{"id":24198,"date":"2026-10-24T15:47:12","date_gmt":"2026-10-24T15:47:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lifechaptersusa.online\/?p=24198"},"modified":"2026-10-24T15:47:14","modified_gmt":"2026-10-24T15:47:14","slug":"my-brother-took-dads-gold-watch-three-days-later-he-regretted-everything","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lifechaptersusa.online\/?p=24198","title":{"rendered":"My Brother Took Dad\u2019s Gold Watch\u2014Three Days Later, He Regretted Everything"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Keeping Time
At 9:02 on Thursday morning, my cell phone rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was standing in my father\u2019s kitchen in Galesburg, Illinois, washing his coffee mug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The brown one with the chip on the handle. The one that said BURLINGTON NORTHERN \u2014 GALESBURG YARD \u2014 SAFETY FIRST. He drank out of it every morning for thirty-one years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d been washing it for five minutes. It was already clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I just couldn\u2019t stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The phone buzzed on the counter next to the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RICK.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I dried my hands on the dish towel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was yelling so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWHAT DID DAD DO?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie! Are you there? Tell me what Dad did! TELL ME WHAT DAD DID!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the background, I could hear another voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man. Older. Calm. Steady. Professional. The voice of someone who\u2019d said difficult things to customers before and knew how to say them gently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir,\u201d the man was saying. \u201cSir, I understand this is upsetting. But I need you to understand what I\u2019m telling you about the appraisal\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t care about the appraisal!\u201d Rick shouted. Not at me. At the man. Then back into the phone. \u201cLaurie! Did you know about this? Did you KNOW?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat down at the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Dad\u2019s chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The one by the window. Where he sat every morning before his coffee. Where he wound his gold watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the little velvet box sitting on the table in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d been looking at it for three days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, Rick,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cI knew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I need to go back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To the funeral.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To my brother\u2019s hand reaching into our father\u2019s coffin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My name is Laurie Dombek Hadley. I\u2019m fifty-four years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I teach fourth grade at Silas Willard Elementary School in Galesburg, Illinois. I\u2019ve taught there for twenty-six years. I\u2019m married to Tom, who\u2019s a lineman for Ameren. We have two kids, both grown. Emma\u2019s a nurse in Peoria. Josh is in the Army, stationed at Fort Campbell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I grew up in Galesburg. In a little white house on East Fremont Street. Two blocks from the railroad tracks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve lived here my whole life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father was Eugene Dombek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everybody called him Gene.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He worked for the Burlington Northern Railroad for twenty-five years. At the Galesburg classification yard. The biggest hump yard on the BNSF system. Trains come in from Chicago and Kansas City and Denver and get broken apart and put back together and sent back out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad was a car inspector. Then a yardmaster. He walked the yard in the dark and the cold and the heat. Checking couplers. Checking brakes. Checking wheels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knew every sound a train could make.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He could hear a cracked wheel from a hundred yards away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he retired in 1985, the railroad gave him a gold watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A real one. Fourteen-karat gold. A Hamilton. With a white face and black Roman numerals and a little second hand that swept around in a perfect circle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the back, they engraved it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

EUGENE J. DOMBEK \u2014 25 YEARS FAITHFUL SERVICE \u2014 BURLINGTON NORTHERN RAILROAD \u2014 1960\u20131985.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad wore that watch for forty years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every single day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To church. To the hardware store. To the Hy-Vee. To my wedding. To my kids\u2019 birthday parties. To Mom\u2019s funeral in 2009.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He never took it off. Not even to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And every morning, before he drank his coffee, he sat at the kitchen table and wound it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Same chair. Same time. Six-fifteen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d take it off his wrist. He\u2019d hold it in his left hand. He\u2019d turn the crown with his right thumb and finger. Slowly. Carefully. Exactly twenty-two turns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I counted once when I was ten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he\u2019d hold it up to his ear. Listen to it tick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he\u2019d put it back on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he\u2019d drink his coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA man ought to keep track of time,\u201d he\u2019d always say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said it to me when I was six and I was late for the school bus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said it to Rick when Rick was sixteen and came home at two in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said it at Mom\u2019s funeral. Standing at her grave at Hope Cemetery. In the rain. Looking down at the casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA man ought to keep track of time, Laurie,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cBecause it runs out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His final wish was to be buried wearing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He made that clear to both his children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Several times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first time was in 2018. After his first heart attack. He was in the ICU at Cottage Hospital. Tubes everywhere. He grabbed my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie,\u201d he said. \u201cWhen I go. The watch. On my wrist. In the box.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad, you\u2019re not going anywhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPromise me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI promise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second time was at Thanksgiving in 2020. Rick was home for once. We were all at the table on East Fremont. Dad tapped his watch with one finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis goes with me,\u201d he said. \u201cBoth of you hear me? When I\u2019m gone, it stays on my wrist.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick nodded. \u201cSure, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The third time was in his living room. Last March. Three months before he died. He was in his recliner. Oxygen tube in his nose. Too weak to get up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie,\u201d he said. \u201cThe watch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith me,\u201d he said. \u201cIn the ground.