Timepiece

  The doctor frowned again, then removed his vesture. “If there were anything else I could do.” He shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, David.”

  David looked down and said nothing as the physician departed. A moment later, David took a deep breath, then grasped the handle and gently pushed the door open, wide enough to enter. MaryAnne did not stir or acknowledge his entrance.

  Across the room, the mechanical operation of MaryAnne’s grandfather’s clock stirred, its hammer ground into position, then, once set, chimed the quarter hour. David walked to the bed and knelt down behind MaryAnne, wrapping his arms around her waist. He laid his head against her back.

  “MaryAnne,” he whispered softly.

  She did not respond. Across the room, the clock allowed its serpentine hand to advance another minute.

  “MaryAnne . . .”

  “No, David.” Her voice was hoarse. “Please . . .”

  His eyes moistened. “You must let her go, Mary.”

  MaryAnne closed her eyes tightly and swallowed. Only the sound of the clock’s oscillating pendulum tore at the silence.

  “She is my baby, David.”

  “Andrea will always be your baby, my love.” He took a deep breath. “She will forever be our baby.”

  MaryAnne raised her head and looked on her daughter. Andrea’s hair was spread against the pillow, wet at the roots from fever.

  With the back of her hand, MaryAnne caressed Andrea’s ruddy cheek. She lifted her hand to her own breast, then buried her head back into the mattress and sobbed.

  David lifted his hands from her waist to her shoulders. The long hand of the clock advanced three more paces.

  MaryAnne raised her head and stared at Andrea, memorizing the delicate features of her face, the gentle contour of her florid cheeks, the smooth slope of her chin. Suddenly, the grandfather’s clock struck eleven and the hammer rose and fell for an eternity, dividing the moment into agonizing compartments, as if challenging the fragile life to survive the day.

  “Stop it. Please, David. Stop it.”

  David rose and walked to the clock. He opened its case and grasped the brass pendulum, ceasing its motion, then returned to his wife’s side as the metallic echo of the chime died, leaving the room in an unearthly solitude.

  MaryAnne suddenly leaned close to Andrea’s ear. “I cannot keep you any longer, my love.” She swallowed. “I will miss you so.” She paused, wiping tears from her cheeks that were as quickly replaced. “Remember me, my love. Remember my love.” She laid a hand against the velvet face and bowed her head back into the mattress. “I will remember for both of us.”

  David pressed the wet flesh of his cheek against MaryAnne’s. She swallowed, nuzzled up against the warm, smooth cheek, then, through quivering lips, released her child.

  “Go home, my little angel.”

  As if on command, Andrea suddenly opened her eyes and looked on her mother with no sign of pain or hope, but as one who falls from a cliff might focus their gaze on the ledge they leave behind. Her small chest rose and her lips parted slightly, drawing in breath, struggling against some invisible resistance. Then, in a sudden motion, her eyes turned upward, her tiny body expelled all breath, then no more.

  For a moment, all was still. As if all nature had stopped to recognize the singular fall of a sparrow, until the silence was broken by a single, gasping sob, then another, then the unrestrained flood that poured from MaryAnne’s convulsing body. David lifted the quilted cover up over Andrea’s face, then pulled MaryAnne’s head against his chest. She would not be comforted.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Winter Mourning

  “How quickly the fabric of our lives unravels. We weave together protective tapestries of assumption and false belief that are torn to shreds beneath the malevolent claws of reality.

  “Grief is a merciless schoolmarm.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. December 7, 1913

  Upon waking, MaryAnne’s heart grasped on to the hope that the past few days might only have been a nightmare—then the first moment of recognition was seized by the horrid and breathless remembrance of reality. MaryAnne closed her eyes as the crushing weight of loss constricted her chest in agonizing pain. “No,” she moaned.

  David took her hand. “MaryAnne.”

  “I want my baby. Where is my baby?!”

  “MaryAnne.”

  She looked at David through swollen eyes. “No,” she moaned. “Where is she?”

  “She is gone, my love.”

  “Bring her back, David. Can’t you bring her back?”

