Like Clockwork Read online

  “He is alive, Miss Evie. Of that, this thing would never doubt.”

  “Seriously, Adam. Maybe ... maybe you should give it up. I mean, he’s obviously dead.”

  A weird sound came from him then and she drew back. It sounded like gears grinding a little too tightly together, a squeaking, rattling noise. It leaned forward against the desk, the noise coming out of it getting louder, then softer. Lance jumped off his shoulder, and Evie got to her feet, alarmed as it leaned back, its shoulders shaking, looking at her. It was the first time she had heard it (it) laugh. And when she thought of it later, she imagined it a dry, pained chuckle.

  “Dead,” it said. “That is rich. Shepherd, dead. No.” It lifted a bronze finger to brush away an invisible tear. “No. Although this thing is sure that would be a relief to everyone, I’m afraid it just isn’t so.”

  “But ... how?” she asked, drawing back a little.

  “He is Stephen Shepherd,” he said, as if that explained everything. When she didn’t respond, he went on. “He is ... he is quite peculiar, Miss Evie. He cannot help but live.” He looked down at the laptop again, clicking and whirring.

  “Maybe ... maybe if you had a picture?”

  “Ah,” he said, and shook his rattling head. “Shepherd had no need for them.”

  “Is he ...?” She could believe it, thinking it; weirder things had happened – were happening, even now. “Is he, what, a ... a vampire or something?” It did sound a little ... well, lame, when it came out of her mouth, but Adam didn’t laugh.

  “No. No not at all. It is ... ” his gears whirred in what seemed like a sigh. “He is peculiar. Tell me – ” his gears clicked. “Why does Miss Evie take a photograph?”

  “Well. Y’know ... to, umm – ”

  “To preserve time,” it said. “To remember ....”

  “I suppose so. Sometimes. Yeah.”

  “Shepherd is – ” his gears clicked as he (it?) thought; “outside of such things. He does not need to remember how he looked yesterday. He will look the same tomorrow.”

  Evie felt a shiver run up the back of her neck. “That is so .... ” She sat down, mulling it over.

  “Peculiar,” Adam offered. “This thing has said. Ah. But here ....” He turned the laptop around and that high nasally voice bellowed out from him: “Behold!” And it was weird, because it seemed as if it (he) was laughing at himself for doing it, for making that recording of the circus come out of his mouth. Evie leaned in to look at the photograph on the screen, and there he was, on the internet of all places, in an archive of old circus photos, sepia-toned and faded: a set of middle aged Siamese twins, a woman in an old fashioned bathing suit standing in a pool, a grey haired man with a drooping moustache and goatee, and Adam, standing in the background. Only the woman in the bathing suit was smiling, but that smile ... it had a hint of pin-up seductiveness to it, but there was something else in her eyes that made Evie shudder. The photograph was dated 1901. There were no tags attached to it, no names on it at all. Evie stared at it for a very long time.

  “What happened?” she asked, softly.

  “Shepherd abandoned us, and eventually the money ran out,” Adam said, turning the laptop again and staring at the photograph. He seemed very far away.

  “He abandoned you? But ... ” she thought about his introduction, in the clearing the night before. “Weren’t you made for him?”

  “He abandoned all of us,” Adam said. He clicked and whirred. “Ladies, Gentlemen, and Children-of-all-ages tend to walk away from their treasures once they grow tired of them.” He seemed to sigh then, his shoulders going down a click. “This thing knows.” He looked at Evie for a long moment. “Shepherd does not grow bored as quickly as most, but he does. Besides,” he said, going back to the photo, “there was a cat.”

  “A cat?”

  “It was a peculiar time,” Adam said. “A time for such things. It was the circus.”

  “I’ll be ... I’ll be right back,” she said. She needed a cigarette, dammit. This was all too – not weird – weirder than weird. It was definitely something. Adam scarcely noticed her getting up. He was looking at the screen again, at a jpeg made from a faded photo of a long dead era.