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell Rick,\u201d he said. \u201cMake sure he knows.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe knows, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell him anyway,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My brother, Rick, lives in Phoenix.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He moved there in 1994. When he was twenty-four. He sold insurance. Then real estate. Then he started his own company. Something with commercial property development. Strip malls. Office parks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He did well. For a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He has a house in Scottsdale. A pool. A boat on Lake Pleasant. He drives a Range Rover. His second wife is named Brittany. She\u2019s thirty-four. They have a son, Mason, who\u2019s seven. Rick also has two grown kids from his first marriage who don\u2019t talk to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick was Dad\u2019s favorite when we were growing up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew it. Everybody knew it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was the son. The football star. Starting quarterback at Galesburg High. All-conference his senior year. He threw for three hundred yards against Moline. The Register-Mail put him on the front page of the sports section.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad kept that page. Framed it. It hung in the hallway for forty years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was the daughter. The quiet one. The one who got good grades and stayed out of trouble and went to Western Illinois University forty miles away and came back to teach fourth grade in the same town where I was born.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nobody framed anything about me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But after Rick moved to Phoenix, he didn\u2019t come back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He usually remembered to call Dad at Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And on his birthday. September fourteenth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Five-minute calls. Ten if Dad could keep him on the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How you doing, Dad? Good. Good. Weather okay? Great. Listen, I gotta run. Love you. Merry Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He came home for Mom\u2019s funeral in 2009. He stayed two days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He came home for Dad\u2019s eightieth birthday in 2015. He stayed one night. At the Hampton Inn on East Main. Not at the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t come home for Dad\u2019s first heart attack. Or his second. Or when Dad\u2019s kidneys failed in 2021.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I lived fifteen minutes away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Dad\u2019s kidneys failed, he needed dialysis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. At the DaVita dialysis center on North Henderson Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four hours each time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He couldn\u2019t drive himself. His eyes were going. His hands shook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I drove him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I\u2019d leave school at 2:45. I\u2019d drive to East Fremont Street. I\u2019d help Dad into his coat. I\u2019d help him down the porch steps. I\u2019d help him into my car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d drive him to DaVita. I\u2019d sit with him while the machines cleaned his blood. Four hours. In a vinyl chair. Grading spelling tests. Reading to him. Watching Wheel of Fortune on the little TV mounted on the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d drive him home at seven. I\u2019d help him up the steps. I\u2019d make him dinner. Low sodium. Low potassium. No bananas. No tomatoes. No orange juice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d make sure he took his pills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d drive home at nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I learned things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Things nobody teaches you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How to trim your father\u2019s toenails when he can\u2019t bend over anymore. How to check his feet for sores because his diabetes means he can\u2019t feel them. How to clean the fistula in his arm where they put the dialysis needles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How to operate his oxygen concentrator. How to change the filters. How to switch his tank when the power went out during an ice storm in 2023.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How to help a proud man who walked a railroad yard in the dark for twenty-five years get dressed when his hands shake too much to button his own shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hated it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hated needing me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got your own life, Laurie,\u201d he\u2019d say. \u201cYour kids. Your students. Tom. You shouldn\u2019t have to do this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want to, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour brother should be helping.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick\u2019s busy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad would look out the car window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick\u2019s always busy,\u201d he\u2019d say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick arrived by plane the evening before the funeral.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad died on a Saturday in June.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At home. In his recliner. Early in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d made it through dialysis on Friday. I\u2019d driven him home. Made him dinner. A chicken breast and rice. He ate half of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you, Laurie,\u201d he said at the door. \u201cFor everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d never said that before. For everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t think anything of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning, I called at seven like I always did. He didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drove over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was in his recliner. By the window. With the oxygen tube still in his nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gold watch was on his wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d wound it that morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before he died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick flew into Moline on Wednesday night. The Quad Cities airport. Forty-five minutes north.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He picked up a rented Lexus at the airport. Black. An ES 350.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He checked into the Hampton Inn on East Main.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t come to the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The visitation was Thursday. At Hinchliff-Pearson-West Funeral Home on North Prairie Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two to four in the afternoon. Then six to eight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad was in an open casket. In his good gray suit. The one he wore to Mom\u2019s funeral. A white shirt. A navy blue tie with little gold trains on it. Emma bought it for him for Father\u2019s Day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His hands were folded on his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gold watch was on his left wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Exactly where he wanted it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People came all afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Men from the railroad yard. Old men now. In their seventies and eighties. Men Dad worked with for twenty-five years. They stood by the casket in their good jackets and told stories.