by David Teague
I don’t envy young Indigo, Vern.
Me, either, Suzy.
Oscar called time. He backed out of the batter’s box. He reached into his uniform pocket to touch the smooth object again. And despite his reservations about what he was about to do, Oscar slid the object out carefully, very carefully, so no one could see: an antique watch. It looked like the ones railroad conductors in his mom’s old black-and-white movies sometimes pulled from their vests to scrutinize through narrowed eyes before bellowing, “All aboard for New York City,” whereupon the train began transporting the hero toward his destiny. But Oscar knew its true purpose.
Stepping back into the box, he palmed the watch between his left hand and the bat.
Taser hurled the baseball. It shot toward Oscar like a ballistic missile.
Delicately, so no one could see, Oscar pushed the red button atop the watch hidden in his palm, and Taser Tompkins’s fastball halted dead in the air right in front of him. And along with the ball, the Yankees fielders, the Wildcats in the dugout, and the fans in the bleachers suddenly froze. Birds stopped in the sky, jets halted on their flight paths. Planets hovered in their orbits, and all around Oscar, the fundamental processes of the universe ceased. In the stillness, Oscar drew back his bat and clobbered the eerily dangling baseball with all his might, sending it soaring over Taser Tompkins’s big fat head.
Earlier That Morning
This might be the time to discuss where that watch came from.
Let’s back up approximately twelve hours, to 9:03 am. Oscar stood in front of his house blinking in the yellow sunlight and green shade of his neighborhood, which was called Brook Meadow, even though it had no brook and had no meadow. Jennifer Street, which was his street, quit at the edge of Tuscarora Woods, forming a cul-de-sac in which it was safe to play baseball because cars never drove around it.
Oscar balanced a baseball on his batting tee. Overhead, the sun burned the color of a lemon. The sky looked blue enough to drink. The leaves of Tuscarora Woods rustled in the morning breeze. A jay winged overhead screaming “Thief! Thief!” for reasons best known to itself.
Oscar cocked his bat, narrowed his eyes, imagined he was hitting for the Phillies in the World Series, and swung for all he was worth.
Whifffffff. Oscar opened his eyes. The ball was still perched on the tee like a sparrow atop a maple tree.
Just then, Steve Brinkley—that’s right, the nearsighted guy who is going to get himself dinged on the elbow in the game a little later—rolled up on his skateboard, glasses glinting in the morning sun. He said, “How’d you miss that?”
“I don’t know,” replied Oscar ruefully.
“Even I can hit a ball off a tee,” said Steve. “Give me the bat.”
Steve took the bat, squared up, and swatted the ball. It rose into the morning air, then dropped with a thud against the front door of Oscar’s neighbor: Eleanor Ethel Ellington, age eighty-five.
Oscar and Steve both held their breaths. But no sign of Miss Ellington. Phew. Miss Ellington was just about the nicest eighty-five-year-old lady you could ever hope to meet, but she still objected to baseballs banging off her house.
Oscar fetched the ball and put it back on the tee.
“How about if you pretend you’re somebody else?” asked Steve. “Somebody who can really hit.”
“Like who?” asked Oscar.
“Hank Aaron?” said Steve.
“OK. I’m Hank Aaron,” said Oscar. He swung. He missed.
“Maybe you need a more modern example,” said Steve. “Try Big Papi. David Ortiz.”
Oscar imagined he was Big Papi. He whiffed.
“Wow. OK,” said Steve. “Try Dottie Kamenshek.”
“Who?” said Oscar.
“Dottie Kamenshek of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League,” clarified Steve. “Seven-time all-star. She had one of the highest batting averages in history. Some people even wanted her to play in the men’s leagues. There’s a movie based on her.”
“OK,” said Oscar. “Fine, Steve. I’ll be Dottie Kamenshek. Why not?”
This time, the air turbulence from his passing bat blew the ball off the tee. It bounced on the pavement.
“That’s a little better!” said Steve. “How about Babe Ruth?”
“Ummmmm . . . ,” Oscar said. “I don’t know, this doesn’t seem to be working.”