  “Hello, Sirene,” he said to the screen as she closed the door.

  He was so ... it was all so ....

  He would stand there, humming at the fridge from time to time. Humming back to it, really. And she wasn’t sure if it was like a private joke, or if it was just something he just did or ....

  The rest of that rainy Sunday day passed with him looking through history, searching for someone who could not die, while Evie sat on the sofa, watching him. Sometimes he would look back too, and she could not say, she could never tell what he (it) might be thinking when he did, when his eyes were on her. All she knew was his whirs and clicks, his cogs and gears and silence. All she knew was that, when he was looking, she would shift, unconsciously, on the couch, and a part of her wanted him to keep staring.

  That night, as she got up off the sofa, he rose as well. He was constantly doing that: rising to his feet, all rusty and creaky, whenever she did. She couldn’t tell whether it was endearing or annoying.

  “If it pleases Miss Evie,” he said, following her to the hallway that led to her bedroom. “This thing will wake you. In the morning. At your desired time.”

  “Oh,” she said, standing there in the doorway. “No. It’s ... it’s alright. I ... I’ve got an alarm clock.” Why was she holding her breath? What could she possibly be thinking? He still stood there. His eyes went to the floor.

  “If it pleases,” he said, “this thing would be happy to do so.”

  Was she blushing? Sweet Jesus. Was she? “I ... I .... ” And stammering too. Oh, for the love of – “I would. That would be ... that would be nice, Adam. I would like that,” she said. She waited. “Thank you.”

  He still stood. He clicked and whirred. “Good Evening, then, Miss Evie,” he said. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow,” she said back. He waited. She stood.

  “Right. Night then,” she said. And closed the door. She waited until she heard the clumping of his feet back into the living room before she got changed. He had stood there, on the other side of the closed door, for some time.

  She didn’t really sleep much that night. She lay there, instead, the rain pattering against the window, listening for the sound of his little clicks and whirs, trying to remember to breathe, trying to laugh at herself. But somehow, she just couldn’t.

  She thought about him all the next day at work. There was always something over the course of the day that would bring him back to mind. The chime and clicking door of the Skytrain, the ding of the elevator at work. All of which, she knew, was foolish. She would grin to herself at the sound of her own fingers clacking on her keyboard, secretly, but Jenny caught that grin on her face, much as she tried to hide it, that soft smile.

  “What happened to you this weekend?” Jenny asked from her desk across the way, and Evie caught herself blushing (blushing again!). And Jenny cackled, “Someone got lucky. About time.” But Evie shook her head, and didn’t say.

  “Oh come on” Jenny said. “That is so unfair. If I hooked up, I’d tell you. Dish, dish.”

  But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. He was ... Adam was so ... unique. She finally came to it, hearing the clack and clatter of keys and the burble of phones all around her, thinking of those little round eyes on her, and how much she wanted them on her. To notice her. He was special. He was unexpected, he was different, and she didn’t want to say anything about him, about how she met him, about what had happened. About what was happening now – that he was in her apartment right at this very moment, waiting (maybe?) for her to come home, and she was looking at the clock, waiting to punch out the second it was five so she could get back to him, back to his whirs and clicks and gentle concern and weirdness. And his eyes. And those hands. She sat at her desk, eyes half closed, and in her head she could feel tho
se bronzed fingers along the side of her neck, so powerful and strong, yet brushing like a feather down to her clavicle, how they would almost seem to tremble in touching her.

  “Miss Evie,” he said. And the voice in her head was hoarse, barely contained, and she would stir against him. “Evie,” he would say. And his hand would slip down her side slowly, wrapping around her waist to grip it and ....

  She was losing her fucking mind. She took every cigarette break she could, and one more besides. And still she kept looking at the clock, the agonizing tick of which only made her think of him more, made time stretch out longer and longer until finally it was five and she was free and ....

