Authors: Jon Skovron
Mozart didn’t say anything for a while. He seemed lost in his own memories so I decided not to bug him. Instead, I just watched the moon rise over the skyline as we cruised into downtown Pittsburgh.
After a few minutes, he said, “When Adam woke up, he was pretty confused and we were pretty freaked out. But once everyone calmed down, we all agreed that we needed to get him out of the basement. But we couldn’t figure out how. He could walk, but he couldn’t do stairs. And he was way too heavy for us to carry him. So after a long time and a lot of frustration, we gave up on that idea. We told ourselves it was just for the time being. We would come up with something, we said. And in the meantime, we visited him all the time. We brought him books and magazines to read. At one point, we brought down a stereo and TV. He’d never seen anything like them before. It would crack us up,
just watching his amazement. And we would hang out with him down there for hours, listening to these crazy stories about his travels all over the world in the nineteenth century.”
“How did he end up in Pittsburgh?” I asked.
“He had no idea,” said Mozart. “He needed to be wound daily in order to function. Hornburg was pretty erratic and sometimes forgot to wind him for days at a time. So Adam was used to winding down and waking up a week later in a different city. But when we woke him up, the last thing he remembered was being in Australia and the year was 1882”
“And he never figured it out?”
“How could he? His maker had obviously been dead a long time. We checked the news archives, but there had never been anything about a steam or clockwork man show in Pittsburgh.” He turned to look at me for a moment, his gray eyes unreadable. Wolfish. “Sometimes it’s just like that, Boy. Sometimes you never get to know the reason for a thing.”
“So what happened to him? Obviously, he’s still around.”
“Yeah,” he said. But then he didn’t say anything more.
We drove for a while in silence. We passed through the downtown area, filled with newer-looking glass-and-steel skyscrapers. Then we drove into what looked kind of like a warehouse district. Except a lot of the warehouses had been converted to bars and dance clubs. Neon gleamed and strobe lights pulsed inside the big, old, blocky buildings.
“The Strip District,” said Mozart. “Used to come down here a lot back in college. By day, it’s a great food and produce market. By night, a popular twentysomething social scene.”
“Is this where we’re meeting him? Adam Iron?”
He shook his head. “A little farther down.”
“Oh.”
Mozart’s face curled into a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll come back here for a drink after.”
“Cool,” I said.
Then his smile faded as quickly as it had come. “I think I’m gonna
need
a drink after this.”
As we continued down the street, the neon signs faded into the background and we entered an area that looked more like a regular warehouse district, with dark, ugly, squatting buildings with few or no windows and little light. We parked in front of a crumbling old building with lots of graffiti.
Mozart walked up to the front entrance. He fished a key out of his jeans pockets and unlocked the door. He motioned for me to follow, then stepped into the darkness.
I’m not afraid of the dark. That would just be goofy. But when it’s completely pitch-black, and I can’t even see my own hand in front of me, I get this weird panicked feeling, almost like claustrophobia. And inside the warehouse, it was like that, especially after Mozart closed the door and locked it behind us.
“Adam?” I heard Mozart’s rough voice. “You awake?”
“Wolfgang?” came a thin, almost metallic voice with a slight German accent. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, buddy,” said Mozart. “Can you turn on some lights? I’ve got a kid here who’s freakin’ out a little.”
“A kid?” asked the voice. Then there was a series of hard clicks, and fluorescent lights began to flicker into life down the main isle of the warehouse. At the center of the warehouse, in a simple wooden chair, sat a man. I guess technically not a man. It was Adam Iron.
He wasn’t exactly what I had expected. In my head, I had pictured some polished piece of classic German hardware in a perfectly tailored suit, like something out of a World War II movie.
But Adam looked as old as he was. His wooden head was faded and chipped, with grooves cut in it on top to suggest hair. His eyes were blue glass, his face uneven from the grain and knots in the wood. His suit was old, dirty, and ragged, and his exposed iron feet were pitted and tarnished.
“Goodness, Wolfie, you look like shit!” His mouth was a rectangle cut into his chin that flopped up and down like an old ventriloquist dummy when he talked. “You’ve gotten so old and fat!”
“Yeah, thanks, Adam,” Mozart said dryly. “You look like shit, too.”