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your dad could hear a cracked wheel from the other end of the yard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your dad never missed a shift. Not once. Not in the blizzard of \u201878. He walked to work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your dad taught me how to read a car card when I was nineteen and didn\u2019t know nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Neighbors from East Fremont Street. People from St. Patrick\u2019s Church. The nurses from DaVita. All six of them came. They hugged me. They cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe talked about you every time,\u201d one of them said. Her name was Denise. \u201cEvery single session. My Laurie brought me. My Laurie\u2019s a teacher. My Laurie trimmed my toenails.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick got there at three-fifteen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In a charcoal suit. Expensive. A blue silk tie. Sunglasses he didn\u2019t take off until he was inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hugged me. Quick. Stiff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey, sis.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, Rick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked around the room. At the flowers. At the people. At the casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNice turnout,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lingered beside Dad\u2019s open casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten minutes. Maybe more. Standing there with his hands in his pockets. Looking down at Dad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At first, I believed he was having a private moment with our father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stayed back. I let him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe he\u2019s finally saying something. Goodbye. I\u2019m sorry. Something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought, He\u2019s been gone thirty years. He has a lot to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then his hand reached forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Into the casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took Dad\u2019s left hand. Lifted it off his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He opened the watch clasp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Removed the gold watch from Dad\u2019s wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And tucked it into his jacket pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He did it with everyone watching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room went quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not all at once. In waves. Like when you drop a rock in a pond. The people closest to the casket saw first. They stopped talking. Then the people behind them. Then the people behind them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within ten seconds, the whole room was silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I walked over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My legs felt strange. Like they belonged to somebody else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stopped next to my brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick,\u201d I said. Quietly. \u201cDad specifically wanted that watch buried with him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My brother didn\u2019t bother speaking quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned around. He looked at me. He looked at the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad would want it with the son who was important,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Loud. Clear. Every person in the room heard it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The son who was important.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I couldn\u2019t believe those words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stood there. Next to my father\u2019s casket. Next to my brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The son who was important.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four years. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Four hours each time. Toenails. Oxygen tanks. Low-sodium chicken. Wheel of Fortune.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And my brother, who called twice a year, stood at our father\u2019s casket and announced to a room full of railroad men and church ladies and dialysis nurses that he was the one who mattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aunt Joyce let out a shocked gasp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019s Dad\u2019s younger sister. Seventy-nine. She was sitting in the front row in a folding chair with her cane. She put her hand over her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRichard Eugene,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick didn\u2019t look at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The funeral director started toward us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Pearson. Sixty-something. Gray hair. Kind face. He\u2019d done Mom\u2019s funeral. And my grandmother\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took two steps toward the casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he hesitated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could see him thinking. Do I step in? Is this my business? This is family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I glanced down at Dad\u2019s wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His left hand was lying back on his chest. Where Rick had put it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A little crooked. Not folded the way Mr. Pearson had arranged it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And on his wrist, where the watch had been, there was a thin band of skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lighter than the rest of his arm. Pale. Almost white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The place where the watch had rested for forty years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The place the sun never touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I couldn\u2019t stop looking at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That pale band of skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Forty years of six-fifteen in the morning. Forty years of twenty-two turns of the crown. Forty years of holding it up to his ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In ten seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My husband gently touched my back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tom. He\u2019d been standing behind me. I hadn\u2019t noticed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He leaned close to my ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you going to say anything?\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I certainly could have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could have confronted Rick in front of everyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could have said, You son of a bitch. You weren\u2019t here. You didn\u2019t drive him to dialysis. You didn\u2019t trim his toenails. You didn\u2019t sit with him when the power went out and switch his oxygen tank by flashlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could have said, Dad asked for that watch to stay on his wrist. Three times. He asked me to tell you. I told you. You nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could have said, You\u2019re not the son who was important. You\u2019re the son who left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could have reached into his jacket pocket and taken it back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m fifty-four. I teach fourth grade. I\u2019ve broken up a hundred fights on the playground. I know how to get something out of a pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I looked at Dad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At his face. Peaceful. In his good gray suit and his tie with the little gold trains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I thought about what he\u2019d want.