Timepiece (11 page)

“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 waiting 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. Each 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.