The Time of the Clockmaker

by Anna Caltabiano

  I sat up, pushing the covers off my legs abruptly. I almost knocked over the small jewelry box I kept at my bedside as I walked heavy-lidded into the bathroom.

  I turned the shower on and just stood there for a moment, listening to the water pelt the glass. If I couldn’t be in the one place and time I wanted to be, at least I could enjoy a hot, modern shower.

  I carefully slid into the shower, feeling the warm spray against my skin. It was so relaxing that it almost made me forget all my problems. That would have been nice, but all too soon I knew I had to get out, and I turned off the water.

  As the steam in the bathroom dissipated, so did the makeshift fantasy I had created for myself in which I was normal. I wasn’t normal, and that was a fact I couldn’t run away from, no matter how hard I tried.

  I rubbed at my face with the bath towel. If only I could scrub everything away and start over. I dropped the towel and stood over the sink, peering into the tiny mirror. Standing as close as I was, my face filled the entire frame and I didn’t quite recognize myself. My breath fogged up the mirror and my fingers drew lines, dragging over its surface. They felt along the cold glass and traveled down to its ledge, where they froze.

  My fingers pushed up against something familiar. At once I knew what it was. I knew the shape and feel like I knew no other thing. But I couldn’t believe it was here, and I looked down to be certain.

  My eyes saw the same thing my fingers had felt. It was my ring—the one with the blue stone flanked by two small diamonds set into the center of a silver band. But I could’ve sworn I had put it away last night. In fact, I was certain that I had stored it safely in my jewelry box.

  Wrapping myself in a towel, I ran over to my bedside table and opened my jewelry box. Everything looked to be the way I had left it. All my other jewelry was there and nothing else was missing.

  I walked back to the bathroom sink and examined the ring. It just seemed to have been taken out of my jewelry box and moved. That was it. Nothing else had changed.

  I frowned but put the ring on anyway. I knew I should tell Miss Hatfield about the strange occurrence, but then she’d ask me where I had gotten the ring from. And I couldn’t tell her that Henley had given it to me.

  I moved over to my closet and was pulling out the first shirt and jeans I could find when I heard my phone buzzing on top of my dresser.

  Miss Hatfield had insisted that we get cell phones in this time to further blend in with everyone. “It’s the twenty-first-century mode of communication,” she had said. “Everyone has one on their person at all times, so we must as well.”

  I picked up my phone, thinking it must be Miss Hatfield. I frowned when I saw that I had received a text message from a blocked number.

  11:00 a.m.

  St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Southwest corner.

  Wear all white.

  Be prompt.

  I wondered if Miss Hatfield had borrowed someone’s phone or blocked her own number somehow. Knowing that privacy was something she worried about, it didn’t surprise me in the slightest, and no one else had this number.

  Tossing aside the shirt and jeans I had just pulled out, I searched for a white top and white pants. Upon finding them, I hurriedly put them on. I had overslept and taken my time with the shower. It was almost eleven, and I had to get to the cathedral.

  Wondering what Miss Hatfield could want with me dressed head to toe in white, I rushed over to the bathroom sink to stick a toothbrush into my mouth and try to look somewhat put together before meeting Miss Hatfield. She always hated me looking anything less than respectable, but I guess that was the 1900s in her.

  As I was flitting from one side of the room to the other, desperately trying to get ready, I happened to glance out of the sliver of window not covered by my blinds. Green. Confused, I raised the blinds. There was no such thing as that much green in Manhattan.

  The sidewalk in front of the brownstone was blanketed with a sea of people all dressed in green—green clothes, green hats, green face paint. Everyone was heading to the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade.

  I realized how out of place I’d look outside, but then I got it. That was exactly what Miss Hatfield wanted. She wanted to be able to spot me.

  I thought it a bit strange, since making me noticeable seemed to be the last thing she’d want, but then again, Miss Hatfield was always mysterious, doing things I considered unexpected.

  I made sure to stick my phone in my pocket in case Miss Hatfield contacted me again. I spent a few minutes searching for my keys but, realizing that I must have left them in the kitchen the day before, I made to leave my room. A ping from my computer stopped me.

  Sitting down in front of my laptop, I saw that I had new email. I clicked to pull it up. My body went cold.

  I love you, and always shall.

  I swallowed, unable to do much more. My eyes tore themselves away from the words just long enough to look up at who the email was from. It was from me.

  Dazed, I looked again, but I wasn’t imagining things.

  To: Rebecca Hatfield

  From: Rebecca Hatfield

  I quickly checked my sent mail to find the exact same email there as well. According to my computer, I had sent the email to myself, from myself. But I knew I hadn’t. And I knew where I had heard those same words before.

  I shut my laptop and abruptly stood up, knocking over my chair in the process. What if Miss Hatfield had sent the email? What if she knew everything that had occurred between Henley and me?

  I glanced at my phone to check the time. I had fifteen minutes left and I knew St. Patrick’s Cathedral wasn’t far. I had to find out.

  Drawing a breath, I opened my laptop again. I found the email and clicked reply.

  Who are you?

  I pressed Send before I could change my mind.

  Almost immediately, I heard a ping and I felt my breath catch. I opened the new email.