“But the Bambino was the greatest hitter of all time!” exclaimed Steve.
“I know who Babe Ruth is!” said Oscar. “It’s just—he could be a jerk sometimes.”
“We’re pretending, Oscar,” Steve pointed out. “I think it’ll be OK for you to be Babe Ruth, even if he was mean once in a while.”
Dr. Soul, Oscar’s orange cat, made his way across the grass and took a seat on the curb to watch.
“I’m just going to be Oscar,” said Oscar. He eyed the ball. He swung. He made contact. The ball flew eleven feet. Well. It was better than nothing. “Yes!” cried Oscar. “The crowd goes wild! Oscar! Oscar! Oscar Indigo!”
His daydream faded. The shouting didn’t.
“Oscar! Oscar! Oscar Indigo!”
Oscar blinked himself back to reality in time to see Steve fleeing down the street on his board faster than the neighborhood speed limit and Dr. Soul hightailing it for the woods.
“Goodness gracious, Oscar!” the voice continued. “Pay attention! Be aware of your surroundings! What kind of boy stands around dreaming in the middle of the road? What if the recycling truck comes by?”
Oscar turned and saw, standing with her hands on her hips, gray hair flying in the morning breeze, his neighbor, Miss Eleanor Ethel Ellington.
Eleanor Ethel Ellington
“Try keeping your eyes on the ball when you swing,” suggested Miss Ellington. She had a habit of sneaking up on him and giving him batting tips. Usually, this happened when he was standing around daydreaming about imaginary game-time exploits and forgot to keep an eye out for her.
“I do,” said Oscar.
“Hmmm,” said Miss Ellington. “If you say so. Oscar, I would like to request your assistance.” She beckoned him from the knee-deep tangle of vines that passed for her lawn.
“Sure, Miss Ellington,” sighed Oscar, because in his next-door-neighbor’s dictionary, request meant the same thing as demand. And he could never turn her down.
Oscar followed her through rampant vegetation to the garden in the middle of her backyard. It featured rows of beans and peas and tomato plants growing in wire cages. Miss Ellington put her hands on her hips to catch her breath. “We need to water,” she finally said.
Oscar knew the drill from experience. He and Miss Ellington had been pals a long time. He lifted a rusty watering can from its hook on the side of her garden shed and held it under the spigot of the cistern that caught rain flowing from the downspout leading from the roof. Crystal-clear water splashed against the bottom.
“Hurry up,” grouched Miss Ellington. “Do you want my tomato plants to wilt?”
Oscar would have rolled his eyes at her impatience, but the thing was, he didn’t want the tomatoes to wilt. He liked those plants. They smelled peppery and tart when he brushed against them, and even if the tiny white prickles on the undersides of the leaves made his skin itch, he still wanted the bushes to grow tall and healthy in the small, black, bowl-shaped hollows of dirt he and Miss Ellington had planted them in the last time she’d “requested” his help. He wanted them to bear ruby-red tomatoes, and he wanted to help pick those tomatoes and load them into the basket of Miss Ellington’s giant adult tricycle so she could take them down to the farmer’s market to sell them. And he wanted to take the two tomatoes she always gave him for helping at harvest, and slice them and make them into bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches to share with his mom.
And even though it was hard to admit, he really kind of hoped that next year, Miss Ellington would find him standing in front of his house and “request” his help to start the process all over.
Just thinking about it made him feel like part of something bigger than himself.
“Are you going to water the tomatoes or stand there staring into space all morning?” asked Miss Ellington.
“I’m going to water,” replied Oscar. Miss Ellington could get a little bossy. Oscar didn’t mind. She was his friend.
As he moved from plant to plant, Miss Ellington watched like a hawk over his shoulder, making sure he didn’t pour too little or too much. This was a bit nerve-wracking, but Oscar had gotten used to Miss Ellington’s habits. At the last tomato plant, which was twice as high as the rest, and stronger and greener and seemed to have an almost infinite number of branches rippling and swaying in the wind, Miss Ellington paused, reached among the leaves, sank her fingernails into the base of a small, withered branch, ruthlessly pinched it off, and tossed it over the garden fence into Tuscarora Woods. “That one wasn’t going to grow any tomatoes,” she remarked when she saw his face. She smacked her palms together. “We’re better off without it.”