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father hated scenes. He hated yelling. He hated people making a fuss. When Mom used to get angry, he\u2019d go out to the garage and work on his model trains until she calmed down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t make a show, Laurie, he\u2019d say. It\u2019s never worth it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I refused to turn Dad\u2019s farewell into an argument.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not here. Not in front of the railroad men. Not in front of Aunt Joyce. Not in front of the dialysis nurses who drove in from Peoria and Monmouth and Knoxville to say goodbye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not with Dad lying right there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlright, Rick,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alright, Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a second, something crossed his face. Surprise. Maybe disappointment. Like he\u2019d been waiting for me to fight. Like he wanted me to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he tapped his suit pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twice. Pat, pat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And walked off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He went out the front door of the funeral home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I heard the Lexus start in the parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t come back for the evening visitation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room stayed quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then old Stan Novak came over. Eighty-six. He worked the hump yard with Dad from 1962 to 1985. He walks with two canes now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood next to me by the casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked down at Dad\u2019s wrist. At the pale band of skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTwenty-five years I worked next to your father,\u201d Stan said quietly. \u201cNever saw him without that watch. Not once.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou did right, Laurie,\u201d he said. \u201cNot fighting. Your dad would\u2019ve hated a fight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stan put his hand on my shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut your dad,\u201d he said, \u201cwas a lot smarter than people thought.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stan almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d he said. \u201cJust that he always knew which cars were gonna come off the track. Before they did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Pearson came over after everybody left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at Dad\u2019s wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry. I should have stepped in. I didn\u2019t know what to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay, Mr. Pearson.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you like me to\u2014\u201d He stopped. \u201cI could put something there. A different watch. So it\u2019s not\u2014so his wrist isn\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the pale band of skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cLeave it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The funeral was Friday morning. St. Patrick\u2019s. Father Ruiz said the Mass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick sat in the front pew. Next to me. In his charcoal suit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watch wasn\u2019t on his wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was still in his pocket. I could see the bulge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t say anything to me during the Mass. Or at the cemetery. Or at the luncheon after in the church basement. Ham sandwiches and potato salad and lemon bars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He left the luncheon after twenty minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He flew back to Phoenix that afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Later that evening, I unlocked Dad\u2019s house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

East Fremont Street. The little white house two blocks from the tracks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was the first time I\u2019d been inside since I found him in his recliner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stood in the doorway. In the dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The house smelled like him. Old Spice. Coffee. The pine-scented cleaner I used on his kitchen floor every Friday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned on the kitchen light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat in his usual chair beside the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The one by the window. Where he sat every morning at six-fifteen. Where he wound his watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The brown BNSF mug was still in the dish drainer. Where I\u2019d put it Friday night after his dinner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cried for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I remembered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three months before he died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In March. When he was so weak he could barely get out of his recliner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He asked me to get something from his bedroom closet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTop shelf,\u201d he said. \u201cIn the back. Behind my hats. A little gray box. Metal. With a handle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I went to his bedroom. I opened the closet. I moved his hats. His good fedora. His BNSF caps. His Cubs hat from 2016.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Behind them, on the top shelf, was a small fireproof container. Gray. Metal. With a handle and a little keyhole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I brought it to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He held it in his lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t open it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie,\u201d he said. \u201cThere\u2019s something in here you\u2019ll need. After I\u2019m gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot yet,\u201d he said. \u201cAfter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He handed me a small key. On a piece of red string.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPut this somewhere safe,\u201d he said. \u201cDon\u2019t open the box until I\u2019m gone. Promise me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPromise me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI promise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s meant for you,\u201d he said. \u201cNot Rick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat have you put in there, Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked out the window. At the street. At the railroad tracks two blocks away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll understand when the time comes,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put the box back on the shelf. Behind his hats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put the key on my own key ring. Next to my house key and my classroom key.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I forgot about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Until that night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I went into his bedroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened the closet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I moved his hats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gray fireproof box was still there. On the top shelf. In the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I brought it to the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took the little key off my key ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside lay two things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A little velvet case. Dark blue. The size of a deck of cards. Old. The velvet worn shiny at the corners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And a sealed envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

White. Letter-sized. With my name on the front in Dad\u2019s shaky handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

