Clockwise

After law school, Neal landed a job with Taylor, Rose & Walker, a major Dallas law firm, in mergers and acquisitions. Dorothy Rose, the firm’s queen-in-training and youngest daughter of Amos Rose, one of the firm’s founders, commandeered the division. At the age of twenty-eight, Dorothy was only three years older than Neal, but she was on his case from day one. Neal was an excellent researcher and writer, but nothing was good enough for Dorothy. She was on her way up to partner and her claw-marks were on the backs of every lawyer in her group. Smokeball, the firm’s management software, tracked Neal’s every working moment in six-minute segments, tenths of an hour. 

At 9:00 a.m. on a Monday in mid-January, Neal sat in his cubical tapping out a document on the keyboard when someone touched his shoulder. He pulled off his sound-blocking headphones, rotated his chair, and came face to face with the diminutive Dorothy, his eyes almost level with hers even though he was still sitting. She wore an asparagus-green, tie-waist dress and oversized, black-rimmed glasses, achieving a look that Neal found comical.

“You’ve only logged seven-tenths of an hour today, Neal.” Her high-pitched voice almost shrill enough to break glass. 

“Good morning, Ms. Rose,” he said. “I started at eight and spent the first eighteen minutes reading the daily office memorandums as you’ve instructed.”

She pointed to the company ID/key card hanging around his neck and said, “You have 24/7 access to the office, you know.”

“Yes, I know that, Ms. Rose.”

She left quickly and before he turned back around, Neal heard her at the next cubical. “Only half an hour, Rachel?”

Neal slipped on his headphones and reentered the tragic realm of Mahler’s Symphony No 3. He’d been lucky to get into law school at UT Austin, ranked 15th in the nation. Though Neal hadn’t felt pressure to attend law school, his father was an attorney in Houston and so was his big brother. Maybe it was something in the water.

On his first day at Taylor, Rose & Walker, Neal started churning out billable hours while Smokeball faithfully tracked his minutes. Attorneys were expected to log a minimum of 2,100 billable hours a year. Neal was averaging sixty-two hours a week through his first few months and was on-target for billable hours, but work was crowding just about everything else out of his life. He worked late some nights and logged a few hours most Saturdays and Sundays too. Between Dorothy and Smokeball, he felt like a most-wanted criminal with the law closing in on all sides. To make matters worse, the harried nature of his job spilled over to home life where he didn’t seem to have enough time to keep up.

Like many young, two-income couples starting out, Neal and his wife Susan, kept a tight rein on their expenses, saving every dollar they could for a down payment on their first home. Susan worked as an ICU nurse at Baylor Hospital and took extra shifts whenever she could. In spite of 12-hour shifts and overtime, plus her share of housework and cooking, she managed to do things with girlfriends regularly and keep up her vintage clothing hobby, while Neal rarely made time to do things for himself. 

Six months into the job, at the weekly meeting of the mergers and acquisitions staff, Neal sat in the back row of a small auditorium half-listening to Dorothy talk about who-knows-what, when the word ‘generations’ got stuck in his mind. Could have been something Dorothy said, he didn’t know. Glancing at his phone, he noticed that four-tenths of an hour had passed since her sharp voice began piercing the air unmercifully. Measuring time in tenths had become instinctual. Shifting to his right a bit, he tried to make sure his face was not visible to Dorothy, and closed his eyes. Memories of the summer he turned ten drifted up from somewhere. His mother let him and his younger sister stay the whole month of July with their maternal grandmother, Mama Lou. 

The oldest thing in Neal and Susan’s two-bedroom apartment was an ornate mantel clock with a brass key to wind the two springs — one for time-keeping, the other for the chimes. It was a prized and carefully-tended family heirloom, passed down from Mama Lou — who had died when he was in high school — to his mother, and now to him. For Neal, it was a reminder of love and times with Mama Lou who kept it wound and dusted all those years. The chimes quit working after she passed.

At home that evening Neal asked Susan, “You know where Mama Lou’s clock is?” 

“It’s in the attic storage, I think. You planning on getting it fixed?” 

“Yeah. If I can find the time.”

“Good one,” she smiled and tweaked his ear lobe playfully. “If you don’t get it fixed soon, you may forget about it and someday we’ll be wrinkled and gray and looking around the attic asking each other whatever happened to that antique clock?” 

“You’re right. But since we’re saving for the house, I hate to spend money on optional things.”

“Remember my card from Christmas?” Susan smiled. 

“Yep. Still got it.” He kissed her cheek. “Okay. I’ll ask about a repair shop at work tomorrow.”

That evening he pulled her card from his rolltop desk. 

Dear Neal,

     I want you to spend this on something for yourself. 

     Go ahead and splurge, big man! 

                                                            Love, Susan

Two crisp, fifty-dollar bills rested inside the card: Ulysses S. Grant looking sharp on one side, the U.S. Capitol on the other. He remembered the clock ticking on the mantel in Mama Lou’s living room, chiming the hour, and once on the half-hours.

He found the storage box, removed the clock, and opened the round glass face. He pictured his grandmother with long, gray-white hair pinned up neatly behind her head, winding the clock. Neal inserted the brass key, wound the mainspring, and pushed the pendulum. It stopped, so he pushed it again. It was no use; the clock didn’t keep time anymore. Sadness welled up in his chest. Neal and his sister visited Mama Lou the day she died. She’d seemed fine, but that night his mother got the call.

The newest lawyers in mergers and acquisitions, the pawns of the game, officed on the seventeenth floor of a 1940s stone building rented by Taylor, Rose & Walker for its growing collection of young players. Down the hallway from Neil was a non-descript office of the Dallas Police Department where his friend Sergeant Gray, a mustachioed, pipe-smoking investigator, worked. They’d met on the elevator one day and taken a liking to each other. 

On Monday, Neal took a short break from his work and popped into Gray’s office. 

“Morning, Sergeant.” Neal gave a faux salute.

“That’s cute, buddy, but this ain’t the Army.”  

“You know anybody who fixes old clocks?”

“Wheeler,” Gray replied without hesitation. “I’ve heard he’s a master craftsman — a tad odd — one of a kind, for sure.” There was a glimmer in his jet black eyes. 

Gray was an odd sort of fellow himself with a rather unusual job. Instead of solving crimes, he worked alone, investigating police officers for Internal Affairs. He preferred Dockers and bow ties and wore his police uniform only to funerals. Sketching caricatures was his hobby. Give him a scrap of paper and a pencil, and he’d capture the essence of anyone in under three minutes. Gray’s caricature of Neal was pinned on Susan’s letter desk at home. 

1st Visit to Wheeler’s

At lunchtime the next day, Neal took Mama Lou’s clock in its storage box and walked to the address Sergeant Gray had given him. It was a cloudy January day with a chilly wind that poured down the skyscrapers whipping the few pedestrians on the sidewalks. Wheeler’s workshop was buried in the basement of a tired four-story office building on South Ervay Street, next to the new City Hall under construction. Entering the deserted lobby, Neal faced a row of three elevators. The middle one was open, so he stepped in and pushed the B button on the tarnished brass panel. The elevator car was small and smelled of the dark wood paneling. He half expected to find an elderly gentleman sitting on a stool just inside the door to close the grate and operate the buttons. When the door closed, the street sounds were shut off suddenly and the car traveled one floor down and stopped with a jolt. He got off and the elevator door closed behind. 

