The Butter-Clock, A Family Tale Options

[Guest_Ishmael_*]

Michael didn’t like his new shoes. They were still stiff and they made his feet sore and sweaty so during the long car ride he’d taken them off. As his father turned the engine off the car shook itself like a dog coming out of the water and he looked out the window. The house they’d pulled up in front of wasn’t that big but it sat above a long sloping garden on the high side of the street and so still poked up above the rest of the neighbourhood. There was a shiny black car clinging to the steep driveway and a less shiny blue one parked out front in the street. The grass in the garden was cut short and neat and all the different types of flowers had their own little section like the crowds at the school swimming carnival. He was still admiring the way the thin stalks were gently waving their red and white and purple flags when a shape moved in front of his window and blocked the view. The door opened and his father was standing there with his hair parted on the right and his dark blue shirt tucked neatly into his pants. Michael quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and swung his feet out of the car. His father made no effort to move and let him out. They stood like that in silence for several moments, his father breathing heavily through his nose and Michael shivering a little in the cold breeze, until suddenly he remembered his shoes. He looked down at his white socks hovering over the asphalt and sighed.
“So you’re going to walk up to your Nanna’s house in just your socks are you?”
There was no question in the words.
“Sorry, I forgot to put them back on,” he mumbled.
“Then you shouldn’t have taken them off in the first place should you?”
“I didn’t think…”
“That’s just it isn’t it? You didn’t think!”
The words hung impatiently above the empty street. Michael just stared at his socks.
“Come on, hurry it up. Everybody’s waiting for you now.”
He picked his shoes up from the floor of the car and untied them while his father stood there watching him. A woman came out of a house across the road and he could feel her eyes as she started walking up the street. He looked over at his mother and she gave him a reassuring smile through the rear vision mirror.
A few minutes later the three of them were climbing up the driveway past the shiny black car, Michael trailing a couple of steps behind. At the top of the driveway on the right hand side were some concrete steps that led up to a little concrete porch. He climbed them slowly. His legs were already tired from hiking up the slope and his shoes were starting to bite painfully at his heels. His father was standing at the top holding the door open and neither said a word as Michael shuffled past him into the house.

Inside it was quiet. The front door opened into a long hallway that was empty but for a few pieces of expensive looking wooden furniture. It smelt of Mr. Sheen. His mother had already disappeared into one of the doorways and he could hear a murmur of voices coming from somewhere in the house, though it was muffled by the thick spongy carpet beneath his feet. On his left was a long wooden table cluttered with people he didn’t recognise in silver frames. They were mostly photos of weddings and babies and towards the end was one that he’d seen somewhere before. The baby in the picture was wearing a sour expression and sat slumped against a wall of pale pink floral wallpaper. Its little chin was buried in a long white dress that was far too big for its pudgy body. He stared at it while his father caught him up. He figured he knew who it was in the photo but didn’t say anything.
“Come on,” his father said.
Michael stayed silent as he slowly moved off down the hall and his father grabbed his arm. He looked up and his father’s mouth was set in that tight thin line Michael knew so well. He leant his face in very close and spoke in a near whisper.
“I don’t want any more of that attitude today, do you understand?”
“What? I didn’t do anything!” Michael complained.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Buck up. Got it?”
Michael nodded without looking at him. His father glared at him for a moment longer then straightened up and led him down the hall to the doorway where voices were murmuring softly. Next to the door was a framed photo of a lady in a pink dress. She was standing in front of a little concrete porch a lot like the one out the front except that the railing was painted green instead of white. Her hair was up in tight curls around her head and she held her hands clasped lightly but deliberately in her lap. She was standing in front of a little concrete porch a lot like the one out the front except that the railing was painted green instead of white. Her hair was up in tight curls around her head and she held her hands clasped lightly but deliberately in her lap. A man in a sailor’s uniform was standing just behind her, his arm behind her back and a sly smile tickling his handsome features. The grass was long about their shoes and they were squinting as though looking into the sun but even with their eyes narrowed they seemed to follow him as he moved past. He moved his head from side to side trying to shake their gaze but they watched him and studied him and then he passed through into the living room where a small crowd had arranged themselves.

