The Beating of the Telltale Watch

The man had never intended to do violence to anyone, so he took no weapons and no tools with him that bitingly cold Christmas Eve. His wife and children—four-year-old twins—were already asleep, tucked under mountains of blankets. As he walked down the sidewalk hunched over in his tattered jacket, the bitter argument he had had with his wife flooded his mind, and he lost track of where he was going.

He had lost his job four weeks ago, and the family held out until just a week ago when his wife had insisted they use the money to pay the heating bill. Linda's words grated in his ears, "Dale, I know you saved all year for Christmas, but we are talking about life and death here. We are supposed to be getting Arctic winds all week. We need the heat. We have to pay that bill. There will be other Christmases." Dale had given in, but the very idea ate at him like a cancerous monster.

He walked on.

The wind's icy fingers pulled at Dale's too long brown hair and hardened his bare face into a spiky mass of pain. His nose dripped and his fingers dug holes into the depths of his pockets.

At twenty 'til midnight, he stopped in the shadows of a building and watched a scene unfold. A family was getting into their car dressed in their Christmas best. The mother, very much in charge, looked pale and gaunt. Mass—church—would last at least an hour, Dale thought as he watched them drive away.

He blew warm air onto his cold hands through his black knitted gloves. His feet felt like blocks of ice.

No one else was around. He walked over to the house the family had just so hurriedly left. Those kids were close to his own Joanie and Ramey's ages. He walked around to the back and tried the door. To his delight, it opened easily.

He slipped inside.

The warmth of the house made him feel so comfortable, he could have stayed there forever—it was so much unlike his own apartment where they kept the heat on just enough to keep them alive. Jealousy poisoned his mind and body like a strong drink. It empowered and enraged him. Why shouldn't his own family have a nice Christmas? What was so special about this family that they should have a car, a warm home, and, yes, Christmas gifts under a tree?

Determined now, Dale found a big black garbage bag under the kitchen sink. He took the gifts from under the tree and shoved them into the bag. Then he took all the candy canes. Finally, he used an electric bread knife to cut off the top of the tree, and he put that top—ornaments, angel, and all—into his Santa sack. The pine scent lay sharp in his nose. He stopped at the fridge and grabbed the carton of egg nog and four oranges. He surreptitiously came out of the back of the house and disappeared in the night.

Three months later, Dale sat in his ragged chair in his living room staring at a tiny blank TV screen. His children sat at his feet playing with some blocks. His wife came into the room dressed in her only business suit she had found at the thrift store. "Dale!" she yelled. "I've been talking to you! Please pay attention to me!" He could barely hear her above the ticking that kept pounding in his brain.

Dale slowly looked at Linda's face that was screwed up in frustration. He used to love that shade of lipstick on her.

"I'm not getting a baby sitter, Dale. YOU are going to have to watch the kids. Are you listening to me? You need to get up off that chair and take care of them. I can't believe you won't even try to get a job, but never mind. I've got a good job now, and we are not going to blow this." Dale really could not hear much of what she said as he nodded dumbly. It was like listening to someone as they spoke to you under water. Tick-tock-tick-tock. She was wearing the brooch he had given her from the Victim House. It was beautiful, but he hated seeing it. Every time he saw it, the ticking grew louder and louder until he could hardly stand it.

She left. Dale felt relieved. Tick-tock-tick-tock. He really could not stand the ticking any more. It was more like a heart beating that a watch ticking at all. And where was it coming from? He had seen the watch only just the one time, and then he had put it away back in its box, deep within his sock drawer. He had to leave. He had to go somewhere—anywhere.

"DADDY!" His children were pulling on his shirt and yelling at him at the top of their lungs. He was already in the hallway. Some of the neighbors were looking out of their doors curiously.

"What? What?" he said with the tone of an exasperated parent trying to pay the bills while his children kept interrupting him.

"Where are you going, Daddy?" Joanie asked worriedly.

Tick-tock-tick-tock. It ticked like a heart beating within his mind.

He looked down at his beautiful children, but he felt no warmth for them any more. Now it was like they were cold, hard, stone—just statues, moving statues.

He did not smile when he said, "You can both come with me if you like." All the warmth that used to fill his voice was gone, frozen in some mystical cage with that beating watch. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

He left without waiting for them, so they just ran after him in their bare feet and no coats. In the apartment yard, Dale stopped to look at a blue toy truck left forgotten in the mud. Tick-tock-tick-tock. He remembered when Ramey had opened it—just three months ago.

The kids followed him like stray puppies. Soon they gave up asking him where they were going. They gave up whining for him to slow down. Eventually, they just held each other's hands and walked, though they could no longer feel their feet. March in this part of the country was still quite chilly.

It wasn't until they got to the Victim House that the ticking in Dale's head finally quieted enough for him to think. He stood looking at it from across the street for a very long time. He watched as the children of the house came out and began playing ball with each other. His own children's voices drowned in the ticking. When the children's father came out of the house to watch them, Dale walked on, oblivious to anything around him.