LAURIE.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened the envelope first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside were three sheets of paper. Lined. Torn from a spiral notebook. Folded in thirds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad\u2019s handwriting. Shaky. Some words hard to read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I unfolded the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read it once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Laurie,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If you\u2019re reading this, I\u2019m gone. And I\u2019m guessing your brother took the watch off my wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t be mad. I knew he would.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read that line again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew he would.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve known your brother for fifty-six years. I know him better than he knows himself. Rick has always reached for the shiny thing. Ever since he was a little boy. Christmas morning, he\u2019d grab the biggest box first. Every time. Didn\u2019t matter what was inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So when I told him three times I wanted to be buried with that watch, I wasn\u2019t really telling him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was testing him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here\u2019s what you need to know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watch on my wrist is not the watch the railroad gave me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put the letter down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stared at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked it up again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In 2019, after my first heart attack, I took my watch to Mr. Lindgren at Lindgren Jewelers on Main Street. To get it cleaned. It was running slow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While I was there, I asked Ole Lindgren a question. I said, Ole, can you make me a copy? Something that looks exactly like this. Same size. Same color. Same face. Same engraving on the back. But cheap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ole looked at me like I was crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said, Gene, why on earth would you want a cheap copy of your railroad watch?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I said, Because I\u2019ve got a son in Phoenix who\u2019s going to try to take it off my body before they close the lid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I started laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I couldn\u2019t help it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat in my father\u2019s kitchen chair, with tears running down my face, and laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ole thought I was joking. Then he saw I wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He made it. Took him two months. He found a gold-tone case from a company in China. A quartz movement. A battery. He matched the face. He engraved the back exactly like the original.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cost me thirty-eight dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve been wearing the copy since September 2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You never noticed. Neither did anybody. Not even the boys at DaVita.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real one is in the velvet box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the velvet box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sitting on the kitchen table. Dark blue. Worn shiny at the corners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t open it yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kept reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now. You\u2019re probably wondering. Why would I go to all this trouble? Why not just give you the watch? Why not just tell Rick no?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because Rick needed to show you who he is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And you needed to see it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019ve been making excuses for your brother your whole life, Laurie. Rick\u2019s busy. Rick\u2019s far away. Rick has his own family. Rick\u2019s going through a hard time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know. I heard you. Every time I said your brother should help, you defended him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019re a good sister. Better than he deserves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But you needed to see it with your own eyes. You needed to watch him reach into my casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because if I just told you, you\u2019d never believe me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wiped my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned to the second page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now here\u2019s the part that\u2019s going to make you laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Ole made the copy, I asked him to add one thing. On the inside of the case back. Where nobody would see it unless they opened it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You can\u2019t open the back of a watch without a special tool. Only a jeweler has one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick\u2019s going to try to sell that watch. I know he is. I\u2019ve known for two years. Your brother\u2019s in trouble with money. He thinks I don\u2019t know. I know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s going to take it to a jeweler in Phoenix. For an appraisal. Because a man like Rick always wants to know what something\u2019s worth before he decides if he cares about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the jeweler\u2019s going to open the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he\u2019s going to read what\u2019s inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m not going to tell you what it says. That\u2019s between me and your brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I\u2019ll tell you this. When he finds out, he\u2019s going to call you. Yelling. He always yells when he\u2019s scared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he calls, tell him the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then give him the other envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What other envelope? I thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked in the gray box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was nothing else in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kept reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other envelope is in the velvet box. Under the watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t read it. It\u2019s for Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only give it to him if he calls. If he never calls, burn it. If he calls, he\u2019s ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned to the third page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The handwriting was worse here. Shakier. Like he\u2019d written it on a different day. A worse day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Laurie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I need to tell you something I should have told you a long time ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you were little, I didn\u2019t pay enough attention to you. I know that. I was always watching Rick. His games. His throws. His trophies. I framed his picture in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I never framed anything of yours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m sorry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was a railroad man. I spent twenty-five years watching the loud cars. The ones that banged and screeched and came off the track. You learn to listen for the trouble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know how to listen for the quiet ones. The ones that just keep running. That never come off the track. That carry everything and never make a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You were the quiet one, Laurie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You carried everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I didn\u2019t hear it until the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watch is yours. The real one. It was always going to be yours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I told you I wanted to be buried with it. I lied. I\u2019m sorry. It was the only way to keep it safe from your brother until the right time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man ought to keep track of time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Look in the velvet box. You\u2019ll see I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Love,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I read it a third time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I opened the velvet box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside, on a bed of white satin, was the watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fourteen-karat gold. A Hamilton. White face. Black Roman numerals. A little second hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not moving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It hadn\u2019t been wound since 2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was heavier than I expected. Much heavier. Real gold is heavy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned it over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

