Clock Without Hands Read Online Free PDF

death. The terror concerned some mysterious drama that was going on—although what the drama was about Malone did not know. The terror questioned what would happen in those months—how long?—that glared upon his numbered days. He was a man watching a clock without hands.
    There was the rhythm of the rat. "Father, Father, help me," Malone said aloud. But his father had been dead for these long years. When the telephone rang Malone told his wife for the first time that he was sick and asked her to drive to the pharmacy and take him home. Then he sat stroking the stone pestle as a sort of comfort as he waited.

2
     
    T HE J UDGE kept the old-fashioned dinner hours and dinner on Sundays was at two o'clock. Shortly before the time to ring the dinner chimes, Verily, the cook, opened the shutters of the dining room which had been closed all morning against the glare. The midsummer heat and light beat at the windows and beyond there was the burnt lawn and the fever-bright border of flowers. Some elm trees at the end of the lawn were dark and breezeless in the lacquered brightness of the afternoon. Jester's dog responded first to the dinner summons—he walked slowly under the table, letting the long damask cloth linger against his spine. Then Jester appeared and stood waiting behind his grandfather's chair. When the old Judge entered, he seated him carefully and then took his own place at the table. The dinner began according to custom and as usual vegetable soup was the first course. With the soup two breads were served—beaten biscuits and cornsticks. The old Judge ate greedily, sipping buttermilk between swallows of bread. Jester could manage only a few spoonfuls of the hot soup and he drank iced tea and held the cold glass to his cheek and forehead from time to time. According to the habits of the house, there was no conversation during the soup course except for the Judge's customary Sunday remark: "Verily, Verily, I say unto you: you shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever." He added his little Sunday joke: "If you cook this well."
    Verily said nothing—only pursed her purplish wrinkled lips.
    "Malone has always been one of my most loyal constituents and best supporters," the Judge said when the chicken was brought and Jester had stood up to carve. "You keep the liver, Son, you ought to have liver at least once a week."
    "Yes, Grandfather."
    So far the meal was consonant with habits and the customs of the house. But later a strange dissonance appeared, a jolt in the usual harmony, a sense of cross purposes and communication deflected and estranged. Neither the old Judge nor his grandson realized what happened at the time, but at the end of the long, hot, customary meal they both felt that something had altered so that their relationship could never again be the same.
    "The
Atlanta Constitution
today referred to me as a reactionary," the Judge said.
    Jester said softly: "I'm sorry."
    "Sorry," said the old Judge. "It's nothing to be sorry about. I'm glad!"
    Jester's brown eyes exchanged a long, asking stare.
    "You must take the word 'reactionary' literally these days. A reactionary is a citizen who
reacts
when the age-long standards of the South are threatened. When States' rights are trampled on by the Federal Government, then the Southern patriot is duty-bound to react. Otherwise the noble standards of the South will be betrayed."
    "What noble standards?" Jester asked.
    "Why, boy, use your head. The noble standards of our way of life, the traditional institutions of the South."
    Jester did not say anything but his eyes were skeptical and the old Judge, sensitive to all his grandson's reactions, noticed this.
    "The Federal Government is trying to question the legality of the Democratic Primary so that the whole balance of Southern civilization will be jeopardized."
    Jester asked, "How?"
    "Why, boy, I'm referring to segregation itself."
    "Why are you always harping on segregation?"
    "Why, Jester, you're