Angelino's Clock
P.J. Gannon
Angelino had just stepped into the drugstore, when he saw her. She was on her way out, her face, usually etched with composure and elegance, looked as if a hoodlum were holding a knife to it. “Hi, Shelley,” he said enthusiastically, but she kept on walking. Right by him. How strange. He spun around. Her bobbing ponytail almost reached her tailbone. “Have a good day!” he shouted. She was out the door like a disgruntled employee on a cigarette break.
A few months later, he was seated at the counter of the Aegean Diner, hammering the bottom of a ketchup bottle with the butt of his hand, when he overheard the Hendersons in a booth behind him. “Did you hear?” Mr. Henderson said to the missus. “Shelley Narins lost her husband.”
“I did not know that,” the missus said.
“About a week ago.”
“Oh Lord. That sucks.”
“Pancreatic cancer.”
“That’s a bad one. My tuna melt’s the pits. I should’ve gotten the cheeseburger.”
“Diagnosis to death in three months, sweets.”
“Just awful. Shelley’s a lovely woman.”
The chance encounter at the drug store and overheard conversation at the diner took place some thirty years ago but now that Angelino had recently lost his beloved wife Theresa the memories of those events had unexpectedly shown up at his door to remind him that others in town had suffered similar devastation. During Theresa’s illness, when her headaches and back pain were excruciating, there must have been times when he was coming in or out of, say, the hardware store and his face looked as if a hoodlum were holding a knife to it.
That was the look you got.
From what Angelino had observed over the years, Shelley Narins had remained a lovely woman. She had kept a slim figure and was always dressed primly as if she was going to church or a fundraiser for the arts, both of which she did regularly. At some point, she’d remarried but quickly divorced and, through the help of her pastor, obtained an annulment. Her three children had all grown up to be models of competency and sound moral character and were college-educated like Angelino’s son Jamie and daughter Wendy.
Angelino was in his living room, seated in his leather wing chair, a glass of chocolate milk in his hand. His mutt Buddy was lying by the TV, chewing on a bristle bone. When Buddy grew tired of the bone, he stood and wandered over to Angelino. “Why so sad, my teary-eyed pooch?” Angelino tugged on the dog’s collar and looked up at the old wrought-iron clock on the wall. It was the size of a garbage pail lid and hung crookedly over the fireplace. (No matter how hard Angelino tried he couldn’t get it to hang straight.) The numbers on it were represented as Roman numerals. Theresa had dragged it home one day from a yard sale.
“What do I do, Mr. Clock?” Angelino asked. “I’m not getting any younger. Do I call Shelley?”
“Don’t do a thing?” the clock said, its voice as depressing as a foghorn. “Wait.”
When Angelino first started talking to the clock, it had felt kind of weird but his dog didn’t want to talk and the clock enjoyed the chitchat and was a pretty good conversationalist, and in the months following Theresa’s death, the awkwardness of speaking with it just melted away. One morning, he took Buddy on a long walk around the neighborhood. Outside, it was cold and dreary, a perfect match for his mood. Though he loved Buddy, the mutt was by no means the kind of dog he’d have chosen—he’d have preferred a golden retriever or chocolate Lab—but as soon as Theresa had stepped into the kennel, she had fallen for Buddy, who was a cross between a fox terrier and poodle. Buddy was tiny, not much higher than Angelino’s work boot—and Angelino was big (6’2” 220 lb)—so he sometimes felt a little silly walking around the neighborhood with him. As he approached the Narins residence—power-washed and landscaped with natural stones and high shrubs—Angelino felt a tingling in his chest. He glanced at Shelley’s kitchen window. There was no light. No shadows. She was probably out. Then a grey minivan pulled up in front of the house, and she got out. Her unexpected appearance shifted his mood; it was as if the sun had come out from behind a dark rain cloud. He felt like a teenager again. She was wearing a gold-studded white overcoat, buttoned to her swanlike neck. She had a solemn look on her face. “I’m sorry about Theresa,” she said, and she closed the minivan door gently as if it were made of a thousand eggshells. “I only recently heard.”
“Thank you.”
She was wearing red high heels and took a delicate step onto the sidewalk. “Had I known, I’d have come to the funeral.” Her voice seemed to float through the air like pear blossoms in spring. “My deepest condolences.”
The minivan pulled away and she headed for her front door. He took a few steps forward but stopped himself. She had stopped too and was giving him a look that said, You poor thing. He waved goodbye. Why hadn’t she heard about Theresa’s death sooner? Shelley seemed the kind of woman to whom information just flowed.
Years ago, when Angelino and Theresa’s kids were little, Theresa had been a Girl Scout leader. There were afternoons when the entire troop was raising hell in their house. Theresa, dressed in her green troop shirt, would be helping the girls bake cupcakes or make string necklaces made of pasta noodles. One day, Shelley came by the house to pick up her daughters, Patty and Jean. Angelino was in the kitchen, peeking into the oven to see if the cupcakes were ready, when Shelley rushed in to refill a child’s Dixie cup with Kool Aid.
“I already have a headache,” she said to him. She was dressed in a clinging white turtleneck that, had he not been married, would have caused him to completely forget about the cupcakes. They would have burned for all eternity.
“That makes two of us,” he said, letting go of the oven door. It slammed shut.
“Thank you for hosting this circus.”
He flung off his oven mitt. “Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d be on the couch watching football.”
“My husband would never allow this.”
A week after Angelino saw Shelley getting out of the minivan, a card arrived in his mailbox. It was from Shelley. A mass would be offered for the repose of Theresa’s soul on January 11th at 8:00 a.m. at St. Joseph’s Chapel. What a thoughtful gesture. He walked over to his fireplace and placed the card on the mantle underneath the clock.
“I’m lonely, Mr. Clock,” he said. “Maybe Shelley would like to go to the movies with me.”
“That would be a mistake. It’s only been four months since Theresa passed. Wait a year.”
“I’m not much for arbitrary rules, Mr. Clock.”
“But Shelley is.”
“You think?”
“A woman like that . . . She’d be very turned off if you asked her now.”
“I’m 70 years old, and she’s not much younger. When you get to be our age, every month counts.”
“Don’t blow it. Be patient, old man.”
“I just want to know if she’d be open to the idea of me and her. She’s probably not interested.”
“What makes you say?”
“She was a little out of my league.”
“No one levels the playing field better than me.”
“And I feel guilty.”
“Have you told your kids about Shelley?”
“You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”
“Did you ever discuss remarrying with Theresa?”
“There may have been a word or two about it.”
“I imagine it would have been very difficult to talk about.”
“I never once mentioned Shelley.”
“But you thought of her?”
“Theresa was sick a long time; the mind can wander. But I don’t think Theresa liked Shelley all that much.”
“Theresa’s in a place where there are no opinions.”
One day, when Angelino was walking by Shelley’s house with Buddy, he saw lights on in her kitchen. Through the window, he could see Shelley by the refrigerator in a bright yellow house dress. Should he knock on her door and thank her for the Mass card? It didn’t seem the kind of thing you would go out of your way to thank someone for but given the circumstances no one would judge his behavior as anything more than the hypersensitivity of a man in mourning.
Mr. Lacy was across the street adorning his garage with a string of colorful Christmas lights. Angelino waved to him and turned up Shelley’s walkway. A fresh Christmas wreath hung on her door (completely straight, unlike his clock). He rang the bell. A few moments later, she opened the door.
“I was just passing by, Shelley.”
“Oh. It’s you. Angel!” If the pope had been at her door, she wouldn’t have been more surprised.
“I wanted to thank you for the Mass card.”
“You got it?”
“Yes. The post office works well.”
She stepped outside as if to create a barrier between him and her pure-as-the-driven-snow home. “I feel terrible about missing the funeral.” Cold winds were whipping in from the ocean. She crossed her arms to keep warm. “I knew she was sick.”
“Melanoma.”
“Mother of God, how have you been holding up?”
“It’s been day to day.”
“Forgive me for looking like such a mess.” She peered down at her house dress as if it were splattered with paint.
“You look great.”
“I need a shower.” She tugged on a long strand of her dyed brown hair. “But I know what you’re going through.”
