Anne Tyler - The Clock Winder

His eyes were flinching beneath the lids. His mouth was open. Short breaths fluttered the hollows of his cheeks. The fingers of one hand clutched and loosened on a tuft in the bedspread.

Now was her time for just sitting. She had sat more this summer than in all the rest of her life put together, and when she bothered to think about it she wondered why she didn’t mind. Day after day she rocked in her chair, staring into space, while the flattened old man on the bed stirred and muttered in his sleep. Sometimes her eyes seemed hooked in space; to focus them took real effort, so that she would be conscious of a pulling sensation when Mr. Cunningham woke again. Her mind was unfocused as well. She thought about nothing, nothing at all. She was not always conscious of the passage of time. It would have been possible to start a woodcarving, or to read some book of her own, but whenever she considered it she forgot to do anything about it. She would think of her whittling knives, which she had brought here on her first day of work along with two blocks of wood. She would picture the set of motions necessary to rise and fetch them, and then the wood itself: how the first slash along the grain would leave a gleaming white strip behind it. But from there her thoughts blurred and vanished, and when the old man awoke he would find her rocking steadily with her empty hands locked in her lap. It was as if she were asleep herself, or in that space on the edge of sleep where people make plans for some action but only dream they have carried it out.

The doorbell rang. Elizabeth rocked on. The doorbell rang again, and she gathered her muscles together to rise from the chair. “Coming,” she called. Then she glanced at Mr. Cunningham, but he only frowned slightly and stirred in his sleep.

The front door was open, so that as she came down the stairs she could see who stood behind the screen. But it took her several seconds, even so, to realize who it was. He was too much out of context. She had to assemble him piece by piece — first that stooped, hesitant posture, then the frayed jeans, finally the tangle of black hair and the smudged glasses. She stopped dead still in the hallway. “Matthew,” she said.

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

Then, when she didn’t open the door, he said, “It’s August. Here I am.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Is it all right if I come in?”

“I guess so.”

He opened the screen door, but she led him no farther inside the house. If he had tried to kiss her she would have dodged him, but when he didn’t there was another awkwardness — how to stand, what to do with her hands, how to pretend that there was nothing new about the cold, blank space between them. “Did you have any trouble finding me?” she asked.

“Your mother gave me directions.”

“How’d you find her?”

“Asked in town.”

He shifted his weight and put his hands in his pockets. “None of it was easy,” he said. “Not even locating Ellington. I was wondering if you hoped I would just get lost and never make it.”

“I wrote you not to come.”

“Only the once. You didn’t say why. I can’t leave things up in the air like this, Elizabeth.”

“Well,” said Elizabeth. “How’s your family?

“Fine. How’s yours.”

“Oh, fine.”

“Is there somewhere we could sit and talk?” Matthew asked.

She scratched her head. Then Mr. Cunningham rescued her. Her name creaked down the stairs: “Elizabeth? Elizabeth?”

“I have to go,” she said. “He worries if I’m not there.”

“Could I come with you?”

“Maybe you could just meet me somewhere after work.”

“I’d rather stay,” Matthew said. “I took a summer and seven hours getting here, I’m not going to lose track of you again.”

“Well, for goodness sake. Do you think I would just run off?”

Apparently he did. He only waited, blank-faced, until she said, “Oh, all right,” and turned to lead him up the stairs.

Mr. Cunningham lay motionless in his bed. He was nothing but shades of white — white hair and white pajamas, pale skin, white sheets — so pure and stark that Elizabeth felt happy to see him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cunningham,” she said.

“I called and called.”

“Here I am. Come in, Matthew. This is Mr. Cunningham.”

“How do, Mr. Cunningham,” the old man said.

“No, this is Matthew Emerson. You’re Mr. Cunningham.”

“Well, I knew that.” He raised his chin, sharply. “I thought you were pointing out another Cunningham. The name’s not all that singular.”

“You’re right,” Elizabeth said.

“I’m glad to meet you,” Matthew said.

Mr. Cunningham frowned at him. “Are you any kin?”

“Kin? To whom? No.”

“To me.”

“No.”

“Do I look like a man that would forget his own name?”

“No, you don’t,” said Matthew.

“I keep in pretty good touch, for my age. I’ll be eighty-seven in November.”

“That’s amazing.”

Mr. Cunningham turned his face away, irritably, as if something in Matthew’s reply had disappointed him. “I’d like more water,” he told Elizabeth.

“All right.”

“Believe you salted that egg too much.”

She poured the water and helped him raise his head to drink it. When he was finished she wiped a dribble off his chin. “I’ll just raise the shade now,” she told him.

“What’s it down for?”

“You were asleep.”

“You thought I was asleep.”

She rolled the shade up. Sunlight poured into the room. When she turned back, Matthew had settled himself on the cane chair at the foot of the bed and was watching her. She had forgotten how open his face looked when he was staring at something steadily. Other people, returning from the past, could make her wonder what she had seen in them; with Matthew, she knew what she had seen. It was still there, even if it didn’t reach out to her any more. He studied her gently, from a distance, puzzling over something in his mind but not troubling her with questions. All he said was, “I never expected to see you in this kind of job.”

“This here is a very good nurse,” Mr. Cunningham said.

“Yes, but—”

“When I’m well we’re going on a trip together. Get Abigail to arrange that, will you?” he said to Elizabeth. “Maybe Luray Caverns.”

“All right,” she said. There was no telling who Abigail was. She bent close to his ear, so that a wisp of his silvery hair feathered her lips. “Mr. Cunningham,” she whispered, careful of his dignity. “Would you like to go to the—”

“Later, later,” he said, with his eyes on Matthew. “I can hold out. I have a guest. Hand me my teeth.”

She passed him the glass. He dabbled in the water a minute with shaky fingers, but he didn’t take the teeth out. Maybe he thought he did; he rearranged his lips and gave her back the glass. “Now then,” he said. “Just imagine, a relation I didn’t even know about. How’s your family, boy?”

“Mr. Cunningham,” said Matthew, “I’m not—”

“Family all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Matthew said.

“Parents okay?”

“Oh, yes.”

Mr. Cunningham looked at him a minute, and then he gave a cross little laugh. “You ain’t exactly colorful , are you?” he said. “Are you shy? What grade you in, anyhow?”

Matthew threw a quick glance at Elizabeth — asking for help, maybe, or wondering how soon he could get out of this.

“Matthew is a grownup, Mr. Cunningham,” she said.

“Is that so. Why? How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” said Matthew.

“That all you are? Call that grown up? The real growing up is between twenty and thirty. That’s what I meant. I knew you weren’t no child.” He hugged himself suddenly, as if he were cold. “How’s that pretty aunt of yours doing?” he asked.