  Calm again. On the Skytrain. Smiling at her own reflection in the window. Looking out into the rain. Was she really that desperate? Was she so hopeless, that this was all it took: his concern, his attention? Was this all she wanted? That a ... a robot, a machine could ... could do what? And she’d be happy with that? It was pathetic. It was ridiculous. It was, let’s be honest here, absolutely insane.

  But she held her breath when she opened the door. She held her breath when she opened the door.

  “Good Evening, Miss Evie.” Adam was already standing. She was falling in love with him. “This thing hopes your day went well.” She didn’t dare say a word about it. She was scared as hell.

  “I need a cigarette,” was all she said. She turned, and walked out.

  “Very well,” she heard behind her as the door closed in his face.

  Under the awning in the rain, not moving, she wondered what she would do. It was there, alright, inside her, unmistakeable, despite everything, despite everything, it was undeniable. She could feel it, the rush and soar in her lungs at the idea, just the very idea of –

  What? Did he know? Could he know? She didn’t know anything about him at all but, oh god help her, she wanted to. She wanted to know everything all of a sudden.

  And he didn’t know her either. Not the things that mattered, that could possibly matter. All he knew of her was her deranged apartment, full of her messes and her failures, and how was that any way for anything to happen?

  Because, “What-could-happen-here?” was a question she was asking herself, and the answer, the end result, wasn’t clear. Yet the asking made her feel ... everything, made her want to step into that dark, just to find out, just to know. She looked up at her bay window, where he was, inside, and she wanted to take that chance. She had to, she couldn’t help herself, now.

  She tossed the cigarette into the gutter, and there were people walking by, so many people, and lights were going off and on and there were busses stopping and cars going and none of them knew this secret, or how wonderful this secret had just started to become to her; none of them knew what it was doing to her.

  She walked back up to the apartment, nervous. She wasn’t going to pretend she wasn’t, and that made it alright, made the tumble of stars in her stomach more than alright; it made them sacred, somehow. Stupid or not, it made them all sacred, whirling in her chest, in her head, in her spine. She opened the door again.

  “Hey,” she said. And she took her chances. She just ... wasn’t sure exactly where to start. It had been so long, she wasn’t sure where to begin.

  “Miss Evie,” Adam said, and bowed, slightly.

  “Did you – would you care to sit?”

  “Sit?”

  “Adam, please sit down,” she said, and it all stuck inside of her, all of it, and she felt so stupid. But she had to. She had to know.

  “Yes, Miss Evie,” he said, after a moment. She went to the mock fireplace in the living room and lit a few candles; it seemed necessary. She came and sat down next to him on the sofa, clenching and unclenching all of herself, all her secrets inside her chest, her hands folding over it still, keeping it back, clutching it between the two tight little fists inside her, all of it so precious and ignored, precious and denied, and she was trembling slightly, because it felt so much like the real thing. The real big scary awful goddamn thing. And how did she start? Where did it start? And would he take it? Take any of her at all? Would he know what she meant? Would he love her for it?

  Her lips were tight against her teeth, held closed. She watched him, searched him. That closed silent face that still felt to her that it watched back, that it saw all. She sighed then, and let it all go, let the hands in her chest open and out it flew, a little at first, and then all the way.

  “I was seventeen when my father died,” she started. “And I don’t think I ever knew him. I think he wished I was a boy, and he didn’t know what to do with me .... ”

  And she leapt. She told him the things, the real things. Not the boys, but the loneliness being with them. Not the job, but the feeling of failure she had, sitting there at that cubicle, knowing she could do more, do better, could be more in her life than this and yet ... she told him how she’d felt most of her life.

  “It was like ... like I had failed at being a boy on the day I was born,” she said. “And everything was sort of downhill from there, no matter how much I tried.”

  He didn’t ask her why, why she was telling him it, or why he needed to know. He didn’t laugh it off. He clicked and ticked and whirred. And he listened. He asked her how she’d felt when she’d stood at her father’s funeral, and she said she hadn’t even known what to say in the eulogy because, hell, all she knew of him was that he seemed to hate her when she started growing up, that he must have hated her for who she was since he was never around anymore.

