(Michigan, 1950)
"Einstein
really gave you this, Grandpa?" Tommy said, rubbing the glass
face of the tarnished pocket watch.
"Well,
he most certainly did!" the old man said, a bit defensively.
"Nineteen and aught five. Same year that he came up with
his Theory of Relativity." He shot a concerned look at Tommy.
"Careful with that, boy."
"I
am. What's Reveltility?"
"Rela--tivity.
Relativity is all about space and time, which are really one and
the same... but you're a bit young for all of this." He beckoned
for Tommy to give the watch back with two quick twitches of his
forefinger. The boy did, somewhat reluctantly.
"No
I ain't. Tell me!" Tommy said, imploringly.
"First
off, 'ain't' ain't a word. And secondly, well… it's just
a trifle too confusing for a young one, but let's just say that
time and space aren't quite what you might think they are, Tommy.
See, they can bend and stretch like fabric. Do all sorts of crazy
things. And Einstein figured out some of those things, using his
fancy math and his brilliant mind."
Tommy
put his finger to his chin. "Fancy math? Like times tables?"
"I
guess you could say that." The old man laughed as he said
it, and soon the laugh turned into a wheezing cough. The result
of forty plus years of smoking a pack a day. He fished in his
pocket and came out with a white monogrammed handkerchief, and
spit a generous amount of phlegm into it. Then he wadded it back
up and shoved it back into his jeans.
"Promise
me something, Tommy."
The
boy looked up expectantly.
"Don't
ever start smoking." He coughed a bit more, less violently
this time. "And take care of your teeth," he said as
an afterthought.
Tommy
nodded. "Sure, Gramps." He pointed to the pocket watch
that was still resting in the old man's palm. "You think
maybe I can have that someday, when you're…" He looked
down, ashamed of what he was about to say. "Nevermind."
"When
I take a dirt nap?" his grandpa surprised him by saying,
following it with another laugh and coughing fit.
Tommy
smiled wide. "I just meant. If you're gone... I mean, someday...
maybe..."
The
old man looked longingly at the watch, dangled it by the chain,
and then scooped it up again. "Sure, kid. When I take the
highway to heaven, it's all yours." Then he grabbed Tommy
by the shoulder with one hand, and looked straight into his eyes.
"But, Tommy. You take care of it."
"I
will, Grandpa. I promise!" Tommy said, not able to contain
his excitement. At that, the old man's face softened, and he patted
the boy on the shoulder.
"OK
then."
Then
Tommy's eyes took on the look of someone deep in thought. The
old man waited patiently for the young boy's thought to form.
"Grandpa?"
"Yeah,
boy?"
"Do
you think you'll ever see Einstein again?"
Tommy's
grandpa nodded, knowingly, as if he had pondered the same question
himself. Then he looked squarely at Tommy again. "Let me
tell you something, Tommy." He said, "I don't believe
that even death can bend the rules of time and space." At
this he went into a coughing spasm that lasted a little too long
for Tommy's liking. Then, after a moment, he settled down again.
"Not even death itself," he said then, more to himself
than to Tommy.
* * *
That
night Tommy's grandfather lay in bed, thinking about Einstein,
and that autumn day when he gave him the pocket watch. Forty five
years ago. God, how time got away from ya. Ha! Ol' Einstein would
have liked that one. He chuckled a bit, picturing the young scientist
laughing, as he did so often back then. Always laughing at the
mysteries of the universe—or maybe laughing because he knew
the answers to them.
The
old man took in a deep breath then. He could hear the congestion.
Only it was more than congestion. He knew that. Tommy's parents
knew that. But Tommy didn't know. It was better that way.
He
coughed for a spell, spitting into his handkerchief. He was about
to pocket the 'kerchief, when he noticed a bright red splotch
glistening, deep in the folds of the fabric. He knew that it would
come sooner or later, but it was still an unwelcome shock. He
supposed that he didn't have much longer now. He would have to
remember to set that watch aside for Tommy before the old grim
reaper came to take him away. He thought about that for a few
minutes, and then dozed off. Tommy's grandfather never woke up.
* * *
Tommy
looked down into the casket unbelievingly. He had never seen a
dead body before, much less someone that he loved.
How
could his grandpa be dead? He had just talked to him yesterday!
And he had been fine. Well, fine for an old man.
Of
course, Tommy didn't know that his grandfather had been battling
lung cancer for the last eight months. It had just been easier
not to tell Tommy. It had just seemed right. What good would it
do to torture an eight-year-old boy? Why not let him have his
last days with his grandpa be happy ones? And that they had been.
He
looked at his grandpa's face and thought that it looked like one
of the mannequins in the window of his mother's store. The cheeks
looked sunken in, and the lips looked waxy. A bit frightened,
he looked away from the face and down at the big hands that were
crossed on his mid-section. The left hand (the one on top) bore
the silver wedding band that Tommy had always begged to try on.
One day, his grandpa had let him, using dish-soap to lather up
his finger so that it would slip off of his swollen knuckle. Then
Tommy had put it on his thumb, feeling the weight of it, admiring
the shine. He had worn it around all day.
Thinking
about that, Tommy suddenly thought of the pocket watch. The one
that had once belonged to Albert Einstein. His grandpa had said
that he could have it, after…
Tommy
thought frantically. Maybe it was at the house. How would he find
it?
