by Mitch Albom
A clock shop.
And he waited for two hands to come home.
41
Victor’s limo eased through lower Manhattan.
It turned down a cobblestone street, where, tucked into a curve, was a narrow storefront. A strawberry-colored awning carried the street address, but there was no name on the place, only a sun and a moon carved into the front door.
“One Forty-Three Orchard,” the driver announced.
Two of his workers exited first and lifted Victor into his wheelchair. One held the door open as the other pushed him through. He heard the hinges creak.
Inside the air felt stale and preserved, as if from another era. Behind the counter stood a pale, elderly, white-haired man with a plaid vest and blue shirt, a pair of wire-rim glasses halfway down his nose. Victor figured him for German. He had a good eye for nationalities, with all the traveling he had done.
“Guten tag,” Victor offered.
The man smiled. “You are from Germany?”
“No, just guessed that you were.”
“Ah.” He lifted his eyebrows. “What can we find for you?”
Victor rolled closer, observing the inventory. He saw every kind of clock—grandfather clocks, mantel clocks, kitchen clocks with swinging glass doors, lamp clocks, school clocks, clocks with chimes and alarms, clocks in the shape of baseballs and guitars, even a cat clock with a pendulum tail. And the pendulums! On the wall, on the ceiling, behind glass, swaying back and forth, tick tock, tick tock, as if every second of the place moved to the left or the right. A cuckoo bird emerged, whirring levers announcing its arrival, followed by eleven cuckoos over eleven bells. Victor watched the bird slide back behind its door.
“I want the oldest pocket watch you have,” he said.
The proprietor smacked his upper lip.
“Cost?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“All right … One moment.”
He moved to the back and mumbled something to someone.
Victor waited. It was December, a few weeks before his final Christmas, and he’d decided to buy himself a timepiece. He would have the cryonics people stop it the moment he was frozen; when he reached the new world, he would start it up again. He liked symbolic gestures like that. Anyhow, it was a good investment. An antique today would be worth much more centuries from now.
“My apprentice can help you,” the proprietor said.
From the back stepped a man whom Victor guessed to be in his mid-thirties, leanly muscled, his dark hair mussed and uneven. He wore a black turtleneck. Victor tried to guess his nationality. Strong cheekbones. Somewhat flattened nose. Middle Eastern? Maybe Greek?
“I’m looking for the oldest pocket watch you have.”
The man closed his eyes. He appeared to be thinking. Victor, never a patient man, glanced at the owner, who shrugged.
“He is very knowledgeable,” the proprietor whispered.
“Well, let’s not take a lifetime,” Victor said. He chuckled to himself. “Or another lifetime.”
Another lifetime.
The man’s eyes popped open.
42
Ethan hadn’t seemed as attentive the next week at the shelter.
Sarah told herself it could be anything. Maybe he was tired. As a gag, she wrapped a pack of peanut butter crackers with a little red bow. Privately, she was hoping for a kiss. But when Ethan saw it, he smirked and said, “All right, thanks.”
She hadn’t mentioned their night together, because she didn’t know what to say. She was embarrassed to admit that, thanks to the alcohol, she didn’t remember every detail (she, Sarah Lemon, who once memorized entire verses of The Canterbury Tales for English class), and besides, she thought less was more when it came to talking about that night.
Instead she tried to make more topical conversation, about all the things she felt they had in common, as they had done before things got physical. But something was off. Whatever subject she raised, Ethan ended with a clipped response.
“What’s wrong?” she finally asked.
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I’m just beat.”
They fell into silence and unpacked the boxes. Eventually, Sarah blurted out, “That vodka was good,” but it sounded as phony as it felt. Ethan grinned and said, “Can’t lose with booze,” and Sarah laughed, but too loudly.
As he left, Ethan lifted a hand and said, “See you next week.” She was hoping he would add “Lemon-ade”; she just wanted to hear him say it, but when he didn’t, she heard herself say, “Lemon-ade” and then she wondered, Oh, God—had that been out loud?
“Yeah. Lemon-ade,” Ethan said. He walked out the door.
That afternoon, without a word to her mother, Sarah withdrew money from her bank account and took an hour-long train into New York City to buy his special watch.
Sometimes, when you are not getting the love you want, giving makes you think you will.
43
Victor had to admit, that apprentice knew what he was doing.
He’d located a timepiece made in 1784, a pocket watch trimmed in eighteen-karat gold, with a painted shell depicting three people under the stars—a father, mother, and child. The dial was white enamel and had lifted Roman numerals. The hands were silver. The mechanics were the old-fashioned verge fusee system. It even made small chiming sounds on the hour. Given its age, the watch was in excellent condition.
Coincidentally, it had been made in France.
“I was born there,” Victor said.
“I know,” the apprentice said.
“How would you know?”
The apprentice shrugged. “Your voice.”
His voice? Victor didn’t have an accent. He thought about it, then let it go. He was more interested in the timepiece, which fit perfectly in his palm.
“Can I take it with me?”
