Clock on the Wall
Kevin Williams

Dishes filled the sink. The natural light of the evening sun did its best to pierce through the closed blinds. On the ceiling, a light fixture. Of the lights in it, two had burnt out, the third flickering would soon join them; shadows danced across the wall. An old recliner loomed next to a window; in it, a man. His skin was leathery with age and his eyes sunken. Beside him, a small sturdy table stained from the passage of time. Across from him an old television, its dials worn down to a stub of their former selves. On the wall next to him is a clock. The time was 6:27. At least that’s what it displayed. The old man had begun to question its accuracy. At times it felt like the hands would stop for hours, while at others they seemed to skip ahead. 

The man had been alone for many years. His wife was beautiful, but he was ugly. He had difficulty controlling his anger, and it had finally become too much for her. She’d left one night while he was taking a shower. She didn’t even say goodbye to their daughter. The young girl had always been cheerful, but the man’s anger reached her as well. As she grew older, she drew further away from him, until at eighteen, she left. That was years ago. 

Below the clock hung a telephone. Not much else cluttered the room. With possessions came memories. He still had a bottle of whisky from a few years ago. It wasn’t good. He poured himself a drink. He wouldn’t finish it. He never did. He simply liked the feeling of something familiar. 

The cold air in the apartment fought a bitter war with the thermostat. “Damn heater,” he said to the empty room. The thermostat hadn’t worked right in years, it needed to be repaired, but he hated the idea of paying for something he could do himself. This was the year he’d fix it. Winter was almost over. He’d wait another year.

A commotion came from the window. Opening the blinds, he looked upon a young girl and a boy wrestling over a purse. He watched for a moment. The girl must have been around eighteen with beautiful, long, blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders and across her face. The boy was larger, his face turned away. “It’s none of my business,” he grumbled shutting the blinds. 

The clock read 8:13.

He went to the T.V. and turned it on. It was on the same local news station that he watched every night. Nothing of note had happened today--at least nothing worth noticing for the old man.

Someone in the next town over had made a 50-foot pancake. “What a waste of time,” he muttered. He flicked off the television.  Returning to his chair he was asleep within moments...He awoke to the sound of his ringing telephone. No more light streamed in through the windows. The clock indicated 3:41. “Who the hell could that be at this hour?!” He debated limping to the phone to find out but let the answering machine take the call. 

“Dad? I need to talk to you.” A distressed woman's voice came through.

His daughter had married within a year of leaving home. She had a child, Jen, with a man who treated her much better than her father ever had. Her partner was an auto salesman, but not the sleazy kind. He’d met their kid once.

On the wall next to him hung a framed picture. The picture was of a young blonde girl, with a big grin on her face, wearing a soccer uniform. The old man gazed at it longingly and turned away.

The day he met Jen he’d tried his best not to ruin things. But he couldn’t help it. Their little girl had been so sweet. She was the kind of kid that had the whole world in front of her. She had reminded him so much of his daughter. This brought back memories of his wife, memories of her leaving. He’d lost his temper again that day. That was the last time he’d seen them. He’d tried to apologize, but the damage was already done. She didn’t want him in their life.

“Look dad, I know it’s been a while, but I don’t have time for that right now. It’s about Jen. She hasn’t stopped by, has she? She got into a fight with us last night and stormed out. I figured she had just gone to a friend’s house, but I called everyone I could think of, and no one has seen her. She mentioned you the other day and how she wanted to see you again. You’re the only one I haven’t checked with. You haven’t heard from her at all? Call me back.”

When he was younger, he’d stormed out from his own family to join the army. Well ... basic training. One night while walking through the base he tripped over some equipment, country fracturing his leg in two places. He left shortly after. They didn’t have time for someone like him.

Before she could hang up, he picked up. “Denise, n-no, sorry. Is there anything that I can do to help, sweetie?”

After his wife had walked out, he had tried to show a bigger interest in his daughter. He took her to soccer games regularly, but as she pushed away from the sport, she had pushed away from him as well.

“DON’T CALL ME SWEETIE, YOU LOST THE RIGHT TO CALL ME THAT! If you haven’t seen Jen then I have nothing more to say to you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he used the wall to keep from collapsing.  He heard a suppressed sob coming through the line.

Click.

The old man felt a little older. Sinking back into his chair, he remembered the blonde teenager he had seen from his window earlier. Was she Jen? He didn’t try to go back to sleep. It was still 3:41 and he was sure that the hands wouldn’t move again for a long time.