  David dropped his head in shame, but allowed himself no tears. “No, Mary. I could not even keep her safe.”

  “In Hebrew, ‘Mary’ means ‘bitter.’”

  David Parkin’s Diary. December 8, 1913

  The wagon from the cemetery arrived to bear the small coffin to the knoll—though the casket was small and could have been carried by one man and easily by two.

  The noon sun was concealed by a dark tier of clouds as a somber crowd of more than one hundred assembled around the small grave, trampling the snow into a muddy slush.

  The jovial greetings of long-unseen friends that usually marked such gatherings had been replaced by simple glances and nods of acknowledgment. Many were there from David’s company, whose doors had been closed for the day. The mourners, apparently confused at the etiquette of such an occasion, were not sure how to dress. Some arrived in black and others in stark white.

  A fine rain began to fall—a mist at first, which turned into a torrential downpour shortly before the ceremony. Few of the mourners held umbrellas or parasols, as rain in Utah was rare in December. David and MaryAnne stood uncovered, oblivious to the tempest. Mark raised his coat over MaryAnne and held it there the length of the service.

  At the head of the cut patch of earth stood the same silver-haired priest who had presided at the wedding of David and MaryAnne four years previous, but his eyes reflected no memory of that happy day. An old man held an umbrella over him, shielding the clergyman from the rain. He raised a white book in his hands and the congregation bowed their heads. His breath froze before him.

  “Oh Holy Father, whose blessed Son, in his love for little children, said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.’ We thank thee for this merciful assurance of thy love, for we believe that thou hast been pleased to take unto thyself the soul of this thy child. Open thou our eyes, we beseech thee, that we may perceive that this child is in the everlasting arms of thine infinite love, and that thou wilt bestow upon her the blessings of thy gracious favor. Amen.”

  MaryAnne stepped forward and, kneeling, placed a simple white flower on Andrea’s casket while David held her shoulders. She quaked as the small wooden box was slowly lowered into the earth’s cavity. There was a brief moment of silence before the priest dismissed the proceedings and David helped his wife to her feet. With wordless embraces, the crowd somberly filed past David and MaryAnne to pay their respects, then returned to the forgetful sanctuary of their own homes.

  Officer Brookes sauntered into the bar, surrounded by the cold stares of contempt its patrons reserved for lawmen and bill collectors. Brookes was known in the tavern and, though not large of stature, had developed a reputation of being quick of gun and temper.

  “Where’s Cal Barker?” he shouted over the din. The room quieted, but there was no offer of the man’s whereabouts. The officer walked over to a slovenly man nursing a tall brown bottle: Wallace Schoefield. He looked up at Brookes with a disdainful grin. His teeth were tobacco-stained and one front tooth was cracked sharp from a barroom brawl.

  “Where is Barker, Wallace?”

  The man leered at the policeman, then turned away, tapping his fingers on the slat counter. There were sudden footsteps behind him. Brookes spun around.

  “Looking fer me?” Barker asked coolly.

  “You’re under arrest, Cal.”

  “Fer?”

  “You know what for
.”

  “Don’t know nothin’.” His thin lips pursed in a confident grin. “It’s my right, ain’t it? To know what I’ve supposed to have done before I’m arrested for doin’ it.”

  “I’m arresting you for arson. And the murder of a child.”

  Through the corner of his eye, Brookes noticed the surprise on Wallace’s face.

  “What child?” Wallace asked.

  Barker stepped in front of Wallace.

  “The fire set at the Parkin estate trapped their three-year-old daughter,” Brookes said venomously. “She is dead.”

  Wallace turned to Barker, who, in turn, glared back at him, then at the officer.

  “You can’t come in here makin’ accusations without proof. We hain’t done nothin’. Don’t know nothin’ about what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “You’re under arrest,” Brookes repeated stolidly.

  “I hain’t going. Didn’t do nuthin’. I have witnesses.”

  Brookes lifted his gun to the man’s chin, his eyes frosted with hate. “That’s right, give me any reason, Barker. I have always wanted to kill you anyway.”