The phonograph that stood in the corner of the living room had remained untouched since it was put there by two delivery men a week after they’d bought the house. One of the men had been exceedingly tall and lanky, with an intrusive nose, though Bea couldn’t quite picture the rest of his face. She had no recollection of the other man, however she felt certain that there had been two of them. The ridiculous machine was far too large for one man to carry alone. Her husband’s brother had bought it as some sort of welcoming gift for their new house and since he’d always found it necessary to come by for Sunday lunch at least once a month with very little prior notice she’d had no option but to tell the men to put it somewhere visible. Once they had positioned it so that it was in harmony with the rest of the room, at least in so far as such a ponderous extravagance ever could be, she had put it firmly out of her mind and it only attracted her attention now because that infernal woman her son had married was playing her fingers over the buttons. Bea watched her out of the corner of her eye, silently chewing the inside of her lip. There was something about that woman that just didn’t sit with her, a certain graceless manner that she found distasteful. The woman never said anything positively offensive, indeed her opinions were for the most part quite correct, but it was more her obvious emotional engagement in conversations that irked. She never failed to raise the emotional current of a discussion to quite intolerable levels and Bea had not yet worked out how to curb this tendency in her daughter-in-law. While she was still keeping a careful eye on the woman someone approached, muttering something or other and she frowned and told them they would have to speak up. They asked if she wanted another cushion and she shook her head slightly,
“No, no, I’m quite alright thank you.”
From her vantage point in the armchair in the corner Bea commanded a decent view of proceedings, though the dining table was tucked away in a shallow alcove to her left and so crouched just beyond the edge of her gaze. This feature of the house had always irritated her. Since there were only three other armchairs in the living room, whenever there was a sizeable group to be entertained a few guests invariably took up places at the table on the high-backed wooden chairs with floral seats and there they eluded her. The knowledge of their hidden goings on sat lodged in the back of her mind, just below the level of her ears and slightly to the right of centre. It’s presence was like that of a tiny metal splinter; impossible to extract but only mildly irritating until she would inevitably bump it and receive a sharp twinge. She knew her husband was there since he had already been seated in his place at the head of the table for several hours. It was a difficult process to get him into his seat once the food was out, and frankly rather undignified, so she’d had his brother come by early that morning and move him. She couldn’t be sure but she thought her son had joined him there. She leaned forward trying to peer around the corner and suddenly heard a loud guffaw that could only come from the bearded boor her daughter had married. She grimaced and sat back. That man was beyond any possible hope of redemption. He had the mouth of a sailor at sea but without the strapping physique or proud chin to match. Her daughter had brought him home from God knows where several years ago and as she introduced him Bea could see the girl’s positive delight at watching her mother try to suppress her mortification. She’d always been contrary that one, but to take up with such a person out of sheer wilful disobedience spoke of a petulance beyond Bea’s possible accounting. At that moment the girl in question came out of the kitchen carrying a large pasta dish, which she took over to the dining table, saying something as she went that Bea couldn’t quite make out.

A hunk of butter sat on a little dish in the middle of the table and there was a strange flat knife standing up in it. Each place was set with a large plate, a small plate, a glass and two sets of knives and forks. Michael watched the butter-knife gradually lean to the side like the minute hand of a clock as the butter slowly melted. His father and Uncle Steve were talking about boats. Uncle Steve had started on his bread roll and the crumbs were sprinkling themselves all through his beard like Christmas tree decorations. He’d offered Michael his hand when they’d arrived and it had been rough and dry. There was nobody else at the table except his grandfather, who sat in his chair not making a sound. His eyes roved constantly, only stopping at each face for a moment before moving on again. From where he sat Michael caught a stale brown smell like the paper bags his father brought home from the bottle shop. In the car he’d had been told that his grandfather couldn’t move or talk because he’d had a stroke but that he still had all his mental faculties and should be spoken to just like anyone else. Michael didn’t know what mental faculties were or what they did but he figured he’d rather have the things that let you move and talk, whatever they were. The old man had started to dribble just a little bit and the spittle was trickling down into a crevice on his chin like rain water down a dry riverbed. Michael wanted to tell someone but wasn’t exactly sure how to announce the fact that his grandfather was dribbling all over himself. He looked up and realised the old man’s eyes were fixed on him and in a panic he murmured something about the food that he hoped didn’t sound like a question. He looked away but he could still feel his grandfather’s eyes boring into him. His face started to burn and he tried to ignore it by concentrating on the butter-knife’s slow topple. After 5 minutes judging by his butter-clock Aunt Rachel finally came in carrying a big bowl and called everybody to the table. His mother headed over, stopping to help Nanna out of her armchair, then took a seat next to Uncle Steve. Nanna shuffled over in her loose dress covered in tiny blue flowers and eased herself into the place at the foot of the table opposite Michael’s grandfather. Her spider’s arms looked ready to crack under the strain of lowering her body but eventually she managed to seat herself safely. Everybody else found their places so that only the seat opposite Michael remained empty.
Plates and forks clinked as arms began to weave their way across the table. Michael sat on his hands, watching the big plate of chicken and waiting for it to make its way to him. He squirmed a bit as his feet started to get hot and sore again.