“You had it harder, Shelley. With the little ones . . .”
“Thank God, their father had the foresight to buy sufficient life insurance. Father Buckley, God rest his soul, helped me keep it together.”
“I’ve been more or less going it alone.”
“Have you been seeing your kids?”
“Wendy was in from Toronto before Thanksgiving.”
“I heard her son is already in high school.”
“Yeah. Bobby. Time flies.”
“Is she still working as a nurse?”
“She wouldn’t think of stopping.”
“At least your son still lives in town.”
“His wife and kids stop by from time to time.”
Shelley’s phone started ringing. “Your children and grandchildren will be a source of strength,” she said.
“Do you need to get that?” he asked.
“It’s probably my housekeeper.” She looked at her watch. “She was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’ve taken enough of your time.”
When Angelino arrived home, the clock said, “Why on earth did you go knocking on her door? You’re not very patient.”
“I wanted to see her. Is that a crime?”
“How’d she look?”
With a steak knife, he stirred his glass of chocolate milk. “She’s got the prettiest blue eyes. She didn’t invite me in.”
“She was probably worried about what the neighbors would think.”
“Come to think of it, there was a neighbor out. Mr. Lacy.” He gulped the milk with the knife still in the glass.
“Oh no. See. The woman has class, Lino.”
“I could have just stood in the hall.”
“But it hasn’t been a year.”
“She’s probably not interested.”
“Did you sense that?”
Angelino paused. “No. Not really. She complained about how she looked. Something about needing a shower.”
A week later, Angelino’s son Jamie was at the door. “Jamie, come in from out of the cold,” Angelino said. “How’s the finance industry treating you?”
Jamie, who was middle-aged and completely grey, said, “For everyone else, it’s the holiday season, for me it’s the year end.”
“Just so you know, I’m not putting up any Christmas lights this year or doing a tree, not without your mother.”
“So what’s going on with you and Mrs. Narins?”
Angelino’s face went limp. “Mrs. Narins?”
“Yeah. There’s a rumor’s going around that there’s something going on between you two.”
“No.”
“Well, that’s the rumor.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Someone said you were at her door.”
“She sent a Mass card for your mother. I was out with Buddy. I happened to be walking by so I thanked her.”
“You never walked Buddy on her street before.”
“Sure, I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No. For years you walked up Roosevelt Avenue, turned onto Illinois Avenue, and then went back down Atlantic Street.”
“I’d mix it up on occasion. Have a seat.”
They turned into the living room. The sofa was filled with Theresa’s clothes. “I thought you already got rid of mom’s stuff,” Jamie said.
“I’m going through everything now, deciding what to throw out, what to donate.”
Jamie stepped over to the sofa and pushed aside the clothes.
“Well, I’m glad you brought up my future,” Angelino said, sitting in his wing chair, while Jamie, who was dressed in the dull grey suit that he’d worn to work, settled into the sofa. “I can’t be alone for the rest of my life, son.”
“So it is true?”
“No, but what do you have against Mrs. Narins?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it’s too soon, Pop. Mom just died.”
“I told you. Nothing’s going on.”
“Do you remember her son Eddie?”
Angelino paused. “I think.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about the time he beat the shit out of me.”
“After that soccer game?” Angelino shook his head. “You were kids, Jamie.”
“Besides, I don’t want to have to endure the gossip.”
“No one cares what I do.”
Jamie sneered. “In this town . . .”
“Do you want me to be alone for the rest of my life?”
“You’re not alone, Pop. I’m here for you.”
“Jamie, you’re forty-something years old. Think. Put yourself in my shoes.”
“You know that nice granite bench you placed in front of Theresa’s gravestone?” the clock said to Angelino on Christmas morning.
“Yeah, what about it?” Angelino was slumped in his wing chair, waiting for the clock to strike noon so that he could get into his sky-blue Cadillac and drive over to Jamie’s house where he’d celebrate the holiday.
“You haven’t used it much? You were supposed to sit on it daily. Make sure her gravestone was at all times surrounded by fresh flowers.”
“Shut the fuck up, okay?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You talk too much.”
Angelino climbed to his feet and trudged over to the sofa. He picked up one of Theresa’s cardigans and folded it. He then placed it in a leaf bag. “Now you’re doubting my love for Theresa.”
“I was just reminding you of what you said.”
“I said all that stuff the day she died.”
“I thought you meant it.”
He picked up one of her bras. “I was at the cemetery last week.”
“How is she?”
“She’s been better, you know.”
“You have a talent for understatement.”
“My son has some nerve telling me what to do with my life.”
“Don’t be angry with him. He loved his mother.”
“I don’t even want to go to his house. All he’ll talk about is work.”
“Bah humbug.”
“Theresa loved Christmas. She’d make her own decorations. She’d take Popsicle sticks, break them into little pieces, glue them together, make these tiny little sleds.” There was silence and the bra fell from his hand.
“Are you okay, Lino?”
“Do you know how hard it was for me to watch her die?”
“You nearly lost it when her legs started swelling up.”
“She had the most beautiful legs.”
“It became so difficult for her to walk.”
“I helped her.”
“You would carry her to the bathroom.”
“Unlike my son, I was here.”
“I don’t know how you did it.”
“Watching her waste away, pretending like everything was going to be all right.”
On the morning of January 11th, Angelino put on his best jacket and tie and headed off to St. Joseph’s Chapel. Immediately after Theresa’s death, he had received a number of beautiful Mass cards in her memory, but, being agnostic, he had not attended any of the masses. In fact, other than Theresa’s funeral, which was held in another Catholic church on the other side of town, he could not remember the last time he’d been to church.
When he stepped into the chapel, he recognized a few of the faces: Claire O’Shea, Theresa’s friend from around the block, Lauren Viola, one of the women from Theresa’s book club, and a couple of other ladies that Angelino judged as more acquaintances than friends. He politely nodded to each of them and took a seat in a pew not far from the altar and, pretending that his neck was stiff, began looking around the nave for Shelley. Where was she? Was she even coming? A few minutes later, the church organ played and Angelino climbed to his feet, but with Shelley’s absence lingering in the air like a plume of funeral incense he couldn’t concentrate on the service. Why was he feeling like he was being stood up? Was he losing his mind? Finally, ten minutes into the mass, she appeared. Two rows behind him, to his right. Out of nowhere. God. She was dressed in all black but luminous thanks to a giant sword of light that had pierced the stained-glass depiction of the archangel Gabriel. How had she gotten into the chapel? The doors hadn’t creaked open. He’d been listening for that. His heart was beating fast enough to pump water from the baptismal font.
After the mass, as Shelley was leaving the chapel, Angelino made his move. “Thank you for that beautiful service, Shelley.”
“Oh, Angel.” She stopped as if she’d fully expected him to approach. “How are you?” She fluffed her hair.
“The mass meant a lot to me.”
“It was the least I could do. I always had the greatest admiration for Theresa.”
“It helps to know so many people thought so highly of her.”
“Are you taking care of yourself, Angel?”
“I guess. I mean . . . I’m trying.”
“Good. Losing a spouse is so difficult.”
Angelino remembered that Shelley didn’t drive. “Do you need a ride home, Shelley?”
She looked at him as if he’d just pinched her tush. “I beg your pardon,” she said, stepping back.
“Do you need a ride? I know you don’t drive.”
Her eyes throbbed with a stern warning: don’t go there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have—”
“Thank you, Angel, but, no, I’m good.”
“Of course.”
“My girlfriend Harriet is picking me up.” She pointed to a grey minivan parked at the curb. “There she is now. Have a good day.”
“You asked her if she wanted a ride home?” the clock said to Angelino incredulously.
“Yeah. So.” Angelino undid his tie.
“Are you fuckin’ stupid? Well, how did she respond?”
Angelino said nothing.
“The woman’s got class, Lino. You think she’s going to be seen getting into your Caddy after attending a mass for the memory of your deceased wife?”
“Okay, I blew it. I fucked up.”
“No argument here.”
There was a liquor cabinet in the living room and Angelino made a beeline for it. “I know it’s not even noon but I need a drink, okay?” He poured himself a heavy-handed scotch and carried the bottle of Lagavulin and a tumbler over to his wing chair and collapsed in it. “The other day I was thinking . . . you and I would never have met if it wasn’t for Theresa.”
