Chapter 10 - The Bench by the Fellowship Hall
The church parking lot was almost empty by eleven. Heat came up off the blacktop in thin waves and I could hear the air conditioner humming on the side of the fellowship hall. I parked two spaces away from her SUV on purpose, so there would be room between us.
She was already there on the bench under the overhang, her purse in her lap. He sat beside her, feet not quite touching the concrete, both hands wrapped around something in front of his shirt.
He wore the same white button collared shirt, pressed. When he saw me he stood up a little too fast.
"Hey," I said. I kept my voice low. "Thanks for coming."
The mom nodded once. "Twenty minutes," she said. "In the open. That's what we agreed."
"That's fine," I said. I sat at the far end of the bench and folded my hands. I didn't reach for him. "How's school?"
He shrugged. "Okay." Then he looked at his mom, and she gave him a small nod. He stepped closer and opened his hands.
The brass watch was there on its chain, pooled in his palms. He held it the way he had that night, with both hands, careful like it might fall apart. The case was dull in the daylight, scratched at the edge where the night lights had made it shine.
"You brought it," I said.
"You said you wanted to see it again," he said.
"I did." I glanced at his mom. "Is it okay if he shows me?"
She tightened her grip on her purse. "Show her. Don't press anything until I say."
He turned the watch so the lid faced me. The little scalloped-edge photo was still there inside, the young dark-haired woman looking out. In daylight Clara looked younger. That hit me harder than it had under the party lights.
I breathed in through my nose. "Can I look, not touch?"
"Yeah," he said.
I leaned forward. There was a tiny pin on the side of the stem, worn smooth. I remembered now how those old recording watches worked. You didn't wind them to hear. You pressed and held.
"Has it always played for you?" I asked.
He nodded. "You have to hold it right. Mom doesn't like it."
"I don't like him crying after," the mom said quickly.
I looked at her. "I understand."
A car turned into the lot and parked near the playground. A door slammed. For a minute none of us spoke. A bell from inside the church rang once, off-key.
The boy looked up at his mom. "Can I?"
She hesitated. "One time. Low. Then we're done."
He sat down between us, closer to her than to me. He held the watch with both hands again, thumbs on either side, and pressed the pin with his right thumb. There was a click, then static, thin and far away like a radio between stations.
Then it came.
It wasn't clear. It faded in and out under the hiss. A woman humming two notes, stopping, then three words I couldn't quite catch, then a short laugh under her breath. The cadence of it — the way she rushed the middle and went soft at the end — stopped the air in my chest. I knew that rhythm. I'd heard it in a kitchen a long time ago, half-asleep on a couch while someone sang to cover the sound of dishes.
My hands started to shake. I put them flat on my knees.
"It's her," I whispered before I could stop myself.
The boy looked at me, eyes bright. "You hear her?"
The mom leaned forward. "That's enough."
"Please," I said, not looking away from the watch. "Just let it finish. It's only a few seconds."
"No." Her voice cut sharp across the bench. She reached over and put her hand over his hands. The static cut off with another click. "I said one time."
The boy flinched. "Mom—"
"We talked about this," she said. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at him, and her face had gone pale. "You get headaches. You don't sleep."
"I don't get headaches," he said quietly.
She stood, pulling her purse strap up her shoulder. "We're done."
I stood too. "Wait. Please. I recognized—" I stopped. I couldn't say Clara's name in front of him like that, not without permission. "I recognized the way she talks. That means something. That can help us explain it to him right."
Her eyes met mine, and for a second I saw real fear there, not anger. "You don't get to decide what's right for him."
"I know," I said. "I'm asking. Five more minutes."
She shook her head and put her hand on his shoulder. "Put it away."
He closed his fingers slowly over the brass case. The chain slipped between his knuckles. He didn't look at me.
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"I'm sorry," I said to him. "Thank you for letting me hear it."
He nodded, staring at the blacktop. As they walked toward the SUV, he glanced back once over his shoulder. I stayed by the bench until their doors closed, my hands still shaking against my jeans.
