"The Hour Hand" by Simona Zaretsky
Alexander had always wanted a dog, but his mother told him they couldn’t afford more batteries. “What about a rechargeable one?” he had whined. “I’ll pay for all the batteries myself! I’ll find an old one, so all I’ll have to do is wind it once a week!” Still, her rebuttal had been absolute. She said that the rechargeable battery was new technology and so unreliable; he did not have any money; and she was perfectly aware of how “old” clocks worked. When he was thoroughly exasperated, he exclaimed, “Beth has a hamster and you buy all the batteries for it!” His sister was a dangerous subject with his mother; a quick mention brought stale anger and renewed sadness. Prolonged discussion induced remorse—whether towards his sister or the accident he couldn’t say. All methods, however, were just a withdrawal from the teetering pile of coarse blocks that was his relationship with his mother. It was nothing like the relationship he and his dad had shared, that had been a hearth: comfortable, safe, home.
Sunlight washed across the cracked kitchen counter like spilled chamomile tea. Alexander stared, mesmerized by the swirling, mysterious patterns. The kitchen was a mausoleum, a relic of a bygone era; the shelves were filled with plastic potted plants, and books his mother had been meaning to read. He had been young when the switch was made, too young to remember tea or ketchup or penne. His dad had just finished college when food became obsolete. Why agonize over calories, exercise, cooking, or restaurant bills when you could simply pop a few enhanced AAA batteries into a clock? An everyday mechanism that had been altered by teams of engineers, scientists, and doctors to cure the modern world’s rising obesity problem. The heart was surgically removed to be replaced by the newly altered clocks. Gradually, a ticking world was created.
Dad hadloved indulging Alexander with tales of thick, hearty minestrone, sweet andcrunchy carrots, and all manner of savory delights. With cloudy, blue eyes hewould tell his son, I wish I could get the world to forget trends, to thinkpast the mechanics to the soul. To him, the soul was the meat of thematter.
Alexandertrilled his fingers over the decaying counter, playing with the light. Helooked towards the open door of the living room, the royal blue suede couch andbookcases warm with stories he and Beth had been read as children. He was goingto be late again, he realized dully, with a small sigh. It infuriated him tohave to wait for his older sister to walk him to school—especially since Bethdid not care about him or school anymore. She had stopped caring, and so, fourand three-quarter minutes before school started she would come strutting downthe stairs, eyelids glowing like two purple lighthouses, jangling withbig-beaded bracelets and long silver necklaces.
But hewould not utter a single complaint against her destructive actions, despite Beth’s frequent remarks about hisclothes, his demeanor, his pesky morals. His silence to her was hisresponsibility, as it had been for seven months now: the length of time sincehis mother had stopped caring about whether her socks matched or how manybatteries they could afford for the hamster; since Beth had changed herwardrobe and her attitude, giving the world the anger she wished someone wouldgive to her; seven months since Alexander’s dad had lastbeen alive with a gleaming heart tick tock-ing and not rusted brown with Beth’s carelessness. His dad’s monthly battery swap had alwaystaken place on Sunday evenings, the last in the month, but a mislabeled bottlehad made this one his last. It had been Beth’s turn to tidy the batterychanging nook, which entailed pouring the family-sized cleaning solution into asmaller bottle (easier for them all to use), wiping down the counter of dust, rearrangingextra gears, and making sure the regular household cleaning products were storedproperly. She’d accidentally refilled the cleaning bottle with insectrepellant—powerful stuff—they’d bought for when they’d had ants swarming inthrough the small cracks near their windows and doors, making camp in theneglected kitchen. The ants had danced along to the music in Beth’s headphonesas she bemoaned the fact that she was still subjected to this tedious task. Hismother had returned in the morning, after her shift watching NYPD dronefootage, to find his dad lying silently in their bed.
No,Alexander would only stare, with stony grey eyes at a girl who needed to dressup to be herself, or more likely to become someone she liked better thanherself. Someone who cared very little for the mechanisms of the world and thebody; for Alexander and his now-silent opinions.
His motherwould have said something, surely, a worn-out lecture or two on extravagance,tardiness, or vanity, but she was not here. She would come home in an hour ortwo; he could never keep her hours straight.
Stretching and turning to the glass door opposite the counter, Beth ran long, nimble fingers through Alexander’s soft, lackluster hair. Air escaped through Beth’s plum-skin purple lips: “Alexi,” she started, because she knew he abhorred the name, “have you been using my shampoo again?” She gave herself a wink in the shiny surface of the door, and faced Alexander for the first time that morning. Her hands flew to her hips—a pose learned from their mother.
AsAlexander turned away from Beth and her morning routine of antagonizing him, henoticed the sun pushed its way through the chipped sun coating on the glassdoors; it was to be applied annually and they were, like with everything elsein their lives, seven months late on this. Perhaps if Alexander offered to takeon the chore his mother would consider the dog—then again, she might turn tohim with her endlessly sad eyes and he couldn’t risk confronting that.
“Haveyou?” Beth leaned closer. Alexander could hear the ticking of her clock throughlayers of ruffled pink and blue fabric. Her eyes burned with a fierceness andhatred that made Alexander tense inside. She brought her hand through his hairagain, let strands slip beneath her fingers.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick.
