Escapement Read online

  I was fifteen. Three hundred and ten pounds.

  I didn’t wear a coat, not even in the winter. I could produce plenty of heat on my own. We were dismissed to our buses and I was walking down the sidewalk toward bus 13 when a hand suddenly shoved into my shoulder. The next thing I knew, I was tipping backward. The weight of my backpack, with all its books and such, threw me off-balance. The slick snow beneath me kept me from gaining traction. The next thing I knew, I’d fallen backward into a four-foot snowdrift.

  Standing above me was Abbott McClain, with his down jacket and his fancy skiing cap.

  “Mattie Bigham,” he sneered. “Why are you lying down in the snow?”

  I struggled, but I couldn’t get up. Every time I tried to grab the snow, it shifted, giving me nothing for leverage.

  A group of kids had gathered around, laughing. Since I only wore short-sleeved shirts, my arms were turning redder by the second. I was getting very cold, except my blood was boiling, so that was probably keeping me from diving into hypothermia.

  “Get me out of here!” I shouted. Tears welled in my eyes.

  “But it’s so cute. You’re making a snow angel.”

  “You mean a snow rhino!” somebody shouted.

  More was said. I don’t remember what. I think the brain has a way of shutting out things that might eventually kill you. Oddly, it doesn’t shut out things that might eventually cause you to kill.

  After a while I was rescued by a teacher, who scolded me for playing in the snow while missing my bus. My mom had to come get me. I cried all the way home. She baked me cookies and made me hot chocolate. In my mother’s eyes, food could fix anything. And she’d been right for most of my life. It had fixed a lot of things. But in the meantime, it broke a few things too.

  She sat with me at the kitchen table as tears dribbled down my face. “Matthew, look at me.”

  I did.

  “You can’t let someone like Abbott McClain tell you who you are. You’re a kind person with a good heart. And at the end of the day, that will get you farther in life than being a rotten jerk like Abbott.”

  I had believed my mother for years on that one. I really had. I believed that people with good hearts eventually came out on top. But when Beth left me, I decided my mom had some misconceptions about life. She had the best heart of all, and she died of Alzheimer’s when she escaped from the nursing home and froze to death in a nearby pond.

  Later that day, after the milk and the cookies, my mother told me she would be praying often for Abbott McClain, and that’s the day I decided to stop believing in God.

  I knew Abbott lived in Wichita because somehow I ended up on the alumni mailing list. I had taken great care to assure that I had no contact with anyone from high school the day I graduated. And it had worked for the most part, but every once in a while, there was a reminder, like that stupid alumni newsletter.

  Apparently Abbott had been asked to be the commencement speaker at last year’s graduation. He’d made millions doing something well. I didn’t want to know what. He had a wife and kids and the American dream.

  Sure, there were other kids who’d been mean to me. I can actually only name five who weren’t. That’s in a class of 150. So why him?

  Because Abbott didn’t deserve a piece of my mama. But he was getting ready to get a piece of me.

  Thirty minutes outside Wichita, I stopped for gas. The Hummer was roomy, but it was sucking fuel faster than I could get a milk shake down.

  I started fueling and then leaned against its shiny, sleek black exterior like I owned the thing. A few people gave me nods of approval. I guess standing against this beast caused me to look a few hundred pounds lighter or something.

  As the thing chugged gas, I pulled out the little book Constant had given me about pocket watches. He’d mentioned it might hold some clues for me. Clues to what, I didn’t know. I flipped through it again. It was just a bunch of definitions about the parts of watches that nobody but watchmakers care about. If a watch tells time, I’m happy. Otherwise, you can stick your pinion in your mainspring and get on with it.

  I landed on the term hairspring. “An incredibly fine and delicate metal coil attached to the balance wheel that expands and contracts, thus allowing the balance wheel to rotate back and forth as it receives power from the mainspring. This serves the same function as the pendulum in a clock.”

  I smiled. Hairspring trigger came to mind. Yeah. Abbott was going to see what he triggered into action years ago. Oh yes.

