Mahogany

The Ingalls moved into their house on a Tuesday. How many Tuesdays ago was something the both of them often debated, since time didn’t act the way it used to. Since the move, time would only change if either of them was looking at the old grandfather clock. 

Mrs. Ingalls hated that damn thing. 

Instead of a cuckoo bird with bright feathers and gentle coo, a crow with feathers dark enough to rival midnight would pop out. It would scream instead of sing, but it was the kind of scream that made the china rattle. Even the dishes that we locked behind cupboards were not safe from the bird. 

But it wasn’t the feathers or the sound that was the worst part about it. No, it was the bird’s snapped neck and head dangling off to the side that was the most eerie of it all. 

Mr. Ingalls coughed as he shuffled through the house on his old, tired feet. His cough had only grown worse since the fire–the same fire that was the reason they had to move in the first place. Every time he coughed, Mrs. Ingalls could swear she could hear his bones rattle if she leaned her ear toward him in just the right way. She didn’t have the heart to tell him. Nor did she mention his thinning hair, purple fingernails, or the fact he smelled like dirt. Not when her own eyes had seemed to have sunk in and the skin on her cheeks nearly hung off of her face. 

“Stop looking at that damn clock,” Mr. Ingalls said between coughs, not having to look at his wife to know what she was doing. It’s all she ever did. Especially since she had convinced herself that her husband was watching the clock after she would eventually doze off. It was the only explanation for her never getting to see the daylight that she so desperately missed. 

Mrs. Ingalls frowned at him, but did not turn her gaze from the clock. When he coughed again, she sighed. “Couldn’t you step outside and do that? You’re disturbing my peace.” 

He waved his hands in dismissal. “You know I can’t do that.” It was true. Anytime either of them tried to step outside, their steps stopped working. They could only make it to the threshold of the front door before they couldn’t go any further. The windows were the same way. 

She waited impatiently as he slowly made his way over to her to claim his seat on the bench. Bench, not couch, because that is what the house came with. Mrs. Ingalls knew she should be grateful that the house came fully furnished–and she honestly tried, but she could not find it within herself to actually like the furniture. Everything was crafted from the finest mahogany. It was a beautiful deep brown that would reflect a reddish tint when the light from the moon or the television hit it just right. But she hated it. She hated it because it’s what the grandfather clock was crafted out of. She hated it because it made up every single corner of the house–the floors, the walls, even the bed frame was crafted from it. 

There were some white cushions that Mr. Ingalls had found within one of the closets near the bedroom, and they had tried to liven up the place by covering the seats and even the table with them, but it did little to add character to the house. 

“Do you remember the move?” Mr. Ingalls asked as adjusted the cushion that slid out from under him when he sat down. 

Of course she remembered it. It was the last time she had talked to anyone other than her husband. “Yes. What about it?” 

“I was just thinkin’ that it was a little strange how everyone was dressed to help us move.”

It was indeed very strange. Everyone had been dressed in their Sunday best, which wasn’t typical wear for moving. “I agree. But you have to admit, it was nice seeing Edward all cleaned up. I’m so used to seeing him in his work uniform and covered in paint that I almost didn’t recognize him.” 

Mr. Ingalls laughed. “Yeah, leave it to our sweet Diana to marry a man that’s never clean. Unlike her sister, she was always bringing home different critters she dug out of the mud to try and keep them as pets.” 

“I miss it when they were that little.” 

“Me too.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, reminiscing on their daughters and the life they had built together. It was one of the few times Mrs. Ingalls wasn’t watching the clock. This was similar to the conversation they had every day, especially since there wasn’t much else to talk about. 

“I can’t wait until our first grandbaby arrives. I think Grace only has seven more weeks.” Mrs. Ingalls had never missed one of her daughter’s appointments–or the phone call that came after. However, she hadn’t heard from her since the move. She tried to convince herself that Grace was just busy preparing the nursery or spending time with her husband before their family of two became a family of three, but she still would’ve liked a call. 

It was then that Mr. Ingalls looked at the clock. “Do you think that cursed thing affects them too?” By them he had meant everyone else. Those that were not stuck in this mahogany house. 

As if it heard his question, the crow popped out just then and screamed his awful scream. It didn’t affect either of the Ingalls, not when they had grown so used to it. 

“I hope not,” Mrs. Ingalls answered after the bird was done with its song–if it could be called that. “Maybe that’s why they haven’t called.” 

Mrs. Ingalls stood then, not interested in watching The Wizard of Oz for the second time today. The movie started at the scene where Dorothy and the others woke up within the field of poppies. Her husband always skipped forward to that part, claiming that he only really liked the end of the movie when they found out the wizard was a fraud. She made her way to the kitchen to find herself a snack. If time was weird, the never ending supply of food was even more so. 

She opened the pantry and chose the brightest red apple. It was the only time she took her eyes off the clock. She did not want to be the reason that her daughter didn’t give birth. Even as she cored and cut the apple, her eyes remained on the hands that ticked ever so slowly. 

The television droned on about the yellow brick road and going to meet the wizard, but still, she watched. 

“Come sit down, woman. You’re gonna miss it.” 

Mrs. Ingalls didn’t have the energy to argue with him, and slowly made her way back to the living room. She was careful not to bump into any of the furniture, though she no longer had to look down. She had the layout of the house memorized by now. 

The movie ended where it began, and the clock was just about to chime when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Both of them jumped off the bench, eager to greet their guest. They so desperately missed guests. Before the fire, they lived in a lavish house that they would always host the finest parties at. Christmas was the best. The tree stood nearly two stories high and required a ladder to decorate. Their family and friends would come over, share stories, exchange gifts, and feast like royalty. 

When Mrs. Ingalls ripped the door open, she was shocked to see both of her daughters standing at their door, tears streaming down their faces. Her eyes lingered on Grace’s flat stomach. In their hands were bouquets of red roses adorned with baby’s breath–Mrs. Ingalls favorite. She tried to beckon them in, but they didn’t seem to hear her. They just cried. 

Eventually, they gently laid the flowers outside of the door, just out of reach, and hugged each other before walking away without looking back. The Ingalls watched them go, their hands clasped together as the girls disappeared down the road. 

When they finally sat back down in their living room to watch the movie the third time, Mrs. Ingalls didn’t look at the clock once.