I stood there, the dry grass crunching under my orthotic shoes, and my brain simply refused to work. 1974. That was five years after he supposedly ran off to California or wherever my mother claimed he went.
Five years during which my mother had worked us to the bone, telling us we had to double our chores because our father had left us with nothing.
I paid the young man five dollars for the watch. He looked at me like I was a bit soft in the head, paying that much for a non-working piece of scrap silver, but I didn’t care. I got into my old Buick, my hands shaking so badly I could barely get the key into the ignition.
The drive to Lansing was long, the gray autumn sky hanging low over the soybean fields. I kept the watch on the passenger seat, staring at it every time I hit a red light. I felt like a little girl again, guilty for looking at something I wasn’t supposed to touch.
Miller’s Watches was still where it had been forty years ago, nestled between a dry cleaner and an old bakery on Grand River Avenue. The neon sign in the window was dim, but the door gave a familiar brass chime when I pushed it open.
A young man with a neat beard and a jeweler’s loupe pushed up on his forehead looked up from his bench. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
I laid the silver watch on the black velvet pad. “I found this,” I said, my voice cracking more than I wanted it to. “There was a repair ticket inside from 1974. I know it’s a foolish question, but do you keep your old records?”
The young man, Greg, smiled. It was a kind, patient smile. “My grandfather started this shop,” he said. “He didn’t throw away a single scrap of paper. They’re all in the basement in the leather ledgers. Give me a few minutes.”
I waited in that quiet shop, the rhythmic ticking of a dozen grandfather clocks sounding like a chorus of tiny, metal hearts. It was a peaceful sound, but my chest felt so tight I could barely draw a breath.
When Greg came back up the narrow wooden stairs, he was carrying a thick, heavy ledger with corners eaten by mice. He laid it open on the counter, the pages yellowed and smelling of old oil. He turned the pages back, his finger tracing the columns of elegant, Spencerian handwriting.
“Here it is,” Greg said, tapping the page. “October 1974. Arthur Evans. Paid three dollars for a mainspring replacement.”
My breath hitched. “Is that the only one?” I asked.
Greg looked at me, then turned the page. He started flipping forward, his eyes scanning the name Evans. “Well, look at this,” he murmured. “He came back. Every spring. Usually in April or May. 1975, 1976, 1977. He brought this same Elgin watch in for a cleaning and oiling. Every single year.”
