Escapement, Page 2

  “Mattie, I have very important news for you.” His voice, low and deep, slithered. It wasn’t a British accent, but it was proper, like in the old black-and-white movies.

  “If you call me Mattie one more time, I’m going to stop, drop, and roll you, and I’m here to assure you that your suit won’t ever fit the same again.”

  “Do with me what you will. I assure you that time is not easily stopped. But first, hear what I have to say.”

  “I’m in a good mood today. My wife answered my call this morning. So make it quick.”

  “In exactly four minutes, you’re going to die.”

  This is the hard part to explain. Not that the other was a piece of cake. But maybe I haven’t lost you yet. Now it gets freaky. At the exact moment he said that, his words seemed every bit as true as the ground I was standing on. It was like I blinked and I knew what he was saying was true.

  His expression didn’t hint at kindness or compassion. His eyes still had that steely stare that made my skin crawl. But I knew he was right.

  Heart attack.

  I’d been expecting it for years. So had my doctor. (Sometimes when I was at his office, just for fun, I would take short breaths to freak him out.) There were moments I felt like it might be coming for real, but it never did. This morning, I’d felt different. More out of breath. My appetite waning.

  “It’s all so symbolic,” I breathed, gazing at him. “The ticking clock. My own ticker. Dear God . . .” I clutched my chest. It was hurting. “I don’t want to die this way. Not my heart. Please . . . please . . .”

  “I can’t reveal the manner in which you die. It’s clearly stated in the deal I made with Death. But I can offer you something.”

  “How much time do I have left?”

  “Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds.”

  “I don’t want to die.” Sweat beaded on my forehead. I felt dizzy. Nauseous.

  “You should know what a ridiculous statement that is. For heaven’s sake, do you know of anyone in all the billions who’ve walked the earth who has managed to avoid it?” He handed me the handkerchief that was tucked into his suit pocket like it was a piece of art. It was blue like his eyes, and pure silk. “I can offer you an acquittal to this current circumstance, however.”

  “Dear God . . . dear God! You’re going to ask my for my soul, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  “Again, that’s Death’s purview. I’m in it merely for the observational benefit.”

  “Of me?”

  “Humanity in general.”

  “Right,” I gasped. “What are my options?” My voice was high, squeaky. Every word took twice the effort.

  “Just two. Makes it easy that way. Because I am Time, I am offering you seven hours.” He smiled like he’d just handed me a Publishers Clearing House check.

  I was hunched now, sure that I was feeling a searing pain down my arm. I looked up at him, the sweat soaking straight through the silk handkerchief that I held to my forehead. I’d probably ruined it forever. “Seven hours? That’s it?”

  “Not just any seven hours.” He touched my shoulder. His fingers felt like ice. “Stand up. You’ll think more clearly that way.”

  I stood, bracing myself against the doorframe.

  “You can go back in time for seven hours. Any point of time in your own life span.”

  I figured I had about a minute and change left. It was hard to judge time with him actually staring me down. But suddenly I got mad. “Seven hours. Back. In my life. In this life. This,” I said, gesturing wildly at myself, “can’t be undone in seven hours, mister.”

  He eyed me. “Surely you have regrets you wish undone.”

  “Lots of them. A pound of ribs. Butter in the mashed potatoes. The list is endless. But I got over those regrets, as you can see.”

  “What about Beth?”

  Now I eyed him. My fists balled. “What about her? How do you know about Beth?”

  “She occupies my space as well.”

  “Leave her out of this.”

  “As you wish. But imagine if things were different. Think of one thing in your life, Matthew, that, if changed, would’ve made all the difference in the world to you.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I said, sinking into my own words. “Seven hours isn’t enough to undo what has been done to me. What I’ve done to myself. What I do to others.” Tears blurred him, and he seemed to float right in front of me. “How much time do I have left?”

  “Fifty-eight seconds.”