It echoedthrough the silence, filling the air with thousands of angry, fluttering ticksand menacing tocks. He wished desperately to escape that sound, that soundwhich swept his dad away from him, stole a man’sfiery spirit and mystifying passions; dissembled dreams, dreams that were notonly his dad’s but Alexander’s, too,dissolved by—
Tick, tock.
He couldnot tolerate the nearness of Beth. Her body, her clicking, ticking clock thearbiter of his own life’s collapse.He missed his dad like someone had mercilessly pulled the hour hand out of hisbody. He gaped with loneliness.
“Stop,”the word came out unintentionally, jagged, cutting his throat and squeezing hisheart. “Stop.”
Beth’s face filled his vision. She looked drawn, thefoundation collecting in the lines around her mouth, the deep creases etched inher forehead, the purple shadows she tried to hide under her eyes. She steppedback, allowing him room to hold onto the counter, placing it between them. Herface was only terror, a rearrangement of the anger from moments ago.
“Alexander?” she said, taking in a short breath, “I know it’sthe worst thing I’ll ever do, okay? I know it’s the worst thing anyone couldever do—I get it. I’m never not going to. Sometimes I’m just walking down thestreet and I wonder if there’s anyone or anything watching over us, some god togive a shit—if maybe now dad’s there he could spare us a thought in theafterlife. A sign, you know? And other times I just forget it all—I forget thathe’s gone and we won’t see him waving from the window or hear him laughing atyour dumb jokes. And I’m the reason why.” The words rushed out and she turnedher gaze to him, asking for absolution or punishment, he couldn’ttell.
“Youkilled him,” he answered. “You killed dad because you couldn’t pay attentionfor ten minutes. And now we all have to live with it—your selfishness andcarelessness.” He was out of practice talking to her, and this had never beentheir dynamic before, Alexander as honest and forceful. Loud in hisrighteousness. Of all the thousand ways he had imagined this reckoning withBeth, it hadn’t been in their dingy kitchen, on a Tuesday morning, in the fewcold minutes before school started.
Beth’sface registered the shock Alexander felt, at the words and at the conversationoccurring at all. “I did—I didn’t pay attention, I wasn’t thinking aboutanything, really, that’s the shittiest part. I was just listening to the samesongs I always do, and thinking about Monday’s Algebra exam and what to wear toschool. And now I keep looking for that moment when I could have changedeverything—when I could’ve double-checked and laughed at the mistake.”
Alexanderdidn’t want to forgive her. He didn’t want her to feel better. He wanted toyell at her, but she spoke first.
“But Idon’t think I’ll ever laugh again, I don’t think it’s right,” she whispered.She clasped her hands, the knuckles white. She looked more like bone than Beth,like a skeleton with garish clothes on. “You should hate me forever.” Bethlooked him directly in the eyes, asking him for this one thing.
He staredat her, the rawness in her face of guilt and grief, hanging all over her bodylike thick cobwebs. She was his family’s next tragedy. Alexander wasn’t surewhat to do next, they both seemed to be in agreement, and yet it felt like ahollow victory.
“Ifeel the same way, sometimes,” he conceded, the greatest kindness he couldoffer. “I just drift off in Spanish class and I think how I’ve got to tightenup my stance for tryouts and I’ll ask dad how—and—and then I—” he whispered,looking down at the counter and the shifting light. He could feel thetightening of his throat, the pull of tears that always seemed so far away,buried under the everyday wear and tear of going to school, running around thebaseball diamond with his teammates, facing his mother.
“Itwas an accident,” Beth breathed out.
Alexandermet her gaze, each of them holding their breath, not willing to break theperfection of this moment. Wishing that this acknowledgment was enough to rightthe wrong, raise the dead.
“Dadwanted a dog, too,” Alexander said. He had no idea why, but all he could thinkabout was Beth’s hamster that died in the brief moments in between changing itsbatteries, and the glimmering possibility of resurrection; how badly, withevery muscle and bone in his body he wished that chance for his dad.
Bethnodded her head, the shine in her eyes telling him she understood. The fragilehope they could not have.
Theirclocks struck 8am at the same time. They turned to each other, realizing, ofcourse, that they were late for school. Alexander picked up his royal bluebackpack, savoring the feeling of responsibility as he swung it onto hisshoulders, and Beth straightened one of the fabric layers of her outfit,adjusted a bracelet with a loud clack.
“Maybe we could see if we could trade the hamster at the pawn shop and get a dog with the money,” Beth said.
Alexander turned to the door, wondering if he could trade in his broken heart the same way.
Image: "Wink" by Jeremy Szuder
Simona Zaretsky is the digital content and marketing associate at the Jewish Book Council. Her work has been featured on the podcast The Literary Whip, the online journals Digging Through The Fat and Anti-Heroin Chic, and is forthcoming in The Normal School. @simona_zaretsky
Jeremy Szuder is a chef by night and creator of poetry and illustration work by day. His past track record in the arts includes: 15 years as a musician in various bands (drums, vocals), graphic design work for clothing/skateboard companies, 25 plus years of self published Zines, showings of fine art in the underground art scene, a 10 year plus stint spinning vinyl at various events all across Los Angeles, where he resides via Glendale.