In Pieces
This little thing was trying to distract me the whole time I was writing my Easter Tag fic! It is 4am. This may not have been adequately proofread!
There was no mistaking the tone of the raised voice emanating from behind the closed door, even if most of the words were muffled. Scott didn’t dare attempt to get any closer than the safety of the doorway of his own bedroom to hear more. Seeing John’s cautious approach to the bedroom in question, Scott caught his brother’s attention and beckoned him over.
“What’s going on?” John whispered.
“I’m not sure, but there’s no way I’m going in there to find out.”
“. . . not the first time . . . How many times, Virgil? . . . need to be told?!” The few words they could make out were enough to tell them how much trouble their brother was in, and a potential reason why. “. . . in pieces! . . . priceless antique . . . family heirloom . . . know you are never to touch! And . . . in my office to begin with!”
The two boys stood silently behind the partially closed door to Scott’s room, ready to push the door to at the first sign of their father’s exit from the room on the other side of the hall. Neither of them wished to be in Virgil’s shoes at that particular moment, nor did they wish to catch their father’s attention when he was in this kind of temper.
“. . . going to do with you? . . . how to deal with this . . . if your mother was here!” Scott winced, and John sucked in a long gasp. That was a low blow so soon after the loss. “. . . you ever learn?! . . . even look at you right now.”
Not once did Scott or John hear a voice other than their father’s. In fact there seemed to be very few pauses for any kind of response during the five minute tirade before all fell silent. When the door across the hall began to open, Scott’s door was swiftly and silently closed. They were able to hear a murmur in the hall, and John suspected it to be an instruction to “stay in there until further notice” before the door was emphatically closed.
Jeff didn’t exactly slam the door on the way out, but he made sure it was most definitely firmly shut! His blood was boiling. The boy had been repeatedly told he should ask before pulling something apart to “see how it works.” Certain things were off limits. Especially when they resided in his office, which the boys were never supposed to be in unless he summoned them there. And this particular item was priceless and irreplaceable. When he’d seen it broken down into dozens of clockwork pieces spread out across Virgil’s bed he had felt himself shaking with uncontainable anger.
His grandfather had given him the curious Clockwork Marvel with the little figures of woodsmen and their axes, saws and hammers, and the little mountain climber at the back. Jeff had been intrigued by it every time he had visited with his grandparents as a boy. He’d seen it in motion a few times, but not since he was Gordon’s age. Even back then the moving parts had been deemed fragile, so only Grandpa was ever allowed to wind it up and get it going. It had been given to Jeff when his Grandpa had passed away and Grandma had explained that it had belonged to Grandpa’s father, and had been handed down to him from an uncle who’d been a clock maker. Jeff’s boys had only ever seen it up on a high shelf behind his desk. Jeff had never wound it up to show them the movement – in fact he wasn’t even sure he knew where the winding key was. Virgil had never shown any great interest in the thing, so why now?
His 12 year old son had stood silently staring at the carpet the whole time he’d been talking to him – well, lecturing him to be honest – and it had only infuriated him more. Virgil had nodded in acknowledgement once or twice, so at least he knew the boy had been listening, but he was still not sure the message had sunk in. After all, so much of what he’d just said had been said before. Virgil was old enough now to know better, and Jeff didn’t have the patience to deal with repeating old lessons in appropriate behaviour. Lucy would have handled this better. Hell, maybe if she were here the boy would have had something else to occupy his time. But she wasn’t here. He still had to keep reminding himself of that.
He needed a drink.
That evening when the family gathered around the dinner table there was a notable absence. It wasn’t unusual for Virgil not to come down for dinner right away. He would often get so caught up in what he was doing that he’d just forget about meals until the growling of his stomach became too loud and insistent to ignore. Even then sometimes the need to “just finish this little bit” before stopping was enough to override the growling. No, the unusual thing was that their father didn’t mention the absence.
“Where’s Virgil?” Gordon asked around his first mouthful of food, spitting crumbs onto the table.
“I’ll go find him,” Scott volunteered, rising from his seat.
