making it as far as the grass on the other side of the gates. He thought about reading the names, the dates, doing the math in his head for fun so he could figure the age of the body under the stone. But he didn’t. The clocks beckoned. James just didn’t like people much, alive or dead.
But he did glance around quickly before turning away. Once, a woman brought him a clock that she said she found on her husband’s fresh-dug grave. It turned out to be a clock James fixed once before, for someone else. He couldn’t go by a graveyard now without taking a quick look. In case someone was there he knew. In case a stranger was there. The graveyard struck James as the worst place to abandon a clock, even worse than the side of the road or on a pile of garbage. This was the place of the dead where no one was ever heard from again.
It was a mantel clock that the woman found and brought James and so he thought about mantel clocks as he walked home. Those clocks were designed to truly sit on a mantel, right above a fireplace. The original clocks were extremely heavy, made from marble or brass, and once a mantel clock was hefted above a fireplace, it was intended to stay there. The clocks were thought of as permanent home furnishings, like a couch or armoire; their heaviness guaranteed them a lifetime on one mantel. But lifetimes change and so the clocks moved anyway and many sat in various rooms in the museum.
Over the years, mantel clocks became lighter, carved from wood, rich mahogany or classic oak. They began sitting on more than mantels. They squatted on shelves, on bedside tables and desks. James had two fireplaces and on those mantels were ten of the original brass and marble clocks; five on each. He dusted and cleaned them where they sat; only once a year did he pick them up and move them. Their heaviness always made him ache the next day, an ache of purpose and accomplishment and a job well done.
Returning home, James walked through the rooms and checked on the clocks, even though the winding was done for the day. James never knew when a problem might show up, when a clock would inexplicably fall ill, even if it was just ticking away a few hours, a few minutes, before. Mantel clocks were still on his mind and so he paid special attention to them. James imagined that sometimes a certain clock sent out distress signals when there was a problem somewhere, and those signals reached him, infiltrated his brain waves and started him thinking about that certain genre of clock. So he wondered now if there was a problem somewhere with a mantel clock that led him to think of them on a day when everyone was already tended. He started out in the living room, at the first mantel full of heavy originals. Stopping before each one, he listened for pauses, for catches in the breath and the rhythm.
He laid his hands on each of the clocks as he went by, patting their backs, stroking their hands. Some of the hands were old and ornate, requiring a delicate touch so they wouldn’t lose any more of their gold or their flexibility. Other hands, though younger, were stubborn and resistant, alerting James to the need for a drop of oil to encourage them on their journey around the face. When the clocks chimed, he stopped and stood in place, his eyes closed, his head tilted.
Whether the clocks sang a song or simply doled out the hours, their voices reached him and he opened his heart and listened. Like he used to listen to his mother, before her heart closed forever, closed like a fist against his face. James felt like a Christian receiving Jesus; it was his responsibility to listen to the clocks. They chose him to hear their souls.
James thought of that graveyard as he moved again through the rooms, pausing, listening, touching. The graveyard made him think of his own death and he worried about who would tend to the clocks when he was gone. The town council promised James the Home would be well taken care of; they’d find somebody, if only he
But he did glance around quickly before turning away. Once, a woman brought him a clock that she said she found on her husband’s fresh-dug grave. It turned out to be a clock James fixed once before, for someone else. He couldn’t go by a graveyard now without taking a quick look. In case someone was there he knew. In case a stranger was there. The graveyard struck James as the worst place to abandon a clock, even worse than the side of the road or on a pile of garbage. This was the place of the dead where no one was ever heard from again.
It was a mantel clock that the woman found and brought James and so he thought about mantel clocks as he walked home. Those clocks were designed to truly sit on a mantel, right above a fireplace. The original clocks were extremely heavy, made from marble or brass, and once a mantel clock was hefted above a fireplace, it was intended to stay there. The clocks were thought of as permanent home furnishings, like a couch or armoire; their heaviness guaranteed them a lifetime on one mantel. But lifetimes change and so the clocks moved anyway and many sat in various rooms in the museum.
Over the years, mantel clocks became lighter, carved from wood, rich mahogany or classic oak. They began sitting on more than mantels. They squatted on shelves, on bedside tables and desks. James had two fireplaces and on those mantels were ten of the original brass and marble clocks; five on each. He dusted and cleaned them where they sat; only once a year did he pick them up and move them. Their heaviness always made him ache the next day, an ache of purpose and accomplishment and a job well done.
Returning home, James walked through the rooms and checked on the clocks, even though the winding was done for the day. James never knew when a problem might show up, when a clock would inexplicably fall ill, even if it was just ticking away a few hours, a few minutes, before. Mantel clocks were still on his mind and so he paid special attention to them. James imagined that sometimes a certain clock sent out distress signals when there was a problem somewhere, and those signals reached him, infiltrated his brain waves and started him thinking about that certain genre of clock. So he wondered now if there was a problem somewhere with a mantel clock that led him to think of them on a day when everyone was already tended. He started out in the living room, at the first mantel full of heavy originals. Stopping before each one, he listened for pauses, for catches in the breath and the rhythm.
He laid his hands on each of the clocks as he went by, patting their backs, stroking their hands. Some of the hands were old and ornate, requiring a delicate touch so they wouldn’t lose any more of their gold or their flexibility. Other hands, though younger, were stubborn and resistant, alerting James to the need for a drop of oil to encourage them on their journey around the face. When the clocks chimed, he stopped and stood in place, his eyes closed, his head tilted.
Whether the clocks sang a song or simply doled out the hours, their voices reached him and he opened his heart and listened. Like he used to listen to his mother, before her heart closed forever, closed like a fist against his face. James felt like a Christian receiving Jesus; it was his responsibility to listen to the clocks. They chose him to hear their souls.
James thought of that graveyard as he moved again through the rooms, pausing, listening, touching. The graveyard made him think of his own death and he worried about who would tend to the clocks when he was gone. The town council promised James the Home would be well taken care of; they’d find somebody, if only he
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