  “Wait.” I wiped my eyes. “You said two options. What’s the other?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the less popular option.”

  “What is it?”

  “Seven more hours to live your life. But in your own words, who wants seven more hours of this ‘blooming onion’?”

  “Seven more hours and then I have a heart attack?”

  “I have no control over how you die, you must understand. But I do know in seven hours, your time will be up.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty-four seconds to decide. And I am precise, mind you. Don’t wait until the last sec—”

  “I’ll take it! I’ll take the extra seven hours.”

  “To be clear, the seven additional hours tacked on to your life?”

  “Yes! Yes, that!”

  Tick, tick, tick. Constant seemed to be taking mental notes. And then, his thumb hit the watch. I sucked in a deep breath. The ticking stopped. But luckily, I didn’t. I gasped for more breath. The air filled my lungs quickly. There seemed to be a cold wind on my face. I realized it was his breath. He was standing that close.

  It smelled like . . . nothing.

  “Here,” he said, and he handed me the pocket watch. It was heavy and fit perfectly in my hand. I looked at its face and then held it closer because it seemed to be missing something. There were only the numbers one through eight. Nine through twelve were gone—an open, gaping emptiness, as if they’d been swallowed by something horrible. I noticed the second hand, dutifully keeping time, ticking very softly, hardly noticeable. It was twenty-four past one in the afternoon.

  “This is how I will know my time is up? When the minute hand reaches twenty-four past eight?”

  “Precisely. And I mean that in the fullest sense of the word, you understand.”

  I nodded.

  “Use your time wisely,” he said. Then he regarded me for a moment, the first time he seemed more human than not. After a few seconds, he handed me a small book, barely ten pages, made of what seemed like cotton, but not. “You might want this as well.”

  I read the title. “A Guide to the Pocket Watch?”

  “Think deeply on it. The pocket watch has much to offer. More than just wheels and pinions. Let it be your guide as to how you use your seven hours.”

  I stepped back and closed the door. How I would use my seven hours. You would think with only seven hours, there would be so many options that the hardest part would be choosing how to use them. But not for me.

  I already knew what I would do.

  About the time my marriage and arteries were collapsing, I began having a recurring dream. I’m not a big dreamer, nocturnally or otherwise. But this dream seemed to be every night. And it was one of those disturbing kind of dreams that makes you wonder if there’s an alternate universe somewhere trying to tell you something. I tried not to think of it during the day. But at night, it plagued me like bad heartburn, the kind you can’t shake even with antacids and your pillows propped up.

  The gist of the dream was this: I punch Noel Neet out at a book signing for his newest release, Your Mega Life.

  I know this raises a lot of questions—namely what I was doing at a book signing because I’m not a reader. But his books are everywhere: the supermarket, the gas station, the dentist’s office. There he’d be, his flat face on the dust jacket, his teeth gleaming and white and that smile stretching a little further than necessary. I distinctly remember checking out at the grocery store one day, a rotisserie chicken under one ar
m, a jar of mayonnaise under the other. There were all these tabloids on a rack, which I’m fond of scanning because it makes me feel better about myself. But then, right next to the Enquirer’s claim that Katie Holmes is an extraterrestrial, there was that face. His face. Smiling at me, like we had something in common. I stared back him because I knew I’d never have that kind of smile. For one, my cheeks prevent me from smiling broadly. But even if I could, I wouldn’t. I didn’t have much to smile about. Beth and I weren’t doing well. I was getting a bad feeling about work. My doctor was proclaiming me all but dead. And my rotisserie chicken was getting cold.

  There he was, smiling like life was good. Mega good.

  That night, the first dream came to me, as pungent as garlic.

  The more the dream occurred, the more I began wondering if it was a sign. Instead of trying to push it out of my mind, I began thinking about it more and more. Then I began hoping I’d dream it because when I woke up in the morning, I felt really good.

