The Unfinished Argument

My grandfather, Elias, was a man of routine. At ninety-three, he still insisted on winding the old grandfather clock in the hallway every evening, a ritual he’d performed for sixty years. My grandmother, Margaret, had been the only one allowed to interrupt that ritual, usually to remind him that dinner was getting cold or to argue about the proper way to hang the laundry. Theirs was a marriage of constant, low-grade combat, a bickering that was as much a part of the house’s atmosphere as the smell of mothballs and old wood.

Margaret had been in the hospital for a week, recovering from a minor procedure. Elias had visited her every day, but on the day she was to be discharged, he had a dizzy spell and the doctor ordered him to stay home. ‘I’ll be fine, you old fool,’ she’d said on the phone that morning. ‘You just make sure the house is tidy when I get back. And don’t you dare touch my spice rack.’ He had grumbled, promised, and waited. He waited by the window, watching the road, the grandfather clock ticking away the minutes. He waited through the afternoon and into the evening, and when the car finally pulled into the driveway, it brought not Margaret, but her body.

A heart attack, they said. She’d been about to be discharged, and her heart just gave out. The house filled with the hushed, careful movements of family, the low murmur of condolences, the smell of flowers that would never be appreciated. Elias sat in his armchair, staring at the casket that had been placed in the living room, not saying a word. The night was a torment of silent tears and choked sobs from the rest of us, but Elias remained dry-eyed, his expression hard, his hands gripping the armrests. We tried to get him to eat, to rest, but he just shook his head. ‘She’s not done arguing,’ he muttered at one point, and we didn’t know what to make of it.

At dawn, we carried her to the crematorium. The ceremony was brief, the fire consuming her body as we chanted the old prayers. When it was over, we returned home, exhausted and hollow. The house felt emptier than ever. The clock still ticked, but its rhythm seemed slower, heavier. We all gathered in the living room, trying to offer comfort, but Elias just sat there, staring at the empty space where the casket had been. Suddenly, he stood up, his joints creaking, and walked to the kitchen. We heard him opening the spice rack. ‘She’s hiding the turmeric again,’ he called out, his voice gruff. ‘She always hides the turmeric.’

My mother, her sister, and I exchanged worried glances. This was his way of coping, we thought. But then, something strange happened. The grandfather clock in the hallway, which had been running perfectly, stopped. It didn’t wind down. It just stopped, mid-tick, its pendulum frozen. We all stared at it. Elias came back into the living room, holding a jar of turmeric. ‘She’s trying to prove a point,’ he said, his eyes darting around the room. ‘She always had to have the last word.’

That day, we tried to distract him, to make him eat, to get him to rest. But he kept insisting that she was there. He’d point to a chair and say, ‘Move your coat, she wants to sit there.’ Or he’d mutter, ‘She’s moved my glasses again.’ We humored him, but it was unsettling. As night fell, the house grew colder, despite the fire in the hearth. The clock remained stopped.

Around midnight, I woke to a crash from the kitchen. I rushed downstairs and found Elias standing in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by broken dishes. ‘She knocked them over,’ he said calmly. ‘She’s angry about the funeral arrangements.’ My mother tried to calm him, but he was adamant. He pointed to the spice rack, now fully emptied, its contents scattered on the floor. ‘She’s making a mess, just like always.’

We led him back to his room, but he refused to lie down. He sat in his chair, eyes fixed on the doorway. ‘She’s coming,’ he whispered. ‘I know her. She won’t be done until we finish the argument.’ We stayed with him, trying to reason, but he was lost in his own world. At 3 AM, a loud knock came from the front door. No one was there. At 3:15, the clock in the hallway started ticking again, but backwards. The chimes played a dissonant melody, fragments of a tune I didn’t recognize.

Elias rose from his chair, a look of resolution on his face. ‘It’s time,’ he said. He walked to the hallway and stood before the clock. ‘You want to argue? Fine. Let’s argue.’ He began shouting at the clock, arguing about the most mundane things: the price of bread, the color of the carpet, the way she never screwed the lid on the pickle jar. It was absurd, terrifying, and heartbreaking all at once. The clock ticked faster, the chimes growing louder, and then, just as suddenly, it stopped again.

Elias stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily. Then he turned to us, his eyes clear for the first time since she’d died. ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘We’ve settled it.’ He walked back to his chair, sat down, and closed his eyes. By morning, he was gone too, a peaceful smile on his face.

The clock has never worked since. But on certain nights, when the wind is just right, we can hear a faint ticking, and the echo of two voices, arguing about something trivial. They’re still at it, I think. And they’re still inseparable.