Timepiece by Richard Paul Evans Page A

Larry.”
    â€œYes, ma’am, I s’pose they are at that.”
    â€œI’m sure it will come as a surprise, but I am leaving every dime to the church missionary fund.”
    â€œNow don’t you go talkin’ about no dyin’, ma’am.”
    The old lady sighed. “Larry, I am not fooling anyone. I haven’t many sunrises left.” Her voice suddenly turned tired and melancholy. “My friends are nearly all gone now. It’s lonely here, Larry. I feel asif I am just waiting around.” She leaned forward, shaking a willowy finger for emphasis. “Leave when they still want you, Rodney used to say.” She looked down at the floor and her eyes blinked slowly. “I have stayed too long.”
    Lawrence could not help but feel sympathy for the old woman. “Don’t no one know their time, Miss Maud. But it stops for all of us. Be right shore ‘bout that.”
    She looked up. “You know, Larry, I enjoy our little visits. They are the sunshine of my week. When I go, I have a mind to leave you something.” The idea brightened her face. “Yes. That rose-gold timepiece you think so much of.”
    â€œMa’am, I can’t go takin’ no timepieces.”
    â€œIt is a very special timepiece. It should go to someone who will appreciate it. I am sure it will cause a commotion, giving a piece of the family inheritance to a Negro, but I do not care. It feels kind of nice to becontroversial at my age. I am going to have it written in my will.”
    â€œHow ‘bout your nephew?”
    The woman humphed. “Damn fool. He’d pawn it for liquor a half hour after it fell into his idle hands. Not another word, Larry, you must have it. I insist.”
    â€œS’pose I’d rather have your company, ma’am.”
    She smiled sadly and patted his hand. “That is not our choice, Larry. To be sure, I have not felt too well of late.” She again produced the handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her cheeks. “I will be going now, Larry,” she said feebly.
    Lawrence rose first and helped the woman to her feet, handing her the ebony cane.
    â€œThank you, Larry.”
    â€œYou’re welcome, ma’am.” Lawrence opened the door and gestured to the boy, who took the widow’s arm and helped her back to her carriage.

    â€œIt is a question worthy of the philosophers—do we have dreams or do dreams have us? Myself, I do not believe in the mystical or prophetic nature of dreams. But I may be mistaken.”
    David Parkin’s Diary. March 17, 1912
    Two hours before sunrise, MaryAnne woke with a start and began sobbing heavily into the mattress. She was having difficulty catching her breath. David sat up alarmed. “What is it, MaryAnne?”
    â€œOh, David!” she exclaimed. “It all seemed so real! So horribly real!”
    â€œWhat, Mary?”
    She buried her head into his chest and began to cry. “I had the most awful dream.”
    David put his arms around her.
    â€œI dreamt I was in bed nursing Andrea when an angel came in through the window,took her from my breast, then flew out with her.”
    David pulled her tight. “It was only a dream, Mary.”
    She wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her gown. “I must see her.”
    â€œI will go,” David said. He climbed out of bed and walked the length of the hall to the nursery. Andrea lay motionless, her cheek painted in moonlit strokes. She suddenly rolled over to her side and David exhaled in relief. He quickly returned to the bedroom. “She is fine. She is sleeping fine.” He wearily climbed back into the bed.
    â€œDo you think it meant something?” MaryAnne asked.
    â€œI don’t think so. We always dream our greatest fears,” David said reassuringly.
    MaryAnne sniffed. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
    He kissed her forehead, then lay backwith his arm around her and pulled her