Mr. Rockwells Clock

As a young man I bought this clock for my wife Sofia, and I have dutifully wound it nearly every Sunday since for the last twenty-six years. If I am away, I will, under duress, delegate this duty to only my most trusted butler. And though he is more than competent to perform the task, I have, on occasion, cut trips short to come home and wind the clock myself.

This evening, as every Sunday evening at ten-forty-five, I retired back to my study, where the clock stands, to perform my duty.

I put on a phonograph, The Works of Beethoven, before working these old hands of mine into a pair of clean white gloves and folding up a clean white handkerchief into a series of segments to be folded through as they become soiled with dust. Before I begin, I take a moment to admire the clock at a distance so as to survey the totality of its beauty. She is slightly taller than I. The long case allows the weights room to fall and the pendulum to be the correct length to swing in just the right intervals of time. This machine, along with others like it, keeps the world on time, tells the trains when to arrive and depart, tells the workers when to be in and when to return home, and tells the lovers when to meet. A machine that so essential and complex, and yet, few pay it any more reverence than a few mere glances throughout the day. Some call clocks like these grandfather clocks, if only they were as respectful as the title suggested.

I start at the top of the hood, dusting the gilt-bronze statue of Minerva. I slowly work my way down with the handkerchief, dusting the carefully matched marbled patterns of the walnut veneer. Beethoven is playing, the pendulum is swaying at the hips, and the escapement is singing its familiar tick-tock. The greatest works of literature, lining the walls of the study from floor to ceiling play audience to this dance.

I finish dusting the wood and get to work on the metalwork. I use the corner of the handkerchief to dust the holes and crevices in the gilt-bronze relief of cherubs and flora, so that the chime of the bells may be heard through these open spaces. I dust the metal scrolls on the hood and the leaf swags and scroll feet at the base.

I set aside the handkerchief and replace my gloves with a fresh pair. I stand facing the clock and run my hands along her sides, surveying the smooth walnut veneer. I gently touch the face. I run my hands along the front of the case. I run my fingers along the intricate details and crevices of the accenting metal work. Not a speck of dust remains.

I finish dusting as the clock approaches midnight the hands have moved away leaving the winding holes exposed. I slide the first lever opening the shutter on the left and begin to wind the first weight, the striking weight. Each turn of the key lifts the 14-pound weight slightly higher up the case. I feel the weight with every turn. Each increment of altitude is a breath affording the clock one more note to sing. With the weight at the top of the case, I withdraw the key and close the shutter.

It is now nearly three minutes to midnight. This nagging tightness in my shoulders and neck must have slowed me down. I am usually finished by this time. I ready the key, and switch the second lever, opening the shutter on the right and engaging the maintaining power mechanism.

The maintaining power keeps the clock ticking for up to three minutes while it is being wound. After three minutes the clock will stop. However, winding the 12-pound going weight must not be done to hastily, as this can damage the gearing or cause the weight swing like the pendulum. If the weight and pendulum touch the clock will stop.

I turn the key to wind the clock. The key feels more difficult to turn than normal.

I fear that this is not a problem with the clock’s mechanisms, rather, that it is a problem with mine. The pressure in my chest is increasing, spreading. I can feel it in my arms and my neck and my jaw. This heart is failing to keep up with the large man I have become.

My God, I think I am dying.

I look behind me for help, for escape, for anything. Nothing. The doors offer me no escape, only the option of collapsing dead in the hall. The walls of books that I had fantasized about reading in my twilight years have become nothing more than meaningless arrangements of dry ink, paper, and leather.

I look back to the clock. It looks like a memory. I turn the key. I feel weight on my chest.

I remember being a young man on holiday in St. Moritz with my wife Sofia. We were in the Grand Hall of Badrutt’s Palace Hotel, celebrating the end of the nineteenth century, and the beginning of the twentieth. It was this magnificent clock that we watched as we counted down to the new century. When the clock struck midnight I held her close, she was slightly taller than I. I looked up into her large brown almond shaped eyes. She looked into mine. Happy New Year. We kissed as the clock chimed Westminster. We were kissing as the chimes counted the hours. We were kissing after the chimes had stopped.