The apprentice looked to the proprietor, who shook his head. “We’ll need a few days to ensure its operation. Remember, this is a very old piece.”
Sitting now in the back of the limo, Victor realized they had never told him what the watch cost.
Not that it mattered. He hadn’t asked the price of anything in a long time.
He swallowed several pills and drank the rest of a ginger ale. The pain around his stomach and kidneys was throbbing, as it had been for months. But the dread he felt in his time running out was being addressed the way he always addressed things: with methodical action.
He checked his watch. This afternoon, he would consult with his legal team. Then he’d review the cryonics documents. Finally, he’d go home to Grace, who would be waiting with another of her “healthy” meals—bland and tasteless vegetables, no doubt. It was typical of the gap between them, he thought. Here she was trying to stretch his meager days, while he was planning for another century.
He thought again about the pocket watch, how perfectly it had fit in his palm. He was surprised at how energized he was from the purchase, even though it was another thing he couldn’t tell Grace about.
44
The newscaster was talking about the end of the world.
Sarah stepped closer to the TV in the train station. The man was discussing how, according to Mayan calendars, the world was scheduled to end next week. Some predicted a spiritual awakening. Others saw Earth’s collision with a black hole. In various corners of the world, people were gathering in churches, squares, fields, near the ocean, awaiting the end of existence.
She thought of telling this to Ethan. She thought of telling everything to Ethan. She pulled out her phone and texted him.
“Did u hear Tuesday is end of the world?”
She pressed send and waited. No reply. Probably had his phone off. Or in his pocket.
The train came and she boarded. She had most of her savings account in her purse—seven hundred and fifty-five dollars—and she wondered how much a movie watch would cost.
45
Although it was the weekend, Victor
’s office was brimming with activity.
An expression at his firm went: “If you don’t come in on Saturday, don’t bother coming in on Sunday.”
Victor nodded to various employees as Roger wheeled him down the halls. Roger, tall and pale, with cheeks that sagged like a hound dog’s, was almost always by Victor’s side. He was unfailingly loyal, never questioning an instruction, and Victor rewarded him handsomely.
“Afternoon,” Victor mumbled as Roger pushed him into the conference room, where five lawyers gathered around a long rectangular table. The winter sun sliced through the window shades.
“So. Where are we?”
One lawyer leaned forward, pushing a pile of papers.
“It’s incredibly complicated, Victor,” he said. “We can only set up documents based on current law.”
“Future rulings could render them obsolete,” added another.
“Can’t protect against everything,” said a third.
“Depends on how long we’re talking,” said the first.
“Normally, your estate would pass to Grace,” the fourth lawyer said.
Victor thought of her again, how she knew nothing of this plan. He felt a pang of guilt.
“Go on,” he said.
“But if we do that, she controls everything. And when she goes, to return it to you, well, the law is fuzzy on leaving an estate back to someone who is already, technically …”
Everyone looked around.
“Dead?” Victor said.
The lawyer shrugged. “It’s better to set up certain funds right now, insurances, a special trust—”
“—a dynasty trust,” the first lawyer interjected.
“Right. Like the kind you use for a great-grandchild’s education. This way the money can revert to you when you are … what’s the right word?”
“Revived?”
“Yes, revived.”
Victor nodded. He was still thinking about Grace, how much he would set aside to take care of her. She always said she didn’t marry him for his money. Still, how would it look if he didn’t leave more than enough for her every need?
“Mr. Delamonte,” the third lawyer asked, “when are you planning the … uh …”
Victor snorted a breath. Everyone had such a hard time with the word.
“I should be gone by the end of the year,” he said. “Isn’t that to our benefit?”
The lawyers looked at one another.
“It would make the paperwork easier,” one said.
“By New Year’s Eve, then,” Victor announced.
“That’s not much time,” one lawyer protested.
Victor wheeled to the window and looked out over the rooftops.
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t have much time—”
He leaned forward and stared in disbelief. There, on a skyscraper just across the street, was a man, sitting on the ledge, his feet dangling. He was cradling something in his arms.
“What is it?” one of the lawyers asked.
“Some lunatic with a death wish,” Victor said.
Still, he couldn’t turn away. It wasn’t concern over the man falling. It was the fact that he seemed to be looking straight into Victor’s window.
“So. Should we start with the commodities portfolio?” one lawyer said.
“Huh? … Oh. Yes.”
Victor lowered the shade and returned to the business of how much he could take with him when he died.
46
Sarah stood outside the clock shop, looking at the sun and moon that were carved into the door.
She figured this must be the place, even though there was no name on the front.
She stepped inside and felt as if she’d entered a museum. Oh, God, they won’t have it, she told herself. Look at this old stuff.
“Can I help you?”
The proprietor reminded her of a chemistry teacher she’d had sophomore year, with white hair and narrow glasses. He’d worn vests, too.
“Do you carry—you probably don’t—but there’s this watch, I think. I don’t even know if they make it, but …”
The old man held up a palm.
“Let me get someone who will know,” he said.