Oscar nodded and shook the last few drops out of the can. Miss Ellington said, “Finished? You must be thirsty after all this work.”
“I’ll just have a glass of water at home,” replied Oscar. “But thank you.”
“Come inside and enjoy my hospitality!” ordered Miss Ellington.
Mothballs
“Is there something wrong with your drink?” asked Miss Ellington as Oscar stared into his hot chocolate on her kitchen table.
“No,” said Oscar. “It’s fine.”
And yes, if you left out the fact that Miss Ellington had made it from a six-year-old can of discount instant hot chocolate powder mixed up in warm water from the faucet, Oscar wouldn’t even have been lying. Theoretically, the hot chocolate should have been just fine.
The marshmallows were the problem.
They lurked in the shadows of Miss Ellington’s pantry, month after month, year after year, dehydrated to a hardness exceeding that of mastodon bones by the air of Miss Ellington’s house, which reeked of mothballs and made everything else in her house reek of mothballs, too. Gaaaah.
“Way back in the Dark Ages, when I was a girl,” declared Miss Ellington, “my friends and I always said the best thing on a hot day is a hot drink!” Oscar nodded. Over the years, he’d heard a lot of bizarre things Miss Ellington and her friends used to say to each other.
He glanced at the thermometer screwed to the back porch railing, which read ninety-two.
He brought his mothball-flavored hot chocolate to his lips.
“You’ve got a big game tonight,” Miss Ellington observed.
Oscar lowered the mug. “Against the Yankees. The first game of the Slugger League Championship Series.”
“When you go to up to bat, keep your eyes on the ball,” said Miss Ellington.
“You told me that outside,” Oscar reminded her.
“I’m telling you again,” said Miss Ellington.
“The coach won’t put me in,” sighed Oscar. “I mean, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m not going up to bat.”
“The coach might put you in. You might get to bat,” insisted Miss Ellington. “You never know.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Oscar. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure I won’t get to bat.”
“You’re a good kid, Oscar,” said Miss Ellington. “You’ll make your mark on the universe one way or the other.”
“Thanks, Miss Ellington,” said Oscar.
“I’ve got some cookies in my cupboard,” continued Miss Ellington, pushing aside a crab hammer and a bottle of Lysol as she searched. “Somewhere.”
“Yummy!” said Oscar, wincing at the thought of their inevitable mothball flavor.
At that moment, a powerful engine rumbled along the street outside. It shook Miss Ellington’s windows. She stopped searching and glanced around uneasily.
Oscar looked around, too. He noticed for the first time that something was different about Miss Ellington’s house that morning. A garden trowel lay on the kitchen sink. Muddy boots leaned in the corner. Leaves littered the floor. Mail lay scattered across one end of the kitchen table, as if she’d begun reading it but never finished.
And that was the strangest part. Miss Ellington had a very precise system for mail. She wrote letters to her friends every week, using the stationery, pens, stamps, and wax seal in the rolltop desk in her office. She put the letters in the basket of her giant tricycle—the same one she used for tomatoes—pedaled them to the post office, mailed them, and checked her box for replies.
And once in a while, when Miss Ellington felt too tired to make the trip, Oscar made it for her (although he rode his own bicycle). He liked starting Miss Ellington’s letters on their journeys, picking up stamps at the post office for future letters, and bringing back answers from her friends. He liked reading the names and addresses on the envelopes and imagining the people and places. Norman Pliner, Northfield, Minnesota. Huggsy Strathmore, Little Rock, Arkansas. Dinky Hanrahan, Los Angeles, California. And once in a while, over stale cupcakes or a slice of pie that tasted faintly of cleaning supplies, Miss Ellington told him things about her friends. For instance, Sheila Flaherty of Seattle, Washington, had a great-grandson the same age as Oscar who was a Little League all-star shortstop.
Lately, though, Oscar realized Miss Ellington didn’t mail as many letters as she had when he was younger.
