Escapement (3 page)

Seven people back now, and my heart started to race. I was eager. A small part of me was nervous about not being nervous, but my life was falling apart, and how dare he stare at me in a supermarket, smiling like he owned the world, and tell me I had a chance at happiness.
How dare he.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. I hadn’t noticed it before, probably because I’d been trying to catch glimpses of the man I was going to punch out. But to my right, there it was: very, very large and hanging on a wall.

It’s hard to describe the feeling that came over me at that moment. I guess it’s what the general public calls peace. I really wouldn’t know, but if I had to guess, that’s what it was. It was kind of like the feeling I get right before I eat fried chicken, but without the guilt. I was very aware that I wasn’t eating anything and yet feeling completely euphoric at the same time.

Like a lifeboat drifting at sea, I found myself swept out of line, a line in which I’d been for two hours, and standing beneath a painting that I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

There were trees. Lots of trees. Beautiful cedars, holding strong against weighty mounds of snow on their branches, towered all around the little scene. And off to the left was this cabin, with a lamppost glowing the most amazing color of amber. People were walking arm in arm, bundled up in wool coats. A little white dog followed along, its tiny footprints dotting the snow. Through the windows of the cabin, a family could be seen sitting around a fire. If my eyes had been any wider, I’d have given Noel Neet a run for his exaggerated-facial-expressions money.

A tiny woman the size of a broomstick swept to my side, her hands clasped behind her back. “May I help you, sir?”

“What
is
this?” I asked.

“It’s a Thomas Kinkade painting.”

“Who?”

“Thomas Kinkade. He’s America’s most collected living artist.”

“I want to cry,” I said, staring up at it. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I looked down at her, trying to explain. “Inside, I feel something. Actually, the lack of something. Like, just minutes ago I was a serrano pepper and now I’m jarred marshmallow cream.”

“I completely understand.”

“I want to step right inside that place, wherever that is. I want to be there. Right there.”

She grinned. Broomstick was totally tracking with me.

I turned to her. “I have to have this.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“How much?”

“I believe this one is listed for twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five dollars?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

My heart sank as I turned back to it. Broomstick seemed to sense my despair. “I have good news for you,” she said.

“You do?”

“Come over here.”

I followed her around the corner to another part of the store. She lifted her hand and pointed to an entire wall of similar paintings and . . . were those knickknacks? I trod carefully to the shelves, all made of glass, displaying an unbelievable collection of items that featured the most glorious pictures of churches and bridges and Christmas lodges. There were mountains and streams and rivers. Clouds bursting with light. Little dogs. Long walks. Gardens of endless flowers.

Broomstick declared that “the Painter of Light” wanted his work to be affordable to everyone. An hour later I left with four mugs, a blanket, a stapler, a clock, a wall calendar, bubble bath, a night-light, a snow globe, drink coasters, and eight little saucers, all with these beautiful pictures on them. As I heaved the sack over my shoulder and made my way to my car, Noel Neet’s book dropped from underneath my armpit, where I’d stuck it and forgotten about it. It was splayed out on the asphalt, his flat face smiling at me once again.

I stooped and picked him up. And you know what? I smiled back.

I set these trinkets all over my house, my car, and at work. Some people have stress balls they squeeze or yoga classes they attend. Some have Prozac. I had Thomas Kinkade. Any time I felt anxious or overwhelmed or full of dread, I’d stare at one of these little images and my soul would be washed with its hope and tranquility.

I tell you this for two reasons. First, yes, I made my peace with Noel Neet, in case you were wondering. The dreams stopped and I managed to read four pages of his book. It was the table of contents, but I got a good idea where he was going with the whole thing. Second, I want you to know why I had all these items in the passenger seat of this Hummer. If you didn’t know the background, you’d think I was some kind of psycho.

I reached over and took a coaster, glancing at the picture on it as I drove north on I-35. Every Thomas Kinkade item I owned had been packed in the duffel bag I’d intended to fly with. This was much better, though. They were all with me, out so I could see them. Some were on the floorboard, some in the backseat. But they were there.

Then I realized it. In my haste to bring Thomas Kinkade, I forgot a murder weapon. How I would’ve gotten that on a plane, I don’t know. I set down the coaster and comforted myself with the stapler. I had an hour and a half to figure out that part of my plan.

Surely,
I thought,
I can easily find a murder weapon.

By now you’re probably wondering about this whole murder plot I’ve gotten myself into. And you’re probably thinking that I should’ve chosen to go back in time seven hours. Maybe spend some quality time with Beth. Or reassess my eating habits. Read a Noel Neet book. Something way more productive than murder.

But you haven’t lived my life. You really have no idea what it’s like. You’re thinking to yourself that if I just chose salad instead of Crisco, everything would be better. The truth is that it really wouldn’t. If I were skinny, I’d still hate Abbott McClain.

Just by the name, you can probably guess he wore a lot of polos and argyle. A century earlier and he would’ve been the guy wearing an ascot. Even so, he played football. Don’t ask me what position because I didn’t follow the game or the team in high school. But whatever his position, he owned it. And pretty much everything in the school.

Can I name one incident that was making me take this drive to Wichita? You betcha.

It was 1989. December 4. 3:04 p.m. The day was cloudy. Snow was bursting from the sky. That was back in the day when they only canceled school for nuclear war. We were watching out the windows as the buses tried to maneuver to the curb in the snow. They were slipping and sliding all over the place.

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.