  Except there was no way I was going to be able to get a gun at this late hour. I sighed.

  Then, like it had actually shouted my name, I glanced across the street and saw it. I smiled at its brown-and-yellow sign.

  “Sir?”

  I glanced up at Meredith, who was missing three of her eight front teeth and had glasses so thick that if the sun hit them right, she might be in danger of burning a hole straight through her head. But I liked Meredith right away. She brought me extra lemons for my iced tea and an extra bowl of gravy.

  “Sir? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Meredith. Why do you ask?”

  Her eyes, as big as moons behind those lenses, glanced at my food. I did too. The chicken-fried steak, along with the five sides I ordered, plus the salad and the bread basket, were untouched.

  “You been sittin’ here a good twenty minutes,” she said. “You want me to go back and nuke them plates?”

  I gently touched her arm. “No. That’s okay.”

  “All you done eaten was that ice tea.”

  “I know. I suddenly lost my appetite.”

  She sat down in the empty chair across from me, concentrating on me like I might spontaneously combust. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Matthew.”

  “Matthew, I got a couple of big boys of my own. Eight and nine. They got a good, wholesome appetite like yours. Jimmy, my oldest, sat down at dinner one night. I’d fixed pork, and no boy of mine can resist pork. He didn’t eat a single thing. Not one thing that night. I knew something was wrong.”

  “What?”

  “His appendix burst two hours later. Nearly lost him on the operating table.” Her eyes narrowed. “You been getting a sick feeling to your stomach? Sharp, jabbing pains in your side?”

  Yeah, but not because of toxic organs. She did give me an idea, though. Sharp. Jab. Pain. I gazed toward the Cracker Barrel store. “Meredith, thank you for this most amazing service.”

  She looked worried. “You’re not going to eat any of it?”

  I gave her my best Noel Neet smile. “Honey, you know what you’re staring at right now?”

  She shook her head.

  “Pure willpower.” I winked.

  She grinned widely. “Well, good for you! That’s what I say! Good for you! I could use me some of that. I ain’t stared down one cigarette that I didn’t end up smokin’.”

  “Just remember, Matthew Bigham walked away from chicken-fried steak. If I can, you can.”

  Meredith stood like her life had been changed, whisked my plates away, and left. I was feeling very Bob Harper–like. I paid my tab, then set my sights on finding a murder weapon at the Cracker Barrel. This was no easy task, mind you, mostly because the aisles were narrow and stuff was stacked a mile high. Kind of my worst nightmare.

  I was eyeing the aisles more than walking them, trying to figure out something, anything, that could be used as a murder weapon.

  “Help you?”

  I turned and there was a guy that, I’m not kidding, looked like a package of Slim Jim beef jerky. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with a waist so skinny he had to wrap the apron ties around himself three times. I’d had to buy extensions for mine at home.

  You probably think I hate all skinny people. Not true. I have a certain affection for people who can’t fill out the seat of a pair of jeans. I mean, if there’s such a thing as too fat, there’s such a thing as too thin. Slim fit that description. His name tag read Tim. S
lim Tim. His hair was greasy, slicked to the side, and he had pimples over baby-smooth skin.

  “I’m looking for something,” I said, gazing out over the product selection.

  He gazed too, like that was all the info I was going to give him and he was going to have to figure it out. This guy seemed like I could sell him oceanfront property in Oklahoma, so I said, “Listen, I have a grandmother. Ethel. She’s ninety-two. Think humpback whale, except in minnow form.”

  Slim stared in front of us, picturing it.

  “Grandma lives alone and looks like she couldn’t fight off a grasshopper, but I tell ya, she’s one heck of a fighter. One heck of a fighter.”

  Slim turned to me, nodding.

  “So what I’m needing is something for her birthday. Something she’ll really enjoy. But also something she could defend herself with should robbers break in. Are you catching my vision?”

  He was nodding, but his eyes were saying no.

