Timepiece

by Richard Paul Evans

  “But shouldn’t she be allowed the truth? I feel as if I am living a lie.”

  “Then it is the lesser of a much greater one.”

  “What is that?”

  “Society’s lie. The lie that claims that simply impregnating a woman makes a man a father.” Her eyes glazed in loathsome recall. “The man who lay with me is not a father. He is not even a real man. I wonder that he is a member of our species.”

  David sat still, quietly weighing the intent of her words. “Have you seen him? Since our engagement?”

  MaryAnne wondered why he had asked the question, but could not discern from his expression. “Once.”

  “You went to him?”

  “David!” She took his hand. “That would be like emptying a cup of champagne to fill it with turned milk.”

  “You hate him?”

  “I do not care enough about him to hate him. Nor pity him, as pitiful as he is. . . .”

  David remained silent.

  “He stopped me outside the company two days after you asked me to marry to tell me that he wanted me back. I told him that I had no desire to see him again. He called me a harlot and said that when I had the baby, it would be for the world to know, but that he knew of a way to take the child so that it would not interfere with our life together.” MaryAnne grimaced as she turned away. “I have never wanted to hurt anyone in my life, but at that moment, I wanted to kill him. He just stared at me with this arrogant grin as if he had just rescued me from disrepute, as if I should fall to my knees in gratitude. I slapped him. I knew he would probably beat me again, even in public, but I didn’t care.

  “Just then, one of the clerks came around the corner. I suspect that he had observed the exchange, as he stopped and asked if he could be of assistance. Virgil was mad with rage, but he is a coward. He raised a finger to me, sneered, then stormed off. That is his name. Virgil. It leaves a putrid taste in my mouth to even speak it.”

  She looked into David’s eyes.

  “Once I thought I loved him, but now he is irrelevant, David. To me, he is nothing, but more especially to Andrea. I beg you, as her father, not to tell her. It has no chance of bringing her happiness and may bring her great pain.”

  Her voice cracked. “The only question we should reason is how it will affect her happiness, is it not?”

  David silently contemplated the question. Then his mouth rose in a half smile. “I love you, MaryAnne. I truly love you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Widow’s Gift

  “I find it most peculiar that these old women share their deepest secrets with a man who, but a few months previous, they would have shrunk from in terror had they encountered him on a streetcar.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. August 1, 1911

  In a strange twist of social convention, Lawrence had become the toast of the city’s elite widowhood, and those who sought its ranks would drop his name at teas and brunches like a secret password. Initially, the elderly women had begun the visits to Lawrence’s shack because it was perfectly scandalous and gave rise to gossip, but through time, the visits had evolved and now came more through loneliness than social pretension. It was suspected that some widows would actually damage their clocks as an excuse to visit the horologist.

  Though the widows rarely left their homes after dark, as summer stretched the day, the visits would sometimes intrude upon Lawrence’s dinner. This particular evening, Lawrence was cutting carrots into a pan with a steel buck knife when there came a familiar, sharp wooden rap at his door. He lifted the blackened pan from the stove and greeted the widow. Maud Cannon, a gaunt, gray-haired woman, stood outside, leaning against a black, pearl-embedded cane. She wore a maroon poplin dress with a satin sash and a gold maple-leaf-shaped brooch clipped to its bodice. In her left hand, she clutched a beaded purse. She was flanked by a knickered boy who strained beneath the weight of a large, bronze-statued clock.

  “Lemme take that,” Lawrence said, quickly stepping outside to relieve the boy of the clock, who surrendered it gratefully. “You go right on in, Miss Maud.”

  “Thank you, Lawrence.” She turned to the boy. “You wait outside,” she said sternly, then stepped inside ahead of Lawrence, who set the clock on the work-table, then returned with a cloth and dusted off the chair she stood by. Its surface was already clean, but this was an expected ritual and one not to be neglected.

  “Sit down, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Lawrence.” She straightened herself up in the chair. “I would like the clock cleaned.”