  Barker looked into the man’s fierce eyes, scowled, then walked out of the tavern ahead of the officer.

  “There is an oft-misunderstood statement: ‘Misery loves company.’ To some, it implies that the miserable seek to make others like unto themselves. But it is not the meaning, rather there is a universality in grief, a family of sorrow clinging to each other on the brink of the abyss of despair. . . .

  “. . . I once heard it preached that pain is the currency of salvation. If it is so, surely we have bought heaven.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. December 17, 1913

  Dark stratus clouds hung low and flat across the horizon in a gray, mournful pall. The naked and snow-gripped branches of the back estate bent in a frayed canopy to frame the barren winter landscape. Even the sentinel evergreens seemed shaded in a toneless, dusty hue.

  The roof of the gazebo lay shrouded beneath thick snow and the dead vines of rose bushes intertwined through the latticework of the structure, frozen and coated in ice. MaryAnne, cloaked in a heavy black bombazine shawl, sat motionless on the suspended swing as still as the clinging icicles that encircled her.

  Catherine wrapped herself in a heavy wool shawl and followed MaryAnne’s path to the gazebo. She kicked the snow from her pointed, high-laced leather boots and sat down next to MaryAnne on the still bench, breathing the frigid air that froze the nostrils as well as the exhalation. The two women sat at length in silence. Finally, Catherine looked over.

  “Are you warm enough, MaryAnne?”

  MaryAnne diverted her gaze and nodded. Catherine looked ahead into the unending horizon of white, sniffed, then rubbed her nose. “I have tried to reason what to say that might be of comfort,” she said, her voice weak from emotion. “It is too lofty an ambition for words.” She fell silent again.

  A solitary magpie lit on an ice-caked sundial, cried out into the gray winter air, then flew back into its cold grasp.

  MaryAnne’s eyes stared vacantly ahead.

  “I have done the same,” she said softly. “I tell myself that she will live in my memory. There should be comfort in this.” She wiped her reddened eyes with her sleeve. “I should not say ‘live.’ ‘Embalmed’ is a better word. Each memory embalmed and dressed in grave clothes with a headstone marking the time and place as a reminder that I will never see my Andrea again.”

  Catherine said nothing, but looked somberly on, her eyes moistened with her friend’s pain.

  “There are things I do not understand about my pain, Catherine. If I had to choose never to have known Andrea or to have known her for one brief moment, I would have chosen to have known her and considered myself fortunate. Is it the unexpectedness that causes my grief?”

  Catherine pulled her shawl up high enough to cover her chin. “How is David?”

  MaryAnne swallowed. “I do not know how David feels, he says nothing. But I see the gray in his eyes and it frightens me. It is the gray of hate, not grief.” She shook her head. “It is not just Andrea’s life that was taken from us.”

  There was a moment of silence, then MaryAnne suddenly erupted in rage.

  “Listen to me, Catherine! Our lives! My memories! My pain! It is all so selfish! One would think that it is I who had died! Am I so consumed with myself and my own agony that I do not even know if I am mourning for what my little girl has lost . . .” She stopped, her mouth quivering beyond her ability to speak, and lifted a hand to her face. “Or . . . or what I have lost?”

  Catherine closed her eyes tightly.

  “The wretched fool that I am. Such a selfish, pitiful . . .”

  Catherine grabbed MaryAnne’s shoulders and pulled her into her arms. Tears streaked down both women’s cheeks. “MaryAnne, no! Do not speak such! In what have you done wrong? Did not the mother of our Lord weep at the foot of his cross?!” Catherine pulled MaryAnne’s head into her breast and bowed over her, kissing the crown of her head. She wept as MaryAnne sobbed helplessly.

  “Oh, Catherine, my arms feel so empty.”

  “Such darkness besets me. I crave MaryAnne’s laughter almost as the drunkard craves his bottle. And for much the same reasons.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. December 19, 1913

  An hour before sunset, Officer Brookes knocked with the back of his hand on the engraved glass of the front door of the Parkin home. Catherine greeted him.

