The Clock Winder (2 page)

It struck now. Then after a pause the others began: ten o’clock. And here she was with nothing to do, no one to talk to,
alone in a sealed house with the last of her supports sent away. She rose from the table, touching a hand to her hair, and went to the front hall. On the bureau was a vase of marigolds which she spent minutes rearranging, changing nothing. She smoothed the linen runner beneath the vase. Then she opened the front door, intending to stir the dim, dust-flecked air. She was about to close it again when she caught sight of the outdoor furniture, which spilled in an uneven line down the veranda and on around the corner of the house. It would stay there year-round; it always had. No wonder this house was so depressing. She remembered how dismal the wicker loveseats looked in winter, the seams of their soggy cushions harboring wisps of snow; how the aluminum chairs dripped icicles and the rattan ones darkened and split and overturned in the wind. The picture came to her like an answer: everything would change for the better, if she moved the furniture before fall set in.

She rushed out with her skirt swirling around her, picked up the round metal tea-table and clicked down the front steps with it. Then around to the back yard—more forest than yard, slanting downward as steeply as a mountainside all the way to the garage, which was out of view. She passed two empty trellises, a toolshed, a rotting gazebo, a stone bench, countless frayed, cut-off, cruel-looking ropes her children had once climbed and swung by. Spongy moss gave way beneath her heels, and brambles snagged her stockings. Birds started up from bushes as if she had no right to come this way. When she reached the garage she found that the side door was stuck. She gave it a kick with the pointed toe of her shoe. Then she heaved the table inside and started back up the hill. Already she was out of breath.

Next came a loveseat, bulky and awkward. She flung the sleeves of her sweater behind her and bent to tug at one
wicker arm, but the legs kept catching on the floorboards. When she had pulled it to the steps she stopped to rest. Then someone on the street said, “Need a hand?”

She turned. A tall girl in dungarees was watching her. “I could take the other end,” she was saying.

“Oh,
would
you?” said Mrs. Emerson.

She stepped to the side, and the girl moved past her to scoop up one end of the loveseat. “It’s not heavy but it’s
clumsy,”
Mrs. Emerson told her. The girl nodded, and followed her down around the house with the base of the loveseat resting easily in her hands. She certainly didn’t believe in wasting words. Every time Mrs. Emerson looked back at her to smile apologetically (she really should have warned her about the distance they had to cover), all she saw was the top of a bent head—dark yellow hair hanging straight to her shoulders, a style Mrs. Emerson considered drab. The girl didn’t comment on the steepness, or the brambles, or the fact that it seemed ludicrous to cart furniture through an apparently endless forest. When they reached the garage she disappeared inside, righted the tea-table, and reached out for the loveseat. “Any more going in?” she asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Emerson said.

“Well, then,” said the girl, and she moved the two pieces of furniture down to the far end, opposite the car, making more space. Mrs. Emerson waited outside with her arms folded. She could use this breathing spell. Now, should she offer a tip? But that might be an insult. And there was always the question of how
much
to offer. Oh, where was her husband, with his desk-size checkbook and his bills on a spindle and his wallet that unfolded so smartly whenever she was sad, offering her money for a new outfit or a trip to Washington?

The girl emerged from the garage, wiping her hands on the seat of her dungarees. “I certainly do appreciate this,”
Mrs. Emerson told her. “I hope I haven’t held you up too much.”

“Didn’t you say there was more?”

“Oh, yes, all that’s left on the veranda.”

“I’ll stay and help you finish, then.”

“Well, goodness,” said Mrs. Emerson. She was glad of the help, but she wondered what kind of person would let herself get so sidetracked. Weren’t there any fixed destinations in her life? As they climbed back up the slope she kept glancing sideways at the girl’s face, which was pretty enough but Mrs. Emerson thought it would take a good eye like her own to notice. Not a trace of make-up. What a nice bright lipstick could have done! She wore brown moccasins, shapeless and soft-soled. Ruining her arches. Her white shirt was painstakingly ironed, the creases knife-sharp across the shoulders and down the sleeves. A mother’s work, for certain—some poor mother wondering right this minute where her daughter had got to. But she hadn’t the strength of character to send her on her way. The girl looked so capable, hoisting up two chairs at once when they reached the veranda and swinging through the side yard with them. “Any time you get tired, now,” said Mrs. Emerson, compromising, “or have to be somewhere, or meet someone—” The girl was already too far down the path to hear her.