  Lawrence’s brow furled. “Somethin’ wrong with the work I done last week, ma’am?”

  The woman looked back at the clock, as a confused expression blanketed her face. She cleared her throat. “No, Lawrence, you always do a fine job. It is just that I have visitors calling this week and I would like the clock ware to be especially nice.”

  Lawrence had known the woman long enough to discern the truth. She had forgotten which clock she had last brought.

  “You shore know how to entertain your guests, Miss Maud. They must appreciate your hospitality.”

  She sighed. “I do not think they even notice.” She brought out an elaborately embroidered handkerchief and patted her brow. “I think the bell on that one sounds flat.”

  “I’ll be shore to check that, Miss Maud.” He opened the crystal door and pushed the long hand to the half hour. The bell struck once in perfect pitch. “Shore is a luv’ly piece, it’s a right honor to work on her.” He stepped back and admired the clock. “Seth ‘n’ Thomas makes a right luv’ly piece.”

  It was a white-faced clock surrounded by a pot-metal sculpture of an angel pointing heavenward, as a young girl clasps her hands to pray.

  “You’d think that angel gonna fly right off there.”

  The widow smiled, patted her brow again, then replaced the handkerchief in her purse. “I have a special request of you, Lawrence.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I would like to call you Larry.”

  He looked back at the widow. “Larry?”

  “Yes, we’ve known each other for some time. Would that be acceptable to you?”

  Lawrence cared little for the name but had no desire to offend his client. “I s’pose so, ma’am. Ain’t no one ever called me Larry before.”

  “If it’s all the same.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She sat back contentedly. “Larry, lately I have been given to much thought about you. Maybe it is because of you being a Negro and not having much, but it seems to me that you are one of the few people I know who truly appreciates the value of things. Like this clock here,” she said, gesturing toward the table. “That is why I can take my clocks to you without anxiety.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Back when my Rodney was alive, bless his soul, he appreciated things. Rodney would look at a sunset like he had discovered the thing. You would think it was God’s gift just for him.” She sighed and her voice softened in longing. “How life turns. The only family I have now is my miserable nephew.”

  “Your nephew appreciate things, ma’am?”

  She frowned. “My nephew’s a damn fool. I should not curse, but it is the gospel truth. I give him money and he spends it on liquor and gaming and I shudder to think what else.” She leaned forward. “He thinks when I die he will have a pretty sizable inheritance, but that will be over my dead body!” she said indignantly. Suddenly, her mouth twisted into an amused grin. “I suppose all inheritances are over a dead body, Larry.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I s’pose they are at that.”

  “I’m sure it will come as a surprise, but I am leaving every dime to the church missionary fund.”

  “Now don’t you go talkin’ about no dyin’, ma’am.”

  The old lady sighed. “Larry, I am not fooling anyone. I haven’t many sunrises left.” Her voice suddenly turned tired and melancholy. “My friends are nearly all gone now. It’s lonely here, Larry. I feel as if I am just wa
iting around.” She leaned forward, shaking a willowy finger for emphasis. “Leave when they still want you, Rodney used to say.” She looked down at the floor and her eyes blinked slowly. “I have stayed too long.”

  Lawrence could not help but feel sympathy for the old woman. “Don’t no one know their time, Miss Maud. But it stops for all of us. Be right shore ‘bout that.”

  She looked up. “You know, Larry, I enjoy our little visits. They are the sunshine of my week. When I go, I have a mind to leave you something.” The idea brightened her face. “Yes. That rose-gold timepiece you think so much of.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t go takin’ no timepieces.”

  “It is a very special timepiece. It should go to someone who will appreciate it. I am sure it will cause a commotion, giving a piece of the family inheritance to a Negro, but I do not care. It feels kind of nice to be controversial at my age. I am going to have it written in my will.”

  “How ‘bout your nephew?”

  The woman humphed. “Damn fool. He’d pawn it for liquor a half hour after it fell into his idle hands. Not another word, Larry, you must have it. I insist.”

