The big, white clock

The big, white clock

New York, USA

24 May 1924

2:00 p.m.

I sit at the very end of the high-end table, taking long, dreaded sips of bootlegged gin. The table stretches out to a surfeit of pretend, intoxicated strangers, all talking and mingling as if they have anything else in common other than their own riches.

I turn to look at the big, white clock. For a moment, it appears that we are both staring at each other with complete stillness. Both isolated, placed in a room of unknown dispositions and mindless conversations.

I am the big, white clock.

Amongst the 15 strangers stands Martha. She sits at the head of the table, confident and ritzy in all her glory. She is wearing the silky, black dress and the white pearls she always loved, the ones father brought for her. She has always been the family diamond, while I, have always been the emerald. Despite what one may think, I am quite satisfied with this arrangement.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the distinctive clinging sound of glass. Not too much to my surprise, it is Martha.

“My dear friends, John and I would like to thank you all for joining us on this marvelous occasion! We are very pleased to have you at our engagement party and welcome this opportunity to celebrate it with each of you. I raise my glass to you all!”

“To Martha and John!”, shouts Robert, his strikingly loud voice following my sister’s speech.

“To Martha and John!”, repeats the room full of strangers.

The following day, I congratulate Martha personally, a tribute to our loyal sisterhood. Although I am not quite keen on this holy matrimony, I support her.

Martha no longer has the time to enjoy bird watching with me, nor does she sit and play chess for hours. She is to be a married woman now, and married women cook and clean and do everything in god’s will to please their lovely husbands. Unfortunately for Martha, she is marrying that flat tire, John.

I head upstairs, sit on my bed and put on my Mary Janes. While everyone is occupied with Martha’s arrangements, I spend most of the day working as a telephone operator. Momma thinks it is a waste of time, says somebody of our own class cannot and shall not be a working woman. I beg to differ.

At work, I receive an unexpected telephone call. I pick it up and my little sister’s voice is heard at the end of the receiver.

“Dorothy?”, Martha says, her confidence from yesterday’s events evaporated.

“Martha hi! Is everything okay?”, I reply, assuring my sister of my presence.

“I want to talk to you. I could not tell you at home, for fear that momma or papa would hear me. No one else understands me the way that you do, sister.”

“Martha, you know I am always by your side. What is the matter?”, I call out, my need to protect her ever so strong.

“Dorothy….”, my sister pauses as if her life depends on it. I don’t want to marry him.”

Suddenly, any cast of doubt about my sister’s life decisions vanish. My hep, witty sister, with the enhanced curiosity and the adventurous spirit is back. Flat-tire John is no good for her. John would be a good fella for the traditional miss, a wife with obedience, habits and rules. That is no Martha.

“Swell! Do you have a plan?”, my enthusiasm cannot be suppressed.

“I may have thought of something. Meet me at the park after work.”, Martha replies, and so we did.

Martha and I sit under the shade of the willow, thinking of ways to set the plan into action. Tomorrow is the big day, yet not for holy matrimony. I understand both decisions, whether to have or not to have the wedding. One is driven by Martha’s eagerness to conform to momma and papa’s wishes, and the other one is fueled by her soul’s deep desires.  I fear that I fuel such desires with my own defiant disposition.

As we sit under the willow tree, my sister reveals her near future. Dreams do not wait for anyone, she says. Martha wants to travel to Paris, France. She says it thrives on art and culture. She explains her dream of mastering the art practice yet recalls momma’s apprehensions to the working woman. Her eyes light up to the sound of her future endeavors, the life she always dreamed of suddenly feeling one step closer than before. I feel inspired by her bravery, her willingness to leave behind her protagonistic life. Alas, perhaps being the protagonist is not Martha’s dream.

 At last, she turns to me, a face full of hope and faith.

“Will you help me, Dorothy?”

The sun is reflected in her hazel eyes, a look confiding its whole trust and confidence in me.

“Of course, I will, little sister. Of course, I will.”

When I say she can rely on me, I keep my word.

New York, USA

25 May 1924

12:00 p.m.

John’s car is parked right outside the chapel, facing a crowd full of anticipation and joy. I arrive at the chapel in the Silver Ghost. I get out of the car, my anticipation a different kind.

The clock strikes 12:00. It is time to put on my best performance.

With eyes wide open, I let out a serious cry.

‘MARTHA IS SICK!’

The crowd quickly turns to me, astonished, broad expressions forming on their faces.

‘Dorothea please.’, my mother glances at me irritably, a look suggesting I seize my performance.

‘Momma, it is true. She is feeling truly ill and suggested the chauffeur drive her down to the hospital. She is there right now. I am afraid she cannot make it today.’

End of scene.

 The room fills with a plethora of word exchanges, glances and mannerisms. John’s smile of expectation drops. Momma and poppa look at each other astounded. At once, momma decides to approach me.

‘Dorothea, what is this behaviour? We are making a fool of ourselves. Your sister’s deeds are unacceptable.’

‘I don’t know what to tell you momma. She woke up quite unwell and rushed off to the nearest hospital. I was made aware of it only a few minutes before her departure.’

‘How unwell could she be?! This is her wedding day. Poor John! What are we going to do now?’

‘I am afraid we need to reschedule.’, I lie, knowing full well there are no plans for a future wedding.

I exit the conversation quickly, so that momma cannot reply any further.

As I glance back at the bewildered crowd, I feel impeccable relief. The plan has proven successful, and my sweet, little sister is now on her way to Paris on the 12:00 train.

Driving back home, I cannot help but be proud of Martha. I am reminded that she has left behind an unwanted marriage, yet a world where she was the diamond, the favorite, the doll. I am inspired by her bravery. her eagerness and hope to pursue whatever her heart desires. She is, and will always be, my inspiration.

As for me, I am and always will be, her sisterly accomplice.