—Yes, said Billy, I should think so too.
Then Billy held the watch out in order to return it.
—No, no, said Woolly. It’s for you. I took it out of the box because I want you to have it.
Shaking his head, Billy said that such a watch was far too precious to be given away.
—But that’s not so, countered Woolly excitedly. It’s not a watch that’s too precious to be given away. It’s a watch that’s too precious for keeping. It was handed down from my grandfather to my uncle, who handed it down to me. Now I am handing it down to you. And one day—many years from now—you can hand it down to someone else.
Perhaps Woolly hadn’t put his point to perfection, but Billy seemed to understand. So Woolly told him to wind it up! But first, he explained the watch’s only quirk—that once a day it should be wound exactly fourteen times.
—If you wind it only twelve times, said Woolly, by the end of the day, it will be running five minutes slow. Whereas, if you wind it sixteen times, it will be running five minutes fast. But if you wind it exactly fourteen times, then it will keep the time exactly.
After taking this in, Billy wound the watch exactly fourteen times while quietly counting to himself.
What Woolly did not tell Billy was that sometimes—like when he first arrived at St. Paul’s—he would wind the watch sixteen times for six days in a row on porpoise so that he could be half an hour ahead of everybody else. While other times, he would wind it twelve times for six days in a row so that he could be half an hour behind. Either way—whether he wound it sixteen times or wound it twelve—it was a little like when Alice stepped through the looking glass, or the Pevensies through the wardrobe, only to find themselves in a world that was and wasn’t theirs.
—Go ahead and put it on, said Woolly.
—You mean I can wear it now?
—Of course, said Woolly. Of course, of course, of course. That’s the whole point!
So, without any help, Billy strapped it on his wrist.
—Doesn’t that look fine, said Woolly.
And having said so, Woolly would have repeated himself for emphasis, but for the fact that from somewhere downstairs suddenly came a sound that was very much like a gunshot. Exchanging wide-eyed glances, Woolly and Billy leapt to their feet and dashed out the door.
Duchess
Emmett was in a bad mood all right. He was trying to hide it because that’s the kind of guy he is. But I could tell just the same. Especially when he cut Billy off in the middle of his story, saying he wanted to speak to me alone.
Hell, if I were him, I’d want to speak to me alone too.
Another one of Sister Agnes’s favorite sayings was the wise man tattles on himself. Her point, of course, was that if you did something wrong—whether it was behind the maintenance shed or in the dead of night—she was going to find out. After assembling the clues, she was going to deduce it from the comfort of her armchair like Sherlock Holmes. Or she’d discern it from your manner. Or hear it straight from the mouth of God. Whatever the source, she would come to know of your transgressions, of that there was no doubt. So in the interests of saving time, it was best to tattle on yourself. To admit you’ve overstepped, express contrition, and promise to make amends—ideally, before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. So the second Emmett and I were alone, I was ready.
As it turned out, Emmett had a different idea. An even better one. Because before I could get a word out of my mouth, he had grabbed me by the collar in order to lay one on me. I closed my eyes and waited for redemption.
But nothing happened.
Peeking out of my right eye, I saw that he was grinding his teeth, struggling with his own instincts.
—Go ahead, I told him. You’ll feel better. I’ll feel better!
But even as I tried to give him encouragement, I could feel the slackening in his grip. Then he shoved me back a foot or two. So I ended up getting to give my apology, after all.
—I am so sorry, I said.
Then, without taking a breath, I began ticking my missteps off on my fingers.
—I borrowed the Studebaker without asking; I stranded you in Lewis; I misjudged your interest in the Caddy; and on top of all that, I screwed up your night at Ma Belle’s. What can I say? I showed poor judgment. But I’m going to make it up to you.
Emmett raised both hands in the air.
—I don’t want you to make anything up to me, Duchess. I accept your apology. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.
—All right, I said. I appreciate your willingness to put this chapter behind us. But first things first . . .