The Clockwork Patriarch

Fiction

This reminds me of the 2014 series about the man who turned into a set of salt shakers; that one ended with a very messy dinner party. This is a more rhythmic sort of decay. *** October 12 Dear Clara, Father has finished his transition. He is mahogany now. The joinery is surprisingly clean, though he still insists on facing the east wall. I have spent the morning researching lubricants. He requires a high viscosity synthetic oil for the escapement, as the standard linseed polish only manages to smear the glass. You are still not answering your phone. I assume the city is keeping you busy, or perhaps you find the prospect of a rhythmic parent less compelling than your gallery openings. Elena *** November 4 Dear Clara, The house is far too quiet, except for him. He ticks. It is a heavy, rhythmic sound that vibrates through the floorboards and settles in the marrow of my teeth. When I read your last letter aloud, he began to accelerate. The tempo reached a frantic pace for nearly an hour, which I suspect is the clockwork equivalent of a huff. I spent Tuesday scrubbing the brass weights. My fingers are stained yellow. It is tedious work, and the dust in this house seems to be attracted to him by some magnetic force. I find myself polishing the grain of his waist just to have something to do with my hands. Elena *** December 1 Dear Clara, The pendulum has developed a slight wobble. I tried to adjust it, but he began to chime out of sequence, a discordant series of bells that lasted until midnight. I have stopped asking if you will come home. It is easier to simply wind him every Sunday and pretend the silence between the ticks is a conversation. The mahogany is beginning to fade in the afternoon sunlight. I shall buy heavier curtains to protect his finish. It would be a shame if he peeled. Elena