At first it appeared he was in a closed room, then he saw an unlabeled door to his left. He opened it and discovered a narrow stairway leading down. Using his feet to hold the door open, he swung himself and the cardboard box around the door and onto the top of the stairs.

A single dusty bulb lit the flight of steps. At the bottom, another door led to an interior hallway, also dimly lit. He followed it until he came to an olive green door at the end of the hallway, door trim covered in dust. A small, fixed sign at eye level read: R. A. Wheeler – Watchmaker in bold black letters. He knocked on the door and there was no answer so he knocked more forcefully. Still no answer. He put his ear to the door and heard faint sounds within, so he turned the worn gray knob, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. 

The room Neal entered looked like a movie set of an earlier era. The floor was rough, unpainted wood, turned gray by use and age. Wooden cabinets covered the walls. Near the door was a board with rows of cup hooks holding a couple dozen pocket-watches and wristwatches, each tied to a small paper name tag with common white string. Drawers on many of the cabinets were left open. The drawers were divided into small compartments filled with timepiece parts: gears smaller than a fingernail and some as big as an outstretched hand, and spiral springs, watch cases, clock dials and hands. Other compartments held pendulum weights, wheels, screws, wind-up keys, and wrought pieces that ornamented the clocks. 

The room smelled of dust, old wood, ground metal and oil, with a hint of fresh paint, though the room itself had surely not been painted in decades. Wheeler’s underground shop was sequestered from all signs and sounds of the outside world — a step outside of time. 

Three long workbenches filled the middle of the room, flexible metal arm lights mounted at the ends. Each bench was covered with parts, small gears and springs, hundreds of pieces on each counter. Dozens of hand tools, tweezers, screwdrivers, files and a variety of pliers hung from hooks. Vices were clamped on both ends of a lathe bench and an assortment of small hammers was scattered about. On the upper shelves stood rows of empty clock cases, covered with dust. Nothing Neal saw remotely resembled a finished, working clock.

“Anybody here?” Neal called out. 

After a shuffle of leather shoes, a tall, thin fellow, probably in his seventies, came out from an inner room wearing old-fashioned blue jean bib overalls. Neal watched his slow, precise, mechanical steps as he neared the front counter looking intently at a part he held close to his face with long, bony fingers. He wore a short-brimmed, black visor cap that kept his long gray hair out of his face and his bald top exposed. His thick glasses had a tiny metal arm clipped to the temple holding two round magnifying lenses. Wheeler didn’t appear to notice Neal’s presence. His square jaw and angular face was set in concentration, and he’d not said a word. Neal was beginning to understand why Sergeant Gray had an impish look on his face when he made the referral. 

Neal opened his cardboard box, pulled out his clock and set it on the counter in front of Wheeler. 

“It belonged to my grandmother, and my mother gave it to me when I got married. Can you fix it?” 

Wheeler was still examining the tiny gear in his hands.

“It doesn’t tick and the chimes don’t work either.”

Wheeler put down the gear he’d been fiddling with and opened the metal cover on the back of Mama Lou’s clock. Looking inside, he removed the pendulum weight, not having uttered a word. He opened the circular glass face and checked the tiny gold hinges, examined the underside of the casing, the scrolled feet, and the lion’s heads with brass rings in their mouths. Then he set the clock back on the counter, stood back a bit and removed his wire-rimmed glasses. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he thoroughly cleaned one lens, then the other. Next he cleaned each of the magnifying lenses.

“Can you fix it?” Neal asked, glancing at his own wristwatch. He needed to be back at the office by 1:00 p.m. 

Wheeler put his glasses on, crossed his arms, and without looking up said gruffly, “I don’t fix clocks.” 

Neal was taken aback. “But Sergeant Gray told me you’re the best.”  

Wheeler looked up and Neal got his first glimpse of his black eyes, appearing smaller through the thick lenses. “Ah, Sergeant Gray? How do you know him?” 

Neal shifted back half a step. “Our offices are in the same building.”

Wheeler scratched his chin, unshaven for a couple of days, and looked Neal over carefully, similar to the way he examined the clock.

“I restore clocks. I don’t fix ’em. No point in fixing a single problem. When I take a job, I restore it as close to original as possible.” 

Wheeler stared at Mama Lou’s clock as if he was in a trance and said nothing more. Neal waited through a period of quiet. An old man in no hurry. 

Wheeler cleared his throat and explained that if Neal left the clock he would take it completely apart, clean all the parts, replace or repair what was needed, and put it all back together again. He would also refinish the wood casing and repaint the gold etchings. When he was done it would look and work like it did when first purchased. 

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it,” Wheeler said, tucking his hands into his overall pockets. 

“I was hoping you could just make it keep time.” 

Wheeler said nothing, picked up a watch on the front counter, and scrutinized it. There was not going to be any negotiation. Neal wanted to hear the chimes, and he knew he would keep his grandmother’s clock the rest of his life. Perhaps it would go on to a younger member of the family someday. 

“How much will it cost if you restore it?” Neal asked.

Wheeler put the watch down, his hand moved to his chin again, and he looked at Mama Lou’s clock for a moment. “A hundred and fifteen and I can’t start work on it right away.” He glanced at the cabinets filled with dusty clock cases. It seemed to Neal like enough work for a few years. He had hoped to spend less, but he did have the cash Susan had given him for Christmas. 

“Okay, deal,” Neal said.

Wheeler filled out a half-sheet form, the kind with carbon paper between the customer and company copies, handed the top sheet to Neal, and immediately picked up the gear he was working on when Neal arrived. 

“When do you think it’ll be finished?” Neal asked as Wheeler walked back into his shop. 

“You can check with me in a month,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the second room. 

A month! Damn that’s a long wait! 

Neal looked at the rows of clock cases on the shelves. There must have been at least fifty. Mama Lou’s clock sat on the counter next to the form pad. He shook his head and turned to leave. 

Wheeler takes all the time he needs.

Neal shut the shop door behind and he noticed a door to his right that had the letter P written in chalk about eye level. The door was identical to Wheeler’s with the exception of the knob. The knob on door P was a rusty gold, and there was a thread of a spider’s web across the frame. The knob on Wheeler’s door was a worn gray.

As he walked along the basement hallway leaving the world of Wheeler, he felt as if he was returning to the present, one step at a time, like a time traveler coming back home on foot. The middle elevator door stood open and up one floor the lobby was empty. When he reached the street, the sounds of the city, the whipping wind, and people on the sidewalks all seemed unfamiliar. He walked toward the tall buildings in the city center and after a few blocks he turned right by instinct, not thinking about where he was headed. Two blocks later he turned left on Harwood and found himself in front of his office building, gray marble stretching seventeen stories into the sky. 

Traveling in the elevator, the anxious feeling that pervaded his workdays and weekends returned, and his heart raced against the clock. 

By 6:00 p.m., he had logged five more billable hours on the Martex-Weber merger, then texted Susan. 

I’m bringing takeout home tonight -- Everything pizza from Georgios sound good? A few seconds later his cell phone buzzed with her reply. 

