The Clock Winder (20 page)

“Well, that’s what I’m going to find out,” Elizabeth said.

“Honey, Mr. Cunningham needs a practical
nurse
. That’s what you’d be doing. Why, they say they can’t make sense out of half he says, you’d go out of your mind in a week.”

“It’s only till September.”

“John?” Her mother looked at her father, waiting for him to help out—a rare thing for her to do. (“Don’t tell your father,” she had once said, “but it’s a fact that from the day they’re born till the day they die, men are being protected by women. Here at least. I don’t know about other parts of the world. If you breathe a word of this,” she said, “I’ll deny it.”) Her father only frowned and smoothed his forehead. “It’s better than wasting away at home,” he said.

“She’d be more wasted there. Here at least she could—oh, I don’t know—”

“Walk the dog,” Elizabeth suggested.

“Oh, Elizabeth.”

Her mother went back to her mending, shaking her head. Elizabeth and her father left. Behind them, Hilary yelped anxiously and flung herself at a picture window.

The Stimsons lived in town, in a narrow frame house whose sides were windowless. Wooden curlicues ran under the eaves of the porch. It was Mrs. Stimson who answered the door for them. “Oh, Elizabeth, honey,” she said, “isn’t it nice to see you again. Jerome,
you
remember—”

“Yes indeed, yes indeed,” said Mr. Stimson from behind her. “And how are you, Reverend?”

He stepped forward to shake hands. He and his wife could have been twins—both small and round, middle-aged. When he shook hands Elizabeth’s father laid his other hand
on top of Mr. Stimson’s—a habit he had when greeting church members. “Good seeing you, Mr. Stimson,” he said. “How’s that lumbago doing?”

“Oh, can’t complain. Just a twinge now and then, don’t you know, when the—”

“Well, let them in, Jerome. Won’t you all come in?”

Mrs. Stimson led the way into a tiny living room, which had heavily veiled windows and plush furniture with carved legs. Everything wore a settled look, as if it had been there for centuries. Even the seashells and gilt-framed photographs seemed immovable. “Sit down, won’t you?” Mrs. Stimson said. “Elizabeth, I declare, are you still
growing
? Why I remember when you were no bigger than a Coke bottle and
now
look. How tall are you, honey?”

“Five-nine,” Elizabeth said glumly.

“Hear that?” Mr. Stimson asked her father. “Kind of takes you by surprise, don’t it?”

“Oh, yes, yes it does. All you have to do is turn your back a minute and—”

“Now tell me about your boyfriends,” Mrs. Stimson said. “I just know you must have dozens.”

“What I really came for was to talk about the job,” Elizabeth said.

She had thrown the conversation out of rhythm. Everyone paused; then her father said, “Yes, honey, but first I just have to ask, I can’t believe my eyes. Mrs. Stimson, are those African
violets?
Why, you must have the greenest thumb in Ellington!”

Mrs. Stimson smiled into her lap and made tiny pleats in her print dress. “Oh, pshaw, that’s not anything,” she said. “Well, I do have this love of flowers, I guess you might call it—”

“Now, Ida, don’t go being modest,” Mr. Stimson said.
“She could make an old stick bloom, Reverend, she’s got the damnedest—or, excuse me. But she does have a way with growing things.”

“I can see that,” Elizabeth’s father said. “It’s a shame that more people don’t have your talent, Mrs. Stimson.”

“Oh, nowadays, nowadays,” said her husband. “Who takes the time any more? Why, I remember back in ’48 or ’49, over Fayette Road way. Old Phil Harrow, remember him? No kin to Molly Harrow that runs the beauty parlor. He grew melons that could break the table legs, had squash and corn and his own asparagus bed. How many years it been since you see asparagus growing? I believe they make it out of nylon now. And beans. Down to the right, you see—say this rug is Fayette Road—to the right would be the corn, and then
between
the rows, two or maybe three rows of—”

“Jerome,
he
don’t want to hear about that.”

“Well, I say he
does
, Ida.”

“This is all very interesting,” Elizabeth’s father said. His voice had grown deeper and more southern. His face, when he turned toward Mrs. Stimson, had a kindly, faraway smile, as if he were making a mental note to relay to God everything she said. “There is something truly healing about raising little green things,” he told her.