  It was the same dream every time. I stand in a long line, his new bestseller about how to get a good life tucked against my chest, and right when I get to the table, I just lean down and swing a right hook into his left cheek. It all plays out in slow motion, his skin rippling against my meaty fist.

  I’ll tell you one thing. He isn’t smiling.

  It was a Saturday when Beth and I had the biggest fight of our marriage. I won’t go into the details, but it consisted of a lot of hurtful words, horrible accusations, and low-fat cheese. I left the condo, slamming the door behind me. I was making my way to Five Guys, simultaneously thinking of our fight and their menu, when I saw it.

  At first I thought it was a mirage. It worried me because if I was hallucinating, there was a good chance that I’d finally lost my mind.

  But as I looked around, I realized it wasn’t a mirage. At a big Christian bookstore on the corner of the busiest intersection in town, a large banner was stretched between two stakes: NOEL NEET BOOK SIGNING TODAY!

  The parking lot was packed like it was the Super Bowl. I barely found a place to park my Hyundai and still get out of it. I was a good one hundred yards away, parked in a Chinese food restaurant lot, but somehow I wasn’t thinking about the distance. I was thinking about Noel Neet.

  It took twenty minutes, but I got into the store and it was mass chaos. People were pining for books and autographs and I let myself get caught up in the madness. The next part is a bit of a blur, but somehow I found myself purchasing his latest book and sliding into line with all the other people. Waiting.

  I’m pretty tall, but even at my height, I was having a hard time getting a good glimpse of him. I’d see the top of his black hair and a small bit of his hand. I’d hear him laugh. But I couldn’t see that smile. All for the best, I supposed. I’d see it soon enough, and then it’d be too late, for him and for me.

  I’d actually not punched anyone since reaching adulthood, but I wasn’t nervous. There wasn’t much to rehearse. I’d done it a thousand times in my dreams—I didn’t say anything, just punched him straight away, without hesitation.

  I waited for two hours in that stupid line, but it seemed like minutes. Before I knew it, I was ten people away. Now I could see him. His smile was even brighter and cheerier in person. I’m not kidding—I think a radioactive bleaching tray might’ve been involved. The teeth were straight as Presbyterians; I’ll high-five him that. I could hear his laugh. I heard him say, “Thank you.” And every few minutes, the sea of people would part just a bit, and I’d glimpse his smile. Of course he had a lot to smile about. People loved him. I, on the other hand, did not. Love him. Or have a lot to smile about.

  Seven people back now, and my heart started to race. I was eager. A small part of me was nervous about not being nervous, but my life was falling apart, and how dare he stare at me in a supermarket, smiling like he owned the world, and tell me I had a chance at happiness. How dare he.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. I hadn’t noticed it before, probably because I’d been trying to catch glimpses of the man I was going to punch out. But to my right, there it was: very, very large and hanging on a wall.

  It’s hard to describe the feeling that came over me at that moment. I guess it’s what the general public calls peace. I really wouldn’t know, but if I had to guess, that’s what it was. It was kind of like the feeling I get right before I eat fried chicken, but without the guilt. I was very aware that I wasn’t eating anything and yet feeling completely euphoric at the same time.

  Like a lifeboat drifting at sea, I found myself swept out of line, a line in which I’d been for two hours, and standing beneath a painting that I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

  There were trees. Lots of trees. Beautiful cedars, holding strong against weighty mounds of snow on their branches, towered all around the little scene. And off to the left was this cabin, with a lamppost glowing the most amazing color of amber. People were walking arm in arm, bundled up in wool coats. A little white dog followed along, its tiny footprints dotting the snow. Through the windows of the cabin, a family could be seen sitting around a fire. If my eyes had been any wider, I’d have given Noel Neet a run for his exaggerated-facial-expressions money.

  A tiny woman the size of a broomstick swept to my side, her hands clasped behind her back. “May I help you, sir?”

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “It’s a Thomas Kinkade painting.”

  “Who?”