  “Hello, Officer Brookes.”

  “Miss Catherine.” He removed his hat and stepped into the house. Looking up, he noticed MaryAnne, who stood on the balcony above the foyer silently looking down. He turned away from her sad stare.

  “I’ll get Mr. Parkin,” Catherine said without prompting.

  David emerged from the hallway below. His face was tight and expressionless. He pointed to the parlor and Brookes preceded him in. Once inside, David shut the door.

  “Did you arrest Barker?”

  “Yes, he’s in jail. For now,” he added.

  David looked at him quizzically. The officer rubbed his chin. “I am convinced that it was Barker and his men who set the fire, but there is no proof. There are no witnesses to the crime. At least none who will admit it. Barker has a half-dozen witnesses who claim that he and Wallace were playing cards at the time the fire was set.”

  David fell silent for a moment as he digested the message. He leaned back against a cabinet.

  “One thing more. Your Negro friend was severely beaten that same night—a couple of hours before the fire. Whoever did it left him for dead.”

  David’s jaw clenched in indignation. “Where is Lawrence?”

  “He’s being cared for at that colored hotel on Second South. His face was swollen and it was difficult for him to speak, but he said something about a gold timepiece being taken. The one that belonged to Hatt’s aunt.”

  Brookes walked across the room and looked out the window into the crimson twilight. “We’ve got Barker in jail, but we are going to have to release him.”

  “Can Lawrence identify who beat him?”

  “The men were wearing hoods. But even if we could prove it was Barker and his friends, it still doesn’t connect them to your fire. If someone don’t come forward, there is nothing we can do.”

  David felt a sickening rage blacken his mind. “There is always something that can be done,” he said half to himself.

  A look of grave concern bent the policeman’s brow. “I know you must feel the temptation real bad, Mr. Parkin, but don’t you go taking matters into your own hands. Your wife needs you. It won’t do anyone any good.” The officer replaced his hat. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you know if something happens. You never know. . . .” He walked to the doorway, then paused and looked back at David with a somber countenance. “Don’t go doing something to make me have to arrest you. The injustice of this is already enough to make me vomit.”

  When he had seen him off, David returned to the room and pull
ed a Winchester carbine from his gun cabinet. He took a pouch from the shelf below and slid two bullets into its chamber. MaryAnne suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “David?”

  He turned toward her.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said there is nothing they can do. . . .”

  MaryAnne quietly looked down, cradling her forehead in her hands, then looked back up at David. “What are you doing?”

  His eyes were granite. “What needs to be done.”

  MaryAnne walked over next to him. “David?”

  He would not look at her.

  MaryAnne knelt down before him and wrapped her arms around his legs and began to cry. A minute later, she looked up, her eyes filled with pleading.

  “They killed our daughter,” he said coldly.

  “The men who killed our little girl were full of hate and vengeance and sickness. Will we become as they?”

  David paused for a moment, then looked down at his wife.

  “It is the price of justice.”

  “Such a price, David! How much more must we pay?!” She took a deep breath, her chin quivered. “Haven’t we paid enough already?”

  “You would have me forget what they have done?”

  MaryAnne gasped. “How could we forget what they have done? We can never forget.” She raised her head and as she did their eyes met. “But we can forgive. We must forgive. It is all that we have left of her.”

  “Forgive?” David asked softly. He broke her grasp and walked to the other side of the room. “Forgive?!” he shouted incredulously. “They murdered our daughter!”

  MaryAnne sobbed into her hands, then, without looking up, spoke in a voice feeble with grief. “If this is life, exchanging hate for hate, it is not worth living. Vengeance will not bring her back to us. Forgiveness has nothing to do with them, David. It has to do with us. It has to do with who we are and who we will become.” She looked up, her eyes drowned in tears. “It has to do with how we want to remember our daughter.”

  Her words trailed off in a pleading silence. David stared at his wife. “Who we will become,” he repeated softly. He leaned the rifle against the cabinet, then returned and knelt by MaryAnne, wrapping his arms around her as she wept into his chest.