When they were climbing the slope again Mrs. Emerson said, “I
used
to have a handyman. Did until this morning. He would have made short work of this. Then I caught him mistaking the nearest rosebush for the men’s room.” The girl laughed—a single, low note that made Mrs. Emerson look up at her, startled. “Well, I fired him,” she said. “I can’t have
that.”

The girl said nothing. They rounded the house, climbed the front steps side by side. There seemed to be more furniture
now than before; they hadn’t made a dent in it. “Where did they all
come
from?” Mrs. Emerson said, poking a chair with her foot. “I can’t remember ever buying any of this.”

“Outdoor furniture is capable of reproducing,” said the girl. Which made Mrs. Emerson pause for a moment before she went on with her own train of thought.

“Our family was once so big, you know,” she said. “Seven children, all grown now. One married. And a grandchild. When they were still home these chairs got filled soon enough, believe me. Children and friends and boyfriends and neighbors, all just having a grand time.” She was staring vaguely at a wooden rocker, although the girl was already halfway down the steps with her own load. “Ask anyone in these parts, they all know my children,” she said. “ ‘It’s the Emersons,’ they’d tell each other, when we’d go sailing past in the car with everybody sitting in everybody’s lap. I am Pamela Emerson, by the way.”

“I’m Elizabeth Abbott,” said the girl.

She had stopped on the grass. She waited while Mrs. Emerson dragged the rocker down the steps. Mrs. Emerson said, “Abbott? It’s funny, I can’t remember seeing you here before.”

“I haven’t
been
here. I come from North Carolina.”

“Oh, I have cousins in North Carolina,” said Mrs. Emerson. “Not to know personally, of course. Are you just visiting?”

“I’m going to see these people about a job.”

“A job. Goodness,” Mrs. Emerson said, “and here you are moving furniture. Do you usually go at things in such a roundabout way?”

Elizabeth smiled. The whole of her face smiled. “Always,” she said.

“I just hope you won’t arrive late, that’s why I asked. The last thing I’d do is interfere but I have daughters, working
daughters, and I can’t help telling you: first impressions are all-important. Promptness. Neatness.”

She was looking at Elizabeth’s shirt-tails, but Elizabeth didn’t notice; she had moved off now with her chairs. “They don’t know to expect me, anyway,” she called back. “I saw their ad on a bulletin board in a thrift shop. I like getting jobs from bulletin boards. What they want is a mother’s helper, and I need to find out if that means housework or babysitting. Babysitting wouldn’t be good at all. I don’t like children.”

“Is that right?” Mrs. Emerson said. She was trying to remember if she had ever heard anyone else admit to such a thing. She puffed along with the rocker, taking short rapid steps to keep up. “Now, I would have thought you were still in school.”

“I am. I’m earning money for my senior year at college.”

“In September?”

“I’m taking a year off.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” said Mrs. Emerson. They had reached the garage by now. She set down the rocker to stare at Elizabeth, who seemed undisturbed. “Interrupting like that! It’s terrible. Why, one thing may lead to another and you may never get back. I’ve known that to happen.”

“It’s true,” Elizabeth agreed.

“Couldn’t you get a scholarship? Or a loan?”

“Oh, my grades were rotten,” she said cheerfully.

“Still, though. It’s no good to have to stop something in the middle. What does your father do, dear?”

“He’s a minister.”

“Nothing wrong with
that
. Although a lot depends on the denomination. What denomination is he?” “Baptist.”

“Oh.”

“If this job is babysitting,” Elizabeth said, “I’ll just have
to find me another bulletin board. But the friend that dropped me here said Roland Park was the likeliest neighborhood.”

She stacked her chairs inside the garage and reached for the rocker. Mrs. Emerson said, “Do you know the people’s name? The ones you’re going to see?”

“O’Donnell.”

“O’Donnell. Well, I’ve never heard of
them
before. If it’s people I don’t know they’re generally young. New young people buying up these old houses for a song and moving in with children. But
children
aren’t so bad. What is it you have against them?”

