A Spark Unseen

I hurried to the door I thought was my grandmother’s and pushed down on the latch. Locked. I stood back from the door, only just resisting the temptation to kick it, eyeing one second-floor window that was dimly lit, a small lamp or perhaps a single candle behind a curtain. I began to scavenge the gravel path for rocks, scouting for the largest, and when I had four or five, I weighed the selected stones in my hand, wondering if I had the strength or skill to attempt this. I wondered if I even had the right house. I threw the first stone.

It was more of a pebble, really. It hit the masonry with a sharp snick and disappeared into the bushes. My aim had been to the right of the lit window, and too low. The knot in my insides was a throbbing, sickening place. I threw again, this time with more strength. Still too far to the right. Once more, and I hit the window glass. I smiled, almost yelled in triumph, but no face appeared at the window. Teeth clenched, I took the next stone, a little larger, turning its heft in my hand before I threw it, hard. The windowpane shattered, a few bits raining down into a flower bed, the rest I am sure, all over the floor of the room above.

“An excellent shot, Miss Tulman.”

My body jerked in surprise, hand jumping to my throat as I spun around. But instead of a blue vest and a slouching frame, I saw an orange glow in the air, just beyond a clump of rosebushes. The glow grew steadily brighter, showing dark hair and a thin mustache before it dimmed again, obscured by a sudden cloud of cigarette smoke. It was Mr. Marchand, the impertinent Frenchman, casually watching me throw rocks at my own windows. I straightened my back, but was saved from speaking when the broken window above me was thrown violently open.

“Katharine, my child, is that you?”

Mr. Babcock’s odd round head disappeared from the window before I replied, obviously needing no other confirmation. I walked with affected dignity to the back door of my house, willing Mr. Babcock’s short legs to run faster down the stairs. When I turned back toward the garden, the cigarette beside the rosebushes was where it had been, silent and still glowing. I could smell the thing now, overwhelming the sweet odor of the plants.

“I hope you find the rest of your evening just as enjoyable, Mr. Marchand.”

My voice had been acid, but he chuckled. “Oh, I do not think I shall, Miss Tulman.” He shook his head. “No, no. I do not think I shall.”

He was still laughing when the lock turned and Mr. Babcock pulled me unceremoniously into the house.

12

Just move a trifle more quickly, my dear,” Mr. Babcock panted, pulling me down the corridor toward the stairs. “You are wanted.” And as soon as we had climbed the stairs and the shelf door was opened, I could hear the yelling, though the noise did not sound like one of my uncle’s tantrums; it did not sound like any noise I had ever heard from him before. Tired, hoarse, and beyond panic, like an animal that has fought to the point of exhaustion.

“I will remain here,” said Mr. Babcock. “I have tried to help Mary, but my presence, it seems, is as distressing to him as the lack of yours.”

Mr. Babcock was in a state, I saw, his beloved face creased with worry, and the workshop was not much better, a mess of spilled tools and overturned chairs, toys, and mechanical body parts flung here and there, one piece of ripped pink cloth folding down from the wall. And then I became aware of thudding, something heavy and slow, making the room shudder. I ran across the workshop, faster than I had just run down the street, dodging the debris, to the bedchamber door.

At first glance I found Mary, tears running streaks down her face, her back pressed tight against the wall, and then I saw my uncle. He crouched on the floor in the opposite corner, and he was bloody, crimson ribbons streaming from his head and from the knuckles of both hands, his white nightshirt covered with it. The noise I had been hearing was his head, rhythmic as it banged against the wall, a brown-red smear staining both his hair and the pink cloth.

“Uncle!” I yelled, running forward to stop him, hearing Mary’s warning of “Wait, Miss!” too late to avoid the arm that was instantly flung out as I reached for him. The blow twisted my neck, heat blossoming across my cheek. I took a step back and, through raised fingers, saw the wrench that was still clutched in Uncle Tully’s hand. He wasn’t looking at me; I’m not certain he even knew I was there. He yelled, his head lifted, and then slammed against the wall.

I felt Mary trying to pull me away but I shook my head, and again approached my uncle. This time I was ready for the hand. I caught it as I knelt down beside him, prying the wrench from his fingers, the weakness of his grip frightening me much more than the blood. I let the tool clatter to the floor as Uncle Tully wailed. The wall shook again with the impact of his head.

“Uncle, stop!” I pleaded. I risked inflaming him further and put out a hand to cup his skull, cushioning it, trying to think what to do. I’d only ever once glimpsed my uncle having a fit like this, and it was Lane who had calmed him. Lane had known how to restrain him, and in a way that reassured rather than punished, allowing no harm. Physically I did not have that capability; I could only use what I possessed.

“Uncle Tully,” I said, still loud, but this time with authority rather than fear. He tried to hit his head again, instead crushing my hand. I flinched at the pain, but did not remove my hand.

“Open your eyes,” I commanded. “Uncle, Marianna says to open your eyes.”

The drooping lids fluttered, then half opened, their usual blue now a dull, clouded sky. I gave them time to focus.

“What is ninety-seven times one hundred and three, Uncle Tully?”

He lifted his head to bang it again, but the movement was slight, and my hand took only a glancing blow. One of the wounds on his temple oozed but had almost stopped bleeding. He had been doing this a long time, while I had been next door, eating a four-course dinner. My guilt squeezed inward, tightening like a vise.

“Look at me, Uncle Tully. Ninety-seven times one hundred and three?”

“Nine …” his voice was croaking, “… thousand … nine hundred and … ninety, plus one.”

“That’s right.” There was no need to know the answers; his numbers were always correct. “Do you know who I am, Uncle?”

He hit his head again, and I bit my lip against the hurt. He said, “You are Simon’s … Simon’s baby.”

“That’s right. Your little niece. Twenty-seven times twenty-four?”

“Six hundred and forty-eight.” His face crumpled as if he might cry. “I … little niece … I don’t know where I am!”

“I know it, Uncle.”

“I can wait in the wrong place for twenty. I waited for twenty. …” His voice rose to a yell again, rasping as his sentence trailed away. He lifted his head to bang it, and behind him I saw the clock Mary had put on the bedside table, chosen because it was a particular favorite of my uncle’s, all its cogs and gears exposed rather than hidden inside a cabinet. My hand took another hard blow.

“Uncle Tully,” I said, “listen, do you hear the clock?” His head twisted in my hand, telling me no. “Listen, Uncle Tully, listen. What is the clock telling you?”

Uncle Tully finally went still long enough to hear an audible tick, and when he did, he froze. I held my breath. Mary must have been doing the same because the room went deathly still, the tick, tick, tick, tick like a mechanical heartbeat. My uncle’s eyes closed, his battered face intent.

“What is it telling you, Uncle?” I whispered.

After a long time he said, “It says that it is right, that its pieces are working, and that the when is now.”

“And the clock is working even in a different place, isn’t it?” He moved about in my hand a little, but he was not trying to hit his head. “I told you that when you woke up, that we would have done just what Marianna said to. Do you remember that, Uncle?”