You know the way to my heart, big boy! 

On the short ride home he thought about his job. 

Attorney at prestigious law firm. Pays well. Saving serious bucks for the house. 

His hard-driving persona rationalized the long, intense hours, though they left him drained. As he turned off the main drag into their residential area, he noticed a group of teenage guys playing basketball on an outdoor court in the last of the daylight, and he longed for space in his life to play like his college days. My work’s just clockwork, his rational mind thought. Who am I kidding?

2nd Visit to Wheeler’s

A month later, as Neal was about to leave for work, Susan asked, “How’s Mama Lou’s clock coming along?” 

He thought about Smokeball tracking his work in six-minute segments, like a grinch sitting on his shoulder. “Haven’t had time to check on it.”

“I guess when it’s important, you’ll make the time.” She smiled. 

At lunch hour he returned to check on his clock, looking forward to the calming effect of Wheeler’s world. The lobby was deserted and the middle elevator door stood open just like before. The elevator car squeaked and came to a jolting halt. He walked down the dim stairs and then the long hallway. As he neared Wheeler’s door, he felt his heartbeat slow and concerns of the day slipped from his attention like magic. 

Inside Wheeler’s workshop, the sounds of ticking clocks filled Neal’s head, and he was surrounded by clock parts and countless tools. Everything in Wheeler’s world was about timepieces, a realm of minute detail. 

“Mr. Wheeler?” he called out. In a minute Wheeler emerged from deep in the shop wearing the same blue jean overalls. “Came to check on my clock.” 

Wheeler looked up, appearing not to recognize him, so Neal unfolded his receipt on the counter. Wheeler thought for a moment and rubbed the gray stubble on his square chin.

“I’ve started on it,” he said as he turned and walked back into the shop. 

At first Neal hesitated, then he followed. Wheeler stopped in the second room and pointed to a counter covered with piles of clock parts. Each pile of gears, springs, and brackets was held together by a piece of common white string tied in a loop. There was no label on the particular string Wheeler pointed to and Neal wondered if Mama Lou’s clock might ever be put back together again. 

“The parts are okay,” Wheeler said. “Won’t have to make any new ones. Next step is to clean ’em up.”

“Is it antique?” 

Wheeler didn’t reply. 

“Is it valuable?” Neal asked louder, assuming the old fellow was hard of hearing. 

After a pause, Wheeler said, “What you’ve got here is a Seth Thomas 8-Day clock.” He tucked his hands in his pockets.

“And?” Neal asked. 

“It’s a very common clock. Probably about three dollars. First patented in 1896. Yours is in pretty good shape, but certainly not rare.” 

“You mean it sold for three dollars in its day?” 

“Yep.”

“What’s it worth today, do you think?” 

Wheeler held his chin between his thumb and forefinger and stared at the counter. Neal waited. 

“Oh, I guess about five hundred dollars — fully restored,” he replied. Neal wondered if Wheeler really cared what clocks were worth in terms of dollars, but there was no doubt that he was absolutely devoted to their care. 

“Did you say your clock belonged to your grandmother?” Wheeler asked.

His comment took Neal by surprise because Wheeler’s sole interest had seemed to be clocks and watches … not people. 

“Yep. When my sister and I were kids, Mom let us stay with her in the summers. Wonderful lady.”  

“Where’d she live?” 

“Central Mississippi, little place named Durant, on the railroad line running north from Jackson to Memphis. Neal grinned. “She’d fix whatever we wanted for breakfast.” 

Wheeler chuckled and scratched his chin. “You ever wonder if your ancestors are watching what you’re doing?”

“Yes, sometimes.” Neal smiled. “I wonder if she knows you’re fixing her clock?” 

“I bet so.” He looked at the string of parts. “I bet so.” 

Wheeler glanced at the wall of clocks and grinned. “Well, I better get back at it. Wouldn’t want to delay the future.” 

Neal laughed. “When do you think you’ll have it ready?” 

A momentary smile came to the corners of Wheeler’s mouth. “Check back in a month.” He turned and walked back to a third room in the rear of his shop.

Neal let himself out, just like the first visit. Two trips to Wheeler’s on busy workdays and he’d not seen a single person in the building except Wheeler. 

Wonder if he’s got the place to himself? 

When he left the shop, door P caught his attention again. 

What in the world is behind there? 

The spider web was gone. 

Maybe someone cleaned the hallway, he considered, though that didn’t seem likely. 

As he walked down the hallway, up the stairs to the empty room, and onto the elevator, he realized he’d not only come to see if his clock was done, he had wanted to slow down to Wheeler’s pace again. He relished the breaks from the pressure of his life. There was something mesmerizing, almost mystical, about being in the master craftsman’s shop. He glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was 12:45 p.m., and hurried back to the office.

Dorothy was sitting in his chair. She touched his keyboard and the Smokeball page popped up. “Time keeps marching on.” She rolled her eyes at Neal and left, and he got back to work on the CanEx acquisition. 

As the couple settled into bed that night, Susan asked Neal, “When’s Wheeler going to finish your clock?” 

“Don’t know,” he leaned back on the pillows, took a deep breath, and looked in her face. “Seems to be taking his time.” 

“That’s clever, honey,” she flashed a seductive smile. “But I’m on to you.” 

3rd Visit to Wheeler’s

March brought an ice storm that crippled the city, so Neal took the bus to work. Nothing stopped the buses. His co-workers used vacation days, so he worked alone. He had difficulty with research through LexisNexis because Internet service kept dropping off. At 9:00 a.m. his desk phone rang. It was Dorothy checking up on him. 

What’s she trying to prove? 

The next day the sidewalks were cleared of ice, so Neal returned to Wheeler’s. He waited in the lobby for a few minutes to see if anyone else entered or exited, and no one did. When he opened the shop door, Wheeler was standing at the sales counter looking at a small tray of parts from a disassembled pocket watch. 

Neal looked closely and asked, “What are those two long pieces?”

“Stems.” Wheeler grabbed one with a pair of tweezers and held it up in the light. “This one winds the mainspring, the other sets the hands.” 

“How do you keep up with all those tiny parts?” 

Wheeler looked up but didn’t answer Neal’s question. Instead he said, “Got your clock parts cleaned up, but I still need to put it back together.” He picked up a fancy watch. “Wanna see what I’ve got here?” 

“Sure.” Neal leaned on the counter.

“1933 Rolex Art Deco. Gold. Very rare,” he said in a reverent tone, grinning with pride. 

“What’s it worth, ya think?” 

“Oh, I dunno, about ten grand, I’d guess.”  

“Wow!” 

Neal had given up hope that Mama Lou’s clock would be finished anytime soon, but time didn’t seem to matter to him quite so much anymore. He appreciated the old man more with each visit. Wheeler loved clocks and watches. He made them tick, and they made him tick.

“Shall I check back in a month?” Neal asked and Wheeler nodded. “One more question for you. What’s behind door P?”

“What?” Wheeler asked, looking up, the thick lenses obscuring his eyes. 

“The door on the right.” Neal pointed. “Door P.”

“Oh, that’s the place for people who look to the past.” 

“What?” 