“No,” their father said, firmly.
“No?” Scott could barely believe what he’d heard. His brothers stopped and stared, Gordon with his mouth hanging open, Alan only because John had stopped chopping up his chicken for him. “But -”
“You heard me,” Jeff reiterated. “He is to stay in his room.”
The subject was closed. The boys knew from his tone, his expression, the subtle shift in his body language that there was no point in saying more on the matter. The steel that had been in Scott’s eyes and the set of his shoulders took a moment to soften, but soften it did, and the others turned their attention back to their plates. The mood around the table remained subdued throughout the rest of the meal. It wasn’t silent. In the Tracy household mealtimes were never silent affairs, but Scott and John spoke only in response to their little brothers, and Jeff said nothing.
As soon as dinner was finished Jeff disappeared, as was his habit lately, probably to his office. The boys had all but given up looking for their dad in the evenings. They cleared the table, Scott took Alan upstairs to get him ready for his bath while John and Gordon argued over who’s turn it was to wash and who’s to dry the dishes. And the normal night-time routine ran its course without anyone hearing a peep out of Virgil.
Without Virgil to help with getting the youngest two bathed and into pyjamas, forcing them to brush teeth and get into bed, and reading stories those duties kept Scott and John busy. Once Alan was asleep and Gordon had reluctantly agreed to let Scott read instead of Virgil, John went up to the attic nook to unwind with the relaxing familiarity of his telescope and the stars.
By the time John came down from the attic Scott was already sequestered away in his room. Not yet asleep – John could see the light under the door, which probably meant Scott was trying to catch up on homework before turning in. He didn’t think much of it as he headed for the room he shared with Virgil, which also had light leaking from beneath the door.
He opens the door to find Virgil still dressed, tinkering away at something on his desk, a few bits and pieces still laid out meticulously on the bed, and completely oblivious to John entering and crossing to his own bed. There’s no reaction to John moving about the room and getting into his pyjamas.
“Virgil?” he quietly prompts. “You okay?”
There’s a sigh and a slump of shoulders, but he doesn’t put down what he’s working on or turn around.
“I’m fine.”
“You know it’s almost midnight, right?” John knows that will make little difference to his night-owl brother. There is no response, so John tries again. “You missed dinner. Do you want me to get you a snack or something?”
“I’m not hungry.” There’s a ratchety clicking sound and Virgil finally puts the object down and turns towards John. “Thanks though.”
John can see there have been tears at some stage. The smile that Virgil tries to offer him is weak, and the spark is missing from those gentle brown eyes. John isn’t sure how to fix what’s wrong and he almost decides to go and fetch Scott, but changes his mind at the realisation that the smile is for his benefit – so he won’t worry about his wounded brother.
“We can talk about what dad said -”
“No, it’s okay.” Virgil turned back to the desk, picking up a tiny screwdriver and adjusting something. “I screwed up. But I can fix it. I’m okay. I promise.”
John doesn’t have to hear the sniffle to know there are more tears. He closes the gap between them, bare feet padding on the carpet. He’s surprised to see the little mechanical woodsmen Virgil is tinkering with. He never realised just how complex their dad’s clockwork ornament really was when broken down into its many parts, but then he’d never been this close to it before. It was more than half reassembled and he instinctively understood Virgil’s focus. He placed a hand on Virgil’s shoulder and gave a simple squeeze.
“Anything I can do to help?”
Virgil shook his head, as John knew he would. This was something he needed to do by himself.
John left him to it, went to the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed and returned to find Virgil had turned on his desk lamp and angled it away from John’s bed. When John flicked the main bedroom light off Virgil was cast in silhouette against the soft glow of the lamp. John watched him for a moment before sliding himself beneath his bedcovers and whispering goodnight. Virgil was too engrossed in his repairs to respond.
Despite the late hour at which he’d dragged himself to bed, Jeff was up in a timely manner the following morning. Scott was already helping Alan with his breakfast in the kitchen, and Gordon was making a mess of pouring cereal into his bowl. He stayed in the kitchen long enough to say good morning, make himself a coffee and grab a piece of toast before retreating to his office.
