Timepiece (2 page)

Tonight, just outside my den stands a similar grandfather's clock—one of the few antiques my wife and I received from MaryAnne Parkin, a kind widow we shared a home with for a short while before her death nearly nineteen years ago. The clock had been a gift to her on her wedding day from her husband, David, and during our stay in the mansion it occupied the west wall of the marble-floored foyer.

David Parkin had been a wealthy Salt Lake City businessman and a collector of rare antiquities. Before his death, in 1934, he had accumulated an immense collection of rare furniture, Bibles, and, most of all,
clocks. Time-marking devices of all kinds—from porcelain-encased pocket watches to hewn-stone sundials filled the Parkin home. Of his vast collection of timekeepers, the grandfather's clock, which now stands outside my doorway, was the most valuable—a marvel of nineteenth-century art and engineering and the trophy of David's collection. Even still, there was one timepiece that he held in greater esteem. One that he, and Mary-Anne, cherished above all: a beautiful rose-gold wristwatch.

Only eleven days before her death, MaryAnne Parkin had bequeathed the timepiece to my keeping.

“The day before you give Jenna away,” she had said, her hands and voice trembling as she handed me the heirloom, “give this to her for the gift.”

I was puzzled by her choice of words.

“Her wedding gift?” I asked.

She shook her head and I recognized
her characteristic vagueness. She looked at me sadly, then forced a fragile smile. “You will know what I mean.”

I wondered if she really believed that I would or had merely given the assurance for her own consolation.

It had been nineteen winters since Keri, Jenna, and I had shared the mansion with the kindly widow, and though I had often considered her words, their meaning eluded me still. It haunted me that I had missed something that she, who understood life so well, regarded with such gravity.

Tonight, upstairs in her bedroom, my daughter Jenna, now a young woman of twenty-two, is engaged in the last-minute chores of a bride-to-be. In the morning, I will give her hand to another man. A wave of melancholy washed over me as I thought of the place she would leave vacant in our home and in my heart.

The gift? What in the curriculum of fatherhood had I failed to learn?

I leaned back in my chair and admired the exquisite heirloom. MaryAnne had received the watch in 1918 and, even then, it was already old: crafted in a time when craftsmanship was akin to religion—before the soulless reproductions of today's mass-market assembly.

The timepiece was set in a finely polished rose-gold encasement. It had a perfectly round face with tiny numerals etched beneath a delicate, raised crystal. On each side of the face, intricately carved in gold, were scallopshell-shaped clasps connecting the casing to a matching rose-gold scissor watchband. I have never before, or since, seen a timepiece so beautiful.

From the dark hallway outside my den, the quarter-hour chime of the grandfather's clock disrupted my thoughts—as if beckoning for equal attention.

The massive clock had always been a curiosity to me. When we had first moved
into the Parkin mansion, it sat idle in the upstairs parlor. On one occasion, I asked MaryAnne why she didn't have the clock repaired.

“Because,” she replied, “it isn't broken.”

Treasured as it is, the clock has always seemed out of place in our home, like a relic of another age—a prop left behind after the players had finished their lines and taken their exits. In one of those exits is the tale of David and MaryAnne Parkin. And so, too, the riddle of the timepiece.

 

Salt Lake City, 1908

“A young woman came to my office today to apply for employment. She is a rather handsome woman, and, though simply dressed, exuded both warmth and grace, a pleasant diversion from the society women I too frequently encounter who exhibit the cold refinement of a sterling tea service. I proceeded to acquaint myself with her, offend her, and hire her all in the course of one half hour. Her name is MaryAnne Chandler and she is an Englishwoman.

“There is a curious chemistry between us.”

David Parkin's Diary. April 16, 1908

Electric sparks fell like fireworks from the suspended cables of a trolley car, as the brash clangor of its bell pierced the bustle of the wintry Salt Lake City streets. At its passing, MaryAnne glanced across the snow and the mud-churned road, lifted her skirt above her ankles, and crossed the street, stepping between the surreys and traps that lined the opposite stretch of the cement walk. Near the center of the block, she entered a doorway marked in arched, gold-leafed letters:
PARKIN MACHINERY CO. OFFICE.

As she pulled the door shut behind herself, the chill sounds of winter dissolved into the cacophony of human industry. Brushing the snow from her shoulders, she glanced around the enormous room.

Its high ceiling was upheld by dark wooden Corinthian columns from which projected the brass fittings of gaslights. Maplewood desks lined the hardwood
floor, each with a small rug delineating the employee's work space.

An oak railing separated the work floor from the entryway, and the man who occupied the desk nearest the entrance acknowledged MaryAnne with clerklike nonchalance. He was a balding man, attired in a wool suit and vest with a gold chain spanning his ample girth.

“I am here to see Mr. Parkin about a secretarial situation,” MaryAnne announced. She pulled the kerchief back from her hair, revealing a gentle complexion and high, shapely cheekbones. Her beauty piqued the clerk's interest.

“Have you an appointment with Mr. Parkin?”

“Yes. He is expecting me at nine. I am a few minutes early.”

