Clock Without Hands Read online

  Hot, blank and formless, the afternoon stretched ahead of him. And since Sunday afternoons are the longest afternoons of all, Jester went to the airport and did not come back until suppertime. After supper, he still felt blank, depressed. He went to his room and flung himself on his bed as he had done after dinner.

  As he lay there sweating and still unsolaced, a sudden spasm lifted him. He was hearing from far away a tune played on the piano and a dark voice singing, although what the tune was or where it was coming from he did not know. Jester raised up on his elbow, listening and looking into the night. It was a blues tune, voluptuous and grieving. The music came from the lane behind the Judge's property where Negroes lived. As the boy listened the jazz sadness blossomed and was left unshattered.

  Jester got up and went downstairs. His grandfather was in the library and he slipped into the night unnoticed. The music came from the third house in the lane, and when he knocked and knocked again the music stopped and the door was opened.

  He had not prepared himself for what he would say, and he stood speechless in the doorway, knowing only that something overwhelming was about to happen to him. He faced for the first time the Negro with the blue eyes and, facing him, he trembled. The music still throbbed in his body and Jester quailed when he faced the blue eyes opposite him. They were cold and blazing in the dark and sullen face. They reminded him of something that made him quiver with sudden shame. He questioned wordlessly the overwhelming feeling. Was it fear? Was it love? Or was it—at last, was it—passion? The jazz sadness shattered.

  Still not knowing, Jester went into the room and shut the door.

  3

  THE SAME midsummer evening while the scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air, J. T. Malone made an unexpected visit to the old Judge's house. The Judge went early to bed and was an early riser; at nine in the evening he sloshed mightily in his evening bath and the same procedure happened at four in the morning. Not that he liked it. He would have liked to be safe in the arms of Morpheus until six o'clock or even seven like other people. But the habit of being an early riser had got into him and he couldn't break it. The Judge held that a person as corpulent and free-sweating as he was needed two baths a day, and those who were around him would agree with this. So at those crepuscular hours the old Judge would be splashing, snorting and singing ... his favorite bathtub songs were "On the Trail of the Lonesome Pine" and "I'm a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech." That evening he did not sing with the usual gusto, as his talk with his grandson had troubled him, nor did he put toilet water behind each ear as he might have done. He had gone to Jester's room before his bath but the boy was not there, nor did he answer from the yard. The Judge was wearing a white dimity nightshirt and clutching a dressing gown when the doorbell rang. Expecting his grandson, he went downstairs and crossed the hall barefooted and with his robe slung negligently on his arm. Both friends were surprised to see each other. Malone tried to avoid looking at the too-small bare feet of the very fat Judge, as the Judge struggled into his robe.

  "What brings you here this time of the night?" the Judge said in a tone as though midnight had long since passed.

  Malone said, "I was just out walking and thought I might step in for a moment." Malone looked frightened and desperate and the Judge was not deceived by his words.

  "As you see I've just finished with my bath. Come up and we can have a little nightcap. I'm always more comfortable in my own room after eight o'clock. I'll pile in my bed and you can lie in the long French chair ... or vice versa. What's bothering you? You look like you've been chased by a banshee, J.T."

  "I feel like it," Malone said. Unable to bear the truth alone, that evening he had told Martha about the leukemia. He had run from his own house in terror and alarm, fleeing for comfort or solace anywhere. He had dreaded in advance the intimacy that tragedy might have restored from the distant casualness of his married life, but the reality of that soft summer evening was worse than any dread. Martha had cried, insisted on bathing his face with cologne and talked of the children's future. In fact, his wife had not questioned the medical report and behaved as though she believed that her husband was incurably sick and was in fact a slowly dying man. This grief and credence exasperated and horrified Malone. As the hours passed the scene grew worse. Martha talked about their honeymoon at Blowing Rock, North Carolina, and the births of the children and the trips they had taken and the unexpected changes in life. She even mentioned, in connection with the children's education, her Coca-Cola stock. Modest, Victorian lady—almost sexless it had seemed to Malone at times. This lack of interest in sex had often made him feel gross, indelicate, almost uncouth. The final horror of the evening was when Martha unexpectedly, so unexpectedly, referred to sex.