In the bookcase behind Mrs. Stimson’s head was a line of pastel paperbacks. If she squinted, Elizabeth could just make out the titles.
Nurse Sue in the Operating Room
, she read.
Nurse Sue in Pediatrics. The Girl in the White Cap. Nancy Mullen, Stewardess. Nurse Sue in Training
. She veered to an enormous spiny conch shell, and was just deciphering what beach it commemorated when Mrs. Stimson leaned forward and said, in a whisper that stopped all conversation, “Elizabeth, I just know you want some Kool-Aid.”

“No, thank you,” Elizabeth said.

“You do, Reverend.”

“Why, that would be very nice,” said Elizabeth’s father.

“I’ll just have it ready in a jiffy, then. You want to come keep me company, honey?
You
don’t want to hear about farmland and all.”

Elizabeth rose and followed her out to the kitchen. Everything there was spotless, but orange cats had taken over all the windowsills and counters and the linoleum-topped table. “I’m just a fool about cats,” Mrs. Stimson said. “I guess you can tell. Eleven, at last count, and Peaches here is expecting any minute.” She opened the refrigerator door, dislodging the cat sitting on top of it. “We never had the fortune to be parents, don’t you see. I guess the Lord just didn’t will it that way. Jerome says I pour all my love out on the cats, he says I would have made just a wonderful mother if you can judge by how I treat animals.”

She went from cupboard to sink and then back again, mixing up a packet of grape Kool-Aid. Her small cushiony body was packed into some tight undergarment that she kept pulling down secretly at the thighs. Her dress was a church dress, flowers on a shiny black background, and she wore tiny round patent leather pumps. She must have dressed up as soon as she heard the minister was calling. Her husband, who was in a collarless shirt and work pants, would have grumbled over all the fuss and refused to change. Now Mrs. Stimson kept stopping work to listen for his voice, as if she worried that he would say something inappropriate. “Talk?” she said. “That man could talk the ears off a donkey. Oh, your poor father. Honey, your father is a magnificent human being, don’t you ever think otherwise. And when he called today about finding Daddy a companion I thought, Praise be, Reverend Abbott, if you aren’t—”

“Well, about that job,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh, it don’t pay much, I know, but the hours aren’t long and the work is easy, just so you don’t mind elderly men. He’s well-nigh bedridden, you see. Has to be helped to his chair by the window—that’s where he stays. Nice view of the street. I’m gone most of the day, I clerk at Patton’s. Ladies’ wear. I could get you a discount on your clothing. Jerome’s gone too, and
now
, well, I don’t feel comfortable leaving Daddy up there alone all day. He’s getting on. I won’t mince words, his mind is failing. Times he’s clear as a bell, other times he thinks I’m Mama who’s been gone these twenty years. Or what’s worse, his
own
mama. He asks after these names I never hear of, never even knew were in the family. ‘Daddy,’ I say, ‘it’s me, it’s Ida.’ Then he’ll get right quiet. Then, ‘Ida,’ he’ll say, ‘I know I’m slipping. I feel it,’ he tells me. ‘Feels like my mind is flickering, feels like I’m a lightbulb just about to burn out. Ida,’ he says, ‘tell me straight, am I going to die now?’ Oh, it breaks my heart. I love him so. I’ve been looking into those eyes of his for sixty years, and now all of a sudden there’s nobody behind them. You know? Like all he left with me was their color, and he went somewhere else. Then when he clears he gets so scared. ‘Don’t let them take me away,’ he says, ‘when I am off like that.’ ‘You know I won’t,’ I tell him. I never would, I’d sooner they take me. I love him more than ever now that he’s so helpless.”

She stirred the Kool-Aid endlessly, her little feet set apart on the floor and her face pouched with worry. In the other room her husband said, “We had what they call a railroad apartment, I’m sure you know. Say this coffee table was the hallway. To your left, now, just as you enter, was the living room. No, wait, the coat closet.
Then
the living room.” Mrs. Stimson sighed and set her spoon down. “I expect you’d like to see him,” she said.

“Well, yes.”

“Come upstairs, then. I got him sitting by the window. I told him company might be coming.”

They filed up narrow dark stairs, through a wallpapered hall and into what was plainly the best bedroom. Light poured in from a tall window, whitening everything—the tufted bedspread, the polished floor, the bony old man sitting in an armchair. A shock of silver hair slanted across his forehead. He was tilting his face upward, letting the sun shine on sunken, gleaming eyelids. For a moment Elizabeth thought he was blind. Then he turned and looked at her, and his hand fluttered up to make sure his pajama collar was buttoned.

“Daddy, honey,” Mrs. Stimson said.

“They got me in pajamas,” the old man told Elizabeth. “Used to be I never wore pajamas if there was company coming.”