“Past,” Wheeler said loudly. “A door to the past.” He looked at Neal as though it was not an unusual thing to say.

“Have you been in there?”

“Oh no, I’ve been here. I’ve always been here.” 

Neal wanted to ask more, but Wheeler’s telephone rang and he picked up the heavy black handset. 

Wow, still using a rotary phone! 

As Wheeler listened to the voice on the other end he waved goodbye to Neal. 

What a weird bird. 

Neal had never met a person so single-minded. He relished leaving his legal research and writing behind and slipping into Wheeler’s world: a place outside of the present, almost. 

He stepped into the hallway and shut the heavy shop door. For a second he thought he heard the rumble of train wheels coming from behind door P and the hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He put his ear to the door and all was quiet. He tried the knob, but it was locked. Then he remembered the 2:00 p.m. meeting with Dorothy and hurried back to work.

Neal met Susan at their apartment door when she got home from work that evening. 

“I’m thinking Red Apple,” Neal said. 

“Okay, I’ll get changed.” 

“Come on, Babe. Let’s go. You look great in blue scrubs!” 

She rolled her eyes and he took her in his arms and swung her out the front door. “I’m buying.” 

The Red Apple was their favorite place for Chinese food. Susan talked about some of the patients she had seen that day, a code-blue that turned out to be a faulty heart monitor, and a funny story about an ICU physician who misplaced his glasses, but insisted he was fine without them. When she finished the story, the waiter brought sweet and sour pork for her and shrimp with broccoli for him. 

After a few bites, she smiled and said, “Tell me all about your day, you hard-working man.”

“It was one of those days when I just couldn’t catch up.” 

“Boss lady dogging you again?” 

“Yep. You can’t do enough to satisfy Dorothy! She was whining again today about billable hours. Frigging relentless!”

Susan looked in Neal’s eyes, licked her lips, and then stuck her fork in a chunk of pineapple. After dipping it in sauce, she held it up in front of his mouth and said, “Open wide.” 

He chewed the tasty bite and looked in her calm, blue eyes. 

“You’ve already given Dorothy your day,” she said. “Why give her your evening too?”

One morning before work near the end of April, Susan asked, “Have you checked with Wheeler lately?”

“No. Dorothy’s on my ass because I’m short on billables for the month.” He picked up his briefcase and sack lunch to leave. 

“Nothing’s a waste of time if you use the experience wisely,” she said, and blew him a kiss as he stepped out their front door. 

He was jealous of her ability to keep an enlightened perspective through the rough and tumble of life. 

Surely being an ICU nurse is stressful too. 

4th Visit to Wheeler’s

At noon that day, Neal paused his work on the Tevlar-Armand merger docs and went to Wheeler’s. He was growing fond of the elderly fellow and enjoying the visits a good deal. Neal let himself in and found Wheeler leaning over a work bench with his back to the counter.

“It’s me, Neal.”

“Hey. I got your clock back together,” Wheeler said without looking up. “Just need to adjust it.” 

“How’s the Rolex coming along?”

Wheeler put down what he was doing, turned to the front counter, opened a drawer, and took out the gold watch. “It’s finished.” 

“Bee-uuu-tee-full!”

Wheeler smiled broadly and slipped the watch back in the drawer. 

“When do you think my clock …” 

“No need to get hung up about time,” Wheeler interrupted, suddenly sounding irritated. “It’ll be ready when it’s ready!”

Neal stepped back from the counter, surprised at Wheeler’s tone. 

“Okay, I’ll be back in a month.”

He left quickly and closed Wheeler’s door behind. 

“You didn’t have to be so gruff, old man,” he said to the empty hallway. 

Thinking he heard train sounds again, he put his ear to door P, but heard nothing. He studied the door closely, put his hand on the rusty gold knob, and started to turn it. 

What are you doing? a voice came from behind. 

He looked around but the hallway was vacant. 

Better get back to work, Neal, the voice came again. 

Unnerved, he hurried down the dim hallway, up the stairs, and onto the waiting elevator. 

A cool breeze hit him as he stepped through the double doors back into the busy world of Dallas. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and stepped onto the sidewalk. Suddenly a man with scraggly, gray hair bumped into him.

“Hey man, watch where you’re going!” the man said near Neal’s face. 

His yellow teeth showed, his breath smelled foul, and there was a scar above his left eye. He wore a faded baseball cap and dirty, burgundy-colored pants held up with a piece of grass rope. 

“Think you ownnnn the sidewalk?” The homeless man said, then turned and stumbled off. A few steps away, he spun around, pulled off his cap and waved it at Neal like they were old friends. “Catch ya some other time.” 

Neal watched until the man turned out of sight at the corner of Live Oak Street. The encounter, though brief, added to the uneasiness he felt from the strange hallway voice and Wheeler’s abruptness. 

Back at his building, Neal stopped to visit with Sergeant Gray who was sitting at his desk. Several old phone books lay open and he was writing notes on a clipboard.

“What are you up to?” Neal asked.

“You know I can’t tell you what I’m working on, buddy,” he smiled. “You look agitated.” 

“Yeah. Had a little run-in with a homeless man. And Wheeler was a bit rude today.”

“You’ve got to learn to let that stuff slide, man.” Gray opened his lap drawer, pulled out a half sheet of paper and slid it across the desktop. Neal looked at it. It was a perfect sketch of the homeless man from Ervay Street, rope belt and all. 

“You know him?” Neal asked, surprised.  

“He’s been there forever.” Gray propped his feet on the windowsill and pulled out a pipe. “Times change. People don’t.” 

5th Visit to Wheeler’s

Neal’s fifth visit was on the last Friday of May and he’d still not seen another soul in the building. Wheeler was standing behind the front counter in his bib overalls when Neal opened the door. 

“Your clock’s ready.” 

Pleasantly surprised, Neal waited while Wheeler disappeared deep in his shop. Shortly, he returned and placed the Seth Thomas on the counter. Neal’s mouth dropped open. Mama Lou’s clock had never looked finer! The gold dial was polished, the black numerals and minute marks painted black — all the metal parts gleamed. The tiny, engraved scrollwork on the casing was painted gold. The lion heads were no longer tarnished and the gold rings in their mouths moved freely. 

Wheeler opened the back, gave the pendulum weight a push, and it began keeping time. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. He pushed the minute hand to shortly before three and a minute later — Dong — Dong — Dong. The third chime echoed through the shop and Wheeler’s face beamed. 

Sergeant Gray’s right. Wheeler’s not fast, but he’s the perfect craftsman to bring new life to Mama Lou’s clock. 

He imagined his grandmother looking down on the scene as Wheeler turned the case over to show Neal. On the bottom he had marked his initials and the restoration date in heavy black pencil: RAW 5-2019.

Wheeler fiddled with the paperwork and then glanced up at Neal, who was smiling.

“Check or cash?” he asked. 

“Cash.” Neal handed him two crisp fifty-dollar bills plus a twenty and shook Wheeler’s hand. “Keep the change.” 

Wheeler took his glasses off, looked Neal in the eyes and said, “See you next time.” 