“I have an excuse.” His wooden eyebrows flicked up and down on hinges. “Now…” His head turned jerkily as he looked at me. “You look familiar somehow. But I know we have never met.”
“It’s the Monster’s son,” said Mozart. “He and the Bride finally had a kid.”
“No!” said Adam, his mouth dropping down to his chest for a moment as he turned back to Mozart. “He and the Bride had a son?” He turned back to me. “What’s your name, boy?”
“It’s Boy,” I said.
“Hmm. Well, maybe you’ll work on that, yes? So, come here, Boy. Let me look at you.”
I walked over to where he sat. He stared back at me, motionless for a moment. Then suddenly, his eyebrows shot up and he said, “Such fine workmanship! Stunning!” He turned his head toward Mozart. “You see, Wolfie? This is why machines should make machines!”
“I’m not a machine,” I said.
“No?” His blank glassy gaze fixed on me. “Then what are you?”
“I’m a person.”
“So are we all! And we are all machines. How does that
children’s cartoon go? ‘I’m a machine! You’re a machine.’ Yes? Remember?”
“Uh…” I said.
Mozart cleared his throat as he walked over. “
Schoolhouse Rock
is a little before his time, Adam.”
“Oh, well, never mind,” Adam said. “At any rate, please give your mother my regards.” A tiny sigh escaped from his wooden mouth. “Such a beauty.”
I’d never heard anyone call my mother beautiful before. “I will, Adam. I know she’ll like hearing it.”
“And you, Wolfie?” His head jerked back to Mozart. “Still twiddling knobs at Ruthven’s sideshow?”
“It’s a respectable Broadway theater now,” he said. “But yeah, same thing, bigger crowds.”
“And you’re still happy there?”
“For the most part,” he said. “I’m getting too old for much else.”
“Yes…” said Adam, and his head jerked away so that he stared off into the dark.
It was silent for a moment and the warehouse was so still, I could hear the ticking sound of the clockwork inside Adam.
“So,” said Mozart finally. “How are you?”
“I miss him,” Adam said quietly.
“We all do. But I know you do most of all.”
“Allen was…my everything.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mozart. “For a lot of things. Most of all for abandoning the two of you.”
“Nonsense. You graduated from college. You had things to do. Conquests to make. Dreams to chase.”
“So did Allen. He could have been one of those groundbreaking computer guys. But he stayed loyal.”
“I never wanted to hinder either of you.”
“I know.”
Adam turned to Mozart, his eyebrows slowly rising. “It wasn’t such a bad life, really. We had some wonderful times, he and I, especially after he finally got me out of that dingy basement.”
“Weren’t they tearing down that old mansion or something?”
“Yes, the demolition crew was on-site and he bribed them to use the crane to haul up a wooden box with me inside. He tossed me on the back of a flatbed truck and brought me here. We joked about how he would carry me over the threshold.”
He fell silent again for a moment. Then he said, “Sometimes I wish Hornburg had given me some tear ducts. I think a good cry would do wonders for me. But of course, that bastard was far too practical to ever do something like that.”
Mozart and I stood there, looking at this old, broken-down, brokenhearted pile of gears, cogs, and springs. I wished I knew what to say.
“Oi! What’s all this, then?” came a hard female voice with an English accent.
We all turned toward the voice. A tall, athletic-looking girl about my age stood in the doorway. She looked human, with tan skin, chin-length black hair, and strong cheekbones. But there was something strange about her. It wasn’t anything I could pinpoint, but she just looked…wrong somehow. And coming from me, that meant something.
“Ah, Claire!” said Adam. “Some guests just arrived. The old, fat man is—”
“Watch it,” said Mozart.
“Is one of my dearest friends,” continued Adam. “Wolfgang was actually with Allen when he wound me up for the first time.”
“That so?” said Claire as she walked over to us, her eyes never
leaving Mozart. “Real cute. A werewolf named Wolfgang.”
“Only Adam calls me that,” said Mozart. “Everyone else calls me Mozart.”
“And that’s supposed to be better?” she asked. Then she jerked her thumb at me. “So who’s the patchwork pretty boy?”
I was thrown by the phrase “pretty boy” for a moment, but I had already decided I wasn’t going to let this chick and her attitude rattle me.
“I’m Boy,” I said.