  Martha was embracing the unnerved Malone when she cried, "What can I do?" And she used the phrase that had not been said for years and years. It used to be the phrase for the act of love. It originated when Ellen was a baby who watched the older children do handsprings on the Malone summer lawn. The small Ellen would call out when her father came home from work, "You want me to do a handspring for you, Daddy?" and that phrase of summer evenings, wet lawns and childhood had been their word for the sexual act when they were young. Now the twenty-years-married Martha used the word, her bridges carefully placed in a glass of water. Malone was horrified knowing that, not only was he going to die, but some part of him had died also without his having realized. So quickly, wordlessly, he hurried out into the night.

  The old Judge led the way, his bare feet very pink against the dark blue carpet, and Malone followed. They were both glad of the comfort of each other's presence. "I told my wife," Malone said, "about that ... leukemia."

  They passed into the Judge's bedroom where there was an immense four-poster bed with a canopy and feather pillows. The draperies were rich and musty and next to the window there was a chaise longue which he indicated to Malone before he turned his attention to the whiskey and poured drinks. "J.T., have you ever noticed that when someone has a failing, that fault is the first and foremost thing he attributes to another? Say a man is greedy ... greed is the first thing he accuses in others, or stinginess ... that is the first fault a stingy man can recognize." Warming to his subject the Judge almost shouted his next words, "And it takes a thief to catch a thief ... a thief to catch a thief."

  "I know," Malone replied, somewhat at a loss to find a hinge to the subject. "I don't see..."

  "I'm getting around to that," the Judge said with authority. "Some months ago you were telling me about Dr. Hayden and thoses little peculiar things in the blood."

  "Yes," Malone said, still puzzled.

  "Well, this very morning while Jester and I were coming home from the drugstore, I chanced to see Dr. Hayden and I was never so shocked."

  "Why?"

  The Judge said: "The man was a sick man. I never saw a man fall off so rapidly."

  Malone tried to digest the intimations involved. "You mean...?"

  The Judge's voice was calm and firm. "I mean, if Dr. Hayden has a peculiar blood disease, it is the most likely thing in the world to diagnose onto you instead of himself." Malone pondered over this fantastic reasoning, wondering if there was a straw to grasp. "After all, J.T., I have had a great fund of medical experience; I was in Johns Hopkins for close on to three months."

  Malone was remembering the doctor's hands and arms. "It's true that Hayden has very thin and hairy arms."

  The Judge almost snorted: "Don't be silly, J.T., hairiness has nothing to do with it." Malone, abashed, was more willing to listen to the Judge's reasoning. "The doctor didn't tell you that out of meanness or spite," the Judge went on. "It's just the logical, human way of contaging bad things away from yourself. The minute I saw him today, I knew what had happened. I knew that look of a mortally sick man ... looking sideways, his eyes averted as though ashamed. I have seen that look many a time at Johns Hopkins where I was a perfectly well, ambulatory patient who knew every soul at that hospital," the Judge s
aid truthfully. "Whereas your eyes are straight as a die, although you're thin and ought to eat liver. Liver shots," he said almost shouting, "aren't there things called liver shots for blood trouble?"

  Malone looked at the Judge with eyes that flickered between bewilderment and hope. "I didn't know you were in Johns Hopkins," he said softly. "I suppose you didn't bruit it around because of your political career."

  "Ten years ago I weighed three hundred and ten pounds."

  "You've always carried your weight well. I've never thought of you as a fat man."