He returned from the back with a serious-looking guy, mussed brown hair, a black turtleneck. Kind of handsome, Sarah thought.
“Hi,” Sarah said.
He nodded, wordlessly.
“It’s a watch from a movie. You probably don’t have it …”
Ten minutes later, she was still explaining.
Not so much about the watch, but about Ethan and why she thought this would make a good gift. The guy behind the counter was easy to talk to; he listened with a patience that made it seem as if he had forever (his boss must be pretty lenient, she thought), and since she didn’t talk to her mother about Ethan, and she couldn’t confide in anyone at school (Ethan hadn’t told anyone, so she followed his lead), it was a relief, almost fun, to let someone in on the relationship.
“He’s kind of quiet sometimes,” she said, “and he doesn’t always text back.”
The man nodded.
“But I know he likes this movie. And the watch was like, a triangle, I think? I want to surprise him.”
The man nodded again. A cuckoo clock sounded. Because it was five o’clock, it went on for five chimes.
“Ooohh, enough,” Sarah said, putting her hands to her ears. “Make it stop.”
The man flashed a look as if she were in danger.
“What?” Sarah said.
The cuckoo finished.
Make it stop.
There was an awkward silence.
“Um …,” Sarah offered, “if you show me some watches, maybe I can tell you if it’s the right one?”
“Good idea,” the proprietor interjected.
The man went to the back. Sarah drummed her fingers on the counter. She saw an open jeweled case near the cash register, with an old pocket watch inside, painted on the exterior. It looked expensive.
The man reemerged, holding a box. On the cover was a photo from the Men in Black movie.
“Ohmigod, you have it?” Sarah said excitedly.
He handed her the box and she opened it. Inside was a sleek black watch in the shape of a triangle.
“Yes! I am so happy.”
The man tilted his head. “Then why are you so sad?”
“Huh?” Sarah squinted. “What do you mean?”
She looked to the proprietor, who seemed embarrassed.
“He’s very good at what he does,” he whispered, apologetically.
Sarah tried to shake off the question. Who said she was sad? It was none of his business how she felt.
She looked down and saw a price on the box. Two hundred and forty-nine dollars. She felt suddenly uncomfortable and wanted to get out of there.
“All right, I’ll buy it,” she said.
The man looked at her sympathetically.
“Ethan,” he said.
“What about him?”
“Is he your husband?”
“What?” she squealed. She found herself smiling. “No! God. I’m a senior in high school.”
She brushed back her hair. Her mood suddenly lightened. “I mean, we might get married one day, I guess. But now he’s just … my boyfriend.”
She had never used that word before, and she felt a bit self-conscious, as if walking out of a fitting room in a short skirt. But the man smiled, too, and she forgave him that weird comment about her being sad, because it fit beautifully, that word, “boyfriend,” and she wanted to say it again.
47
Every evening, when the sun set in New York City, Dor ascended to the top of skyscrapers and sat on their ledges.
He would turn the hourglass and hold the metropolis in a creeping moment, silencing the traffic noise into a single blaring hum. With the darkening sky behind the countless tall buildings, he’d imagine Alli at his side, the way they used to sit watching the day come to a close. Dor had no need fo
r sleep or food. He seemed to be living on a different time grid altogether. But his thoughts were as they always had been, and when he finally let the darkness fall, he pictured Alli again, wearing her veil, and the quarter moon of the night they wed.
She is my wife.
He missed her terribly, even after all this time, and he wished he could talk to her about this mysterious journey, ask her what fate awaited him at the end. He had found the two people he was sent to Earth to find—or they had found him—but he still did not understand why a man in a wheelchair and a lovestruck girl should be singled out from the masses.
He held the hourglass close to his face to see the symbols he had carved during his purgatory,
the symbols which had lifted from the walls and engraved the ring between the upper and lower bulbs. With his power over time, Dor could have taken anything he desired from this new world. But a man who can take anything will find most things unsatisfying. And a man without memories is just a shell.
And so, there, alone, high above the city, Father Time held the only possession he cared about, the hourglass with his story. And, once again, out loud, he recited his life:
“This is when we ran up the hillside … This is the stone Alli threw … This is the day we were wed …”
48
Victor looked at the two needles. He exhaled.
He had been doing dialysis for nearly a year. He hated it more each time he went. From the day a graft was placed under his skin, and a half-inch tube protruded from his arm, he’d felt imprisoned, an animal in a net. Three visits a week. Four hours per visit. The same dull routine. Watch the blood exit and return.
He had fought them on the idea, fought them on the graft, and refused to be with other patients during his treatments, even though Grace agreed with the doctor who said, “It helps to talk with people facing the same challenge.” To Victor, they were not facing the same challenge: They were staying alive for another month or year; he was plotting an entirely new life.
He paid for a private suite—equipped with computers and an entertainment center—and he paid for private nurses. With Roger only a few feet away, Victor used the four hours to work, keeping a remote keyboard propped above the blanket, his BlackBerry on the table, and his cell phone connected via a device on his ear.