“She carried me home that day with such pride.”
“She loved yard sales.”
“People find all kinds of treasures.”
Angelino gulped down the scotch.
“I never asked you,” the clock said. “How did you and Theresa meet?”
“At the beach. I was with some ironworker buddies. One of them knew one of her girlfriends. Theresa said she liked my sunglasses.”
“What attracted you to her?’
He shrugged. “Her tits.”
The clock laughed and the sound was like a ding-dong chime. “But why did you marry her?”
“I couldn’t think of a reason not to.”
Angelino finished his scotch and, while pouring another, accidently doused his dress shirt. “She cared about me, Mr. Clock.”
“She worshiped the ground you walked on.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“She’d cover you with a blanket every time you fell asleep on the couch. When you played your radio too loud and your neighbors would complain, she’d defend you. Heck, she followed you around the house as if she were a wagon hitched to a star. You’ll never find another girl like that, Lino.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Clock?”
One afternoon, after buying a box of dog biscuits for Buddy at the supermarket, Angelino decided to stop by the cemetery. The granite bench was covered with ice-coated leaves. With his bare hand, he wiped them away and sat. “Hi, Theresa, it’s me, Angel. Sorry, I haven’t been here in a while. I think it’s been, what? About two weeks. It don’t mean I don’t love you. It’s just . . . Christmas wasn’t the same without you. I missed your gingerbread cookies and the red and green candles that you’d place in the upstairs windows.” He bent over and picked up a shard of ice off the ground. The ocean was two blocks away and he could hear it crashing on the shore. “Anyway, remember Shelley Narins, the woman who lives on Locust Drive? Someone in town spread this rumor—I think it’s Bill Lacy—that she and me are an item. Jamie heard it and blew a gasket. I guess he could never picture me with someone else.”
One evening, Angelino was watching a football game on TV, when the phone rang. It was his daughter Wendy. “Hi Daddy, Craig and I are planning our summer right now and, if it’s okay, we thought we’d fly in to see you at the end of July.”
“Schedule’s wide open here, honeybun.”
“Bobby’s really looking forward to the beach.”
“Bring plenty of sunblock. I don’t want him getting burned.”
“You sound kind of down.”
“My team just turned over the ball. Only a minute left on the clock. Looks like their season’s over.”
“Are you getting out much?”
“I’ve been going through your mother’s belongings.” He eyed the pile of Theresa’s clothes on the sofa.
“You’re not sitting in the house all day, are you?”
“I take Buddy for walks.”
“But you joined a gym.”
“No. Jamie joined the gym for me.”
“Exercise is better than watching TV, Daddy. You’ll meet people. Have you met anyone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
He paused. “I’m not following you, Wendy.”
“Like a woman, Daddy.”
“Wendy, please. We just buried your mother.”
“It’s been six months.”
“At the very least, I should wait a year.”
“Don’t listen to Jamie. It’s like he never grew up.”
“Don’t tell me he told you about the rumor.”
“He’s just afraid of losing his inheritance, Daddy. I always liked Mrs. Narins.”
“Christ, he told you. What’s wrong with that kid?”
One day, Angelino was walking Buddy by the Narins house, when Shelley’s garage door opened. Shelley, who was in the garage, dressed in her gold-studded white overcoat, grabbed an overfilled garbage can and started dragging it down the driveway.
“Shelley,” Angelino said, dropping the leash. “Let me help you with that.” He strode up the driveway.
“All my other cans have wheels,” she said, stopping. “Why have I hung on to this one for so long?” She kicked it.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said, and he lifted the can as if it weighed nothing. (It was actually very heavy and he did his best not to look strained.)
“My, you're strong,” she said.
He carried it down the driveway—was it filled with bricks?—while she followed closely behind. When he got to the curb, he dropped it. A thud.
“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him admiringly as if he’d just rung the bell for her at the church carnival. “So what’s new, Angel?”
“Let’s see . . . Jamie’s taking me to dinner at the Chop House tomorrow night. Wendy and her family will be visiting in the summer. How’re your kids?”
“Patty’s getting a divorce.” Shelley frowned.
“Sorry to hear.”
“It’s a long story. Jean’s still doing her missionary work in Fairbanks.”
“Someone told me she was in Alaska.”
“Eddie, well, he lives in Chicago. He’s a Vice President at Chase Bank.”
“I always wondered what happened to him.”
“By the way . . .” she said, pulling a pair of eyeglasses from her coat. She put them on and looked up and down the block to ensure that no one was within earshot. “I belong to this club, The Suburban View Art Project, and we’re having a fundraiser. The event is right in town. Now forget about donating a dime. I just thought you might like to come.”
What was he to make of this invitation? Not wanting to appear too eager, he paused. “I think that might work, Shelley.”
“You’ll come then?” She smiled.
“I love the arts.”
“You do? Wonderful. I’ll send an invitation.”
When Angelino arrived home, before even taking off his coat, he strutted into the living room. “Okay. You were wrong, Mr. Clock.”
“The only time I’m ever wrong is when my batteries die,” the clock said. “And even then I’m right twice a day.”
“Shelley asked me to go to a fundraiser.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“How do you like them apples?”
“But it hasn’t been a year.”
“It’s been seven months and sixteen days.”
“Why that little tramp.”
“Isn’t she great?”
“You sure she’s interested?”
“I guess. I think so. Why?”
“Is she going to be okay dating a retired ironworker?”
Angelino took off his coat. He hadn’t thought of that. “When I first got married, I went to night school at the community college. I wound up with an associate degree in business.” He sank into his wing chair.
“A college man.”
“I owned my own ironworks company at one time.”
“And you did just fine financially.”
“Jamie got me into some really good investments.”
“What did her husbands do for a living?”
“The first was an electrical engineer. The second . . . I don’t know.”
“I’d just hate for you to get your hopes up. She sounds kind of Waspy and you being the swarthy son of Umbrian immigrants . . . She could just want money for her club.”
“No. She said she doesn’t want me to donate.”
“Maybe she just wants to be friends.”
“She knows I’m not the kind of guy who’d be satisfied with just that.”
“You’re pretty virile and I bet she loves those dark eyes of yours and let’s not forget that beautiful head of silver hair.”
“I still weigh what I did when I got married to Theresa, and, when I see some of these namby-pamby guys on TV, who are, how old? Forty, fifty, taking Viagra.” He shook his head as if his species of masculinity was in danger of becoming extinct. “I just don’t get it.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I took care of myself.” Angelino jumped to his feet and headed for the stairs. “I have to change my clothes. I’m going to the gym.”
One day, after exhausting his leg muscles on the elliptical at the gym, Angelino stopped by the cemetery and placed a single red rose at the foot of Theresa’s gravestone. “There was nothing to that rumor, Theresa, but last week Shelley Narins for some reason invited me to this fundraiser for the arts.” He sat on the granite bench. The ocean sounded like a whisper. “So what do you think? I’m not sure you liked her very much. I remember you once saying she was full of herself and that she had no right to be because all she did was teach finger painting to kindergarteners. Maybe she is full of herself. I don’t know. But I don’t have any plans that day, and Wendy thinks I should get out of the house more.”
When Angelino returned home from the cemetery, the clock said, “Did Theresa give you her blessing to see Shelley?”
“I wasn’t there for that, Clock.”
“You never mentioned Shelley?”
“I told her about the fundraiser but that’s all.”
“You didn’t want to hurt her feelings, huh, Lino?”
“It hasn’t been a year.” Angelino settled into his wing chair. “Was I a good husband, Mr. Clock?”
“I thought we’d already agreed on that.”
“Sometimes I don’t feel like I was. I once cheated on her.”
“You never told me.”
“Yeah, years ago. I left a construction job early. I started drinking vodka on an empty stomach. Some butt-faced barfly. She had a nice body though. Oh, what a body. I felt terrible though. Near the end of Theresa’s life, she seemed fed up with me. In fact, the day before she died, she was lying upstairs in pain. Her throat was dry so I asked her if she wanted a glass of water. She rolled her eyes at me.”