The sight of Wheeler’s jet black eyes startled Neal and he didn’t know what to say, so he gave Wheeler a thumbs up, picked up the box, and turned to leave. After closing the shop door he stood still in the hallway. Wheeler’s choice of words puzzled him, and he realized it was the only occasion when Wheeler had said anything at all when he left. He felt a tinge of regret as he realized there would be no more visits to Wheeler’s world. 

Last chance to see what’s behind door P, the hallway voice said. 

Neal looked around, reached for the rusty gold doorknob, then drew his hand back, and looked down the hallway once again. Empty, as always.

The knob was stiff, but it popped and the door opened with a creak. He pushed the door in and stepped cautiously forward into a pitch black space holding one arm out in front, the other clutching his box. He smelled smoke and heard sounds of rolling carts and people talking. 

A door to the past? 

His heart beat fast and his eyes stung. A few short steps toward dim lights flickering in the distance, he almost dropped his box when he stumbled upon a cart packed with leather suitcases and wooden chests bound with leather straps. Frightened, Neal turned and ran back to the wall. He passed his free hand along the wall searching for door P but found no seams. Breathless, he set the box down and covered his eyes with his hands. His heart pounded like he’d been playing full-court basketball. After more searching, and finding no doors, he picked up his box and looked toward the lights. 

This is freaking real! he thought.

Neal stood motionless as his eyes adjusted. 

You wanted to find out, didn’t you? the hallway voice spoke. 

Neal stepped tentatively along the rough wooden platform, past the cart he’d almost tripped over, moving toward the sounds of voices. 

“Hey mister. Want a shine?” 

Startled, he looked down at a boy no older than ten, dressed in bulky pants, a cream-colored shirt, and a brown coat that was far too big. 

“What ya staring at, Mister? Do you want a shine or not?”

Neal rubbed his eyes and opened them again. 

Where the hell am I? 

“I’ll give ya the best shine those browns have ever seen,” the boy said pointing at Neal’s shoes. 

“My shoes are suede. They don’t take polish.” 

“What’d you say? You seem confused Mister. Sure you’re okay?” 

Neal looked down and saw that he was wearing a pair of dark brown leather shoes and a suit of clothes that was not what he had on when he left Wheeler’s. The boy nudged him toward a raised wooden chair. 

“I’ll take your box,” he said. 

Neal looked puzzled. The boy pointed and Neal looked at the box under his arm. 

“Careful, that’s my grandmother’s clock.”

The boy took the box and set it carefully on the platform beside him. 

“Okay, now put them shoes up here, Mister.” 

The boy pulled a well-worn brush from the open wooden box he was sitting on and got going fast cleaning up Neal’s shoes. As he cleaned, polished and buffed, Neal watched men rolling bag carts and cargo boxes in and out of the station, and a line of people forming by a set of steps leading up to a passenger car. Yellow electric lamps lit the train station platform through the haze of smoke and fog. A growing rumble filled the station, and the platform vibrated. 

“You feelin’ better now, Mister?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Neal replied, unable to shake his attention from the sights, smells, and sounds of an era well before his own. His stomach was queasy and head wobbly. 

Where am I? 

A locomotive approached the station, bells clanging and pistons slowing until it came to a noisy halt. Steam hissed and spewed from the sides of the engine, spread among the workers on the platform and rose into the foggy evening sky. 

“That’ll be two bits, Mister.” 

“What?” 

“Twenty-five cents,” the boy replied. “You sure you’re okay?”

Neal shook his head to see if that would clear the fog in his mind, then looked again in wonder at the clothes he was wearing. He felt a lump in his topcoat pocket and pulled out a palm-sized, zippered pouch. Inside he found a 1906 half-dollar coin and handed it to the boy. The boy offered a quarter to Neal, who waved him off.  

“Keep the change, son.”

“Thanks a lot, Mister! That might be your train. Where you headed?” 

“Nowhere that I know of.” 

“Then what’s that ticket doin’ in your pocket?” 

Neal looked down at a paper ticket tucked in his vest. 

I don’t own a vest, he thought.

He looked at the ticket: May 25, 1908, Departing 8:30 p.m. for Jackson, Mississippi.

“Guess I’m going to Jackson.” 

“You look pale.” The boy tilted his head. “Are you sick?” 

Neal walked slowly toward the waiting train, dazed and disoriented. 

Where’d the ticket come from? 

He felt a tug on his coat sleeve and turned to look. The boy had caught up with him.

“You left this, Mister,” he said, holding out the box. 

Neal took it and thanked him. 

“Think nothin’ of it, Mister. And thanks for the tip.” 

Should I board?

Neal got in line. 

“Have a good time,” he heard from behind. 

He turned around, but the boy had disappeared in the milling crowd of passengers and workmen on the platform, all dressed in clothes from a bygone era. 

Feels like I’m an extra in a movie. 

Neal stood adrift in the sea of strangers who were surely all dead before he was born. 

Is everyone playing along? 

His mind flickered back and forth. 

Real? Dream? Real? Dream? 

When he got to the front of the line, he showed his ticket to the conductor, a middle-aged fellow with graying hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. The conductor’s eyes met his and a curious sense of reassurance flowed through Neal’s body. 

“I’ll take your ticket on board when we get started, Sir,” he said to Neal. “Pick any seat you like. We’ll be departing in a few minutes.”

The large, double-back wooden seats divided by a wide middle aisle reminded him of a train museum he’d visited in Cincinnati. He felt disoriented and didn’t want to talk to anyone, so he passed through the car, half-filled with passengers, and chose a seat by the window looking forward in the next car. He glanced at his ticket: May 25, 1908, Departing 8:30 p.m. for Jackson, Mississippi, and his mind spun around. 

Is this really happening? 

A group of ladies a few rows behind were engaged in a lively conversation, but to Neal it was all a muddle of unconnected words. He was thankful that nobody took the seat facing him because he needed to sort things out. 

The engine roared and the whistle blew twice. A series of metallic clanks rattled the train, the sound of couplers between cars taking up the strain. The train lurched forward and snapped his head backward; the box sat beside him. He shut his eyes and hoped that when he opened them he’d be back in Wheeler’s hallway and on his way home to Susan. The rocking train and memory of the ticking clocks calmed his confusion, and Wheeler’s words ‘that’s the place for people who look to the past’ rolled through his head. 

Maybe that’s what I want to do: escape the rat race. 

He drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, the train was still speeding headlong into the night. In the dim light of the single overhead bulb he realized he was the car’s only passenger. Shutting his eyes again, the memory of the ticking clocks in Wheeler’s shop calmed him and he fell asleep again.

“May I sit here?” a woman’s voice startled Neal as it cut through the unbroken rumble of the rolling train. “Oh, I didn’t mean to bother you. I just don’t want to sit alone.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” he motioned his hand to the facing seat.

A short woman in a long, black dress sat down across from him and placed her black leather purse on her lap. A gray, crocheted shawl was draped over her head and across her narrow shoulders. Her eyes reflected the overhead light for an instant. 

“My name is Neal,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Miss Middleton.” She turned toward the window and pulled the shawl close around her face, and he settled back into his world of ticking clocks.

A few minutes later the train slowed as it rolled through a station and the platform lights brightened the car’s interior to a degree, but not enough to reveal Miss Middleton’s face through the shawl. She turned toward the window again and he closed his eyes hoping to slip back to Wheeler’s world. He felt his heart slowing.