Oscar glimpsed something glinting among the envelopes.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching across the table to retrieve a giant gold pocket watch. Its face glowed a faint green in the dim kitchen.
“Heavens to Betsy! Put that down!” cried Miss Ellington. She rushed over faster than Oscar had ever seen her move—and he’d seen her move plenty fast, especially when raccoons threatened her tomatoes. She snatched the watch from his hands.
“Sorry, Miss Ellington,” said Oscar. “It was just—glowing a little—”
“I was contemplating the vicissitudes of time,” murmured Miss Ellington, burying the watch in her pocket and gazing thoughtfully at a slit-open envelope on the table.
“OK, sure, right,” said Oscar. “The vicissitudes of time. That makes sense. I guess a lot of people contemplate the vicissitudes of time. I might even do it myself once in a while. By the way, what’s a vicissitude?”
“An unforeseen change,” said Miss Ellington, pulling the watch from her pocket. She seemed to forget about Oscar as she studied the old watch, and in the expanding silence, he blew on his hot chocolate, kicking up a cloud of mothball-scented steam. He sneezed.
“Are you all right, Miss Ellington?” asked Oscar.
“I will be, Oscar,” said Miss Ellington quietly. “Thank you for asking.”
Outside, the sound of the heavy engine returned. It idled for a moment in front of Miss Ellington’s house and rumbled into silence. Then a car door slammed. Heavy footfalls thudded up Miss Ellington’s walk. A knock thundered against her door. Miss Ellington tottered down the wooden hallway to peek through the lace curtain in the window.
“Oscar,” she said, turning back quickly. “Actually, I would like you to have this watch.” She pitched it to him. Usually, when people threw things at Oscar, his brain short-circuited and he dropped them. But the toss took him by surprise. He didn’t have time to think. So he caught it.
The banging on the door continued.
“But you just told me not to touch it,” Oscar pointed out.
“But now I’m telling you to take it,” said Miss Ellington.
“But—” began Oscar.
“Just take the watch and vamoose,” hissed Miss Ellington. “Through the back door. Consider it a token of appreciation for helping in my garden.”
“I don’t have to finish the hot chocolate?” asked Oscar.
“No!” whispered Miss Ellington.
“All right!” said Oscar on behalf of his taste buds. As he made his way down the back steps, he happened to peek over his shoulder, down the hallway, a
s Miss Ellington opened her door to reveal two men wearing black suits. One was as big as a restaurant refrigerator, the other sized like a fifth grader. A colossal black car gleamed behind them at the curb. The sight of them made him shiver, and he paused, but behind her back, Miss Ellington shooed him with her left hand, as if, whatever was about to happen, she wanted him and the watch to play no part.
The World Atomic Clock
And that’s how Oscar ended up with the watch that stopped time.
For the rest of the afternoon, he couldn’t stop staring at it. Distractedly, he tried to watch a Phillies game on TV but couldn’t concentrate. Briefly, he dangled a string in front of Dr. Soul, who pretended not to notice. He managed to bat a few balls off his tee but lost interest. Then he attempted to take a nap. But he kept coming back to the watch.
Strangely, there didn’t seem to be any way to wind this watch, although a giant red button protruded from the top. Oscar felt tempted to mash the button, but somehow, every time he put his thumb on it, he experienced a tingle of anxiety along his spine, so he took his thumb back off.
Once, Dr. Soul leaped onto Oscar’s lap for a look, but as soon as he landed, he laid his ears back, spit, and leaped back down to crouch on the kitchen floor under Oscar’s chair.
The watch, despite its mysterious origins and antique facade, kept perfect time. Oscar had compared it to the web page of the World Atomic Clock on six different occasions and always found it smack on the money.
On its back appeared a pattern of fierce swirls, which, when Oscar squinted and held his eye about five inches away, turned out to be lines of poetry, snippets of song, and words of wisdom written in minuscule letters, eddying in the gold:
. . . lost time is never found . . . there’s no time like the present . . . time is an asterisk . . . it was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . a stitch in time saves nine . . . times are tough all over . . . may you live in interesting times . . .