“How you feeling, Daddy?”

“Why, I’m all right.” He squinted at his daughter—nothing failing about those eyes of his, which were chips of bright, sharp blue. “Later I might come down and see the people,” he said.

“Well, I got someone I want you to meet. This is Elizabeth Abbott, the preacher’s daughter. Remember? I know you must have seen her when she was just a youngster. This is my daddy, Mr. Cunningham.”

“How do you do,” Elizabeth said.

Mr. Cunningham nodded several times. A metallic flash moved back and forth across his shock of hair. “I was an usher when the old one was there,” he said.

“The old—?”

“The
old
pastor, the one before Reverend Abbott.”

“Oh, Mr. Blake,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s the one. What became of him?”

“He died.”

Mrs. Stimson made a sudden clutch in the air with both hands, as if she wanted to grab Elizabeth’s words and reel them back in, but Mr. Cunningham only went on nodding.
“That’s
right,” he said. “Died. Now I remember.”

“Daddy, the nicest thing—”

“Aren’t you the one got married?” Mr. Cunningham asked Elizabeth.

“That was her sister, Daddy. The other daughter.”

“Well, anyone could make that mistake.”

“Of course they could,” said Mrs. Stimson. “I’ll tell you why she’s here, Daddy—”

“I would advise you against the marriage, young lady,” Mr. Cunningham said. “Call it off. Get a divorce. I married.” He turned and looked out the window again. “She aged so,” he said finally.

“Daddy?”

But he went on staring at framed squares of blue, with his hands limp on the arms of the chair. His feet in their leather slippers hung side by side, not quite touching the floor, as neat and passive as a well-cared for child’s.

When they had tiptoed out to the hall again Mrs. Stimson said, “Oh, my, I wish you had seen him more at his best.” And then, on the stairs, “He can be so smart sometimes, you wouldn’t believe it. Please don’t judge him by this.”

“No, I won’t,” Elizabeth said.

“You mean you’ll take the job?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, that’s
wonderful!”
She beamed and squeezed Elizabeth’s arm. Her skin seemed suddenly clearer, two shades lighter. “You don’t know what this means to me,” she said. “Could you start on Monday? Eight o’clock? I’m not due for work till nine, but I’ll want to show you what he eats and all.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth said.

They carried the Kool-Aid in to the men. Mr. Stimson was still talking. He broke off to say, “I was just remarking on the bum, the atom bum. I blame it for the increase in rainfall.
Ida
can tell you. Used to be we could plan a Sunday drive with some hope of carrying it out. Not any more. Bum’s changed the cloud formations.”

“What does Reverend Abbott care about cloud formations?” Mrs. Stimson asked. She settled herself in her rocker with a tinkling glass. “Jerome, Elizabeth says she’ll come look after Daddy for us.”

“Is that a fact,” said Mr. Stimson. “Well, you surely will be taking a load off my wife’s mind there, young lady.”

“And they hit it off just beautifully, Jerome.”

“Is that a fact.”

“Some people,” Mrs. Stimson told Elizabeth, “seem to irritate him, like. I’ve noticed that. We had a colored girl cleaning up for me on Fridays, he didn’t take to her at
all
. Then people with a lot of make-up on, he don’t like that. Well, he’s just old-fashioned is all. I notice
you
don’t wear make-up. I expect that’s from being a preacher’s daughter.”

“Ah well,” said Elizabeth’s father, “I’m glad things worked out. Any time these little problems come up, Mrs. Stimson, that’s what I’m here for.”

“I know that,” Mrs. Stimson said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Reverend. Why, I was about to have a collapse, worrying like I did all the time I was at work. I thought, if I could find
someone
—but I never dreamed your Elizabeth was back in town. I must’ve missed her in church.”

“I don’t go,” Elizabeth told her.

“Oh?”

There was a silence.

“Elizabeth’s one of these
modern
young people,” her father said. He laughed lightly.
“She’ll
get straightened out.
We don’t see eye to eye on—what is it this week? Reincarnation.”

“You don’t say,” said Mr. Stimson. “Why, I never knew it was in any question. Don’t you believe in the reincarnation of Christ on the third day, young lady?”

“It’s a thought,” Elizabeth said.

“What?”

“She’ll
get straightened out,” said her father.

“Why, of course she will. Of course she will,” Mrs. Stimson said. She beamed at Elizabeth and rocked steadily, holding her Kool-Aid glass level on her knees. Elizabeth’s father cleared his throat.