Saving Face

The walls of the workshop were lined with clocks: antiques, art pieces, vintage, modern, and run-of-the-mill. Tyler was a detail-oriented man, committed to the craft of clock repair. He’d configured his inventory to tick in unison. The synchronized pendulums and second hands were music to Tyler’s ears but probably unnerved customers. The shop was consistently empty.

Business was slow. So was one of the clocks. It was a half-tick behind.

He could hear the offending timepiece: the cottage clock an elderly gentleman dropped off over three weeks ago. He hadn’t paid his invoice or returned to inquire about the repairs. Tyler knew he was never going to see that money.

His creditors knew he wasn’t going to see the money, either. The stack of envelopes tucked in a drawer of the workbench were stamped in red: Final Notice. Rent, bank loans, hardware store lines of credit. Einstein discovered that time was not immutable, and Tyler discovered that the time business was not profitable.

Tick-Tock (tock). Tick-Tock (tock). Tick-Tock (tock) Ping!

His email server delivered a message. A web inquiry. He opened it with interest; most of his customers appeared in person or contacted him over the phone. They had little patience for digital communications like email. He probably didn’t need a website, but as a millennial, it seemed the right thing to do.

Despite the novelty of its delivery, the inquiry’s contents were straightforward. A woman owned a grandfather clock that needed servicing. It was old—circa 1910—too fragile and heavy to be transported to the shop.

The battery of keys disrupted the harmony of the clocks. Tyler composed his reply. He would swing by that afternoon to assess the clock and provide a quote. His tool bag was ready and waiting; it’d been days since he used it.

House calls netted a higher rate, and if this clock was as antique as the woman claimed, he’d have something to send the bank before the week was out.

Parking his car, Tyler felt another bubble of novelty about this inquiry. For one thing, the owner’s address wasn’t a single-family residence; it was a unit in a luxury condo complex. He wished he’d asked about parking, but why would he? Most grandfather clock owners had a dedicated driveway; guest parking was unheard of.

His curiosity piqued, Tyler ascended to the second floor of building 103 and wandered a long hallway, looking for unit 6-D. He rang the doorbell. A young woman appeared.

“You’re the clockmaker?” she said, her brow furrowed.

“You’re Valentina?” he replied, wincing as he echoed her tone. “I’m sorry, I was expecting…” Someone thirty years older than me, not my age. He didn’t verbalize the thought; deciding to quit while he was ahead.

The grandfather clock stood against the wall in the entryway.

Valentina invited him in. He dropped his bag on the maple flooring. She grimaced and indicated a welcome mat. “If you’d remove your shoes, please.”

Tyler obliged, his interest absorbed by the clock. It was a beautiful specimen, and Valentina’s assessment was right on the money. It couldn’t be any older than 1910, and if he were more financially solvent, he’d bet it was a Durfee or Becker. The hand-carved oak casing was well-cared for, treated with wood soap and dusted regularly.

“You’re welcome to go about your day while I work. I’m going to have a look at the mechanisms. I’ll get you a quote in less than an hour.” He opened his tool bag. The woman hovered, arms crossed. “Or, you’re welcome to watch and ask questions if you prefer.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Valentina said. “I don’t want to repair the clock. I’d like you to gut it.”

“Gut it? You mean, remove the mechanism?” Time ground to a halt. She had Tyler’s full attention.

This woman didn’t look crazy. She was the textbook definition of business casual: smooth chestnut hair, carefully applied makeup, tasteful clothing. Her house wasn’t a madwoman’s lair, either. Minimalist Scandinavian furniture; heavy on the beige, light on the whimsy. Not at all objectionable.

“Why would you want to destroy a piece of art, a piece of history like this one?” he asked.

Valentina shrugged. “I thought I’d paint it blue and use the casing as a coat closet. Apartment living is light on storage.”

Tyler shook his head once, twice. A third time. He felt like a 50s Kit-Cat clock.

“There has been a misunderstanding,” Tyler agreed. “I’m not going to gut a clock like that. I can’t. Ethically, aesthetically, professionally— pick your reason.” He stooped to retrieve his bag.

Valentina sighed and opened the door. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

Tyler turned to say goodbye. The door was already closed.

***

Back at the shop, his thoughts oscillated.

Tick-Tock (tock) Grandfather clock. Tick-Tock (tock) Unpaid bills. Tick-Tock (tock) That woman. Tick-Tock (tock) Valentina.

It was nearly quitting time, and after eight hours of boredom on the clock, it was only natural his mind would be undisciplined. He didn’t expect his fingers to be undisciplined, too.

Before he knew what he was doing, the phone was in his hand. The dial tone pulsed twice.

“Valentina?”

“This is she,” Valentina said, like she answered phones dozens of times a day.

“Tyler, from the clock repair shop. I’ll take the job.”