  “Thomas Kinkade. He’s America’s most collected living artist.”

  “I want to cry,” I said, staring up at it. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I looked down at her, trying to explain. “Inside, I feel something. Actually, the lack of something. Like, just minutes ago I was a serrano pepper and now I’m jarred marshmallow cream.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “I want to step right inside that place, wherever that is. I want to be there. Right there.”

  She grinned. Broomstick was totally tracking with me.

  I turned to her. “I have to have this.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “How much?”

  “I believe this one is listed for twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five dollars?”

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  My heart sank as I turned back to it. Broomstick seemed to sense my despair. “I have good news for you,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “Come over here.”

  I followed her around the corner to another part of the store. She lifted her hand and pointed to an entire wall of similar paintings and . . . were those knickknacks? I trod carefully to the shelves, all made of glass, displaying an unbelievable collection of items that featured the most glorious pictures of churches and bridges and Christmas lodges. There were mountains and streams and rivers. Clouds bursting with light. Little dogs. Long walks. Gardens of endless flowers.

  Broomstick declared that “the Painter of Light” wanted his work to be affordable to everyone. An hour later I left with four mugs, a blanket, a stapler, a clock, a wall calendar, bubble bath, a night-light, a snow globe, drink coasters, and eight little saucers, all with these beautiful pictures on them. As I heaved the sack over my shoulder and made my way to my car, Noel Neet’s book dropped from underneath my armpit, where I’d stuck it and forgotten about it. It was splayed out on the asphalt, his flat face smiling at me once again.

  I stooped and picked him up. And you know what? I smiled back.

  I set these trinkets all over my house, my car, and at work. Some people have stress balls they squeeze or yoga classes they attend. Some have Prozac. I had Thomas Kinkade. Any time I felt anxious or overwhelmed or full of dread, I’d stare at one of these little images and my soul would be washed with its hope and tranquility.

  I tell you this for two reasons. First, yes, I made my peace with Noel Neet, in case you were wondering. The dreams stopped and I managed to read four pages of his book. It was
the table of contents, but I got a good idea where he was going with the whole thing. Second, I want you to know why I had all these items in the passenger seat of this Hummer. If you didn’t know the background, you’d think I was some kind of psycho.

  I reached over and took a coaster, glancing at the picture on it as I drove north on I-35. Every Thomas Kinkade item I owned had been packed in the duffel bag I’d intended to fly with. This was much better, though. They were all with me, out so I could see them. Some were on the floorboard, some in the backseat. But they were there.

  Then I realized it. In my haste to bring Thomas Kinkade, I forgot a murder weapon. How I would’ve gotten that on a plane, I don’t know. I set down the coaster and comforted myself with the stapler. I had an hour and a half to figure out that part of my plan.

  Surely, I thought, I can easily find a murder weapon.

  By now you’re probably wondering about this whole murder plot I’ve gotten myself into. And you’re probably thinking that I should’ve chosen to go back in time seven hours. Maybe spend some quality time with Beth. Or reassess my eating habits. Read a Noel Neet book. Something way more productive than murder.

  But you haven’t lived my life. You really have no idea what it’s like. You’re thinking to yourself that if I just chose salad instead of Crisco, everything would be better. The truth is that it really wouldn’t. If I were skinny, I’d still hate Abbott McClain.

  Just by the name, you can probably guess he wore a lot of polos and argyle. A century earlier and he would’ve been the guy wearing an ascot. Even so, he played football. Don’t ask me what position because I didn’t follow the game or the team in high school. But whatever his position, he owned it. And pretty much everything in the school.

  Can I name one incident that was making me take this drive to Wichita? You betcha.

  It was 1989. December 4. 3:04 p.m. The day was cloudy. Snow was bursting from the sky. That was back in the day when they only canceled school for nuclear war. We were watching out the windows as the buses tried to maneuver to the curb in the snow. They were slipping and sliding all over the place.