EUGENE J. DOMBEK \u2014 25 YEARS FAITHFUL SERVICE \u2014 BURLINGTON NORTHERN RAILROAD \u2014 1960\u20131985.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it in my left hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned the crown with my right thumb and finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Slowly. Carefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twenty-two turns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it up to my ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It started ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Under the watch, folded flat beneath the satin, there were two more things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first was a sealed envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RICK.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t open it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second was a small notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Black. Spiral-bound. The kind you buy at Walgreens for a dollar ninety-nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the cover, in Dad\u2019s handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

LAURIE\u2019S TIME.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first page was dated March 8, 2021.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The day of his first dialysis appointment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mon. 3\/8\/21. DaVita. L. drove. 3:05 \u2013 7:20. 4 hrs 15 min. She graded spelling tests. Read me the Register-Mail. Made chicken & rice after.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wed. 3\/10\/21. DaVita. L. drove. 3:00 \u2013 7:15. 4 hrs 15 min. She brought her own dinner. Ate in the car. Said she wasn\u2019t hungry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fri. 3\/12\/21. DaVita. L. drove. 3:10 \u2013 7:30. 4 hrs 20 min. Toenails after. She didn\u2019t make a face. I would have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned the page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every single one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Every Friday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mon. 2\/6\/23. Ice storm. Power out. L. came at 11 PM. Switched oxygen tank by flashlight. Stayed till morning. Slept in the recliner. Her back hurt. She said it didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fri. 8\/18\/23. L. missed Emma\u2019s birthday dinner to drive me. Didn\u2019t tell me. Emma called me. Told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wed. 4\/17\/24. L. had pneumonia. Drove me anyway. Coughed the whole time. I told her go home. She said \u201cI\u2019m fine, Dad.\u201d She wasn\u2019t fine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mon. 11\/4\/24. L.\u2019s anniversary. 29 yrs with Tom. She drove me. Tom came too. Brought cake. We ate it in the DaVita parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned to the last page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was dated the day before he died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fri. 6\/13\/25. DaVita. L. drove. 3:00 \u2013 7:10. 4 hrs 10 min. Last one, I think. Told her thank you. For everything. Should have said it four years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And under that, a total.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Written carefully. Underlined twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

TOTAL: 612 trips. 2,594 hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Plus ice storms. Plus toenails. Plus everything I didn\u2019t write down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man ought to keep track of time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat at my father\u2019s kitchen table until two in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Holding the gold watch. Ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Holding the black notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Both.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d been keeping track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d thought he didn\u2019t notice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d thought he was too proud to see it. Too embarrassed. Too sick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d thought he was still watching Rick. The loud car. The shiny one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was watching me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wrote it down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every single time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thursday morning, at exactly 9:02, my cell phone rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWHAT DID DAD DO? TELL ME WHAT DAD DID!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the background, I could hear the jeweler.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir. Sir, please. Would you like me to read you the rest of the inscription?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo! I don\u2019t\u2014fine. Fine. Read it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat in Dad\u2019s chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The jeweler\u2019s voice came through the phone. Calm. Steady. Professional.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere is an engraving,\u201d he said, \u201con the inside of the case back. In small script. It reads as follows.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He cleared his throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick \u2014 If you\u2019re reading this, you took it off my wrist. It\u2019s worth thirty-eight dollars. The real one went to the child who kept time with me. Call your sister. She has something for you. \u2014 Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The line went silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Completely silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I heard the jeweler again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quieter now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. As I was explaining. The case is gold-tone brass. The movement is a Japanese quartz. Battery-operated. The retail value is approximately forty dollars. I can\u2019t\u2014I\u2019m sorry. It isn\u2019t the watch you described.