Clockwork Daisy

Chapter 2

Deacon

Chapter 2

Once, when I was barely seven, I picked up my ceramic pink piggy bank from the very top of my book shelf. I was balancing on a broken swivel chair, grubby hands grabbing until I had the animal in my arms. I looked at the chipped, cartoon painted eyes and the thin black line that curved into a smile. I shuffled it, one hand to the other. I was acting like there was something to contemplate, but there wasn't. Not in my one track mind. 

A simple toss was all it took. Almost as if the bank just slipped from my grasp. Crash. It hit the rough carpet below quite gracefully. I blinked twice and it was in hundreds of pieces. The coins glinted in the sunlight that shined through the window. The crinkled bills were scattered amongst them, like leaves from some shedding tree. 

"Dee." Mom was in the doorway, my little sister Anya, who was two at the time, was propped on her leg. She had a worried look on her face and a broom in her hand. "Why'd you do that?"

"I heard you on the phone. You were crying," Sobbing, actually. "About money. Take some of mine."

Mom pulled her chipped fingernails up to her rose lips. "I would never take money from you, Deacon. You don't need to worry about these sort of things." Her words flew out like a practiced speech. She set Anya down and the toddler waddled. A mass full of auburn curls, the same color as mom's, topped her head. She gurgled and toppled down in the corner. Mom grabbed the half broken broom and began to push everything together into one big pile, smashing the money with the sharp ceramic. 

She worked dutifully for twenty minutes, first moving the pile into a dust bin, and then carefully picking out every trace of money she saw, watchful not to cut herself. She moved the coins and bills into a recycled Ziploc baggie that had once held carrot sticks for my lunch. "Now you keep this in a safe place." She instructed, setting the bag in my palms. "And no more throwing money on the ground." She ruffled my dark, curly hair and went to go make a lunch of whatever was left in the cupboards.

That night, I heard her crying again. 

Slowly, things got better for us. But not drastically. We still held up in the little clapboard house that sat on an abandoned farm property at the edge of St. Wisteria. The one with the weak shingles, the washed out blue paint, the gnarly thick lawn, and the one cracked window from when my dad and I threw an old baseball at the wrong speed. 

My dad. 

He was a man who wasn't brought up much in Knight household conversations since the week after I'd turned six. That was when he had left. A lanky man with a face like mine and a truck load of regrets decided he was done with being domestic. He zipped up his leather coat and slammed the door on his way out, leaving behind a nervous wife, a wailing one year old, and a devastated son. My mom said he left because of his notorious history with the selling of illegal substances. According to her he was on the run. But she didn't really know for sure, which meant I didn't either. I had a million questions for my father, but I counted on not even one of them being answered.

We didn't mourn him much. We just did what we could to carry on. Mom got a job as a housekeeper on Wisteria Hill-the rich side of town. Her pay wasn't spectacular, but it was enough to buy a bag or two of groceries every week. Mom said the creaky staircase, clanky boiler and dying microwave could wait, as long as Anya and I were fed. I promised her that I'd get a job whenever someone would take me. 

And I did. 

I was a wide eyed fourteen year old when I started working with Dirk at the clock tower. Just being inside the historical structure sent chills down my spine. It was dark and tall, with light shooting through the gears. The massive gears that never rusted and continued moving, rain or shine. The job consisted of checking in on the clock a couple times a day. For the first few months I'd sweep the floor and watch in awe as the beer bellied, moustache donning Dirk would climb a rickety ladder with a wrench and a rag, making sure everything was clean and correct.