Without explanation, the clerk stepped away from his desk and disappeared through an oak doorway near the back of
the spacious room. A few minutes later he returned, followed by another individual, a well-groomed young man in his early thirties.

The man had a pleasant face with strong but not overbearing features. He was of medium height and well proportioned, with dark, coffee-colored hair, which had been parted and brushed back in the latest continental style. His eyes were azure blue and alive with interest in all that moved about him. He wore no jacket, revealing the pleated front of his wing-collared shirt and the garters that held his sleeves. He carried himself casually, yet with a confidence that bespoke his importance with the firm.

“Miss Chandler?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand. “Thank you for coming. If you will please follow me,” he said, motioning to the door he had just emerged from. MaryAnne followed him
through the doorway, then down an oak-paneled corridor to a staircase. She stopped her escort at the foot of the stairs.

“Sir, if I may inquire . . . ?”

He turned and faced her. “Yes. Of course.”

“When I address Mr. Parkin, shall I call him ‘Mr. Parkin' or ‘sir'?”

The young man considered the question. “He likes to be called ‘Your Majesty.' ”

MaryAnne was dumbstruck.

“I am joking, Miss Chandler. I don't suppose it matters at all what you call him.”

“I am not seeking to flatter him. I am just grateful to be able to meet with someone as prominent as Mr. Parkin. I hope to make a favorable impression.”

“I am certain that you will do just that.”

“Why so?”

“Because I am David Parkin.”

MaryAnne flushed. She covered her
mouth with her hand. “You are so young to . . .”

“ . . . Be a millionaire?”

MaryAnne turned a brighter shade of crimson, at which David chuckled. “I am sorry, Miss Chandler, I should have introduced myself properly. Please come up to my office.”

They climbed the stairway to the second level and entered a corner office overlooking Second South and Main Street. The office was large and the cherrywood cabinets and shelves that lined the walls were cluttered with books and a score of mantel clocks, which were used as bookends and adornment. No fewer than a dozen other clocks—free standing cabinet or wag-on-the-wall clocks—garnished the room as well. Outside of a clock shop, MaryAnne had never seen such a congregation. They ticked loudly and she wondered how anyone could think in such a place.

In the center of the room was a beautiful hand-carved mahogany desk with a gold-embossed leather writing surface dyed in rich green and umber hues. To its side was a Dictaphone table with a large battery box underneath.

“May I assist you with your coat?” David offered, helping to slip the wet garment from her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

MaryAnne settled into a wooden chair, straightened her dress and lay her hands in her lap, while David returned to his desk.

“You have many clocks.”

He smiled pleasantly. “I collect them. At the top of the hour, there is quite a racket.”

MaryAnne smiled. “I would think so.”

David sat down at his desk. “Your accent betrays you. You are from England, are you not?”

She nodded.

“What part of England?”

“A borough of London. Camden Town.”

“I was through there a few summers back. Just outside of Regent's Park. I occasionally spend time in England at the auctions.”

She smiled. “I have fond memories of Regent's Park.”

David leaned forward in his chair. “Your letter said that you are skilled in secretarial work.”

“Yes. I have three years' experience on the typewriter, both a Hammond and a Remington. I know Pitman's shorthand and am a member of the Phonetic Society. I have used a Dictaphone,” she replied, pointing to the heavy table a few feet from his desk. “An Edison model like this one. I have also kept a register for six months.” Then, looking up at a row of clocks, she added, “And I am very punctual.”

David smiled at her reference to the clocks.

MaryAnne reached into her purse and brought out a bundle of papers. “I brought letters.”

David accepted the papers. “Where did you acquire your skills, Miss Chandler?”

“I worked with Marley and Sons Glaziers as Mr. Marley's assistant. When Mr. Marley took ill, I was given leave. He passed on shortly afterward. Then I went to work at Walker's stationery shop on Main Street. I typed invoices and recorded receipts. The shop closed on account of the death of Mr. Walker.”

“This is not a good omen, Miss Chandler. Do all your employers release you through such somber means?”

“I prefer to think that they would rather die than release me.”

David smiled at her quick reply. “So it would seem. How much did the position pay?”

She swallowed nervously. “I require twelve dollars a week.”

David looked back down at her letters. “You were only two weeks at your last employment.” He paused, inviting response.

She hesitated. “I could not meet my supervisor's expectations.”

David was surprised by her honesty. “Exactly what was it that you found so challenging?”

“I would rather not say.”

“I appreciate your hesitation, Miss Chandler, but if I am to hire you in good faith, it is quite essential that I know your limitations.”

“Yes,” she relented. She turned from her interrogator and took a deep breath. “Sitting on his lap.”

David cocked his head.

MaryAnne blushed. “Sitting on his lap,” she repeated. “My supervisor wanted me to sit on his lap.”

“Oh,” David replied. “You will find none of that in this office.” He hurriedly
changed the subject. “How is it that you came to live in Salt Lake City? It is not a place you accidentally arrive at.”

“My father came from England in the hope of capitalizing on what was left of the gold rush. When we arrived at Ellis island, he heard that California was either panned out or the big finds were controlled by large interests, but that there had recently been a large silver strike in Salt Lake City. So my father brought his family out to settle. I was only seven years old at the time.”