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I heard a door open. Footsteps. A car door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then his voice. In the phone. Not yelling anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie,\u201d he said. \u201cDid you know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI found out Sunday night,\u201d I said. \u201cDad left me a letter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe had Ole Lindgren make a copy,\u201d I said. \u201cIn 2019. After his first heart attack. He\u2019s been wearing it for six years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSix years,\u201d Rick said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe knew you\u2019d take it,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I heard him breathing. Ragged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCall your sister,\u201d Rick said. \u201cShe has something for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA letter,\u201d I said. \u201cFrom Dad. In an envelope. With your name on it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does it say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said. \u201cHe told me not to read it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick was quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was going to sell it,\u201d he said finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe watch,\u201d Rick said. \u201cI took it to a jeweler in Scottsdale this morning. Bergman\u2019s. On Fifth Avenue. I told him it was a vintage Hamilton. Fourteen-karat. I said I thought it was worth eight or nine thousand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He laughed. A terrible laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI needed the money, Laurie,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad knew that too,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe wrote it in the letter,\u201d I said. \u201cHe said, Your brother\u2019s in trouble with money. He thinks I don\u2019t know. I know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick made a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something I\u2019d never heard my brother make before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not since we were kids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI lost the company,\u201d he said. \u201cIn March. The development company. We had three strip malls in Mesa. Tenants pulled out. The bank called the loans. I couldn\u2019t cover them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBrittany doesn\u2019t know how bad it is,\u201d he said. \u201cNobody knows. I\u2019ve been borrowing against the house. I\u2019m three months behind on the boat. I sold the Range Rover in April. I\u2019ve been driving a rental car I can\u2019t afford.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd Dad died,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I flew up there. And I stood at his casket. And I looked at that watch on his wrist. And I thought, That\u2019s nine thousand dollars. That\u2019s three months of mortgage. That\u2019s one thing I don\u2019t have to explain to Brittany.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I thought,\u201d he said. Very quietly. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t need it. He\u2019s dead. Laurie doesn\u2019t need it. She doesn\u2019t care about stuff. She\u2019s never cared about stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was sobbing now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I thought, I\u2019m the son. I\u2019m the one he was proud of. I\u2019m the one he framed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe son who was important,\u201d he said. \u201cI said that. In front of everybody. In front of Aunt Joyce. In front of Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There wasn\u2019t anything to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLaurie,\u201d Rick said. \u201cCan I ask you something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d he said. \u201cWhen he was sick. All those years. What did you actually do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the black notebook on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

LAURIE\u2019S TIME.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you really want to know?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen come home,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He came on Saturday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He drove.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not a rental Lexus. A Ford Fusion with a cracked windshield. Twenty-two hours from Phoenix to Galesburg. He drove straight through. He slept for three hours at a rest stop in Oklahoma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knocked on the door of the house on East Fremont at 4:15 on Saturday afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked terrible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unshaven. Red-eyed. In a wrinkled polo shirt and jeans. No charcoal suit. No silk tie. No sunglasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was holding the fake watch in his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, sis,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, Rick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We sat at the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me in Dad\u2019s chair. Rick in Mom\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He put the fake watch on the table between us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gold-tone brass. Japanese quartz. Thirty-eight dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was still ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I slid the black notebook across the table to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the cover.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

LAURIE\u2019S TIME.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He read it for an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every page. Every line. Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Every Friday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She graded spelling tests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Toenails after. She didn\u2019t make a face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ice storm. Power out. Switched oxygen tank by flashlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

L. missed Emma\u2019s birthday dinner to drive me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

L. had pneumonia. Drove me anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he got to the last page, he stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fri. 6\/13\/25. Last one, I think. Told her thank you. For everything. Should have said it four years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

TOTAL: 612 trips. 2,594 hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick put the notebook down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He put his face in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTwo thousand five hundred and ninety-four hours,\u201d he said through his fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlus toenails,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He laughed. A wet, broken laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlus ice storms,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlus everything he didn\u2019t write down,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lifted his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI called him twice a year,\u201d he said. \u201cChristmas. His birthday. Five minutes. Ten if he kept me on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you know how many hours that is?\u201d Rick said. \u201cOver four years? Eight calls?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbout an hour,\u201d Rick said. \u201cOne hour. Total.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou gave him two thousand five hundred and ninety-four,\u201d he said. \u201cI gave him one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took the envelope out of the velvet box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RICK.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I slid it across the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His hands were shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you read it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cDad said it was for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One sheet of paper. Lined. Torn from the same spiral notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He read it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he put it down on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he slid it back to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRead it,\u201d he said. \u201cPlease. I want you to know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad\u2019s handwriting. Shaky. Shakier than mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If you\u2019re reading this, you called your sister.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That means you\u2019re ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know about the company. I know about the loans. I know you sold the car. Your son Mason told me on the phone at Christmas. He said, \u201cGrandpa, Daddy cries in the garage.