“I don’t like people you can have so much effect on,” Elizabeth said.

“What? Goodness,” said Mrs. Emerson.

They climbed back up the hill. It seemed to have grown steeper. Mrs. Emerson’s palms were sore, and two fingernails had broken, and her stockings were in shreds. “If only my boys were home,” she said. “If only I’d thought of this sometime when they were visiting. They’d have been glad to help. But I just never did, and then I asked myself, Why wait until they come? Why not do it myself, while the weather’s still warm and the sun so nice?”

She paused to catch her breath, one hand clamped to the small of her back. Elizabeth stopped too. “Would you like me to finish up for you?” she asked.

“No, no, I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“I’m all right.”

They gathered up the next load and started back down. Mrs. Emerson’s heels kept slipping on dead leaves. This was all Richard’s fault. He couldn’t even rake properly. Slick brown leaves were scattered here and there, with moss or smooth earth beneath them instead of the grass he should have
been growing. The chair she carried was knocking against her knees. Mean little tangled bramble bushes kept snatching her sweater off her shoulders. What would her husband say, if he could look down now and see how her life was turning out? She sighed raggedly, hitched the chair higher, wiped her forehead on her upper arm.

Then when they were just descending the steps to the garage, Mrs. Emerson caught her heel and fell. She landed on top of the overturned chair, scraping both knees and the palm of one hand. “Oops, there!” she said, and gave a little tinkling laugh. Tears were stinging her eyelids. She reached for Elizabeth’s hand and struggled to her feet. “Oh, how ridiculous,” she said.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.” She jerked her hand away and began brushing her skirt. “I just caught my heel,” she said.

“Maybe you should rest a while.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.”

She lifted the chair again and one of its legs fell off—a white metal tube, rust specks seeping through a sloppy paint job. It clattered down the rest of the steps. She felt the tears pressing harder. “It’s broken,” she said. “Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s just not my day. And Richard gone, too.” She fixed her eyes on the chair leg, which Elizabeth had picked up and was examining. “If I had fired him
tomorrow
, now. Stayed in bed where I should have and kept my head under the covers and fired him tomorrow instead. Some days just anything I do is certain to bring ruin.”

“It can easily be mended,” Elizabeth said.

“What? Oh.”

“The screw must be somewhere around. I can fix it.”

“Yes, but—
why
did I fire him? What got into me?”

“You said—” Elizabeth began.

“Oh, that. He’s been tinkling on the roses for twenty-five years, not counting the war. Everybody knows that. It was just his flaw, something we avoided mentioning. Well, I
would
have, but I was uncertain how to bring it up, you see. What phraseology to use.”

“Now, was there a washer to this, I wonder?” Elizabeth said. “Or just the screw.”

“I certainly never meant to
fire
him for it!” said Mrs. Emerson. “I didn’t even know I was going to.”

She dropped to the steps, pulling a flowered handkerchief from her belt with shaky hands. By now the tears had spilled over, but she smiled steadily and kept a tight rein on her voice. “Well, I’m being very silly,” she said.

“Could you move your feet a minute?” said Elizabeth. She was patting the ground in search of the screw. Her face was turned slightly away; possibly she had not even noticed the tears. Mrs. Emerson straightened her back and blew her nose, silently.
“All
help is difficult, I suppose,” she said.

Elizabeth’s hands were square and brown, badly cared for, the nails chopped-looking and the knuckles scraped. But their competence, as they located the screw and fitted it into the chair, was comforting to watch. Mrs. Emerson blinked to clear her blurred eyes. “Emmeline was another one,” she said. “The maid. Now I’m having to make do with a girl from State Employment, a shiftless sort that chews tobacco. Half the time I can’t even count on her to come. And the house! I’m ashamed to look at it too closely. Oh, it seems I’ve just been left all alone suddenly. No one stayed with me.” She laughed. “I must be hard to get along with,” she said.

Elizabeth had pulled a red pocketknife from her dungarees. She opened out a screwdriver blade and began tightening the screw. “My,” said Mrs. Emerson, making an effort to
lighten her voice. “Is that the kind with all the different blades? Corkscrew? Can opener?”