“So these are the doubts you’re having?”
“I have a lot of doubts, Clock.”
“Did you tell her you loved her enough?”
“Probably not.”
“Did you appreciate her? Buy her flowers on your anniversary? She loved roses.”
“Yeah, those kinds of doubts.”
“If you hadn’t been so self-absorbed, would you have noticed the irregular-shaped mole on her back?”
Angelino glared at the clock. “I don’t believe you just said that.”
“I’m just asking.”
“How could you?”
“Did you help her with her vegetable garden? She wanted you to build a wire fence around it to keep out the deer.”
“Enough.”
“Did you take her to Paris? She always wanted to see the City of Lights. You never got around to it, did you? But you always had time to travel to Italy to see your relatives.”
“You fuckin’ asshole!” Angelino stood red-faced and stormed over to the clock and started moving its hands back and forth.
“Cut it out,” the clock said.
“Shut up!” Angelino kept moving the clock’s hands. “If you want to fuck with me, I’ll fuck with you, Mr. Clock!”
“I’m sorry,” the clock said. “Stop it!”
“No!”
“Please.”
Angelino finally stopped.
“Now put me back,” the clock said.
“Don’t ever talk to me like that again!”
The fundraiser was in the basement of the public library. Before arriving, Angelino, not actually being a lover of art, spent a couple of hours online trying to gain some general knowledge of the past one thousand years of art history. When he walked into the library, his mind burdened with funny names like Kahlo, Gauguin, and Mapplethorpe and theories of color and light that he found completely incomprehensible, he took the elevator to the basement. About thirty people were down there: a lot of itchy-looking turtlenecks and pointy beards. Shelley was by the punch bowl, carrying herself as if she was one of the people in charge. He waved to her and she waved back excitedly. He lifted his shoulders and made his way through the jungle of pencil-necked creatives, a confident lion.
“Professor Fotos from the community college is giving a talk on Pollock,” she said to him as if she fully expected him to do cartwheels over the news.
“A major figure in the abstract expressionist movement,” he said, seamlessly.
“I always preferred De Kooning. Why don’t I introduce you around?”
He met Stanley, a local car mechanic, who specialized in painting children’s portraits, Connie, Shelley’s hairdresser, who in her spare time sculpted Rubenesque nudes, and Martha, a sketch artist, who was almost force-feeding people oatmeal cookies and who had the nerve to ask Shelley, “Is Angel a special friend?” Shelley blushed.
After the Pollock talk—a real snoozer in Angelino’s opinion—Angelino and Shelley enjoyed a glass of pinot grigio together. “Patty’s husband was physically abusive,” she confided in him.
“Then she had every right to leave him.”
“Eddie’s gay. Did I tell you?”
“No.”
“I just adore his partner. After Jean’s stay in Fairbanks, she plans to continue her missionary work in Chile.”
Then a voice from behind them said, “They’re kicking us out.” They turned around. It was Shelley’s ride, Harriet.
Angelino put down his glass.
“One moment,” Shelley said to Harriet, a plain-faced woman who had a ring of keys in her hand. Harriet nodded and disappeared.
“I had a wonderful time, Shelley,” Angelino said.
“You must come again.”
“I was wondering. Would you like to grab breakfast on Saturday morning? I usually go to the Aegean Diner.”
“I’d love to but . . .” She cringed. “Everyone in town just loves to gossip.”
“So I hear.”
“There’s another place. Off the coastal parkway.”
“You’ll need a ride.”
“Harriet will drop me off.”
The next morning, on his way home from the gym, Angelino stopped by Theresa’s grave. “I’m happy to report that Shelley’s not full of herself. At least, I didn’t get that impression. We’re going to breakfast on Saturday.” He sat on the granite bench. A few feet away, a seagull was perched on a mausoleum and flapping its wings. “I know you want me to be happy. We never talked about Shelley, but I’m lonely. I wish I could hear your voice. I’d give anything.” An ugly mist was hanging in the air. He checked his watch; it was almost time for Buddy’s 10 a.m. walk. “I finally went through your clothes. I tossed your socks and underwear but donated everything else to the Salvation Army. Jamie’s doing our income tax now. He’s pissed I didn’t donate everything before December 31st. Where did we go wrong with him? I could have been a better husband, Theresa. A lot better, and, if things work out between Shelley and me—not that we’re anything more than friends right now—I’ll be the best thing that ever happened to her.”
When Angelino got home from the cemetery, he sat in his wing chair. Buddy, who was lying by the fireplace chewing on his bristle bone, let go of the bone, stood, and wandered over to the chair. Angelino tugged on the dog’s collar. “Why so sad, my teary-eyed pooch? Cheer up, it’s almost time for our walk.” Angelino looked up at the clock. “Mr. Clock, I had a wonderful time at the fundraiser.”
“You wowed Shelley with your knowledge of post-structuralist concepts?”
“Not exactly. But we’re going to breakfast on Saturday.”
“Did you inform Theresa?”
“I just got back from the cemetery. She took it pretty well. She wants me to be happy, Clock.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Do you talk to Theresa the same way you talk to me?”
“What do you think?”
“How often?”
“Every time I go down there.”
“Does she ever talk back?”
“No.”
Angelino and Shelley began seeing each other. One neighbor said, “Angel sure wasted no time in hooking up with her.” Another said, “I always had a sneaking suspicion there was something going.” Still another said, “They’re behaving like lovesick teenagers.” One afternoon, after taking Shelley to the beauty salon, Angelino arrived home to find Jamie seated in his wing chair. “Who let you in?” Angelino asked.
Jamie stood, his body as tense as barbed wire. “You’re disrespecting the memory of my mother.”
“Hey, son. Relax.”
“Mom hated Mrs. Narins!” he hollered.
“I have no plans to change my will.”
“You think this is about money? How can you do this to Mom?”
“Son, I told you. I’m lonely.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m not sure I even know you anymore.”
Soon, Angelino was spending nights at Shelley’s home. One morning, when he got home from her place, Jamie was on the phone. “Bill Lacy saw you enter the Narins residence at a little past midnight.”
“So you’re spying on me now, is that it?”
“Do you have any sense of decency, Pop?”
Shelley and Angelino’s relationship continued to grow. One evening, someone saw them coming out of the movie theatre, holding hands. Another time, Mrs. O’Shea caught them kissing passionately on the boardwalk.
They started taking trips together. They visited Eddie and his partner in Chicago and, from there, flew to Toronto to see Wendy and her family. Over time, Angelino stopped talking to the clock, and the clock stopped talking to him.
One day, he and Shelley took the train to Manhattan. They window-shopped along Fifth Avenue, ate Thai food in Nolita, saw Jersey Boys on Broadway, and spent a romantic evening at the Warwick Hotel. The next day, when they returned, Angelino stopped in front of the clock. “I never thanked you,” he said.
The clock didn’t respond.
“For listening to me, when I was at my lowest point.”
The clock remained silent. Had its batteries died? No. Its second hand was ticking. He put his ear to it. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Angelino checked his watch. The clock’s time was set correctly.
Had it ever spoken? Or had the loss of Theresa just caused him to temporarily lose his mind. Whichever it was, the clock was just a clock now, as silent as Theresa’s gravestone. He sat in his wing chair. “Thank you, Mr. Clock. For my beautiful new life.”
“What was that, Angel?” It was Shelley, calling from the kitchen.
“Nothing, dear.”
He and Shelley would be getting engaged soon. They’d put their respective homes up for sale and when they got married move into a nice new condo together, just a few blocks from the beach. At some point, they’d go through their belongings and decide what to keep, what to throw out, and what to donate. By now, Angelino knew Shelley’s taste in home furnishings (sophisticated and classic) and convincing her to keep an old, clunky, used clock would be difficult. But the clock was worth fighting for, and, whether she liked it or not, Angelino had already decided that Mr. Clock would one day hang (although crookedly) in a prominent place in their new condo. And when that time came, and on days when Shelley would be on her way to church or another fundraiser for the arts and the clouds above the ocean would be descending like lost spirits, the foghorns would sound, and Angelino, sitting in his wing chair, would think of Theresa, and the life they’d shared.