“Tell me, Mr. Neal.” Miss Middleton had turned back toward him. 

“Tell you what?” 

She took a deep breath, looked through her shawl, and spoke slowly, “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Her question rattled through his jumbled mind and he rested his head against the wooden seatback as the train left the station, sliding back into the darkness. 

“We are in no hurry,” she said. 

He opened his eyes and glanced around as if trying to find an answer among the empty wooden benches.

“I’m always in a hurry,” he confessed with a sigh. 

“You look worried,” she said calmly.

“I’m always behind at work. I have deadlines every day.” 

She folded her hands on her lap. He looked out the window again and then at the box on the seat beside him.

Miss Middleton took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So it is a question of time,” she said in a quiet, unhurried pace. 

How odd. She seems familiar.

“Exactly,” he massaged the back of his neck. 

Neal tried to see her eyes, but they were still obscured by the gray shawl. 

“If there was a day when everybody else stopped,” he said, “I could get caught up and be on top of things for a change.”

She held her hands out with the palms up and waved them slowly side to side. His eyes followed the movement of her hands. 

“It is not possible, is it, Mr. Neal,” she said, pausing before continuing, “To make everyone else stop.” 

“No, of course not.” 

She turned toward the window. “Look out here with me, Mr. Neal. See what you can see.” She stared into the night. 

At first Neal could distinguish nothing in the darkness outside the car, save an occasional glow of light from a house. His breathing and heartbeat slowed almost to a stop, then moonlight revealed more details of the countryside: outlines of a forest against the sky, an overgrown field of briars, a stand of tall trees in the distance, and a shadowy river they crossed on a bridge. His mind was absorbed in the soothing, shadowed tableaus that flickered by in the night. 

The train entered a bank of fog obscuring the outside view completely. He heard Miss Middleton humming a slow, familiar melody and it soothed him; a melody that Mama Lou used to sing when she tucked him in at night when he was a child. 

She took one of his hands in hers. “It is not possible to stop everyone else.” She paused. “But it is possible to stop yourself, Mr. Neal.”

“But if I do that I’ll fall even farther behind,” he protested. 

She squeezed his hand. “Are you sure about that?” she said, slowly emphasizing each word. 

“No.” He sighed. 

She hummed the same tune as before, and he relaxed and was filled with a sense of peace. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

“When you get back home,” she said softly, “see what it is like to stop yourself. Find a quiet place to listen to the voice within. You might be surprised at what you hear.”

She let go of his hand and sat back in the seat. Rain began streaming along the windows, blurring the view, and Miss Middleton pulled her gray shawl close and bowed her head. Neal closed his eyes and rested, his breathing unhurried. 

“Next stop Dallas. Dallas next stop.” 

Neal woke to the sound of the conductor’s strong voice repeating the words as he walked easily through the moving car. 

Thought we were going to Jackson? 

Neal glanced at his ticket stub: May 25, 1908, Departing 8:30 p.m. for Dallas, Texas. 

The car was half-filled with passengers again, but the seat facing him was empty, and there was no sign of Miss Middleton. His box sat beside him, her neatly folded gray shawl on top with a note written in pencil. 

You can’t make up for lost time, Mr. Neal. But you can do better in the future. Go home to your wife and give her this gift.  

                                                                  Louise

He opened the clock box, tucked the shawl around Mama Lou’s clock, and put the note on top. 

When the train came to a stop, Neal waited until the other passengers had left, then he stepped down to the platform with his box under his arm. The dimly lit, smoky station was deserted except for a few passengers. He walked tentatively along not knowing where to go until he came upon a man with scraggly, gray hair stooped over a luggage cart. 

“Excuse me,” Neal said to the luggage man who straightened up and faced him. The man had a prominent scar above his left eye. “Can you tell me where door P is?” 

“Don’t know nothin’ about door P,” he paused and pointed down the platform, “but Door F is down there.” 

The man went back to work and Neal walked on until he saw a shoeshine boy sitting on a wooden stool, wearing an oversized coat drawn up to his ears. 

“Hey Mister! Did ya have a good time in Jackson?” he asked.

“Never got there.” 

The boy put his hands on his hips. “Ahh. So ya ended up where ya started?” 

“I guess so. I’m having a devil of a …” 

“Don’t know your way home?” the boy interrupted. “You be lookin’ for door F, right?” 

Neal nodded. 

“Past the baggage barn, turn right. First door on your left.”

Neal walked on carrying his box, found the door, and stepped back into Wheeler’s basement wearing the clothes he’d had on before the train trip. A veil of smoke followed along with him and dispersed in the hallway. He closed the door and faced Wheeler’s shop. R. A. Wheeler – Watchmaker.

On the drive home, he wondered what he’d tell Susan. She’d think he was crazy if he told her about door P, the train trip, and Miss Middleton. 

Was it real? 

His head was foggy from the visit back in time and he didn’t much feel like talking. He wanted to be honest with his wife but when he pulled into their parking spot, he still hadn’t decided what to say.

“You’re late, honey!” Susan greeted him just inside the door. “You smell like you’ve been hanging around a campfire. Where in the world have you been?”  

“Ah. I sort of went backwards,” he said. “It’s kind of a long story.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Hey, weren’t you going to see Wheeler today?”

“Yes. I did. And the clock’s finished.”  

“Did you bring it home?” She was excited. 

He nodded. 

“I want to see it!”

He walked back to the car. 

What to do? He shook his head. Can’t tell her what happened.  

At the front door he paused. “Wait in the dining room and close your eyes.” 

He took the box to his study, opened it, and took out Miss Middleton’s shawl. It held a faint scent of smoke. 

It’s real. 

“I’m waiting,” Susan’s voice came from the living room.

Neal stuffed the shawl and note in a bottom drawer of his desk and brought the clock into the living room. 

“Eyes still closed?” 

“Yes, silly man.” 

He put Mama Lou’s clock on the dining room table. The light reflected off the polished gold rim and clock face. 

“Okay. Open.”  

She looked at it up close. “It’s beautiful, honey! I didn’t know it had gold scrollwork. I’m so glad you got it fixed.” 

“Restored,” he corrected her. “I used the money you gave me at Christmas.” 

She gave him a hug, then Neal set the hands, hooked the pendulum weight inside and gave it a push. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

“How about right here above the fireplace?” he suggested. 

“That’s perfect! Mama Lou would be so proud of you!” 

They sat together on the couch for a few minutes holding each other and listening to the clock keeping time. Then the chimes rang the hour, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong.  

“Magic.” She stood up and faced him with her hands on her hips. “In three minutes meet me in the bedroom with two glasses of wine.” She turned and slipped down the hallway. 

Her invitation jolted Neal out of his daze. He selected two thin crystal glasses from the upper shelf of the china cabinet and filled each half full with red wine. 

Perfect, he thought. Mama Lou’s crystal to celebrate the rebirth of her clock.  

When he entered, the bedroom was lit by half dozen candles, and the curtains were closed. He sat on the edge of their bed and sipped his wine. She stepped from the bathroom, naked behind a shawl she held fetchingly in front of her. He blinked and his heart jumped. The shawl looked very similar to Miss Middleton’s gift. 