  "Fat man: of course not. I was just stout and corpulent ... the only thing, I would just have falling-out spells. It worried Miss Missy," he said with a glance at his wife's portrait on the wall across from him. "She even spoke about doctors ... harped on the subject, in fact. I had never gone to a doctor in my adult life, feeling instinctively that doctors meant either cutting or, just as bad, diet. I was close friends with Doc Tatum who used to fish and hunt with me, but he was in a different category ... otherwise I just let doctors alone and hoped they would leave me alone. Except for the falling-out spells I was in the pink of health. When Doc Tatum died I had a terrible toothache ... I think it was psychosomatic, so I went to Doc's brother who was the best mule doctor in the county. I drank."

  "Mule doctor!" His faith in the Judge's reasoning echoed with a sick dismay. The old Judge did not seem to notice.

  "Naturally, it was the week of Doc's funeral, and what with the wake and cortege and all, my tooth hurt like an electric bell ... so Poke, Doc's brother, just drew the tooth for me ... with novocain and antibiotics which he uses for mules anyhow, as their teeth are strong and they are very stubborn about anybody fooling with their mouths and very sensitive."

  Malone nodded wonderingly, and as his disappointment still echoed, he changed the subject abruptly. "That portrait is the living image of Miss Missy."

  "Sometimes I think so," the Judge said complacently, as he was one of those persons who felt that anything he owned was greatly superior to the possessions of others ... even if they were identical. He added reflectively:

  "Sometimes when I am sad or pessimistic I think that Sara made a bad mistake with the left foot ... at my worst moments it sometimes resembles a kind of odd tail."

  "I don't see that at all, sir," Malone said comfortingly. "Besides it's the face, the countenance that matters."

  "All the same," the Judge said passionately, "I wish my wife's portrait had been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds or one of the great masters."

  "Well that's another story," Malone said, looking at the badly drawn portrait done by the Judge's elder sister.

  "I have learned not to settle for the cheapest, homemade product ... especially when it comes to art. But at that time I never dreamed that Miss Missy was going to die and leave me."

  Tears brightened the dim, old eyes and he was silent, for the garrulous old Judge could never speak about his wife's death. Malone was also silent, remembering. The Judge's wife had died of cancer and it was Malone who had filled the doctor's prescriptions during her long illness, and he often visited her—sometimes bringing flowers from his garden or a bottle of cologne as though to soften the fact that he was delivering morphine. Often the Judge would be lumbering bleakly about the house, as he stayed with his wife as much as possible even, Malone thought, to the detriment of his political career. Miss Missy had developed cancer of the breast and it had been removed. The Judge's grief was boundless; he haunted the halls of the city hospital, harrying even doctors who had nothing to do with the case, weeping, questioning. He organized prayers at the First Baptist Church and put a hundred dollars in her envelope every Sunday. When his wife returned home, apparently recovered, his joy and optimism were boundless; also, he bought a Rolls-Royce and hired a "safe, colored driver" for her daily airings. When his wife knew she was ill again she wanted to spare her husband the truth, and for a while he went on with his joyous extravagant ways. When it was apparent that his wife was failing, he didn't want to know and tried to deceive both her and himself. Avoiding doctors and questions, he accepted the fact that a trained nurse had become a member of the household. He taught his wife to play poker and they played frequently when she was well enough. When it was obvious that his wife was in pain, the Judge would tiptoe softly to the refrigerator, eat without tasting what he ate, thinking only that his wife had been very sick and was just recovering from a serious operation. So he steadied himself to his secret everyday grief, and would not let himself understand.

  The day she died was a frosty day in December, with a cloudless blue sky and the sound of Christmas carols chiming in the icy air. The Judge, too dazed and worn to cry properly, had a terrible case of hiccups which let up, thank God, during the reading of the funeral service. Late that winter's day, when the ceremonies were finished and the guests were gone, he went alone in the Rolls-Royce to the cemetery (he sold the car the week afterward). There, as the first frosty stars were appearing, he poked the newly laid cement of the grave with a walking stick, pondered over the workmanship of the job, and very slowly went back to the car driven by the "safe, colored driver," and there exhausted, he went to sleep.

  The Judge gave a final look at the portrait before he turned his brimming eyes away. A purer woman never lived.

