The Amish Clockmaker by Mindy Starns Clark Page B

used to the scar on his face and his pronounced limp.
    Clayton pulled open the doorway’s quilted curtain. The brass rings grated merrily across the metal rod as if happy to be of use, even as he closed the curtain again behind him. In four steps he was at the shelf for finished repairs, where he gently set down the clock. From the other side of the fabric barrier he heard the front door open, the little bells on the handle clanging against the frame. Daed greeted the people as they came inside, and they responded warmly, their voices carrying a hint of a Maryland accent, probably Baltimore. Giggling children were immediately admonished by what sounded like the older woman—their grandmother, perhaps?—not to touch anything.
    Daed asked if he could help them and the man said they were looking for a clock to hang on a bedroom wall. Clayton tuned them out when the younger woman jumped in to describe the size of the space and type of decor. He hoped they wouldn’t stay long, as he wanted to get back to the task he’d been doing at the worktable before the interruption.
    As the minutes dragged on, however, he realized this wasn’t just a quick tourist stop, which meant he had a decision to make. He didn’t want his father’s energy to be taxed—though so far, it sounded as though he was handling things just fine from his chair at the worktable. And Clayton knew the man would call out to him if anything physical was required.
    But Clayton also really wanted to finish sanding all of the gearwheels before having to call it a day and go on his chores. But that, too, would mean shuffling out there in front of an audience, something he’d rather avoid. He decided to stay behind the curtain and tend to a few things there until either Daed called for him or the Englischers were gone, perhaps using this opportunity to make sure all was fully stocked and supplied.
    Clayton looked toward the desk, where they kept their records and parts catalogs, glanced at their covers, and then he turned to the back wall wherelong strips of wood—stored in bins and stacked in planks—waited to be made into gearwheels and cases and clock cabinets. Clayton noted the plentiful supplies before turning to the wall opposite the desk to the parts section. From one of the middle shelves he pulled out a box of wood screws, gazed at its contents, and pushed it back.
    This was pointless. He had already inventoried their parts supply just last week. Nothing was needed from any of the catalogs. He turned again to the will-call area, where clocks that had been repaired waited for their owners to return for them. Beyond the curtain he could hear his father still talking with the Englisch family, and one of the children was whining about how long it was taking. Clayton couldn’t agree more.
    He pulled opened the front of a mahogany wall clock that was lying on the shelf, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and began rubbing at the glass, even though he had already cleaned it the day before when he’d repaired the thing and put it there. One of the other children was now asking Daed what made an Amish clock different from a “regular” clock. Clayton imagined himself telling the child that the Amish were given three extra hours a day, so naturally their clocks had more numbers on them. He smiled at his own private joke—until he caught his reflection in the glass. Taking in his mirror image, the smile faded away, and the unspoken joke with it.
    Clayton didn’t need a reflection to tell him what he already knew, that his face was hideously marred by the scar he’d acquired in the same accident that had ruined his leg as a boy. Running nearly the width of his face just below his eyebrows, the injury had not affected his eyesight, for which he would always be thankful. But it had damaged some of the muscles in his forehead, and though the lines of it had faded somewhat over time, its effect on