P.J. Gannon
Angelino had just stepped into the drugstore, when he saw her. She was on her way out, her face, usually etched with composure and elegance, looked as if a hoodlum were holding a knife to it. “Hi, Shelley,” he said enthusiastically, but she kept on walking. Right by him. How strange. He spun around. Her bobbing ponytail almost reached her tailbone. “Have a good day!” he shouted. She was out the door like a disgruntled employee on a cigarette break.
A few months later, he was seated at the counter of the Aegean Diner, hammering the bottom of a ketchup bottle with the butt of his hand, when he overheard the Hendersons in a booth behind him. “Did you hear?” Mr. Henderson said to the missus. “Shelley Narins lost her husband.”
“I did not know that,” the missus said.
“About a week ago.”
“Oh Lord. That sucks.”
“Pancreatic cancer.”
“That’s a bad one. My tuna melt’s the pits. I should’ve gotten the cheeseburger.”
“Diagnosis to death in three months, sweets.”
“Just awful. Shelley’s a lovely woman.”
The chance encounter at the drug store and overheard conversation at the diner took place some thirty years ago but now that Angelino had recently lost his beloved wife Theresa the memories of those events had unexpectedly shown up at his door to remind him that others in town had suffered similar devastation. During Theresa’s illness, when her headaches and back pain were excruciating, there must have been times when he was coming in or out of, say, the hardware store and his face looked as if a hoodlum were holding a knife to it.
That was the look you got.
From what Angelino had observed over the years, Shelley Narins had remained a lovely woman. She had kept a slim figure and was always dressed primly as if she was going to church or a fundraiser for the arts, both of which she did regularly. At some point, she’d remarried but quickly divorced and, through the help of her pastor, obtained an annulment. Her three children had all grown up to be models of competency and sound moral character and were college-educated like Angelino’s son Jamie and daughter Wendy.
Angelino was in his living room, seated in his leather wing chair, a glass of chocolate milk in his hand. His mutt Buddy was lying by the TV, chewing on a bristle bone. When Buddy grew tired of the bone, he stood and wandered over to Angelino. “Why so sad, my teary-eyed pooch?” Angelino tugged on the dog’s collar and looked up at the old wrought-iron clock on the wall. It was the size of a garbage pail lid and hung crookedly over the fireplace. (No matter how hard Angelino tried he couldn’t get it to hang straight.) The numbers on it were represented as Roman numerals. Theresa had dragged it home one day from a yard sale.
“What do I do, Mr. Clock?” Angelino asked. “I’m not getting any younger. Do I call Shelley?”
“Don’t do a thing?” the clock said, its voice as depressing as a foghorn. “Wait.”
When Angelino first started talking to the clock, it had felt kind of weird but his dog didn’t want to talk and the clock enjoyed the chitchat and was a pretty good conversationalist, and in the months following Theresa’s death, the awkwardness of speaking with it just melted away. One morning, he took Buddy on a long walk around the neighborhood. Outside, it was cold and dreary, a perfect match for his mood. Though he loved Buddy, the mutt was by no means the kind of dog he’d have chosen—he’d have preferred a golden retriever or chocolate Lab—but as soon as Theresa had stepped into the kennel, she had fallen for Buddy, who was a cross between a fox terrier and poodle. Buddy was tiny, not much higher than Angelino’s work boot—and Angelino was big (6’2” 220 lb)—so he sometimes felt a little silly walking around the neighborhood with him. As he approached the Narins residence—power-washed and landscaped with natural stones and high shrubs—Angelino felt a tingling in his chest. He glanced at Shelley’s kitchen window. There was no light. No shadows. She was probably out. Then a grey minivan pulled up in front of the house, and she got out. Her unexpected appearance shifted his mood; it was as if the sun had come out from behind a dark rain cloud. He felt like a teenager again. She was wearing a gold-studded white overcoat, buttoned to her swanlike neck. She had a solemn look on her face. “I’m sorry about Theresa,” she said, and she closed the minivan door gently as if it were made of a thousand eggshells. “I only recently heard.”
“Thank you.”
She was wearing red high heels and took a delicate step onto the sidewalk. “Had I known, I’d have come to the funeral.” Her voice seemed to float through the air like pear blossoms in spring. “My deepest condolences.”
The minivan pulled away and she headed for her front door. He took a few steps forward but stopped himself. She had stopped too and was giving him a look that said, You poor thing. He waved goodbye. Why hadn’t she heard about Theresa’s death sooner? Shelley seemed the kind of woman to whom information just flowed.
Years ago, when Angelino and Theresa’s kids were little, Theresa had been a Girl Scout leader. There were afternoons when the entire troop was raising hell in their house. Theresa, dressed in her green troop shirt, would be helping the girls bake cupcakes or make string necklaces made of pasta noodles. One day, Shelley came by the house to pick up her daughters, Patty and Jean. Angelino was in the kitchen, peeking into the oven to see if the cupcakes were ready, when Shelley rushed in to refill a child’s Dixie cup with Kool Aid.
“I already have a headache,” she said to him. She was dressed in a clinging white turtleneck that, had he not been married, would have caused him to completely forget about the cupcakes. They would have burned for all eternity.
“That makes two of us,” he said, letting go of the oven door. It slammed shut.
“Thank you for hosting this circus.”
He flung off his oven mitt. “Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d be on the couch watching football.”
“My husband would never allow this.”
A week after Angelino saw Shelley getting out of the minivan, a card arrived in his mailbox. It was from Shelley. A mass would be offered for the repose of Theresa’s soul on January 11th at 8:00 a.m. at St. Joseph’s Chapel. What a thoughtful gesture. He walked over to his fireplace and placed the card on the mantle underneath the clock.
“I’m lonely, Mr. Clock,” he said. “Maybe Shelley would like to go to the movies with me.”
“That would be a mistake. It’s only been four months since Theresa passed. Wait a year.”
“I’m not much for arbitrary rules, Mr. Clock.”
“But Shelley is.”
“You think?”
“A woman like that . . . She’d be very turned off if you asked her now.”
“I’m 70 years old, and she’s not much younger. When you get to be our age, every month counts.”
“Don’t blow it. Be patient, old man.”
“I just want to know if she’d be open to the idea of me and her. She’s probably not interested.”
“What makes you say?”
“She was a little out of my league.”
“No one levels the playing field better than me.”
“And I feel guilty.”
“Have you told your kids about Shelley?”
“You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”
“Did you ever discuss remarrying with Theresa?”
“There may have been a word or two about it.”
“I imagine it would have been very difficult to talk about.”
“I never once mentioned Shelley.”
“But you thought of her?”
“Theresa was sick a long time; the mind can wander. But I don’t think Theresa liked Shelley all that much.”
“Theresa’s in a place where there are no opinions.”
One day, when Angelino was walking by Shelley’s house with Buddy, he saw lights on in her kitchen. Through the window, he could see Shelley by the refrigerator in a bright yellow house dress. Should he knock on her door and thank her for the Mass card? It didn’t seem the kind of thing you would go out of your way to thank someone for but given the circumstances no one would judge his behavior as anything more than the hypersensitivity of a man in mourning.
Mr. Lacy was across the street adorning his garage with a string of colorful Christmas lights. Angelino waved to him and turned up Shelley’s walkway. A fresh Christmas wreath hung on her door (completely straight, unlike his clock). He rang the bell. A few moments later, she opened the door.
“I was just passing by, Shelley.”
“Oh. It’s you. Angel!” If the pope had been at her door, she wouldn’t have been more surprised.
“I wanted to thank you for the Mass card.”
“You got it?”
“Yes. The post office works well.”
She stepped outside as if to create a barrier between him and her pure-as-the-driven-snow home. “I feel terrible about missing the funeral.” Cold winds were whipping in from the ocean. She crossed her arms to keep warm. “I knew she was sick.”
“Melanoma.”
“Mother of God, how have you been holding up?”
“It’s been day to day.”
“Forgive me for looking like such a mess.” She peered down at her house dress as if it were splattered with paint.
“You look great.”
“I need a shower.” She tugged on a long strand of her dyed brown hair. “But I know what you’re going through.”