Bea looked at the empty seat and pursed her lips slightly. Her husband’s brother had said this morning that he would be here at 1 o’clock and she sensed that it was well past that now. Not that she was particularly eager for his company as he was somewhat of a milquetoast but a place had been set and he was expected. Her daughter asked whether she wanted any of the potato salad.
“No thank you, though it looks delightful. Could you perhaps find that summer salad for me?”
Her plate disappeared and she let her gaze wander over the busy tableau. She found the soft clink and bustle of a meal being shared somehow soothing and she closed her eyes to savour the sensation. No sooner had she done so, however, than she realised that the tiny metal splinter had once more lodged itself in the back of her mind. She couldn’t be sure but she thought it felt a little larger this time, though it was in the exact same spot. She frowned and her eyes snapped back open, the source of the irritation becoming immediately obvious. The empty seat sat at the end of the table awaiting her husband’s brother and in its impatience was quietly gnawing at the afternoon’s harmony. She clicked her tongue quietly and resolved to make him well aware of his tardiness when he eventually arrived. Her plate appeared back in front of her, now boasting a small collection of garnish on one side. She picked up her fork and began to carefully prune the salad.
“He’s already filed for bankruptcy so we won’t be able to get much of our deposit back,” her daughter was saying. “A friend of ours put us in touch with a lawyer though, just in case we do decide to go through with litigation. He’s the one who defended Kenton Kane and managed to get him a reduced sentence.”
The salad was swimming in some sort of dressing that had a rather sharp zest and she pursed her lips as she swallowed. Her daughter’s work in the kitchen had always been rather slipshod but she generally managed to cobble together salads of passable quality. Bea took a sip of water but the flavour remained. It wasn’t particularly unpleasant but through it she was struggling to taste the ripe red tomatoes that sat proudly in their crisp beds of lettuce.
“At the end of the day it’s really up to the courts,” her son was explaining to her daughter patiently. “These judges are just so out of touch with the average person on the street. Anybody who walks into a bank with a loaded gun and shoots someone should be charged with attempted murder, regardless of whether or not they can wail off key into a microphone.”
Her daughter nodded thoughtfully, her dark curls bobbing a slow rhythm, then began as though she’d just struck upon a fresh idea, “Well, but after all the news man did say that the shooting was completely accidental. Besides, the poor man had just lost his job, his wife had run off with the children and the court wouldn’t give him any chance at joint custody until he’d sorted out some financial stability. That must surely count as mitigating circumstances.”
Bea stared down at her lap as she struggled to catch the words. A high-pitched buzzing sound had invaded her ears and she couldn’t figure out its source. She reached up and felt for her hearing aid but it was switched off as always and she frowned. The rotten thing didn’t do much good as far as she could tell and it sometimes made strange noises so she kept it off.
Her son finished chewing a mouthful then took a sip of wine. “Whatever the circumstances,” he said slowly, “he went into the bank with a loaded gun and put at risk the lives of all the other customers and the tellers who were just in there doing their job. Then when the police arrived he went and threatened them as well. People just can’t get away with that sort of behaviour.”
“Oh I agree in principle, but in this case surely attempted murder is too harsh a charge. I’d be inclined to think that given the remorse he expressed and the original motivation for the attempted robbery, some sort of suspended sentence would be sufficient.”
Bea looked down at her plate and the salad was finished, though she couldn’t remember eating it. The taste of the dressing still lingered in her mouth and, if anything, had gotten stronger. She scraped her teeth along her tongue a couple of times, trying to rid herself of the sharp, almost metallic flavour. Her tongue got sore and she stopped but the flavour remained, throbbing atop her every tastebud. People were leaning in on the table and making it smaller and her eyes sought a gap. She looked over at her husband and he was staring at her with uncharacteristic intensity. She blinked and held his gaze but couldn’t for the life of her work out what it was that he was trying to say. Since the stroke he had become quite adept at communicating with her using only the expression in his eyes but with the buzzing in her ears she couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she looked over at her son’s child, who sat staring at his plate and steadily shovelling food into his mouth as the conversation whizzed by over his head.
Her daughter’s husband was nodding vigorously now and his beard was getting dangerously close to a bowl of sour cream, “The silly bugger could have killed that poor girl. They should have locked him up and thrown away the key.” He mulled this over for a second, then his eyes brightened. “And maybe put him in with that Samoan bloke who bashed those two cops last week. Did you see him on the news? What a monster! Throw that puffed up wanna-be rock star in with him and I reckon he’d feel the rod of justice really hit home.” He rocked back in his seat and let out a deep laugh and the buzzing sound became louder and started to thrum with a steady rhythm. At the same time the splinter in the back of her mind began to vibrate painfully in time with the buzzing and she had to smother a wince. She glared at the empty chair balefully.
Her daughter put a hand on her husband’s hairy arm and smiled a little smile,
“Steve,” she said, “manners please dear.” He chuckled and patted her hand.
“You’re right though,” her son said, “That sort of anti-social behaviour shouldn’t be tolerated. Someone really needs to take a stand against these judges. They’re completely out of touch. He should have been put away for life. 10 years at the very least.”
Her son’s wife had been frowning and shaking her head this whole time. “How can you say that?” she said. Everyone was quiet and she paused and then all of a sudden words began to pour out of her in a rush. “You would have done the exact same thing in his shoes, or at least, I hope you would. What if I’d taken Michael away from you! Imagine if I’d run off with him and the only way you could get him back was to rob a bank! You’d do it wouldn’t you? The man was at the end of his rope and was just doing what he had to do to help his children.”
When she was finished she was red in the face and a little out of breath. The others at the table chewed their food quietly and waited for the response. Her son sucked his teeth for a moment.
“Well, he’s not going to do much good for his children sitting in prison is he?”
The woman flushed angrily, “Don’t be an idiot, that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about you being judge, jury and bloody executioner for a man in an awful situation.”
Bea fingered her fork and clenched her jaw as the buzzing reached a deafening pitch and the metal splinter started to squirm about like a tiny maggot, growing larger as it did. It gave a violent twist and suddenly her right foot went completely numb. Her son glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and his lips became thin and tight.
“Look,” he said, “If we can’t discuss this civilly then let’s just drop it. There’s no point in getting all worked up and certainly no need to be rude.”
There was another burst of loud words but Bea could no longer make them out over the buzzing whine that throbbed in her ears. The empty chair loomed in the corner of her gaze as the splinter squirmed angrily, splitting itself into several little pieces that took up wriggling residence in different parts of her mind. She tried to reach for her glass of water but her hand stubbornly refused to obey. With a start she noticed that the butter-knife was slowly tipping over in the melting butter and was bound to make a dreadful mess if it fell. She opened her mouth to point this out to somebody but the buzzing had completely filled her head and there was nothing left with which to form words. The chair sat empty and impassive and her husband was staring at her with a strange expression in his eyes and the knife was tilting dangerously.