  “Let’s say she’s knitting and a robber breaks down her front door. What can she stab him with?”

  “Her knitting needle?”

  He had a point. “Well, she doesn’t really knit. I was just thinking out loud there, trying to give an example. She mostly just sits and flips through Reader’s Digest, which really couldn’t be used to self-defend. But yes, something like a knitting needle. You have knitting needles?”

  “No. Sorry. We do have long, skinny suckers.”

  I was pretty sure I was staring at one, but I only smiled and nodded. “Yes. That would be good. But would probably not be as effective as, say . . . a cane with a retractable spike. Something like that. Have anything spiked?”

  “Just our holiday apple cider mix. Have to be twenty-one or older to purchase.”

  Slim was killing me here. Then suddenly he raised a finger with such authority that I looked up because I thought he was pointing to something. “I’ve got it!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! What about a letter opener?”

  Now he was thinking. “That might work. Indeed. If it’s stainless steel.”

  “It is. It’s a popular item. It’s over here in the corner by the window.”

  Oh, boy. I had to follow, squeezing between stacks of puzzles and porcelain plates with big signs that said, “You break, you buy!” I actually had to lift my stomach over a stack of mugs, but finally we got there. I was out of breath.

  He reached around a display of stationery to get the letter opener for me and presented it like it was something of value.

  “Perrrfect—wait.”

  I’d reached out to touch it, eyeing the glimmering stainless steel blade, when I suddenly noticed the handle. It had flowers and light bursting from a cloud and . . .

  “Is this . . . ?”

  “A letter opener? Yes.”

  “What’s on the handle?”

  “Flowers. Grandmas like flowers, right?”

  “No, no. I mean, it’s a painting, right?”

  He studied it. “Looks like it.”

  “Is it Thomas Kinkade?”

  He didn’t seem to know who I was talking about.

  “The Painter of Light?”

  He shook his head, confused, but said, “Let me get the box.” He reached for it, read it, and nodded. “You’re in luck! It sure is!”

  I rolled my eyes, covering my mouth as my fingers scratched my cheek.

  “She’s allergic to flowers?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .” How to explain this. I had a conviction here that was kind of ruining my murder plot. I really couldn’t do it. I couldn’t murder someone with a Thomas Kinkade piece. The guilt would be overwhelming. The irony would suffocate me.

  I glanced up, trying to figure myself out, when I saw a toy gun nearby. I gestured toward it. “What about that?”

  “What?” Slim asked.

  “That gun. See it right there?”

  “The one with the plastic badge and felt cowboy hat?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Wrapped in a cloth napkin, I might be able to sell the idea I had a real one.

  Slim eyed me. “It’s not real.”

  “Yes, yes. I kind of gathered that by the ‘three and over’ warning. But maybe Grandma could scare them away. Point it to the ceiling. Shout obscenities. Maybe stick it under her robe.”

  Slim stared at it, carefully considering. “I don’t think so. It looks pretty plastic.”

  “True. But if she’s waving it wildly, back and forth like so . . .” I waved my hand in the air and then . . . crash. Like some kind of synchronized swim routine, an entire stack of sunflower and pitchfork plates slid off the shelf between us, one right after another, until not a plate was left. The room grew eerily silent.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. The fat guy did it, right? I swiveled my hip and hit an entire stack of sunflower and pitchfork plates?

  But it wasn’t me. I stared at Slim, whose eyes told me everything I needed to know. I owned that look, many times over, from my days working as a waiter at a Mexican restaurant, as a clerk at a fine china store at the mall, and as a baker at a specialty chocolate shop.

  The look said, It’s coming out of my paycheck. And having worked in retail, I knew there’s not much paycheck there. It also told me this wasn’t the first time that poor Slim had broken something.

  Twenty minutes later, after a long but not particularly helpful apology to the manager, I walked out of the Cracker Barrel carrying a large trash sack filled with twenty broken plates that the manager graciously discounted by 10 percent.

