8: The Hourglass

Her face – her face was the problem. When had she gotten such an old woman’s face? All the lines in it like those topographical maps of mountains. She never thought it quite fair of God, that trees got to hide their age with rings on the inside, while women had to wear all their cracks on the outside.

            Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about it now. The world would just have to deal with her wrinkles and get over it. She wrapped her magenta scarf around her head and glanced at the clock – that blasted thing had never worked a day in its life, broken when Ezra decided to bring it home and “fix it”, but she still looked at the damned thing every time.

            Night after night, he spent hunched over the clock’s innards, poking and tweezing and adjusting. He replaced all the parts, and then replaced them all again. But the clock just would not keep time. The night he finally gave up on it, he’d slumped in such a way at first she thought it was a heart attack, or maybe a stroke – though back then they were far too young for either, but what else could knock down a healthy man like that? – but he looked up when she said his name, with such a look of misery.

            “I failed, Iris,” he said. “This was such a mistake.”

            She hadn’t understood then what was so important about fixing the bloody thing, and hindsight hadn’t illuminated anything since then. But fixing the clock was important to him, and he was crushed that he couldn’t do it, so she hugged him close and stroked his hair.

            “Maybe,” she told him, “the clock was never meant to work.”

            That had solved it, whatever the problem was, and the clock became the mascot of their marriage. Whenever one of them hit a rough patch, the other would invoke the lesson of the clock: maybe it’s just not meant to be. And that had got them through.

            The Sunday market was in full swing when she wobbled off the bus. Cramped little stalls displaying fruits and vegetables, jewellery, baubles and nearly everything that could be imagined lined the narrow lanes that fanned out from the square like the spokes of a wheel.

            Whaddaya say, gate? Are you in the know, or are you a solid bringer-downer

            Goog heard a this rockin clambake where this sweet canary goin be singin

            All manner of people crowded in, jostling to make their purchases. Frantic mothers with five or six offspring pulling at leashes while they juggled numerous shopping bags.

            Man, Goog’s a hustler in the first. Too bad he’s such a drip.

            Either way, the jam’s legit, homey.

            Tourists lazily meandering among the stalls, clueless of anyone else around them. And the young people. Scrounging around in sketchy looking gangs, with that gobbledygook they spook to each other.

            Fine, but gimme some scratch. I ain’t goin without some gage, then we can exodus on outta here.

            I’m skint, man. Let’s just get fried.

            She suspected even they didn’t know exactly what they were saying to each other. But that wasn’t her problem. She had bigger fish to fry. She hobbled down one of the lanes to Elmo’s stall. The man mostly sold junk, but he could hold a conversation without straining himself, which was more than she could say of most people these days.

            Elmo resembled an ugly gnome, with a squat, wide frame, bulbous nose and unnaturally pointed ears. Today he wore a paisley hat and was busy showing a young couple in crisp khakis the selling points of a cephalopod fossil. Iris took the opportunity to peruse his gathered wares without the pressure of his expectant gaze. She really shouldn’t encourage him, but who else was going to buy any of these bits and bobs? And Elmo meant well, anyone could see that.

            Iris picked up a small hourglass, only 6 inches tall, but still a little big for an egg timer. Still… She held it up to the sunlight and squinted at the little patterns carved into the wood, hopeless as it was that her eyes would make out anything but a solid blur. It might look nice in the kitchen window next to the lavender.

            “It don’t work,” Elmo said, appearing on the other side of the table, the young khaki couple long gone.

            “What do you mean, it doesn’t work?” she asked. “It’s an hourglass. How can an hourglass not work?”

            “Sand don’t move.” He took the hourglass from her and tipped it over. Lo and behold, he was right. The sand that had just been at the bottom now clung stubbornly to the top, and not a single grain fell through the centre. “Dunno why. Just one day stopped moving. Tried everything short of breaking it open to get the sand unstuck, but nothing doing.”

            Iris took back the hourglass and examined it more carefully this time. It looked exactly the same, but an hourglass that didn’t moved intrigued her, possibly the same way that fool clock had intrigued her husband all those years gone. “I’ll take it,” she decided.

            In three weeks’ time, her nephew will come with his girlfriend to pack up her things before the house is sold. The girlfriend will be packing the living room, when she’ll call him downstairs. “What do you want to do with this old junk?” she’ll ask.

            “What is it,” he’ll say, coming closer.

            “Just some crap that doesn’t work. This old clock, and some sort of hourglass.”

            “Let me see.” He’ll examine the clock, enjoying the retro design and materials. He’ll picture his aunt and uncle buying the clock when they first got married, and it keeping time until they both died. He’ll think about getting it fixed, and what it will look like in their house when he asks his girlfriend to move in.

            He tilts the hourglass and sand falls through the glass.