Time for a Friend

He awoke just as the grandfather clock in the foyer struck twice... – Kevin Colombe

His pulse pounding, Scott lay frozen in bed, uncertain what to do. The old clock had never made a sound before no matter how many times he'd half-heartedly taken it apart. He’d stored umbrellas in the bottom for years. He wondered what had changed. Scott breathed into the now-quiet darkness and debated hoisting his 90-year-old bones up and down the stairs. After waiting another five minutes and hearing nothing but silence, he elected to check it out in the morning.

After a fortifying breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, Scott approached the grandfather clock. It had been Madeleine’s from way back in her family, so Scott had kept it as a treasured heirloom after she died. He couldn’t remember if it had ever worked. He approached the clock armed with a screwdriver and a chisel. It sat in a slight niche in the foyer, just where you’d put a tall case clock. Now, it gently ticked, echoing slightly over the slate tiles. Scott stood dumbfounded in the doorway. How had that happened?

He shuffled across and peered into the clock face. It showed the correct time and the sun and moon were at the correct phases. It was ticking merrily away and Scott suspected it had been dusted. He leaned back on his heels, utterly dumfounded. Looking down, he noticed that the half dozen or so umbrellas normally stored in the cabinet were now neatly leaning against the wall. Hands shaking, Scott opened the front of the clock. The hinges moved silently now. Pulling open the clock face, Scott squinted at the mechanism. It seemed to be cleaned, oiled, and functioning perfectly. He closed it all back up and took a couple of steps back. Who had snuck into the house and fixed the clock? He tapped his chin with the screwdriver, thinking. None of this made sense. Scott had been an engineer in the army specializing on jet engines. He’d never really tackled the clock even when Madeleine was alive because it was too delicate. He was much more comfortable with motors you could walk into.

Just to make sure he wasn’t utterly crazy, Scott stepped forward and opened the clock once more.

“Hello, there, sir,” piped a clear voice.

Scott nearly jumped out of his skin. He spotted the source of the sound – a small mouse leaned against the clock face, arms crossed. Scott started to wonder what was in his blood pressure medicine.

“Did you…did you just talk?” he whispered incredulously.

The mouse, who was also dressed nattily in a printed satin waistcoat and a bright white linen shirt, nodded. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“Um,” Scott cleared his throat and remembered his manners. “Er, nice to meet you. My name is Scott Rafferty, and you are?”

“Stanley Mousington, at your service, sir. It is very pleasant to finally converse with you.”

“Huh. Well, er, thank you?” squeaked Scott.

Stanley nodded sharply. “I’ve had this clock on my assignment list for years. Now that we’ve updated all the wiring, we have room in the schedule for our pet projects.”

Scott stood there, nodding along to whatever the dapper little mouse said, his brain attempting to process. “Wait, wiring?”

“Well, yes, sir. This house is nigh on 150 years old. There was knob and tube wiring that was still hot. I don’t want to live in a house that is a potential fire trap, do you?” Scott shook his head. “Well, then. We examined the walls when we arrived and determined that was the most pressing project.”

“Oh,” said Scott in a small voice. “Ah, when did you arrive?”

“Do you remember the winter they demolished the Huntington estate down the block?” Scott nodded. It had been a beautiful old mansion on several acres of parkland. Until the developers bought it, that is. He’d been glad Madeleine hadn’t lived to see it cut up into lots and destroyed. They had picnicked there on the open garden days.

“We were rushed to relocate when the buildings were demolished.” Stanley tugged on his waistcoat. “My family has an affection for buildings of a certain age and your home was the next oldest in the neighborhood. You still have the fieldstone basement!” the mouse beamed. Scott privately felt the basement was a seepage nightmare, but it held the house up. He went to brush his fingers through his thinning hair and was reminded of the screwdriver he held.

“Well, er, Mr. Mousington, thank you very much for your kind attention to my house.” Scott shrugged his initial confusion away and added, “Is there, er, anything I can do to show my appreciation?

“Well, now, that is down right kindness itself. Oh, heck!” The mouse shooed a paw at him. “Call me Stan. I just know we are going to be fast friends!”

Scott carefully reached into the clock to lightly grasp the mouse’s paw in welcome. “Well, then, Stan, call me Scott.” The man and the mouse beamed at each other a moment. “I’m sure you’ve had the run of the kitchen, as well,” commented Scott, “However, I do have a particularly fine piece of drunken goat cheese tucked in the fridge. I understand mice like cheese?”

“That, we do, Scott, that we do!” chortled Stan. The pair shuffled off to the kitchen for a snack.

By the end of the week, the entire Mousington family was taking dinner with Scott. Stan, his wife, Maisie, and the twelve children. The extended family was still too shy. Scott knew he’d shut himself away when Madeleine died and since they hadn’t had children, his years had emptied rapidly. Now, he could sit in his chair and watch the PBS nature shows he loved with a small crowd of tiny appreciative mice. They liked the lions best.

Stan and Scott bonded over their love of engines. Scott took Stan with him, secreted in his hat when his former company asked him to look in on a project. Stan took apart all the clocks and watches in the house and got them back to working precisely.

On warm summer nights, even the extended Mousingtons enjoyed the fire pit in the backyard and roasting mini marshmallows. Scott and Stan commiserated over the younger mice generations getting newfangled notions of social media in their heads. Stan despaired that the 14th Stanley Mousington would never be the builder or the fixer that his father wanted him to be. Scott regaled him with tales of rebellion from his youth. They sipped their beer and watched the stars come out, content.

It was on such a summer night the next year, that Scott twitched suddenly in the patio chair and his beer fell from his hand, shattering on the concrete. Stanley, grey around the muzzle, blinked blearily at his friend, then sighed. The Mousington family gathered around Scott’s feet and a tiny cry blew through them as they realized their friend had passed away. In solemn dignity, Maisie and Stan gathered the generations living in the house together. They knew Scott’s wishes were to be buried in nature. None of his family that was alive cared. So, the Mousington’s called all their relatives and friends from the neighborhood. They carefully laid out the old man on the lush grass of the backyard lawn. They lit tea lights at his head and feet and Stan gave a touching eulogy. That night, a steady stream of mice gathered behind the garage next to the compost pile. As quickly and quietly as possible, the dug down into the soft soil. It took hours and hours, but as the pearly grey light of dawn appeared, Scott rested at the bottom of a six-foot hole, his face serene. Maisie laid a bouquet in his arms and the mice flung soil over him, tucking him in the earth.

It took some weeks before anyone realized the house was no longer occupied, at least by a human. Eventually, the authorities stepped in and the property was sold to a young couple with three children. They kept the grandfather clock in the foyer, where to this day, the mechanism runs perfectly.