“Great, another winner,” she said. “Adam, honestly, where do you find these people?”
“They always seem to find me, actually,” said Adam. “Much like you did.” He turned to Mozart and me. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Claire Hyde.”
“Wait,” I said. “As in—”
“Granddaughter of Edward Hyde, yeah yeah,” she said.
“And Henry Jekyll,” I said.
She glared at me. “So you’re a bloody expert on my family, is that it?”
“What? No! I’ve just heard the names.”
“That all you heard?”
“Now, now, Claire,” said Adam. “Boy was only trying to put things in context for himself.”
“He can contextualize my foot up his arse,” she snapped. Then she turned to me. “Don’t mention that name. You hear me?”
“Okay, sure,” I said. “I didn’t realize it would piss you off. Sorry.”
“Well…” she said, suddenly looking like she didn’t know what to say. “Yeah.”
“Claire here is the one who’s been winding me up ever since…Allen got sick,” said Adam. “She even helped me put
on a disguise and transported me via forklift and truck to the funeral. Such a clever girl.”
She shrugged. “I owe you a lot.”
“Claire, would you be a dear and show Boy where we keep the refreshments? I’d like to speak privately with Wolfgang. A few minutes should be sufficient.”
“Sure,” said Claire. She glanced at me. “Come on, Tinker Bell. This way.” And she started walking down one of the aisles without checking to see if I was following.
“Have fun, you kids,” called Adam. I think I heard Mozart stifle a laugh.
We walked past rows of crates until we came to a small room in the back with windows that looked out over the warehouse. It looked like it was probably where the warehouse manager would hang out so he could keep an eye on the workers. Inside the room was a mini fridge stocked with soda and bottled water.
“Mountain Dew!” I said, grabbing a bottle and cracking it open. It had been a long time since I’d had a Dew. Not since I lived at The Show. I took a long swallow.
“You seriously drink that stuff?” she asked, getting a water for herself. “You must be immune to toxic waste.”
“What do you think Mozart and Adam are talking about?” I asked.
“No idea,” said Claire. “Adam’s a private guy.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Long story.”
I shrugged. “He said to give him a few minutes.”
“Why do you care, anyway?”
“Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard. So what do you want to talk about?”
“With you? Nothing.”
“So are you always this nasty, or is there something about me you don’t like?”
“A bit of both,” she said.
“It’s what I said earlier, isn’t it?” I asked. “Bringing up Jekyll.”
“I told you not to—”
“Come on, what are you going to do? I’m sure you’re tough, but there’s no way you could take me on. But I get why you don’t like people thinking they know you. Happens to me all the time.”
“Oh, yeah? Who do people think you are, a zombie or something?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, what?”
“Victor Frankenstein made my dad.”
“Wait, your dad was Frankenstein’s Monster?”
“
Is
. My dad’s still alive.”
“I thought that was just a book,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought Jekyll and Hyde was just a book, too. My point is, my dad’s creator was a dick. It sounds like Adam’s creator was, too.”
“Oh, yeah, the stories he’s told me…” She shook her head. “That guy was a complete tosser.”
“And in a way, Jekyll created your grandfather.”
“Okay, I get you,” she said, her expression still guarded. “What’s your point?”
“Don’t throw your attitude at me like you’re some kind of special suffering martyr. I’m sure you’ve been through some crazy shit, but that doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole. I’ve seen my fair share of shit, too.”
She stared at me, her eyes narrowed. I couldn’t tell if I’d won her over or if I’d even made a dent. But I was pretty happy with myself that I’d said it, and that was enough for me. I leaned back against the wall and took another long drink of my Dew.
“Claire and Boy,” came the faint sound of Adam’s metallic voice. “Would you mind rejoining us?”
As we made our way back, Claire muttered to me, “We’ve got to find you a better name.”
In a weird sort of way, it seemed almost like a gesture of friendship.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I said.
“What, you don’t like Tinker Bell?” she said, and cracked a smile.
Adam and Mozart stood waiting for us. They looked weirdly formal, Adam sitting with his hands in his lap, Mozart standing next to him, his hands at his sides.
“Why don’t you both take a seat,” said Adam. His hand jerked up and pointed to two folding chairs that I swear hadn’t been there when we left.