  Slim hurried after me. “Sir . . . sir?”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  He stared at his boots. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.”

  “Why would you do that for me? I knocked those over. We both saw it.”

  “You know what?” I smiled. “It was kind of just satisfying knowing that for once I was the one who didn’t do it.”

  He sighed. “I’ve always been a klutz. I’m like an unintentional weapon.”

  I laughed. “I know what you mean. You more like a bullet. Me more like a four-hundred-ton bomb. But I get it.”

  He pitched his hand over his shoulder. “I best get back in there. Thanks.” He shook my hand and hurried into the store. I won’t lie to you—I had that warm and fuzzy feeling inside. But if life experience has taught me anything, it is that warm and fuzzy always grows cold and bristly.

  With one hefty lift, I managed to get the trash sack into the trunk of the Hummer. I stood there, catching my breath for a moment. But then it hit me hard, like reflux after three-alarm chili.

  Unintentional weapon.

  I dug through the sack, lifting a large, triangular piece out. It was sharp. Real sharp. The sun made it kind of dazzle.

  I’d found my murder weapon. And it only cost me $207.48.

  I’m not a cold, hard killing machine, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m actually not hard at all, anywhere, with the exception of my arteries. And I’m also never cold. My core body temperature rests at ninety-nine degrees, even in subzero weather. I’m soft and hot, like a Sara Lee dinner roll. I just need you to understand where I’m coming from.

  What I am is a believer in justice. And as far as I can tell, justice has not been served. People are getting away with pure, unadulterated rottenness and not paying a price for it. At least most murderers get sent to jail. But what do you do with the guy who basically murders your soul? Where are the soul police?

  I’ll tell you where they are. Turning a blind eye while living the high life in big houses, with fancy cars. They’ve bullied their way up the ranks and now are living in conscienceless luxury.

  In a way, I’m a hero. Not the kind that wears spandex obviously. Not the kind that gets medals and awards and a banquet thrown in his honor. But the kind that shifts through the shadows, a kind of Robin Hood to the pip-squeaks of the world. Before I met Beth, I probabl
y couldn’t have done this. But she gave me the confidence I always knew I had but couldn’t quite squeeze out of myself.

  That’s why her momentary breakdown and disillusions about our marriage are being met with tremendous grace from me. She did a lot for my self-esteem, which was low even before I hit three hundred. You can only imagine it now.

  No, it’s not Beth who deserves vengeance. A person can only do so much with a tormented soul. The person who caused the soul to be tormented . . . that’s the guy who deserves what he gets.

  I entered the Wichita city limits and my heart started racing in the exact way my doctor said it would right before a heart attack. I had to assume he hadn’t considered that this also might happen on the way to murder someone. My arm wasn’t going numb and my chest wasn’t hurting, so I drove on, guided by the lovely, robotic voice of my GPS.

  I stopped at a traffic light and pulled out the little book on pocket watches, scanning the terms again. As real as Constant was, his idea that these watch terms were going to be especially helpful to me was striking me as completely inaccurate. My gaze landed on the word damascening. “The detailed engraving many watch companies put on their movements—an art form in its own right. May come from the word Damascus, with the underlying meaning that it is given its personality, such as all that God has put into a person, his characteristics, etc.”

  Well, God must’ve skipped right over the engraving of Abbott McClain.

  The next term, ébauche, looked interesting and also, if I could use it in a sentence, might make me sound extremely sharp. It referred to a style of unfinished watch movement that was mass-produced by various Swiss companies in the mid to late 1800s. These watches were then shipped to retailers or jewelers who finished the watches by adding the dials, the hands, the case, the jewels, the escapement (no idea what that was), and more. My eyes read the last line: “Quite often the name engraved on a European watch from this period is that of the retailer and not of the company that actually made the watch itself.” Huh. That was interesting. It seemed a little unfair for someone to make a thing and then not get credit for it. Sure, you can put on all the bells and whistles, but it’s the core of how the watch is made that really counts.