  “S’pose I’d rather have your company, ma’am.”

  She smiled sadly and patted his hand. “That is not our choice, Larry. To be sure, I have not felt too well of late.” She again produced the handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her cheeks. “I will be going now, Larry,” she said feebly.

  Lawrence rose first and helped the woman to her feet, handing her the ebony cane.

  “Thank you, Larry.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.” Lawrence opened the door and gestured to the boy, who took the widow’s arm and helped her back to her carriage.

  “It is a question worthy of the philosophers—do we have dreams or do dreams have us? Myself, I do not believe in the mystical or prophetic nature of dreams. But I may be mistaken.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. March 17, 1912

  Two hours before sunrise, MaryAnne woke with a start and began sobbing heavily into the mattress. She was having difficulty catching her breath. David sat up alarmed. “What is it, MaryAnne?”

  “Oh, David!” she exclaimed. “It all seemed so real! So horribly real!”

  “What, Mary?”

  She buried her head into his chest and began to cry. “I had the most awful dream.”

  David put his arms around her.

  “I dreamt I was in bed nursing Andrea when an angel came in through the window, took her from my breast, then flew out with her.”

  David pulled her tight. “It was only a dream, Mary.”

  She wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her gown. “I must see her.”

  “I will go,” David said. He climbed out of bed and walked the length of the hall to the nursery. Andrea lay motionless, her cheek painted in moonlit strokes. She suddenly rolled over to her side and David exhaled in relief. He quickly returned to the bedroom. “She is fine. She is sleeping fine.” He wearily climbed back into the bed.

  “Do you think it meant something?” MaryAnne asked.

  “I don’t think so. We always dream our greatest fears,” David said reassuringly.

  MaryAnne sniffed. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He kissed her forehead, then lay back with his arm around her and pulled her close. “Good night.”

  “Good night, David.” MaryAnne cuddled up next to him and eventually fell back asleep. David stared sleeplessly at the ceiling.

  The following morning, MaryAnne walked into the nursery and pulled back the drapery, filling the room with virgin sunlight.

  “Good morning, sweet Andrea,” she sang lightly. She sat down on the bed. “Time to wake up.” Andrea opened her eyes slowly. Her eyelids were heavy and swollen. Her lips were dry and cracked.

  “Andrea?”

  “Mama, my neck hurts.”

  MaryAnne lay her cheek across Andrea’s forehead and instantly pulled back. She was hot with fever. She ran to the doorway and called for Catherine, who appeared almost instantly.

  “Andrea is feverish, fetch me some wet rags and ice from the box. Send Mark with the carriage for Dr. Bouk.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, running off. MaryAnne knelt by the bed and stroked Andrea’s forehead. A few moments later, Catherine, quite out of breath, returned with the articles.

  MaryAnne took the cloth, wrapped it around the ice and held it up against Andrea’s forehead. For the first time, she noticed the rash across her cheek. The night’s dream echoed back to her in haunting remembrance. She quickly pushed it away.

  Andrea had fallen back to sleep by the time Mark returned with the carriage. Catherine quickly led the doctor up to the nursery. Dr. Bouk had been David’s personal physician ever since David first came to the city and was no stranger to the Parkin household. As he entered the room, MaryAnne moved to the opposite side of the bed. He was of a serious demeanor and acknowledged MaryAnne with a simple nod. “Mrs. Parkin.”

  “Doctor, she has a fever and a rash.”

  He set his leather bag on the ground and bent over the child. He placed his hands on the sides of Andrea’s neck and lifted his forefingers beneath her jaw. “Does that hurt, sweetheart?” Andrea nodded lethargically. He frowned, then gently opened the child’s mouth. Her tongue was white, with fine red marks.

  “It is scarlatina,” he said slowly. “The scarlet fever.”

  The pronouncement sent chills through MaryAnne. There had already been eighteen deaths in the city that year from the disease. She wrung her hands. Catherine moved next to her.

