennae shooting invisible battle rays.

  HER PARENTS WEREN’T ALONE, Amy saw, ditching her bike and running toward the camp. A police officer was with them, and another man. A thick man in a suit, wearing a fur coat and a hat.

  “I can’t make them move if they don’t care to,” the cop was saying.

  The cop appeared, Amy thought, to be a police captain or general or something. He had a gold badge, and fancy braids and decorations splashed all over his uniform.

  “This is public land,” he continued, addressing the man in the fur coat. “You hold mineral rights. If they were underground, they’d be trespassing. THEN I could make them move, or even arrest them. But they’re not underground, see?”

  Amy squinted at the police chief’s face. How old was he? Sixty? Fifty-five? Sixty-five? Man, over thirty, they all looked the same.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” said Fur Coat. “Now, you listen to me, Byrd. It costs thirty thousand big ones a day just to keep the Duke’s engine running. Not to mention…”

  Byrd? Amy thought. Officer Byrd?

  If she squinted just right, she could make the years melt away, could see the young truant officer inside this sixty-year-old veteran.

  Officer Byrd had become chief of police. Or general or admiral or whatever.

  Well, good. He was doing a fine job.

  Fur Coat was still talking.

  “…last thing I’m willing to stand here and tolerate is these two hacks making rabbit eyes at us when we’re ready to [unsuitable word—a BIG one!]”—Amy’s ears popped—“DIG!”

  “Calm down, Henry,” said Chief Byrd in a certain voice you sometimes hear from cops and teachers and maybe the president.

  And Fur Coat calmed down. Or at least shut up.

  Henry?

  It couldn’t be.

  Amy squinted. No…

  Yes. There he was, inside the meat-chop face, under the dumb hat, tucked away behind years of whatever made a person thick like that.

  It was Henry Zane.

  Henry Zane had become a big-shot mining dude of some kind.

  “Amy,” said someone.

  It was Mom.

  Mom turned and left the red X, walked over, and leaned down to speak to her, close up.

  “Hi, Offspring,” she said, twisting her pinkie ring a mile a minute. “Listen, it won’t help us if you’re right here where it’s dangerous. You’re very brave—that’s no secret—but for now we need you to help us out by staying away. I want you to go back to Moo’s house and stay…What happened to your head?”

  “I bumped it on a chair. It’s okay….Mom! It’s okay! Trust me, okay? Please, you can fuss about me later, I promise.”

  Mom bent down and hugged her really hard. Amy hugged her back.

  Then Amy said, “Go save the world!”

  “Yes, ma’am, Offspring. Jeez! Anyway, stay with Moo until one of us comes to get you. Promise.”

  Amy promised. Then she turned and rolled her bike back the way she had come.

  She wouldn’t go all the way to M
oo’s probably. Mom and Dad would be happy enough if she just got away from the camp. It would be okay, probably, if she just watched from the road, by the woods. If her parents were going to be on the news or something, being braver than any twenty people, she had a right to see it firsthand.

  She would also see it firsthand if things went badly or got stupid, and her parents wound up getting mined and chopped and crushed by that giant toothy wheel. Which was still moving, if slowly.

  Amy remembered the people who had crowded around them at the pond, with their torches and rocks. People didn’t always think about what they were doing. Sometimes people did awful things just by being there and being angry.

  Her stomach tightened, and she felt a bit sick.

  At the same time, she noticed something like a storm cloud forming over the campsite, over the X and the Big Duke.

  It was a symbol of bad things about to happen. It was clear and plain and obvious, if you could read things like Amy could.

  Behind her, a branch went snap.

  Amy wheeled around. Who was there? It was people from town, come to throw things and call her parents names!

  No, it wasn’t.

  It was Moo and her mom, holding hands, picking their way through the weeds, out into the field. Moo had her hood up and her head down, watching her step, so that her great plastic eyes (full of battle science and earth magic!) regarded Amy fiercely (in a cow kind of way).

  Mom says that if something unexpected doesn’t happen, your parents are going to get either smashed or arrested.

  “Your parents are brave people,” said Ms. Kopernikus. “They always have been.”

  Amy started to say “Thanks,” but Moo’s mom knelt down, just then, to face her daughter.

  She kissed Moo between her cow eyes.

  Amy heard Moo say, Be careful. Be careful. Be careful. Becarefulbecarefulbecareful….

  Then Ms. Kopernikus walked away across the dirt and the broken cornstalks, toward the knot of grown-ups on the red X.

  Moo reached over and gently lifted Amy’s chin and helped her close her mouth, which had dropped open.