“You had it harder, Shelley. With the little ones . . .”
“Thank God, their father had the foresight to buy sufficient life insurance. Father Buckley, God rest his soul, helped me keep it together.”
“I’ve been more or less going it alone.”
“Have you been seeing your kids?”
“Wendy was in from Toronto before Thanksgiving.”
“I heard her son is already in high school.”
“Yeah. Bobby. Time flies.”
“Is she still working as a nurse?”
“She wouldn’t think of stopping.”
“At least your son still lives in town.”
“His wife and kids stop by from time to time.”
Shelley’s phone started ringing. “Your children and grandchildren will be a source of strength,” she said.
“Do you need to get that?” he asked.
“It’s probably my housekeeper.” She looked at her watch. “She was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’ve taken enough of your time.”
When Angelino arrived home, the clock said, “Why on earth did you go knocking on her door? You’re not very patient.”
“I wanted to see her. Is that a crime?”
“How’d she look?”
With a steak knife, he stirred his glass of chocolate milk. “She’s got the prettiest blue eyes. She didn’t invite me in.”
“She was probably worried about what the neighbors would think.”
“Come to think of it, there was a neighbor out. Mr. Lacy.” He gulped the milk with the knife still in the glass.
“Oh no. See. The woman has class, Lino.”
“I could have just stood in the hall.”
“But it hasn’t been a year.”
“She’s probably not interested.”
“Did you sense that?”
Angelino paused. “No. Not really. She complained about how she looked. Something about needing a shower.”
A week later, Angelino’s son Jamie was at the door. “Jamie, come in from out of the cold,” Angelino said. “How’s the finance industry treating you?”
Jamie, who was middle-aged and completely grey, said, “For everyone else, it’s the holiday season, for me it’s the year end.”
“Just so you know, I’m not putting up any Christmas lights this year or doing a tree, not without your mother.”
“So what’s going on with you and Mrs. Narins?”
Angelino’s face went limp. “Mrs. Narins?”
“Yeah. There’s a rumor’s going around that there’s something going on between you two.”
“No.”
“Well, that’s the rumor.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Someone said you were at her door.”
“She sent a Mass card for your mother. I was out with Buddy. I happened to be walking by so I thanked her.”
“You never walked Buddy on her street before.”
“Sure, I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No. For years you walked up Roosevelt Avenue, turned onto Illinois Avenue, and then went back down Atlantic Street.”
“I’d mix it up on occasion. Have a seat.”
They turned into the living room. The sofa was filled with Theresa’s clothes. “I thought you already got rid of mom’s stuff,” Jamie said.
“I’m going through everything now, deciding what to throw out, what to donate.”
Jamie stepped over to the sofa and pushed aside the clothes.
“Well, I’m glad you brought up my future,” Angelino said, sitting in his wing chair, while Jamie, who was dressed in the dull grey suit that he’d worn to work, settled into the sofa. “I can’t be alone for the rest of my life, son.”
“So it is true?”
“No, but what do you have against Mrs. Narins?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it’s too soon, Pop. Mom just died.”
“I told you. Nothing’s going on.”
“Do you remember her son Eddie?”
Angelino paused. “I think.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about the time he beat the shit out of me.”
“After that soccer game?” Angelino shook his head. “You were kids, Jamie.”
“Besides, I don’t want to have to endure the gossip.”
“No one cares what I do.”
Jamie sneered. “In this town . . .”
“Do you want me to be alone for the rest of my life?”
“You’re not alone, Pop. I’m here for you.”
“Jamie, you’re forty-something years old. Think. Put yourself in my shoes.”
“You know that nice granite bench you placed in front of Theresa’s gravestone?” the clock said to Angelino on Christmas morning.
“Yeah, what about it?” Angelino was slumped in his wing chair, waiting for the clock to strike noon so that he could get into his sky-blue Cadillac and drive over to Jamie’s house where he’d celebrate the holiday.
“You haven’t used it much? You were supposed to sit on it daily. Make sure her gravestone was at all times surrounded by fresh flowers.”
“Shut the fuck up, okay?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You talk too much.”
Angelino climbed to his feet and trudged over to the sofa. He picked up one of Theresa’s cardigans and folded it. He then placed it in a leaf bag. “Now you’re doubting my love for Theresa.”
“I was just reminding you of what you said.”
“I said all that stuff the day she died.”
“I thought you meant it.”
He picked up one of her bras. “I was at the cemetery last week.”
“How is she?”
“She’s been better, you know.”
“You have a talent for understatement.”
“My son has some nerve telling me what to do with my life.”
“Don’t be angry with him. He loved his mother.”
“I don’t even want to go to his house. All he’ll talk about is work.”
“Bah humbug.”
“Theresa loved Christmas. She’d make her own decorations. She’d take Popsicle sticks, break them into little pieces, glue them together, make these tiny little sleds.” There was silence and the bra fell from his hand.
“Are you okay, Lino?”
“Do you know how hard it was for me to watch her die?”
“You nearly lost it when her legs started swelling up.”
“She had the most beautiful legs.”
“It became so difficult for her to walk.”
“I helped her.”
“You would carry her to the bathroom.”
“Unlike my son, I was here.”
“I don’t know how you did it.”
“Watching her waste away, pretending like everything was going to be all right.”
On the morning of January 11th, Angelino put on his best jacket and tie and headed off to St. Joseph’s Chapel. Immediately after Theresa’s death, he had received a number of beautiful Mass cards in her memory, but, being agnostic, he had not attended any of the masses. In fact, other than Theresa’s funeral, which was held in another Catholic church on the other side of town, he could not remember the last time he’d been to church.
When he stepped into the chapel, he recognized a few of the faces: Claire O’Shea, Theresa’s friend from around the block, Lauren Viola, one of the women from Theresa’s book club, and a couple of other ladies that Angelino judged as more acquaintances than friends. He politely nodded to each of them and took a seat in a pew not far from the altar and, pretending that his neck was stiff, began looking around the nave for Shelley. Where was she? Was she even coming? A few minutes later, the church organ played and Angelino climbed to his feet, but with Shelley’s absence lingering in the air like a plume of funeral incense he couldn’t concentrate on the service. Why was he feeling like he was being stood up? Was he losing his mind? Finally, ten minutes into the mass, she appeared. Two rows behind him, to his right. Out of nowhere. God. She was dressed in all black but luminous thanks to a giant sword of light that had pierced the stained-glass depiction of the archangel Gabriel. How had she gotten into the chapel? The doors hadn’t creaked open. He’d been listening for that. His heart was beating fast enough to pump water from the baptismal font.
After the mass, as Shelley was leaving the chapel, Angelino made his move. “Thank you for that beautiful service, Shelley.”
“Oh, Angel.” She stopped as if she’d fully expected him to approach. “How are you?” She fluffed her hair.
“The mass meant a lot to me.”
“It was the least I could do. I always had the greatest admiration for Theresa.”
“It helps to know so many people thought so highly of her.”
“Are you taking care of yourself, Angel?”
“I guess. I mean . . . I’m trying.”
“Good. Losing a spouse is so difficult.”
Angelino remembered that Shelley didn’t drive. “Do you need a ride home, Shelley?”
She looked at him as if he’d just pinched her tush. “I beg your pardon,” she said, stepping back.
“Do you need a ride? I know you don’t drive.”
Her eyes throbbed with a stern warning: don’t go there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have—”
“Thank you, Angel, but, no, I’m good.”
“Of course.”
“My girlfriend Harriet is picking me up.” She pointed to a grey minivan parked at the curb. “There she is now. Have a good day.”
“You asked her if she wanted a ride home?” the clock said to Angelino incredulously.
“Yeah. So.” Angelino undid his tie.
“Are you fuckin’ stupid? Well, how did she respond?”
Angelino said nothing.
“The woman’s got class, Lino. You think she’s going to be seen getting into your Caddy after attending a mass for the memory of your deceased wife?”
“Okay, I blew it. I fucked up.”
“No argument here.”
There was a liquor cabinet in the living room and Angelino made a beeline for it. “I know it’s not even noon but I need a drink, okay?” He poured himself a heavy-handed scotch and carried the bottle of Lagavulin and a tumbler over to his wing chair and collapsed in it. “The other day I was thinking . . . you and I would never have met if it wasn’t for Theresa.”