  Who are you?

  The words I had typed just moments ago stared back at me. It was silly of me to think—to wish for something that could never happen.

  I exhaled a breath I had forgotten I was holding and was about to close my laptop again when I saw that a blank new email was open. Thinking I must have just clicked Compose without meaning to, I almost shut the window, but I felt something odd.

  It was as if the keys beneath my fingers were moving, but my fingers weren’t pressing down on them. It was as if they were moving on their own.

  I looked closer at the keys and saw that they were indeed moving. Shocked and horrified all at once, I pulled back, snatching my hands away from the keys. But they still moved.

  Wide-eyed, I looked up at the screen.

  I think you know exactly who I am.

  I had barely finished reading when I felt something on my hand move. Startled, I looked down to see the ring on my finger turn. One full revolution.

  My mouth went dry. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. I knew I was acting silly, but this was senseless. I desperately wanted it to be true. There was nothing I wanted more. Nothing else made sense, but I couldn’t bring myself to say his name. Finally it came out, small and wavering.

  “Henley?”

  I didn’t know what was more surprising—the fact that I wholeheartedly expected an answer, or the fact that I actually received one.

  I must say I was hoping for a more pleased reaction. I really did miss you, Rebecca—or should I say dear cousin?

  I heard a chuckle—Henley’s chuckle—as distinctly as if he were speaking right into my ear.

  I spun around, expecting to see him standing with his hat and gloves in hand as he always did. But he wasn’t there.

  Henley wasn’t standing next to me. He wasn’t in the room.

  As if sensing my confusion, Henley spoke to me again. This time in a gentler, but serious, tone. I know was all he said.

  I wondered what exactly it was that he knew. That I was more confused than I had ever been? That Henley was here . . . but at t
he same time not here?

  I wanted to say all that. I wanted an answer. But all that came out of my mouth was one word.

  “Henley.”

  Rebecca. There was a pause, during which all I could hear was my own breathing. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear you say my name.

  “You’re—you’re not here.” I felt stupid saying it, but I couldn’t get past that fact. “I don’t see you.”

  I know you don’t. And if I could fix that I would. I guess you could say that I don’t have a body.

  “You don’t have a body.” I felt a dull ache in my brain as I scrambled to try to understand what he was saying.

  I’m here, Henley said. Well, at least I think I am. Wherever here is.

  “Where are you?” I paused, trying to clarify my question. “What can you see?”

  There was silence. It seemed to last so long that I worried I might have lost him.

  I can see everything. Henley’s voice tickled in my ear and I could’ve sworn I felt his breath fan against my face.

  “What do you mean? Do you see this room?”

  I see exactly where you’re standing. The room. Everything. I see it in this time. In past times. In future times. And it’s not just this room or this house I see. I can see Central Park, San Francisco, Paris . . . anywhere, really.

  I staggered a few steps back.

  Maybe you should sit down, Henley was quick to say. Just as he said that, I saw the chair in front of me turn and move toward me.

  He made it sound as if his sudden return was nothing, but my mind was buzzing.

  I always imagined how you’d react, but you’re as pale as a ghost.

  “A ghost,” I repeated. “You’re a ghost.”

  I suppose you could say that, Henley said. I guess anything that’s alive without a body is a ghost.

  “And you didn’t bother to tell me all this time that you were still”—I was about to say alive, but I didn’t think that was the right word—“out there?”

  I tried, Henley said. Of course I did. But I didn’t even know where . . . or what . . . I was, at first. I even tried contacting you in 1904 in the séance parlor because I thought you would be there.

  I shook my head, trying to piece his words together. 1904? The séance parlor?

  I remembered it well. We had gone into a séance parlor—“Miss Dorothy Jones’s Séance Parlor” it had read on the wooden sign outside—to take Henley’s mind off his ailing father. Séances were popular back then.

  Henley was there—actually there. And Willie, a childhood friend of Henley’s. The three of us sat in a dark room with a woman who was supposed to be some sort of psychic medium. It was all for fun. Willie was even joking the entire time with Henley.

  And then the medium’s sister started convulsing—and we all thought it was an act.

  “Is there a spirit here among us?” I remember her asking.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to introduce yourself to us?” It was so quiet I could hear everyone’s breath, including my own.

  Then came the words that jolted us all.

  “I am Henley. Henley Beauford.”

  Rebecca, you’re pale.

  “Did you expect anything different?” I tried to steady my breath. “You . . . It was you talking in the séance, wasn’t it? I mean, really you.”

  Yes, he said. I tried to somehow get in contact. I thought I could do it through the medium or her sister. But it felt as if I was getting sucked into—no, falling into her sister’s body. I was terrified. I didn’t know what I was doing. And I certainly didn’t find out what I could do until much later. The last thing I remember . . .

  “What is the last thing you remember?”

  Well, I remember dying.

  I must have looked alarmed, as Henley quickly said, No, nothing bad. I just remember retiring for the night. It hurt to bend down with my stiff back—that’s what age does to you—but I straightened my slippers before climbing into bed.

  “And then?”