And
then his stomach sunk. He saw the chain. It was connected to his
grandfather's suit-vest. He followed it with his eyes, and saw
what he feared: the top of the pocket watch peeking out from the
tiny pocket in the vest. He was going to be buried with it.
It
wasn't fair! Maybe he should tell his parents about the promise…
Or maybe he should just reach in and grab it. No, he knew he couldn't
do either of those things. He would just have to forget about
it. And in the way that eight year olds are, he did forget about
it, mostly. He thought about it now and then, but, gradually,
the memory disappeared.
* * *
(Michigan, 1950-1958)
As
Tommy turned from boy to young man, his interests turned more
and more to Einstein and the other great men of science. He read
every book on the subject that he could get his hands on. And
by the time he turned fifteen, he was somewhat of an expert. He
often thought of his grandfather, and how much he had really
known about time. About dilation, and time machines, and the fabric
of the cosmos. He often thought poignantly about the discussions
they could have had if his gramps had only lived just a few more
years. If he hadn't been ruined by the damned cigarettes. His
parents had told him about the lung cancer after the funeral,
but it hadn't really been much of a surprise. He had known, somewhere
in his eight-year-old mind. He had heard the coughing. Had seen
the way his grandfather's face had turned eggplant purple when
he wheezed.
And
so Tommy kept his promise. A cigarette had never crossed his lips.
Not a single one. Nor did he drink. He was a good boy, by all
counts.
During
the twilight of Tommy's fifteenth year, his interests in science
waned a bit (not much, however). In their place loomed dreams
of the green 1940 Packard. He had always been pining for it—since
he could ride a bicycle, actually, but now that the time of pedals
and handlebars had turned to accelerators and steering wheels,
the vision became all that much more clear. More real.
And
it was this that he asked for for his sixteenth birthday. He could
already see himself behind the wheel, driving the great machine—commanding
it! It was his own personal rocket to the stars, and, had his
grandfather seen it, he would have been just as excited. Oh, how
he had loved machines! Almost as much as science. Next to his
science texts were rows upon rows of Chilton's auto manuals. He
had left them to Tommy in his will, in fact.
And
as Tommy flipped through a dusty 1940 Chilton's manual the night
before his sixteenth birthday, he had a flash—just a momentary
one—not even a fabricated thought—of something.
Something else that his grandfather had promised to leave
him in his will. What was it? He supposed it was nothing too important.
That
night, Tommy dreamed of the pocket watch. How it gleamed in the
sunlight, and how the second hand ticked along in perfect time.
How it clicked when you closed it. And how his grandfather looked
on that day before he died.
Tommy
woke up with tears on his face the next morning, but didn't know
why. He had no recollection of the dream.
* * *
(Michigan, 1958)
On
Tommy's sixteenth birthday, his parents surprised him with the
car. The green 1940 Packard—the car he had been desiring
for years.
He
opened the driver's side door, his mouth still tasting of cake,
and jingled the keys in the air. He looked at his parents.
"Can
I take 'er for a spin?" he asked, hopefully.
His
dad raised his palms as if to say, 'She's all yours.' His mom
nodded, and rested her head on her husband's shoulder.
"Yes!"
Tommy said, getting in and closing the door. As he pulled out,
he saw his dad put his arm around his mom's shoulder. After a
moment they became dots in the distance, and he was on his own.
Finally!
He
drove the classic car around the block a few times, before he
noticed the tapping sound on the roof. Soon the droplets of rain
were spattering his windshield. Tommy looked for the wipers. He
flipped a few levers and toggles, but he was at a loss... maybe
the car had an instruction manual… The glove compartment...
Tommy
pulled the Packard over to the shoulder of the road, admiring
the soft purr of the engine. He put it in "Park", reached
over and opened the glove compartment. There it was. The manual.
He reached in for it, and was about to pull it out when he noticed
a small box, wrapped in Detroit Tigers wrapping paper.
Another
present. Wow, his parents really did go all out.
He
grabbed the small box and set it on his lap. There was a small
piece of thick paper about the size of a business card taped to
it. He read the inscription. To: Tommy, Happy 16th! From: Grandpa.
What
the hell?
Tommy
carefully unstuck the tape and slipped the box out of the wrapping.
It felt weighted. He held it up to his ear and shook it gently.
Then he could stand the curiosity no more. He opened the box.
The
first thing he saw was the gleam of light that reflected off of
the gold pocket watch. And then the memory came flooding back.
That day at his grandpa's. The day before he died.
Tommy
lifted the watch by the chain, and let it dangle in the sunlight
for a moment, and then he noticed a small, folded, yellowed piece
of notebook paper. He set the watch down gingerly on the passenger
seat, careful not to twist the chain.
He
unfolded the note.
Tommy,
It seems I made you a promise once, and didn't make good on
it. Well, it also seems that I found a way to keep that promise.
But you must keep your promise too—take care of it—I
traveled a long way to get it to you. But, Tommy, don't put
too much stock in timepieces like this one. They are not a
measure of true time. And, always remember, not even death
itself can bend the rules of space and time. I love you, boy,
and don't fret, we'll see each other again. You can bet your
watch on it. —Gramps
Tommy
folded the note back up and wiped the tears from his face with
the back of one hand, remembering the dream now. Then he picked
up the pocket watch. He thought about winding it, and then thought
better of it. He stuck it in his jeans pocket instead. The small
one, in the front of his Levis. Then he put the Packard in "Drive"
and, forgetting all about the wipers, drove off down the road
in the pouring rain.