“She carried me home that day with such pride.”
“She loved yard sales.”
“People find all kinds of treasures.”
Angelino gulped down the scotch.
“I never asked you,” the clock said. “How did you and Theresa meet?”
“At the beach. I was with some ironworker buddies. One of them knew one of her girlfriends. Theresa said she liked my sunglasses.”
“What attracted you to her?’
He shrugged. “Her tits.”
The clock laughed and the sound was like a ding-dong chime. “But why did you marry her?”
“I couldn’t think of a reason not to.”
Angelino finished his scotch and, while pouring another, accidently doused his dress shirt. “She cared about me, Mr. Clock.”
“She worshiped the ground you walked on.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“She’d cover you with a blanket every time you fell asleep on the couch. When you played your radio too loud and your neighbors would complain, she’d defend you. Heck, she followed you around the house as if she were a wagon hitched to a star. You’ll never find another girl like that, Lino.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Clock?”
One afternoon, after buying a box of dog biscuits for Buddy at the supermarket, Angelino decided to stop by the cemetery. The granite bench was covered with ice-coated leaves. With his bare hand, he wiped them away and sat. “Hi, Theresa, it’s me, Angel. Sorry, I haven’t been here in a while. I think it’s been, what? About two weeks. It don’t mean I don’t love you. It’s just . . . Christmas wasn’t the same without you. I missed your gingerbread cookies and the red and green candles that you’d place in the upstairs windows.” He bent over and picked up a shard of ice off the ground. The ocean was two blocks away and he could hear it crashing on the shore. “Anyway, remember Shelley Narins, the woman who lives on Locust Drive? Someone in town spread this rumor—I think it’s Bill Lacy—that she and me are an item. Jamie heard it and blew a gasket. I guess he could never picture me with someone else.”
One evening, Angelino was watching a football game on TV, when the phone rang. It was his daughter Wendy. “Hi Daddy, Craig and I are planning our summer right now and, if it’s okay, we thought we’d fly in to see you at the end of July.”
“Schedule’s wide open here, honeybun.”
“Bobby’s really looking forward to the beach.”
“Bring plenty of sunblock. I don’t want him getting burned.”
“You sound kind of down.”
“My team just turned over the ball. Only a minute left on the clock. Looks like their season’s over.”
“Are you getting out much?”
“I’ve been going through your mother’s belongings.” He eyed the pile of Theresa’s clothes on the sofa.
“You’re not sitting in the house all day, are you?”
“I take Buddy for walks.”
“But you joined a gym.”
“No. Jamie joined the gym for me.”
“Exercise is better than watching TV, Daddy. You’ll meet people. Have you met anyone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
He paused. “I’m not following you, Wendy.”
“Like a woman, Daddy.”
“Wendy, please. We just buried your mother.”
“It’s been six months.”
“At the very least, I should wait a year.”
“Don’t listen to Jamie. It’s like he never grew up.”
“Don’t tell me he told you about the rumor.”
“He’s just afraid of losing his inheritance, Daddy. I always liked Mrs. Narins.”
“Christ, he told you. What’s wrong with that kid?”
One day, Angelino was walking Buddy by the Narins house, when Shelley’s garage door opened. Shelley, who was in the garage, dressed in her gold-studded white overcoat, grabbed an overfilled garbage can and started dragging it down the driveway.
“Shelley,” Angelino said, dropping the leash. “Let me help you with that.” He strode up the driveway.
“All my other cans have wheels,” she said, stopping. “Why have I hung on to this one for so long?” She kicked it.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said, and he lifted the can as if it weighed nothing. (It was actually very heavy and he did his best not to look strained.)
“My, you're strong,” she said.
He carried it down the driveway—was it filled with bricks?—while she followed closely behind. When he got to the curb, he dropped it. A thud.
“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him admiringly as if he’d just rung the bell for her at the church carnival. “So what’s new, Angel?”
“Let’s see . . . Jamie’s taking me to dinner at the Chop House tomorrow night. Wendy and her family will be visiting in the summer. How’re your kids?”
“Patty’s getting a divorce.” Shelley frowned.
“Sorry to hear.”
“It’s a long story. Jean’s still doing her missionary work in Fairbanks.”
“Someone told me she was in Alaska.”
“Eddie, well, he lives in Chicago. He’s a Vice President at Chase Bank.”
“I always wondered what happened to him.”
“By the way . . .” she said, pulling a pair of eyeglasses from her coat. She put them on and looked up and down the block to ensure that no one was within earshot. “I belong to this club, The Suburban View Art Project, and we’re having a fundraiser. The event is right in town. Now forget about donating a dime. I just thought you might like to come.”
What was he to make of this invitation? Not wanting to appear too eager, he paused. “I think that might work, Shelley.”
“You’ll come then?” She smiled.
“I love the arts.”
“You do? Wonderful. I’ll send an invitation.”
When Angelino arrived home, before even taking off his coat, he strutted into the living room. “Okay. You were wrong, Mr. Clock.”
“The only time I’m ever wrong is when my batteries die,” the clock said. “And even then I’m right twice a day.”
“Shelley asked me to go to a fundraiser.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“How do you like them apples?”
“But it hasn’t been a year.”
“It’s been seven months and sixteen days.”
“Why that little tramp.”
“Isn’t she great?”
“You sure she’s interested?”
“I guess. I think so. Why?”
“Is she going to be okay dating a retired ironworker?”
Angelino took off his coat. He hadn’t thought of that. “When I first got married, I went to night school at the community college. I wound up with an associate degree in business.” He sank into his wing chair.
“A college man.”
“I owned my own ironworks company at one time.”
“And you did just fine financially.”
“Jamie got me into some really good investments.”
“What did her husbands do for a living?”
“The first was an electrical engineer. The second . . . I don’t know.”
“I’d just hate for you to get your hopes up. She sounds kind of Waspy and you being the swarthy son of Umbrian immigrants . . . She could just want money for her club.”
“No. She said she doesn’t want me to donate.”
“Maybe she just wants to be friends.”
“She knows I’m not the kind of guy who’d be satisfied with just that.”
“You’re pretty virile and I bet she loves those dark eyes of yours and let’s not forget that beautiful head of silver hair.”
“I still weigh what I did when I got married to Theresa, and, when I see some of these namby-pamby guys on TV, who are, how old? Forty, fifty, taking Viagra.” He shook his head as if his species of masculinity was in danger of becoming extinct. “I just don’t get it.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I took care of myself.” Angelino jumped to his feet and headed for the stairs. “I have to change my clothes. I’m going to the gym.”
One day, after exhausting his leg muscles on the elliptical at the gym, Angelino stopped by the cemetery and placed a single red rose at the foot of Theresa’s gravestone. “There was nothing to that rumor, Theresa, but last week Shelley Narins for some reason invited me to this fundraiser for the arts.” He sat on the granite bench. The ocean sounded like a whisper. “So what do you think? I’m not sure you liked her very much. I remember you once saying she was full of herself and that she had no right to be because all she did was teach finger painting to kindergarteners. Maybe she is full of herself. I don’t know. But I don’t have any plans that day, and Wendy thinks I should get out of the house more.”
When Angelino returned home from the cemetery, the clock said, “Did Theresa give you her blessing to see Shelley?”
“I wasn’t there for that, Clock.”
“You never mentioned Shelley?”
“I told her about the fundraiser but that’s all.”
“You didn’t want to hurt her feelings, huh, Lino?”
“It hasn’t been a year.” Angelino settled into his wing chair. “Was I a good husband, Mr. Clock?”
“I thought we’d already agreed on that.”
“Sometimes I don’t feel like I was. I once cheated on her.”
“You never told me.”
“Yeah, years ago. I left a construction job early. I started drinking vodka on an empty stomach. Some butt-faced barfly. She had a nice body though. Oh, what a body. I felt terrible though. Near the end of Theresa’s life, she seemed fed up with me. In fact, the day before she died, she was lying upstairs in pain. Her throat was dry so I asked her if she wanted a glass of water. She rolled her eyes at me.”