“See you tomorrow.” She hung up.

Tyler held the receiver, wondering if he imagined the smile in her voice.

***

Valentina’s apartment smelled like hazelnut coffee. Tyler didn’t get her at all: she earned enough money for a high-class condo without doing anything but typing and sighing.

He worked on the grandfather clock for an hour. Technically, he finished his assessment within the first twenty minutes; like its exterior, Valentina kept the internal mechanisms clean. There wasn’t anything damaged or broken inside the clock. It was simply old, and hardware wore out.

It would take him two hours to repair if he acquired the correct parts. He mentally prepared two versions of a quote: one with charges for a house call and repair, the second with charges for two house calls and demolition. The gutting.

He sat with his head in the casing, listening to Valentina work. Not because she was particularly alluring in any way, no, not at all— he was simply stalling to keep this grandfather clock alive a little longer. The customer was always right, but after seeing this timepiece in immaculate condition, he would not be responsible for converting it into a closet.

“You haven’t moved in thirty minutes,” Valentina said. “So, what’s the damage?”

Tyler banged his head on a cable pulley. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one listening. She stood with her hip cocked, a coffee in each hand. He accepted a cup and followed her to a circular table just big enough for two chairs.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Tyler began. “I can tell you care about it; you’ve kept it in excellent condition. When was the last time you heard it chime?”

“My grandmother’s house,” Valentina said. “It was in her foyer.” She turned to the clock, and Tyler knew she was seeing it in its heyday. He could imagine it, too.

Encouraged, he pressed on. “It would cost you far less to fix than to dismantle it. Or, if you wanted to clear some space in your apartment, I could fix it and sell it. I’d keep a finder’s fee, but you’d get the bulk of the profits.”

Valentina’s dark eyes snapped to his. “I made myself clear. I want to gut it. It’s mine now, and I get to decide what to do with it.”

“C’mon, it’s clearly important to you. A family heirloom. Won’t grandmother be rolling in her grave to know that her precious clock was nothing more than a shadow box for your Burberry coat?”

Valentina stood. Coffee sloshed over the brim and stained the cedar tabletop. Tyler knew he’d messed up.

“What my grandmother may or may not have wanted is irrelevant. You may see yourself out now.”

***

He couldn’t face the clocks at the workshop; their blank faces taunting.

Tick-Tock (tock) Murderer. Tick-Tock (tock) Coward. Tick-Tock (tock) Conman.

Tick-Tock (tock) She’ll find someone else.

Tick-Tock (tock) Grandfather is no more.

Tick-Tock (tock) How could you?

Tyler skipped the shame and went straight home.

It was unusual to see his apartment in the light of day. Noontime sun revealed the imperfections he was content to overlook after-hours. Scant furniture, laminate flooring. An entertainment center altar to a wide-screen tv, with offerings of even more unpaid bills scattered around it.

He fixed himself a cup of coffee and collapsed at his dining room table. It was circular, just like Valentina’s, but his was the folding variety. Their apartments had more in common than he initially thought. Scandinavian furniture, though his was chipboard and hers hardwood. Ceramic mugs: his dollar store Corningware, hers stoneware. Minimal possessions, like they were afraid to put any hint of their personalities on display. But she had the grandfather clock. He had nothing.

Always adept at math, Tyler performed some calculations. He could sell the television, but that wouldn’t be enough. Maybe it was time to close up shop and resume his day job. It wouldn’t be so bad to sell insurance again. Nobody thought he’d be able to make the clock repair business work. People like Valentina always needed insurance. They didn’t need heirloom clocks.

On the floor, his tool bag chimed; his ringtone a throwback alarm clock.

“Tyler Powell, Insurance Agent,” he answered.

“Oh, I must have a wrong number,” she said. He hadn’t heard her flustered before. “I thought this was the clock repair guy.”

“It is! It is,” he choked. “Valentina?”

“I— yes, it’s me,” she said. There was silence on the line. “Can you come back tomorrow? For the clock.”

“Yeah, of course! For the clock.”

He took a long sip of his coffee and thought he smelled hazelnut.

***

Tyler parked in the condo’s guest parking for the third day in a row. He sat in the car, debating the wisdom of lugging the tool bag up the stairs. She might not let him touch the grandfather clock. He might not let himself destroy it.

The bills in his workshop and his apartment won out. He knocked at her front door, bag in hand.

She opened the door, tugging a lock of her hair.

“I’ve decided to let you fix it,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll pay you for all three visits, plus the cost of repairs.”

Relief flooded him. Even the clock seemed to be smiling.

“What made you change your mind?”

Valentina looked around the room, from the white cloth couch to the perfectly-ordered bookcase. “It gives the place character and reminds me of who I am.”

Tyler nodded and dropped his tool bag.

Valentina winced. “I like having you around, too.”