  After a proper time of mourning, Malone and the rest of the town expected that the Judge would marry again; and even he himself, lonesome and grieving as he rattled around the enormous house, felt a feeling of unknown expectancy. On Sunday he dressed very carefully and attended church, where he sat demurely on the second pew, his eyes glued to the choir. His wife had sung in the choir and he loved to watch the throats and bosoms of women when they sang. There were some lovely ladies in the First Baptist's choir, especially one soprano whom the Judge watched constantly. But there were other church choirs in the town. With a feeling of heresy, the Judge went to the Presbyterian church where there was a blond singer ... his wife had been blond ... whose singing throat and breasts fascinated him, although otherwise she was not quite to his taste. So, dressed to kill and sitting on one of the front rows, the Judge visited the various churches of the town and watched and judged the choirs, in spite of the fact that he had very little ear for music and was always singing off key and very loudly. No one questioned him about his changes of churches, yet he must have had some guilt for he often would declare in a loud voice, "I like to be informed about what goes on in various religions and creeds. My wife and I have always been very broad-minded."

  The Judge never thought consciously of marrying again; indeed, he often spoke of his wife as though she were alive. Still there was this hollow yearning that he tried to fill with food or alcohol or watching choir ladies. And there had begun a veiled, subconscious search for his dead wife. Miss Missy was a pure woman, and automatically he considered only the pure. A choir singer, only choir singers attracted him. Those requirements were not too hard to fill. But Miss Missy had also been an excellent poker player, and unmarried, pure choir singers who are also canny poker players are somewhat rare. One evening about two years after Miss Missy's death, the Judge invited Miss Kate Spinner for Saturday night supper. He also invited her elderly aunt as a chaperon and planned the supper with the forethought that was exactly like his wife's. The supper started with oysters. This was followed with a chicken dish and a curry of tomatoes, currants and almonds stewed together which was one of Miss Missy's favorite company dishes. Wine was served at each course and brandy followed the ice cream dessert. The Judge fidgeted over the preparations for days, making sure that the best plate and silver were used. The supper itself was a keen mistake. To begin with, Miss Kate had never eaten an oyster and was deadly afraid of having to eat one when the Judge tried to coax her. The unaccustomed wine made Miss Kate giggle in what seemed to the Judge a somewhat suggestive manner which obscurely offended him. On the other hand, the old maiden aunt said she had never touched a drop of spirits in her life and was surprised that her niece would ind
ulge. At the end of that dismal supper, the Judge, his hopes shaken but not yet gone, brought out a new deck of cards to have a game with the ladies. He had in mind his wife's slender fingers ringed with the diamonds he had given her. But it materialized that Miss Kate had never held a card in her life, and the old aunt added that, to her, cards were the entrance to the devil's playground. The party broke up early and the Judge finished the bottle of brandy before he went to bed. He blamed the fact that the Spinners were Lutherans and not quite expected to be in the same class as those who attended the First Baptist Church. So he consoled himself and soon his natural optimism returned.

  However, he did not go so far afield in his broadmindedness about sects and creeds. Miss Missy had been born Episcopalian, changing over to First Baptist when they were married. Miss Hettie Peaver sang in the Episcopal choir and her throat was pulsing and vibrant as she sang. On Christmas the congregation stood up at the Hallelujah passage ... year after year he was fooled by this passage, sitting there like a ninny until he realized that every soul had stood up and then trying to make amends by the loudest singing in the church ... but this Christmas the Hallelujah section came and went unnoticed as the Judge craned his neck at Miss Hettie Peaver. After church he scraped his feet and invited her and her aged mother to Saturday night supper the following week. Again he agonized over preparations. Miss Hettie was a short stout woman of good family; she was no spring chicken as the Judge well knew, but then neither was he, pushing seventy years old. And it was of course not a question of marriage as Miss Hettie was a widow. (The Judge had automatically in this unconscious search for love excluded widows and, of course, grass widows, as he had held it as a principle that second marriages were most unbecoming for a woman.)