The table was noisy now. The plates of food had stopped moving about while everybody was engaged in their squabble. Michael looked over at his Nanna, who was the only quiet one besides his grandfather. She was staring at the knife tipping over in the butter with wide eyes and her mouth was slightly open in a little ‘o’ shape as if she’d just received an unexpected gift that she didn’t know quite what to make of. The knife finally clattered to the table, flinging butter across the tablecloth, but nobody seemed to notice and his Nanna’s expression didn’t change. Michael sank a little lower in his chair as he chewed a mouthful of chicken then quietly slipped his shoes off and wiggled his toes.

[Sekhmet]

Hello Ishmael - and a big welcome to this Short Story Forum!
You have a compelling way with a story - packed full of gorgeous, off-beat observations.
The butter-knife sliding through that melting block of butter, ticking off Bea's last minutes - while Stroke struck Grandpa, and a dumb struck boy watch with impotent desperation - was masterly. You tell a great story!
An atmospheric tale of helplessness in the face of tragedy.

I have one big crit of this excellent story; Lack of punctuation. You often use sentences which have several thoughts and layers - and to grasp them fully, we, your readers, need adequate punctuation. Without this essential guide, the mind looses itself, and has to back-track. You use such fluent, powerful English - yet seem to have a horror of the humble comma.
As a reader from England, I found some American speech patterns a little - different. But assume that they are authentic to your characters' US dialects.
I did stumble a little when we left Michael in the hall, and joined Bea.
We found her in the middle of a 'stream of thought', and at first, I believed we were still with Michael. If you could introduce her to us at the beginning of the paragraph, or put a visible line break, ::::::::::::: like so; then we would know that we are being given a change of viewpoint.

Just a typo. The line beginning: She was standing in front of a little concrete porch.... is repeated twice.

I really enjoyed this story - and look forward to many more!
Leo

[Guest_Ishmael_*]

Thanks for your comments Leo. Glad you enjoyed it.

The setting's actually Australia rather than the US, but I'm sure all us colonials sound the same to you native speakers of the QE.

Strangely, this piece has far more commas than I would normally use. Could you maybe give me an exaple or two of where it becomes confusing?

[Sekhmet]

Hi Ishmael - I am so sorry to have re-located your story to the U.S. of A. It was your use of the word,'pants' that fooled me. For we Brits pants are the garment worn beneath the trousers but I now realise that to the Americans and to the Australians pants are the trousers.
You obviously agree with Thurber that commas are mostly superfluous and that is your absolute right.
I prefer to have my reading like my food broken up into manageable morsels and
punctuation helps me to digest a complicated sentence.
Your joyful use of English shows that you are more than capable of spotting for yourself where a little help might be given to the reader. Whether or not you choose to give it is a matter for your own artistic taste.
I still enjoyed the story.
Leo