They stayed at the park for the rest of the day. Some kind mother gave them coats and shoes she had been planning to take to the thrift store. Dale just sat on the bench looking at nothing. Even when the Victim Children came to the park, Dale just sat there like some heavily sedated man. He could think of nothing except the ticking. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

The next day, not long after his wife left for work, Dale left, too. This time, the children wasted no time; they had their shoes and coats with them, and they followed their dad.

He went the same meandering path that lead by the Victim House and to the park. The children did not know it was the Victim House. Dale had never breathed a word to anyone of his crime, even when his wife had berated him about the presents. Yet he stopped there. And, like the day before, he continued on to the park.

Day after day, it was the same. Even when Linda was off work on the weekends, Dale's pattern never changed. He left every day when the ticking became too loud for him to stand. The children would always follow him. His wife never did. She was too busy catching up on all the household chores he never did to fool with taking the kids to a park.

Through the dull haze that fogged Dale's mind, he noticed that the Victim Children often came to the park to play with his children. They seemed to get on well, though their father had given up on trying to make conversation with Dale. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

One Saturday, Dale's wife met him at the door with a large paper sack as he went for his customary walk.

"Did" Tick-tock-tick-tock. "you" Tick-tock-tick-tock "hear me," Tick-tock-tick-tock. "Dale?" Tick-tock-tick-tock. Dale could not just plow through her, even though she was no more important to him any more than the weather-beaten doll that had once been a lovely Christmas present. She was inanimate, yet there she stood, yelling at him through the ticking.

She said something else very urgently, but she said it to the children as she thrust the bag into his arms.

He left. The children followed.

When they stopped in front of the Victim House this time, his children led him to its front door. He followed as if he were a zombie.

"Daddy," Joanie was saying repeatedly, "you need to give the food to the Lewis's." Ramey rang the bell.

The little girl opened the door. She looked very sad—as if her soul had been drawn out of her and placed just out of her reach. Joanie said something to the girl, and Ramey tugged the sack out of Dale's hands. He gave it to the girl. She mumbled something and closed the door.

The ticking grew louder as the months dragged and stretched themselves out into a year. Now nothing could penetrate the ticking.

Linda had gone to a Christmas party at work, but Dale just could not come. The ticking, a veritable raging ocean, pounded upon his brain. And now he found himself in the full thaw of spring.

The children and Linda were not home today for some reason. Dale did not know why. He was certain Linda had told him, but the never-ending beating ticking was all that mattered now. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

"Be quiet!" he screamed, but it made no difference.

Today he took out the watch. It said, "To My Dearest One, Love Patricia," on the back. It really was a beautiful watch. It seemed to enlarge and pulsate in his hand as if it were a heart, a beating heart.

Dale shoved the box into his pocket and carried the watch in the palm of his hand. He walked out of the door, down the hall, down the stairs, out the building door, and into the frosty sunshine. Sidewalk grit ground under his booted feet as he leadenly walked. A raven mockingly called "Nevermore" from its perch in a gnarled tree.

Dale stopped in front of the Victim House. He stared at it until the sun changed the sky into a multitude of colors. Then he walked across the street with the watch still in his hand.

The man of the house was somewhat shorter than Dale, but he had such a pained look on his face that Dale could barely stand to look upon it. He opened his hand and the man just looked at the watch for the longest time. A huge lump had developed in Dale's throat. It seemed that he could say or do nothing.

The man gingerly picked up the watch and looked at it in the fading light.

"Patricia will be so happy that you gave me this," he whispered hoarsely. "We have been praying for you all this time. Won't you come in for a bit?"

Dale walked into the nice, suburban home. He sat down on the leather sofa where he was bade to sit. He looked at his hands for the longest time. When he looked up, he realized his wife and children were sitting on the other sofa in the comfortable room.

Linda was crying. The children just sat there staring.

"I'm glad you came," Linda sobbed haltingly. "I really had not expected you to after the way you have been."

Dale reached out and brushed a tear from Linda's eye.

She continued, "They said it is only a matter of hours before Mrs. Lewis will pass away. I could not stay home when I could be here to comfort the family. I didn't know if you would understand. He hired me that day when we were down to nothing. And now his beloved wife . . ."

A great realization washed over Dale as his wife poured out her feelings to him. Mr. Lewis had to have known Linda wore the brooch that he had purchased for his own wife, Patricia, yet he had hired her anyway. Mr. Lewis had recognized Dale when he had come to the door and he said he had been praying for him. This man had known Dale had been the robber of his home, and he still welcomed Dale and his family inside to comfort him. Dale did not know what to think or say or feel.

Dale wearily pondered it all in his mind. Then he stretched out his hands and touched his children. They came to life like the creatures from Narnia and rushed into his open arms. They felt warm and true and more valuable than anything else on the earth as Dale stroked their precious heads. He drew Linda in as well.

As he walked his family home in the gathering darkness, Dale knew he had silenced the ticking forever more.