“So these are the doubts you’re having?”
“I have a lot of doubts, Clock.”
“Did you tell her you loved her enough?”
“Probably not.”
“Did you appreciate her? Buy her flowers on your anniversary? She loved roses.”
“Yeah, those kinds of doubts.”
“If you hadn’t been so self-absorbed, would you have noticed the irregular-shaped mole on her back?”
Angelino glared at the clock. “I don’t believe you just said that.”
“I’m just asking.”
“How could you?”
“Did you help her with her vegetable garden? She wanted you to build a wire fence around it to keep out the deer.”
“Enough.”
“Did you take her to Paris? She always wanted to see the City of Lights. You never got around to it, did you? But you always had time to travel to Italy to see your relatives.”
“You fuckin’ asshole!” Angelino stood red-faced and stormed over to the clock and started moving its hands back and forth.
“Cut it out,” the clock said.
“Shut up!” Angelino kept moving the clock’s hands. “If you want to fuck with me, I’ll fuck with you, Mr. Clock!”
“I’m sorry,” the clock said. “Stop it!”
“No!”
“Please.”
Angelino finally stopped.
“Now put me back,” the clock said.
“Don’t ever talk to me like that again!”
The fundraiser was in the basement of the public library. Before arriving, Angelino, not actually being a lover of art, spent a couple of hours online trying to gain some general knowledge of the past one thousand years of art history. When he walked into the library, his mind burdened with funny names like Kahlo, Gauguin, and Mapplethorpe and theories of color and light that he found completely incomprehensible, he took the elevator to the basement. About thirty people were down there: a lot of itchy-looking turtlenecks and pointy beards. Shelley was by the punch bowl, carrying herself as if she was one of the people in charge. He waved to her and she waved back excitedly. He lifted his shoulders and made his way through the jungle of pencil-necked creatives, a confident lion.
“Professor Fotos from the community college is giving a talk on Pollock,” she said to him as if she fully expected him to do cartwheels over the news.
“A major figure in the abstract expressionist movement,” he said, seamlessly.
“I always preferred De Kooning. Why don’t I introduce you around?”
He met Stanley, a local car mechanic, who specialized in painting children’s portraits, Connie, Shelley’s hairdresser, who in her spare time sculpted Rubenesque nudes, and Martha, a sketch artist, who was almost force-feeding people oatmeal cookies and who had the nerve to ask Shelley, “Is Angel a special friend?” Shelley blushed.
After the Pollock talk—a real snoozer in Angelino’s opinion—Angelino and Shelley enjoyed a glass of pinot grigio together. “Patty’s husband was physically abusive,” she confided in him.
“Then she had every right to leave him.”
“Eddie’s gay. Did I tell you?”
“No.”
“I just adore his partner. After Jean’s stay in Fairbanks, she plans to continue her missionary work in Chile.”
Then a voice from behind them said, “They’re kicking us out.” They turned around. It was Shelley’s ride, Harriet.
Angelino put down his glass.
“One moment,” Shelley said to Harriet, a plain-faced woman who had a ring of keys in her hand. Harriet nodded and disappeared.
“I had a wonderful time, Shelley,” Angelino said.
“You must come again.”
“I was wondering. Would you like to grab breakfast on Saturday morning? I usually go to the Aegean Diner.”
“I’d love to but . . .” She cringed. “Everyone in town just loves to gossip.”
“So I hear.”
“There’s another place. Off the coastal parkway.”
“You’ll need a ride.”
“Harriet will drop me off.”
The next morning, on his way home from the gym, Angelino stopped by Theresa’s grave. “I’m happy to report that Shelley’s not full of herself. At least, I didn’t get that impression. We’re going to breakfast on Saturday.” He sat on the granite bench. A few feet away, a seagull was perched on a mausoleum and flapping its wings. “I know you want me to be happy. We never talked about Shelley, but I’m lonely. I wish I could hear your voice. I’d give anything.” An ugly mist was hanging in the air. He checked his watch; it was almost time for Buddy’s 10 a.m. walk. “I finally went through your clothes. I tossed your socks and underwear but donated everything else to the Salvation Army. Jamie’s doing our income tax now. He’s pissed I didn’t donate everything before December 31st. Where did we go wrong with him? I could have been a better husband, Theresa. A lot better, and, if things work out between Shelley and me—not that we’re anything more than friends right now—I’ll be the best thing that ever happened to her.”
When Angelino got home from the cemetery, he sat in his wing chair. Buddy, who was lying by the fireplace chewing on his bristle bone, let go of the bone, stood, and wandered over to the chair. Angelino tugged on the dog’s collar. “Why so sad, my teary-eyed pooch? Cheer up, it’s almost time for our walk.” Angelino looked up at the clock. “Mr. Clock, I had a wonderful time at the fundraiser.”
“You wowed Shelley with your knowledge of post-structuralist concepts?”
“Not exactly. But we’re going to breakfast on Saturday.”
“Did you inform Theresa?”
“I just got back from the cemetery. She took it pretty well. She wants me to be happy, Clock.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Do you talk to Theresa the same way you talk to me?”
“What do you think?”
“How often?”
“Every time I go down there.”
“Does she ever talk back?”
“No.”
Angelino and Shelley began seeing each other. One neighbor said, “Angel sure wasted no time in hooking up with her.” Another said, “I always had a sneaking suspicion there was something going.” Still another said, “They’re behaving like lovesick teenagers.” One afternoon, after taking Shelley to the beauty salon, Angelino arrived home to find Jamie seated in his wing chair. “Who let you in?” Angelino asked.
Jamie stood, his body as tense as barbed wire. “You’re disrespecting the memory of my mother.”
“Hey, son. Relax.”
“Mom hated Mrs. Narins!” he hollered.
“I have no plans to change my will.”
“You think this is about money? How can you do this to Mom?”
“Son, I told you. I’m lonely.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m not sure I even know you anymore.”
Soon, Angelino was spending nights at Shelley’s home. One morning, when he got home from her place, Jamie was on the phone. “Bill Lacy saw you enter the Narins residence at a little past midnight.”
“So you’re spying on me now, is that it?”
“Do you have any sense of decency, Pop?”
Shelley and Angelino’s relationship continued to grow. One evening, someone saw them coming out of the movie theatre, holding hands. Another time, Mrs. O’Shea caught them kissing passionately on the boardwalk.
They started taking trips together. They visited Eddie and his partner in Chicago and, from there, flew to Toronto to see Wendy and her family. Over time, Angelino stopped talking to the clock, and the clock stopped talking to him.
One day, he and Shelley took the train to Manhattan. They window-shopped along Fifth Avenue, ate Thai food in Nolita, saw Jersey Boys on Broadway, and spent a romantic evening at the Warwick Hotel. The next day, when they returned, Angelino stopped in front of the clock. “I never thanked you,” he said.
The clock didn’t respond.
“For listening to me, when I was at my lowest point.”
The clock remained silent. Had its batteries died? No. Its second hand was ticking. He put his ear to it. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Angelino checked his watch. The clock’s time was set correctly.
Had it ever spoken? Or had the loss of Theresa just caused him to temporarily lose his mind. Whichever it was, the clock was just a clock now, as silent as Theresa’s gravestone. He sat in his wing chair. “Thank you, Mr. Clock. For my beautiful new life.”
“What was that, Angel?” It was Shelley, calling from the kitchen.
“Nothing, dear.”
He and Shelley would be getting engaged soon. They’d put their respective homes up for sale and when they got married move into a nice new condo together, just a few blocks from the beach. At some point, they’d go through their belongings and decide what to keep, what to throw out, and what to donate. By now, Angelino knew Shelley’s taste in home furnishings (sophisticated and classic) and convincing her to keep an old, clunky, used clock would be difficult. But the clock was worth fighting for, and, whether she liked it or not, Angelino had already decided that Mr. Clock would one day hang (although crookedly) in a prominent place in their new condo. And when that time came, and on days when Shelley would be on her way to church or another fundraiser for the arts and the clouds above the ocean would be descending like lost spirits, the foghorns would sound, and Angelino, sitting in his wing chair, would think of Theresa, and the life they’d shared.