But it’s not. I just hid it in my desk!  

“Like what you see?” she said. 

“Definitely!” He handed her the wine glass. “It’s Mama Lou’s crystal.”

“I know.” She smiled. “Nice touch.” 

She took a sip, placed her glass on the bedside table, then dropped the shawl to the carpet. 

The next morning — Saturday — Susan slept late and Neal got a few chores done outside. When he came back in, she was in the shower so he stripped the sheets and picked up from their energetic evening. When he opened the curtains, the morning sunlight fell on the shawl lying on the carpet. It looked exactly like the crocheted shawl that Miss Middleton had given him. He was about to go check the bottom drawer of his desk when she shut off the shower. 

“Honey,” he said. 

“Is that you, big boy?” She giggled.

“Not so big anymore.” He laughed. 

“I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Sitting on the bed he wondered if he should tell her about the shawl. 

She came out of the bathroom toweling off.

“Honey, you were fabulous last night,” he said. 

“I know,” she smiled and patted his head. “What is it you need to tell me?” 

“Uhhh, about the shawl.”

“Isn’t it beautiful? Do you recognize it?” She smiled and pulled him up close. “Your mother gave it to me when we got married. It once belonged to Mama Lou.” 

“Really?” he stammered.  

“Yeah, really,” she feigned a slap on his face. “I figured you’d recognize it and get the connection with her clock.” She shook his face from side to side. “And how it tied together our little celebration last night.”

“Nope,” he nodded. “Went right by me. I was so enamored with your lovely twin girls.”  

She giggled. “They both say thank you!” 

He pulled her close and kissed her. 

“Sometimes I worry about you Neal. I think you’re pretty sharp, and then you miss something so obvious. I may have to trade you in on a smarter model.” 

“But what about our love-making? Think you can find a better man?” 

“Not looking, big boy,” she wagged her finger. “Not looking.” 

That night after Susan was asleep, Neal went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. It held two legal writing pads and a ruler, but no shawl! 

I know I put it in here. 

He opened all the drawers. No shawl and no note from Miss Middleton! He sat heavily on the carpet and shook his head slowly, confused.

On Sunday, Susan had an extra twelve-hour shift, so Neal had the whole day to himself. 

Yardwork? No. Finish up Taylor-Rose papers from Friday? Hell no! 

He remembered Miss Middleton’s words, put on his hiking shoes, packed a lunch and binoculars, and jumped in his Jeep. On the drive to the wildlife preserve he thought about how much he loathed Smokeball, tracking his hours, and chuckled at the idea of hating a software program. 

When he stepped out of the Jeep, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and the sense of urgency that he almost always felt began slipping away.

The thick woods were alive with birdsong as he walked alone for an hour. He came upon a stream and lay flat on his back looking up. The canopy of trees seemed to form a circle centered on him. A tall pine stood close by, its lowest limbs thirty feet above. A squirrel wrestling with a pinecone sent a shower of sweet-smelling pine bits onto Neal’s head. He stood up, nuzzled his nose in the crack between the thick chunks of bark, and inhaled deeply. The rusty fragrance reminded him of childhood. Then he sat in the brown pine straw, leaned against the broad tree trunk, and watched water flowing over a partially submerged log in a stream, making peaceful gurgling sounds. 

He noticed the layers of sounds in the woods, each delicate and distinctive. A squirrel bounded by, stopped suddenly, and stared at Neal, then raced to a pine and zipped up the far side, the chafing sound of its sharp claws on the bark easily heard. A light breeze tipped the tops of the trees and a whisper came from somewhere. The words settled in his mind and he said out loud, “I have enough time.” The birds nearby hushed. He smiled and remembered the children’s melody Miss Middleton hummed and the rain streaming across the windows while the train sped through the dark night. 

Was it real? Real enough. 

The day passed slowly, it seemed, and he was filled with an uncommon sense of calm. The whisper words, ‘You have enough time,’ his background thought all the way home. 

“What did you do today?” Susan asked when she got home from work that evening. 

“A walk in the woods.” He smiled. 

“You? Really? I figured you’d log eight or ten more billable hours.” 

“Nope, a long, peaceful walk. I figured I needed some down time.” 

“Finally taking my advice.” She winked and poked his chest. “Smart man.”

A month later, the couple went to Antoine’s for a nice Italian meal. Susan looked striking in a blue and white floral dress. As Neal pulled the chair out to seat her, he said, “Honey, you look fabulous tonight. Is that a new dress?” He knew full well that she’d found a new vintage clothing store the week before.

“Why thank you, Mr. Neal.” She smiled, playing along. He remembered Miss Middleton addressing him as Mr. Neal on the train. “It’s from the 1950s, can’t you tell?” 

“No, my dear lady,” he grinned. “I wasn’t born yet.” He kissed her cheek.  

After their meal she asked, “Are things okay at work?” 

“Sure, why do you ask?” 

“You haven’t been talking much about it. You used to bitch and moan a lot more.” She tilted her head to one side. “I kinda miss it.” 

He laughed. “Things are better. I had a talk with the boss lady and she’s off my case now.” 

“What did you say to her?”

“I looked her in the eyes and said you don’t need to push me anymore. I’m one of your stars. And she smiled and left. It’s been three weeks since we talked and she pays me no mind when our paths cross at the office.”

“That’s great honey. I’m glad you set her straight.”

He leaned across the table and kissed her. 

“Let’s split one of those big, warm brownies covered with ice cream and dribbled with chocolate syrup,” she said. 

“You’re on, Miss Susan.” 

While they waited for dessert she asked, “Why don’t you take your pocket watch to Wheeler? He did such an amazing job on your clock. I’ll bet he could get it working again.” 

6th Visit to Wheeler’s

On Monday morning Neal opened the top drawer of his dresser and retrieved a small, well-worn brown case. Inside was his paternal grandfather’s gold, open-faced Elgin Deluxe watch with matching gold chain and clip. He tucked it in his briefcase and left for work. 

At noon that day he left his office building and walked south on Harwood. The July air was warm, but not nearly as hot as it would be by midafternoon. He walked slowly, turned west on Live Oak, and then south again on Ervay. Six blocks later he pushed through the double glass doors of Wheeler’s building, entered the lobby, which, as always, was empty, and faced the familiar row of three elevators. The middle one was open, as always, so he stepped in and pushed B for basement. When the door closed, the last of the street sounds ceased and the car traveled one floor down and stopped with a jolt. He got off, descended the flight of dimly lit stairs, and walked down the hallway. 

When he reached the end he gasped in surprise and his heart pumped faster. The door was freshly painted gray and there was no trace of Wheeler’s sign! He knocked on the door and there was no answer so he knocked more forcefully. Still no answer. He put his ear to the door and heard nothing within, twisted the knob, but it was locked.

He turned quickly to the door that had been marked P, but there was no P! That door was also freshly painted and had a new lock. He slumped to the floor and sat with his back against the wall, befuddled and sweating. 

What happened to Wheeler? It’s only been a month. 

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples to calm down. 

Back in the lobby, he searched out the directory for the building manager but found it was an empty glass case with no listings at all. 

Maybe the building’s unoccupied! 