  “What do I do?”

  Doctor Bouk stood up and removed his bifocals. He was a tall, gangly man, emaciatingly thin, with an ironic pouch of a stomach. “She must stay in bed, of course. Within a few days, the rash may become dusky. I will administer an ointment that will help stop the spread of the disease. It should make her more comfortable.” He reached into his bag, then lifted out a small vial. “This is biniodide of mercury. I will give her a half grain. It may arrest the fever and prevent the desquamation—the skin flaking off.” He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed. “A daily hot salt or mustard bath may help. Glycerin and water will aid the throat. Catherine, you can get the glycerin from an apothecary. It should be administered directly to the inside of the throat.”

  “How long does the illness last?”

  The doctor frowned. “Maybe forty days—with good fortune.”

  He did not need to explain. MaryAnne knew that death often occurred within the first two weeks.

  “Be of good cheer, Mrs. Parkin. There have not been as many deaths from scarlet fever as there were before the century.” He stood up and touched her shoulder, then stopped at the door. “I must notify the city health department. They will quarantine your home.”

  MaryAnne nodded. “Of course,” she said. When he was gone, she sat down on the bed, fighting back the tears that gathered. Catherine put her arm around her.

  “Where is David?”

  “He is coming, MaryAnne. Mark went to fetch him.”

  MaryAnne looked down on her resting child. Catherine brushed back MaryAnne’s hair.

  “My brother got the fever two summers ago,” she said, hoping to console her mistress. “He is fine now.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My mama dipped bacon in coal oil and laid it on his head and throat.”

  MaryAnne wiped her eyes. “That is all?”

  “We prayed over him.”

  “Your brother was healed?”

  “He is weaker of constitution, but he is recovered.”

  She turned away from the child and spoke in hushed and desperate tones. “I will do anything, Catherine.”

  Catherine embraced her tighter.

  “Anything, but lose her.”

  That afternoon, the local health officer quarantined the home, posting on the doorway a large China-red placard that read QUARANTINE. The following weeks languished with MaryAnne sitting by Andrea’s side. Eac
h day was a carbon copy of the previous one, the one exception being MaryAnne, who appeared more haggard and frail with each passing day. By the end of the second week, she looked gaunt, her eyes encircled by dark rings, and her skin was waxen. She spoke infrequently and, to Catherine, seemed to be caught up in some fearful trance. David’s concern for his wife grew until it equaled that which he felt for Andrea. Scarlet fever was uncommon in adults, but not unheard of, especially in someone as weakened as MaryAnne had become. David looked in on her with increasing frequency and anxiety until he could bear her vigil no longer. That night, he brought the dinners into the room himself. He set the tray down, then brushed the hair back from Andrea’s forehead as she slept.

  “MaryAnne, Catherine tells me you have not left Andrea’s side all week.”

  She didn’t reply, but took the bowl of clear soup. David observed that she moved slowly, as if her muscles had grown weak. He frowned. “Come, MaryAnne. Come out into the day. I will watch after Andrea.”

  She did not respond.

  “MaryAnne!”

  “I cannot leave her, David.”

  “You must!”

  She shook her head.

  David felt himself growing angry with her stubbornness. “This is madness, MaryAnne. Why can you not leave her?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with pain. She whispered, “What if I never got to say good-bye?”

  David gazed back into MaryAnne’s deep, fatigued eyes. “Will it come to that?”

  She set the bowl down and leaned into him, looking down at her little girl. “It mustn’t. It mustn’t.”

  “Is this life, to grasp joy only to fear its escape?

  The price of happiness is the risk of losing it.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. April 3, 1912

  It was a Wednesday morning that MaryAnne woke to the sound of laughter. Andrea was sitting up in her bed laughing at the mockingbird that pecked at the windowsill.

  Doubting her senses, MaryAnne rose slowly and moved over to the child. She touched Andrea’s forehead.

  “Andrea. Are you well?”