  And then I fell asleep. But it was like a sleep within a sleep. Once when I closed my eyes and slipped into a dream, and another when I fell into something further past my dreams.

  It was strange hearing what dying was like. “Just like that?”

  Just like that. At least that’s how it worked with me . . . and then I woke up. And I was as I am now. Conscious. Thinking. But not quite alive . . . or dead, for that matter.

  “How does it work?”

  Henley understood me. It’s like a bird’s-eye view of the world in every time that has gone, and every time that will come.

  “Like seeing the future,” I said. “What can you see in my future?”

  It doesn’t . . . work . . . the same with people like you.

  “Then you know about me?”

  Yes. When I look into the past and the future, you’re not there. There’s only a thin outline of you in the one time you’re visiting, as opposed to everyone else, who are very much there in every time all at once.

  “What do you know about yourself?” I was hesitant to ask, because I didn’t know if he knew that Miss Hatfield, an immortal, was his mother.

  As if guessing my worries, Henley simply said, I know about my mother.

  “So you know that Miss Hatfield—Ruth—was immortal when she had you?”

  And that I’m half-immortal because of that? Yes. I suspect that might have something to do with my current circumstances.

  I wondered what else I should ask. I had often imagined what this moment would be like—what I would say if I could talk to him just one more time. In my dreams, I told him everything and we talked for hours. But now that it was actually happening, I found I couldn’t remember a thing I wanted to tell him.

  “Do you forgive me?” I asked after a while. “For leaving, I mean.”

  I thought I heard him draw a breath.

  I do, he said. But I wish you had told me.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  I had to find out secondhand why you left. Henley laughed, and I knew he was trying to lighten the mood. Luckily, being in all times and places at once, it was easy to overhear you talking to Miss H— my mother.

  Henley’s voice sounded strained, and I knew that if I could see his face, his brows would be furrowed. His voice sounded like the Henley I knew. I knew he had grown old—and even died—but without his physical body, he sounded as young as he was when we first met.

  What are you thinking? Henley asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  My phone beeped, giving me a jolt. Wondering if it was another text, I glanced at the screen. No, it was just the reminder I had set up. Pick up dry cleaning!

  I looked at the time on my phone. 10:50 a.m.

  I had forgotten. Miss Hatfield would have been annoyed if I had missed my meeting with her.

  As if on cue, I heard Henley’s voice in my ear.

  Somewhere to be?

  “Yes,” I managed to get out. Hearing his voice still startled me. “I’m almost late to meet Miss Hatfield,” I said, grabbing my keys.

  I guess I’ll be there too. His voice took a dark turn. I don’t really have a choice.

  I thought about Henley always being there—wherever “there” was. He would always be watching; he would always be listening. I wouldn’t have to lose him ever again.

  I shook my head, trying to clear my mind, as I raced out of the house. I had to get to the cathedral.

  I was overwhelmed as soon as I stepped out from the front door. A throng of people pushed me forward, carrying me with them. Everyone was wearing green. I was the only person who didn’t blend in. Taking a deep breath, I began to push my way forward. I fought and pushed to go where I wanted. I knew I didn’t have much time.

  I wanted to call out to Henley to see if he could help, but I knew that calling out would only attract attention, and I wasn’t sure whether others would hear his disembodied response.

  I looked up to see if
I could catch a glimpse of a street sign, but with the crowds of people swirling around me, I couldn’t see anything.

  I tapped the man in front of me, who was wearing a large leprechaun hat, to get his attention. I saw him recoil from a stranger’s touch, but he still looked over.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know what street this is?”

  “Fifth Avenue,” he said, and turned back to his friend.

  I impatiently tapped him on the shoulder again. “I know that. But what’s the cross street coming up?”

  The man rolled his eyes but still looked ahead to check. “Forty-Eighth Street.”

  I muttered a thank-you, but I was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear it.

  The cathedral was only a few blocks away, but I pushed through people, trying to move quicker.

  I looked up to try to check the street sign again, but instead my head fell back as my eyes followed the full height of St. Patrick’s Cathedral up and up.

  “Southwest corner,” I mumbled to myself as I dodged around people.

  The meeting place was right across the street, so I began looking for Miss Hatfield.

  I scanned the crowds for a slim woman, not overly tall or curvy—physically she was utterly forgettable if you weren’t looking for her.

  But Miss Hatfield always had her hair up, and try as she might, she never succeeded in making it look like anything other than a Gibson girl hairstyle of the early 1900s. That, combined with the stiff, precise way she walked made her look different from the other women of this time.

  The sound of church bells interrupted my thoughts. A stillness grew over the crowd as everyone tipped their heads back to gaze at the cathedral before them. For a moment everyone was silent, listening to the bells mark the hour. The bells didn’t chime and twinkle or toll with deep groans. Instead, they seemed to clang together, sharpness in their sound.

  When the bells stopped, the people’s heads came down. Everyone stopped and turned toward me—or rather toward Forty-Fourth Street, where the parade began.

  At first it was slow. A low sound marked the beginning of the parade. A reverberation grew in everyone’s throats. It turned into cheers, which in turn became a roar.

  I wanted to block it all out. To concentrate. I narrowed my eyes and continued to search in earnest.