He stepped through the double glass doors and was hit by hot, humid air. He stuffed his tie in his pocket and headed back toward the office, taking care to walk in the shade of buildings whenever he could. Deep in thought about Wheeler’s disappearance, he ignored everyone on the busy city sidewalks. 

He took the elevator to the seventeenth floor and went directly to Sergeant Gray’s office. Gray was on the phone but motioned him in. Neal stood by the west-facing, full-length window in the corner office and watched the towering cumulus clouds. He checked the Internet for R.A. Wheeler and found none. Then he leafed through old white and yellow pages that Gray kept for research, and searched under clocks, watches, and clock repairs but found no listings for Wheeler. 

Fifteen minutes later, Gray hung up the phone and said, “You look a bit bothered, man.”

“I just got back from Wheeler’s.”

“I thought he finished your clock a month ago.” He pulled a pipe out of his desk drawer. 

“He did! But I took my pocket watch there today, and he’s not there anymore!”

“What do you mean?” 

“His sign’s gone and the door’s been repainted!”

“He must have relocated.” Gray put both feet up on his desk. “Did you try calling?” 

“There’s no listing online or in your ...” He pointed to Gray’s phone books. 

“Sounds like you need an investigator.” He grinned. 

“Have any recommendations?” 

“I’ll see what I can find.” 

The next afternoon Neal and Gray conferred. 

“I checked the obits,” Gray said. “No Wheelers among the dead. Also called the coroner’s office. No unidentified bodies of old men in the last thirty days.” 

“Good work. I didn’t think of that angle. I checked FastPeopleSearch online. No luck.” 

Gray called the building management phone number and talked to a woman in Phoenix. While they talked, Neal stood by the window watching the rain fall past the seventeenth floor to the city streets far below. 

Gray hung up. “She said they have no record of renting space to Wheeler and they have no on-site personnel in Dallas.” 

“That can’t be true! You’re the person who told me about Wheeler!”

“I don’t know what else we can do,” Gray said as he cleaned his pipe methodically over an empty metal trash can. “I can’t request a search warrant. There’s no crime, as far as we know.”

He pressed a wad of moist tobacco in the pipe bowl and resealed the tobacco pouch. “I guess you’ve got an unsolved mystery on your hands here, buddy.” He smiled. “Even the police can’t solve every case.”  

At home that night Neal looked for the receipt from Wheeler but couldn’t find it. He took the clock off the mantel and looked at the wooden bottom where Wheeler had etched: RAW 5-2019. His mark was still there.

The summer passed and Neal tried to put the mystery of Wheeler’s disappearance out of his mind. The old fellow and his ticking clocks featured often in his dreams, and he thought of door P when he saw the chalkboard on Gray’s office wall. As the end of the year approached, the couple reached their savings goal for the down payment on their first home. In November, they celebrated Susan’s twenty-third birthday and decided they would hire a real estate agent in January to start their search.  

On the first Friday in December, Neal went for a lunchtime walk through the city to stretch his legs and clear his mind, a practice he’d started after the encounter with Miss Middleton. A cold front had passed through north Texas a couple days earlier and the sky was partly cloudy. He walked on the sunny side of the street once he had passed through the city center where the tall buildings blocked the sun completely, and soon he found himself in front of Wheeler’s building on South Ervay. He thought about going in but he was no longer so sure what was real and what was not. He leaned on the façade and watched the army of workers putting finishing touches on the new City Hall. 

A passerby eating a Wendy’s sandwich tossed the wrapper toward a trash can and it came up short, resting on the sidewalk. Immediately, a brown bird appeared and started pecking at the crinkled paper. A homeless man on the street corner wearing burgundy pants, a brown coat, and a faded Cincinnati Reds baseball cap, left his bedding and ran over. The bird flew away and the man grabbed the wrapper and started eating the remnant of the sandwich. Heading back toward his corner he stopped close to Neal, almost face to face and spoke. 

“Did ya find Wheeler?” 

Neal stepped back, aghast. The man had scraggly, gray hair and a scar over his left eye. 

“Who are you?” Neal asked. 

“Did ya find Wheeler?” the man said. “Know where he went? Where he went?” 

“No. I haven’t found him!”

“Door P,” the man mumbled. “Door P. See what’s behind door P.”

“Do you know Wheeler?” Neal asked. 

“You know Wheeler?”

Neal grabbed the man’s coat collar. “I’m asking you!” 

“I’m asking you!” the man shouted and then pulled away. 

Pedestrians passed well around Neal and the homeless man on the busy sidewalk. 

“Master of time — Wheeler,” the man said. “Master of time — Wheeler. Don’t ya think?” 

“He told me he’d always been there,” Neal said. “In his shop.”

“Did ya believe him? Did ya believe him?” 

Neal stood with his mouth open, speechless and shaking his head. The man’s gray hair hanging loose below his baseball cap seemed familiar. 

Who is this man?

“Remember what the woman told ya?” 

“What woman?” Neal stepped back. 

“On the train — Miss Middleton. Don’t ya remember?”

“Find a quiet place to listen to the voice within,” Neal said.

“And ya might be surprised at what ya hear,” the homeless man finished the sentence. “Did ya hear? Did ya listen?” 

The man pulled a thin slice of dill pickle out of the bun, dropped it on the sidewalk and crammed the last of the sandwich in his mouth. 

“Don’t like dill pickles,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Wheeler don’t like dill pickles, he likes clocks, clocks like him, he likes clocks. Miss Middleton — she’s wise, I’m not wise, she’s wise. Wise.” 

Neal watched the man toss the wadded sandwich wrapper in an arc like he was shooting a basketball. As the man headed north on Ervay Street the wrapper landed in the trash bin. 

Neal sat on the sidewalk with his back against Wheeler’s office building, his mind a jumble of confusion and questions. 

How could this man know about Miss Middleton? And what’s his connection with Wheeler? 

A draft of cold wind chilled his ears. 

Miss Middleton … Louise … Mama Lou … Mattie Louise Middleton! 

His grandmother’s maiden name suddenly entered his mind.

He jumped to his feet and ran the twenty yards to the corner. The homeless man had gathered the last of his possessions from his spot and was pushing his shopping cart east on Live Oak along a crowded sidewalk. Neal pushed through the crowd to catch up and accidentally bumped into an elderly woman, almost knocking her over. Her shopping bag fell from her hands. Lotion, lipstick, and paperback books spilled out on the sidewalk. Pill bottles rolled among the moving feet. 

“What’s your hurry?” a middle-aged man shouted at Neal. “It’s a sidewalk, not a frigging racetrack!” The walkers parted to make room for the commotion. 

Neal apologized to the woman, put her things back in the bag, and hurried in pursuit of the homeless man. At the next intersection he stepped up on the streetlight standard to see above the walkers. He thought he saw a man in burgundy pants turn south at the next corner, but when he got there it was a dead end alley, deserted.

He sat on the sidewalk and leaned against the brick wall. He closed his eyes and thought about all that had happened since his first visit to Wheeler’s eleven months earlier. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. He opened his eyes and looked up at the thickening clouds. 

A familiar voice inside said, You have all the time you need, I promise. 

He remembered Mama Lou winding the Seth Thomas 8-Day clock on the mantel in her living room, and he smiled.