When we finally pulled our lips apart, Sofia’s face was aglow. She had never felt more in love. It was the most magical moment of her life. She wished she could hear those chimes every day. Then you shall, I said, the clock is yours. I held her close, she nestled her head between my neck and shoulder. What a splendid beginning to a new century, she said. A splendid century – She would only live to see three more days of it.

Two minutes to midnight. The clock’s face looks soft and white, like Sofia’s face, like snow. I turn the key. This is becoming quite painful.

The last time I saw Sofia alive, she was smiling. As if not to be outdone by the snow freshly fallen snow, her cheeks had changed color to a rosy pink. It was the last run of our last day on the mountain, and I had encouraged Sofia to join me on one of the more difficult trails. Though I was more experienced, Sofia’s skill had improved over the last month and I thought her up for the challenge.

We readied our skis.

Race you to the bottom, she said.

She smiled at me with those eyes. There was a moment. And then I turned, and shot down the mountain with her right behind me. I was bolder and more comfortable on ski’s than she was, and had quickly taken off in front. If only for the sake of fairness, I should have stopped and let her gain a bit of a lead on me. But I didn’t stop. The feeling of speeding down the slopes, rushing past trees silhouetted by the setting sun, the cold wind rushing in my face, I loved it too much to stop. Even now, I can still feel the chill of the wind rushing over me.

I thought that Sofia had been right behind me the whole time. I was at the bottom of the trail before I realized she was missing. A search party looked for her late into the night.

She was found the next morning face down dead in the snow. She had fallen head first and gotten stuck in the deep, fresh powder. Sofia died struggling to free herself, face freezing, and gasping for air, as I sped further away from her, grinning in the brisk mountain breeze.

One minute to midnight. The grain of the walnut veneer twists and swirls like marble, like a turbulent sea. I turn the key. This is killing me.

On my way home across the Atlantic I spent hours just staring into the water that swirled and churned behind the ship. I thought about jumping in, the feeling of struggling, freezing, and gasping for air.

I had left for Switzerland with a wife and came back with a clock, this God damned clock. This clock has been in my study since then chiming every hour on the hour for nearly twenty-six years. It was here in 1903 chiming when I remarried, in 1905 and 1907 when I had children, in 1917 when I divorced, in 1919 when I married a third time. I kept this clock to try to remember Sofia, as she would have wanted me to. I kept this clock as a sentimental reminder, and tried in vain to be reminded of a sentiment I never had.

I wanted to remember the magic as we kissed at midnight, but I never could. Instead, these chimes remind me of guilt, regret, pain, and sadness.

I spent our moment that Sofia cherished most exchanging knowing glances with a beautiful Swiss maid. Sofia was kissing me to the sound of the chimes, and as I kissed back I was reminiscing about the love that I had made to the Swiss maid earlier that afternoon while Sofia was out.

We were married for six years, I never loved Sofia as much as she loved me. And then she was dead. All that is left of her is this clock, her clock. Sofia loved this clock because she loved me. I love this clock because I should have loved her, and I will be dammed if I let it die too.

I turn the key. It stops. The going weight is at its peak. I pull the key, switch the shutter closed and reengage the going weight, and close the door on the front. I stumble against the wall and slide down to the floor. I clutch the winding key. I rest my head against the clock. I can hear a pulse, but it’s not mine.

Her pulse will go on for eight more days, but as for me, Edward Ulysses Rockwell, I’m at the bottom of the cabinet, or the end of my chain, I was never sure which. I can’t see the time anymore but it must be midnight. I can hear Sophia singing Westminster:

O Lord our God… Be Thou our guide… That by Thy help… No foot may slide.

Goodnight Sweetheart. I’m sorry.

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