  Parcifal and Lancelot came out to see, and even when she was much, much older, she would remember it: by candlelight, a cat in each of their laps, her giving all of her fractured self, and him accepting, ticking softly. And when she ran out of words, when the whole world that was Evie ran out of ways to show itself, he reached out and she turned and leaned against him, and his arms held her, his bronze arms holding her, and she could feel the tick beneath his bronze chest, and she closed her eyes, worn out.

  “Miss Evie,” he said, and it wasn’t like she had fantasized that afternoon, at all. “Evie.” It was something so much better, his arms around her waist, not gripping, but holding her steady. That was it for the evening, she couldn’t go any further. It was enough. She fell asleep leaning against him on the couch, while he ticked on and on.

  “These were all my dad left me,” she said, the next night.

  He had made her dinner, but (and it was a little annoying sometimes how stuffy he was) he had insisted she actually sit down to eat.

  She had pulled out the Box, that only one or two other men had seen, had had the privilege of seeing.

  He turned his head, slightly, looking in.

  “They’re, umm ... they’re records. Recorded music,” she said. “He used to collect them. I wasn’t allowed to even breathe on them when he was alive,” she said, smirking down at them, sadly, nudging the box towards Adam with her foot.

  “But you kept them,” he said.

  “Yeah, well. He would put a record on and just ... just sit there, y’know? Some people, they like having music on in the background, but he’d just put it on to listen.” Adam nodded. “He had a chair, ” she said, going back to that old house in her head. “A lay-Z-boy, sort of full of holes, you know? Old. And it always smelled like his cigarettes. When I was like, really, really young, before I started, well looking less like a boy I guess, I would climb into his lap, and he’d let me sit with him, and we’d listen to them together.”

  Adam looked down at the box, then up to her. “And you listen to them now?” was all he said.

  And she felt her spine start to melt a little, because it seemed like he knew what she was trying to say.

  “Sometimes,” she said, softly. “Sometimes.”

  He ticked and clicked and after a while said, “Thank you,” and that was when she knew, when she really, really knew. Every step was a leap, and every leap was safe.

  “Would you like to listen to one?” she asked.

  “Please, ye
s,” he said.

  “I ... umm .... ” She peered into the Box. “There’s so many.”

  “Which is the one you listen to most?” he asked. Even though there was no tone to that voice, she could feel it, she swore she could, how tender he was under that bronze. She knew it.

  She pulled it out, smirking. It was so stupid, but she couldn’t help it. Someone else, she knew, would laugh at her. Maybe not at her, or maybe not out loud, but somewhere inside they would be chuckling just a bit. But she felt she could trust him, partly because he was so new to everything, and yet so old at the same time.

  “This one,” she said, pulling it out, the dorky smiling elephant in one corner, the hippie ferns and the awfully dated logo. “It’s, umm, it’s The Beach Boys. Smiley Smile,” she said.

  “The – ”

  “They’re a band. I mean, still, I guess. My dad, he loved Brian Wilson, the umm ... the songwriter.” She turned the album over and over in her hands. “He liked this one best.” She held it out to him, and he took it in those oversized copper hands that looked like they could crush it, and he seemed so afraid of doing so, his little gears creaking and clicking, and he handed it back to her, his eyes on hers, and she put the record on.

  After, Evie always thought that both of them knew what was happening, where it was going. Time and distance made thinking that way inevitable. What happened next was only right, and fitting, and ... perfect. Like clockwork. She moved the needle to the sixth dark band, drawing the sound out with such rich, delicate brushes of the diamond tip.

  “I, I love the colorful clothes she wears,

  and the way the sunlight plays upon her hair .... ”

  She lowered her head, to listen, but she could feel it happening already. In her heart she was already kissing him, holding him. His hand touched hers, and they were both sitting on the floor, heads down before the music, Brian Wilson singing in that achingly wistful tone between “Good Vibrations” and that haunting desire for something that couldn’t be contained by the waves of an ocean.