Timepiece (10 page)

“In Philadelphia I had such fortune to discover a most unusual piece, a sixteenth-century brass-and-gold sundial that duplicates the prophet Isaiah's biblical miracle of turning back time.

“ ‘Behold, I will bring again the shadow of the degrees, which is gone down in the sun dial of Ahaz, ten degrees backward. So the sun returned ten degrees, by which degrees it was gone down.'

Isaiah 38:8

“The gilded sundial is lipped to hold water and on one edge a figurine, a Moor, holds taut a line which extends from the center of the dial. The sun's rays, when reflecting from the water, bends the shadow and, for two hours each day, turns back time. Its possessor was unwilling to part with it.”

David Parkin's Diary. April 17, 1909

The next day, at Gibbs' behest, David came early to work and attacked a pile of paperwork and financial documents. Not an hour into the day, there was a knock on the door. A grim-faced Gibbs pushed the door open.

“David, may we have a moment?”

“Certainly.”

“How was Philadelphia?”

“I was only able to negotiate a partial price concession, but it is acceptable.”

Gibbs frowned. In all the years he had known David, he rarely did not get what he wanted—and never dismissed compromise so readily.

“You look concerned, Gibbs. I received your card. What is troubling you?”

“I am concerned. Our sales are down considerably.”

“Yes. I have seen the ledgers.”

Gibbs sighed. “It is difficult without you here. You are still our best salesman. When we meet with the larger accounts, they are offended that you are not present. One asked me if they had fallen in our esteem.”

David frowned. “Are we still making a profit?”

“We could be making more. There is such growth in this city.”

David walked across the room and looked out the window to the traffic below. For a full minute he said nothing, then, in a softened voice, began to speak.

“When is it enough, Gibbs?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

David raised his hands, his back still turned to his manager. “When are we profitable enough? When do I have enough money? I could not possibly spend all that I have in two lifetimes. Not in twenty lifetimes.”

Gibbs leaned back in exasperation. “There has been a great find of copper in the Oquirrh benches. There's talk of a large open pit mine to rival the world's largest. There are great opportunities. And we are missing them.”

“You are right.” David turned back around. “That is exactly what we are talking about. Lost opportunities. I can always make more money. But how shall I go about reclaiming a lost childhood? The
only promise of childhood is that it will end.” He paused in reflection. “And when it is gone, it is gone.”

Gibbs sighed in frustration. “I am only trying to protect our interests.”

“And I am not making it very easy for you to do your job.” David walked over and put his hand on Gibbs's shoulder. “I appreciate you, and I will not let my business fail. Nor will I let you or any of my employees down. But right now I feel that I have finally found life. To leave it would be death. Do your best, Gibbs. But, for now, do it without me.” His words trailed off in silence and Gibbs lowered his head in disappointment.

“Yes, David.” He rose and walked from the room.

“It would seem that my Andrea is growing so quickly, as if time were advancing
at an unnatural pace. At times I wish it were within my power to reach forth my hand and stop the moment—but in this I err. To hold the note is to spoil the song.”

David Parkin's Diary. October 12, 1911

Two months before Andrea's third birthday, the cradle was taken up to the attic and an infant bed was brought in its place. The new bed was exciting to the small girl and represented freedom, which, to a child, is a poor requisite for sleep. David and MaryAnne found that it took more time to put her down each night.

One night, David finished reading a second story to Andrea, then, thinking himself successful in lulling her to sleep, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Good night,” he whispered.

Andrea's eyes popped open. “Papa. You know what?”

David smiled in wonder at the child's persistence. “What?”

“The trees are my friends.”

David grinned at the sudden observation. “Really?” He pulled the sheet up under her chin. “How do you know this?”

“They waved to me . . .”

David smiled.

“. . . and I waved back.”

David's smile broadened. He was astonished at the purity of the child's thought. “Andrea, do you know why I love you so much?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Why?” he asked, genuinely surprised that she had an explanation.

“Because I'm yours.”

Strangely, Andrea's reply inflicted him with a sharp pang of dread. He forced a smile. “And you are right. Good night, little one.”

“Good night, Papa,” she replied sleepily and rolled over.

David did not return to his bedroom but retreated to the seclusion of the drawing room to think. After an hour, MaryAnne, dressed in her nightclothes, came for him. She quietly peered in. David sat in a richly brocaded green-and-gold chair. Several books lay next to him, though none was open. His head was bowed, resting in the palm of one hand. MaryAnne entered.

“David? Is business troubling you?”

He raised his head.

“No.” His voice was laced with melancholy. “I have just been wondering.”

MaryAnne came behind his chair and leaned over it, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“What have you been wondering, my love?”

“Shall we ever tell her?”

“Tell her?”

“That I am not her real father.”

MaryAnne frowned. She came around
and sat on the upholstered footstool before him. “You are her real father.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm not. And I feel dishonest, as if I were hiding something from her.”

“David, it isn't important.”

“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.”

 

“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.”