The Grandfather Clock

I sit in my rocking chair, rocking along to the tick tock of the grandfather clock that sits beside me. I inherited it many years ago from my uncle whom I had meet a mere three times: two funerals, one wedding. The clock is in a shiny cherry wood that reflects the rays of the sun. The pediment that sits on top are carved in a matter that causes it to look like a pair of devil horns. The clock’s pendulum stopped swinging about a year ago; it stopped keeping time. The moon dial never budges so much as an inch, yet I sit here listening to the tick tock of this grandfather clock.

           Let me tell you my story;  I didn’t have much of one before this clock came into my life, not that you’d want to hear it anyway.  It was a short time after the bathtub gin was gone was when my uncle died. The pig died of a heart attack at the age of 49. He didn't have any health complications except for being a raging alcoholic. He left behind a pretty young wife who resembled Anita Louise. Anita, (we’ll call her that for I don’t know her real name), was with him for his money, like all his other mistresses. She got to keep the house and a majority of the money so she’d never have to lift a finger for the rest of her life. My uncle never had any kids, so he left everything else to his nephews.  My older brother, a doctor who lives with a beautiful wife and three kids in the apple, got the rest of his remaining inheritance. He said that he’ll probably buy a house on the shore and put some in a savings account for his kids for college. His only other nephew was I. The will, and I quote, said, “For my youngest nephew, Joseph Wilkins, I give my grandfather clock that sits in my library”. I couldn’t believe my ears. Why would the man give me a mere clock and my brother money? Why did he specifically give this clock to me?

When the clock was delivered to my house, it was placed in the corner of my living room by my favorite rocking chair.  I wasn’t surprised to find that it wasn’t working. I thought about selling it or using it as scrap wood- it wasn’t worth fixing it. But my wife at the time insisted we get it fixed; she went on to tell me how she dreamt of owning her very own grandfather clock. Looking back, I should have told the dame to shut up and sold the clock myself. But she found someone and he charged ten dollars to fix it. Unlike my brother, who makes $60 a week, I was an accountant who was lucky to make $45.  We did fine for ourselves, but didn’t need to spend that much money on scrap wood clocks.

           The grandfather clock sat in the living room for a while. My young son was fascinated by it though. He could sit there for hours watching the pendulum swinging back and forth. One day, the young child ran over to me looking very upset.

           “Daddy,” he said with a sadness in his eyes, “The clock has stopped working.”

           I reassured him that it was fine and that I could still hear it ticking. I sent him off to bed and inspected the clock myself.  I was surprised to see that it was, in fact, not working. I opened the door to the pendulum and tried to swing it to get back into its gravitational movement. But, I noticed that the clock was still making sounds despite not keeping time. To no avail,  I gave up as my wife walked into the room.

           “I just tucked James in.” She explained. “He says that the clock was broken. Did you figure it out?”

           “No. This pile of shit isn’t working again.”

           “Well, do you want me to call the repairman again?” She said. A sudden anger made of fire rushed through the veins of my body.

           “What do you think I am, made of money? Do you think that I can just keeping dropping money like this? Didn’t we just buy James a new coat and oil for the winter? And you just had to buy another bottle of Chanel number five? What am I, a doctor?” Uncontrollable rage drew my hand across her face, leaving a splotch of red on her cheek. Sobbing, she darted out of the room.

           I honestly never have hit my wife before. We were very caring to each other and our son. I headed to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a dusty bottle of rum. Twisting the cap off its rightful place, a sweet molasses smell hits my nose in an exhilarating fashion. Glass after glass I slam down until I fell drunk onto my kitchen table. I woke up, still in a slight daze and headed upstairs to my bedroom. My wife lay asleep under the covers. I joined her, not caring to take off my clothes, attempting some sleep before work tomorrow.

           A few weeks after the incident, my wife and I were talking again. I felt bad, having left a mark on her face, so I called the repairman to make it up to her. I also wanted that tick tock to stop.  He came staggering in one Saturday afternoon, toolbox in hand. He went to work on the clock. I stood in the doorway, watching attentively. The house is quiet: I sent my wife and son to the cinema to watch the latest Shirley Temple film. As I watched him, I notice a drop of sweat fall from his eyebrow.

           “Sir, I just can’t find what is wrong with the clock.” He looks down at the bottle in my hand.  “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

           “I know. Sounds are still coming from it even though it’s not keeping time.”

           “Um, I’m not sure what you are talking about. But it will cost more for you to take it apart completely than it is worth.” I was confused by the fact that he didn’t notice the tick tock of the clock. A fury came over me.

           “Are you telling me that I’m a liar when I tell you that there is a tick tock coming from that very clock?” I said with a shout. “You need to leave my home now! And if you think you’re getting paid, the answer is no!” The repairman quickly gathered his things and rushed out the door. A few minutes later, the rage is still bubbling inside my veins. I hear the front door open and turn to see my wife and child coming in from their little Saturday outing.          

 “This is all your fault! You just had to keep this thing!” I yell while heading towards her. My son ran and screamed in fear.  An incident similar to last time occurred again; this time was much more brutal.

           The next morning, my wife packed herself and James. She said she was going to her mother’s until I could get my life in order and calm down. She didn’t want to live with a drunk who would beat her. My wife wouldn’t even allow me to say goodbye to James. Not even a hug.  I never heard from her again, except for some divorce papers I received in the mail.

My days grew darker and darker. I didn’t go to work much and my breath always smelled of spirits. I eventually just never went to work again and worked small side jobs that didn’t pay much. I spent most of my days at a dark, damp pub a few blocks away.  I would just drink and drink, feeling the alcohol burn my throat as it went down to the pit of my stomach. After the day drew dark and everyone was to drunk to brawl, I would go home to sit in my rocking chair and listen to the tick tock of that goddam clock. Surely someone else will hear it.

           I sit here now and listen to what has made my life a living hell, turned a sane man into an abusive, loser drunk.  I’m happy that they could leave while I’m stuck here in this decomposing body, damaged with the addictive toxins of alcohol lessening the sound of that tick tock. Sometimes I sit here and wonder why my uncle gave me this clock, but I quickly get frustrated because I know I’ll never know the answer.

I bet you’re wondering why I just don’t get rid of it. You don’t understand. I have. I gave it to my bud from the pub. It was late one night and I finally divulged the mystery of the clock. He told me he would take it off my hands and give it to his wife for her birthday. Said he couldn’t give me any money for it- he was strapped. But then again, who would pay for a broken clock that could drive you insane with its dreadful sound.  He picked it the next day, and drove off. But, as I sit there in my rocking chair, I still hear the tick tock. Not even alcohol can  tame it.  Even with the thing gone, the tick tock still haunts my mind. Its absence didn’t last long. He returned it pretty quickly- his wife couldn’t believe he got her a broken grandfather clock. Said she would have preferred nothing. But neither heard the tick tock.

This clock has become my life. I live and breath its tick tock. It has become a part of me.

So now, I sit here listening to the sound of this broken clock. I feel every tick as my heartbeat and every tock as a blink of my bloodshot eyes. I take a drag of my cigarette and one last swig of my sweet rum. Do I sit here and wait for the inevitable heart attack? Or do I continue to puzzle my mind for why my uncle would give me this death trap?  I slide the long, cool barrel into my mouth. But now, I ask you, do you hear the tick tock?