The events of the previous afternoon were still playing on his mind as he set his coffee mug down on the desk. His eyes were drawn up to the high shelf where his clockwork woodsmen should be . . . and there it was. The marvellous little ornament that he’d last seen in so many tiny pieces all over Virgil’s bed the day before was whole again. It seemed to sparkle and gleam in a way that he didn’t remember it having ever done before. Intrigued, he carefully lifted it down off the shelf and placed it on the desk. Neatly slotted into its hole in the back of the base was the winding key. He knew that had been missing for some time.
Suddenly it twigged. Virgil must have found the key. His mechanically curious boy had somehow figured out what the key fitted into and needed to know what it did. One thing would have led to another from there. Jeff knew the old machinery was not working well back when he was a boy, so if Virgil had wound it up he would have seen something was amiss. The innate need to know how it worked – or how it should work – would have been the driving force behind taking it apart.
Now that it was back together Jeff could see in his mind’s eye how each piece had been laid out in painstakingly ordered fashion on Virgil’s bed. He should have trusted the boy. Since he was four or five years old he had never failed to put pack together whatever he’d pulled apart. (There were a few mishaps with the reassembly before then, but not since.) But this was by far the most complex, the most finely detailed piece of machinery Virgil had ever attempted.
Hardly realising he was doing so, he wound the key. Once, twice, three times, just like Grandpa used to do. Tiny clockwork gears and motors clicked and whirred as the miniature woodsmen swung their axes, beat their hammers and push-pulled their saws. The little, tiny mountain climber worked his tiny pick. And tinkling metallic chimes played music. Music! He had never even known his Grandpa’s clockwork machine was meant to play music.
Tears ran down his cheeks. Many childhood memories of gazing at this fascinating ornament in wonder came flooding back. This was more than he’d ever seen the machine do, more than he’d imagined it could do. And his talented little boy had done all this in less than a day, brought new life to an almost forgotten antique.
He ran up the stairs, startling Scott, who tried to ask if something was wrong. Ignoring the inquiry he flung open the door to Virgil and John’s room with a thud of doorknob on wall that woke John, but not Virgil.
“Dad?!” John’s voice was laced with concern, but Jeff didn’t even register that he’d spoken. He dropped to his knees beside Virgil’s bed, ran his hand across the back of the boys shoulders as he slept on his stomach, gave the far shoulder a squeeze, and a firm, but gentle shake.
“Virgil? Son, wake up.” The boy stirred, mumbled incoherently and tried to roll over. Jeff took the opportunity to sit the boy up and wrap him in a tight hug. “Virgil!”
This time something in his father’s voice registered with Virgil and he blinked his eyes open. Seeing, and feeling his father’s tears, and being wrapped in his embrace, Virgil’s heart leapt into his throat.
“Dad?! What’s wrong?” His dad was crying and hugging him, something really bad must have happened. Again.
Jeff pulled back from the hug, gripping Virgil’s shoulders and looking into his son’s eyes, immediately regretting the fear he saw there. Something else to feel guilty about.
“Son, I’m so sorry!” His hand reached up to stroke unruly dark locks. “I don’t know how you did it. I don’t know why I doubted you could, but . . . I,” he faltered, his voice cracking. Virgil stared, dumbfounded. “Thank you. For fixing the woodsmen.”
Virgil was enveloped in another hug, and he hugged back, still a little bewildered. It felt good to have his father’s arms wrapped around him. It had been a long time since they’d had a moment like this, and yesterday had felt so horrible.
“There are still bits that need fixing,” Virgil tried to explain. “Some of the cogs have broken teeth, there are parts that are just loose because they’ve been worn down. It should work better now it’s all clean, but it’s not perfect.”
“It works better than I’ve ever seen it.” He smiled at his son, beaming with pride and pure childish joy. “I had no idea it was supposed to play music. I’ve never heard it do that before.” Virgil’s eyebrows raised. “You did an amazing job, son. Thank you.”