\u201d He\u2019s seven. He didn\u2019t know he wasn\u2019t supposed to tell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m not angry about the watch, son. I knew you\u2019d take it. That\u2019s why I gave you the fake one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not to punish you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To teach you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you were little, you always grabbed the biggest box on Christmas morning. Every year. You never once looked at what was inside first. You just wanted the big one. The shiny one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One year, your mother wrapped a pair of socks in a refrigerator box. Just to see. You tore into it. You found socks. You cried for an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your sister got a little box that year. Tiny. You laughed at her. Inside was a bracelet your grandmother left her. Real silver. She still wears it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick, you\u2019ve been grabbing the big box your whole life. The big house. The big boat. The big company. The big watch on a dead man\u2019s wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And every time, you open it and find socks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I spent twenty-five years in that railroad yard. You know what I learned?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The loud cars aren\u2019t the important ones. The loud cars are the ones with something wrong. A cracked wheel. A bad bearing. A loose coupler. They bang and screech and everybody looks at them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The important cars are the quiet ones. The ones that carry the load. Mile after mile. Year after year. Never making a sound. Never asking for anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your sister is a quiet car, Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She carried me for four years. She carried your mother before that. She\u2019s carried you your whole life. Every time you didn\u2019t come home, she covered for you. Every time I asked where you were, she said you were busy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She never once complained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You said you were the son who was important.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You were. You still are. You\u2019re my son. I love you. I always will.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But you\u2019re not the child who mattered most in the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not because I loved her more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because she showed up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watch you\u2019re holding is worth thirty-eight dollars. It runs on a battery. It\u2019ll keep perfect time for about five years. Then it\u2019ll stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real watch is with your sister. It runs on a spring. You have to wind it every morning. Twenty-two turns. If you forget, it stops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s the difference, son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cheap one keeps time by itself. You don\u2019t have to do anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real one only keeps time if you show up every morning and wind it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want you to keep the cheap one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wear it. Every day. And every time you look at it, I want you to think about what it cost. Thirty-eight dollars. And what it didn\u2019t cost you. Nothing. You didn\u2019t have to wind it. You didn\u2019t have to show up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then I want you to call your sister.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not twice a year. Every week.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I want you to call Mason. Every night. Go out to the garage and cry if you have to. Then go inside and read him a story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wind the real watch, Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before it\u2019s too late.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Love,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad<\/p>\n\n\n\n

P.S. Ole Lindgren says the battery in your watch is good till 2030. That gives you five years. Use them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put the letter down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick was crying so hard he couldn\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He put his head down on the kitchen table. On Mom\u2019s side. His shoulders shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d never seen my brother cry. Not when Mom died. Not when his first marriage ended. Not when Dad died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He cried at our father\u2019s kitchen table for twenty minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t stop him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he could talk again, he lifted his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMason told him,\u201d he said. \u201cThat I cry in the garage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know Mason knew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKids always know,\u201d I said. \u201cI teach fourth grade. They always know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick picked up the fake watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He held it in his palm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gold-tone brass. Thirty-eight dollars. Ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned it over. He couldn\u2019t open the back. You need a special tool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he knew what was inside now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Call your sister. She has something for you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Laurie,\u201d he said. \u201cFor the funeral. For what I said. For taking it. For everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor thirty years,\u201d he said. \u201cFor not coming home. For making you do everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know, Rick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you ever say anything?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you ever call me and say, Rick, I need help. Dad needs you. Come home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I\u2019m a quiet car,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick laughed. Through his tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad would say that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe did,\u201d I said. \u201cIn my letter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick stayed for a week.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He slept in his old bedroom. The one with the football trophies still on the shelf. The Register-Mail sports page still framed in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Monday, he went to Hope Cemetery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood at Dad\u2019s grave for an hour. I watched from the car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know what he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Tuesday, he went to DaVita.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He walked in and asked for Denise. The nurse who said He talked about you every time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He asked her what it was like. For Dad. The four hours. The needles. The machines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She showed him the chair. The vinyl one by the window. Where Dad sat. Three times a week. For four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick sat in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Denise told me later that he sat there for two hours. With his hands on the armrests. Looking out the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe asked me if your dad ever talked about him,\u201d Denise said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did you tell him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Denise was quiet for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told him the truth,\u201d she said. \u201cThat your father talked about his son in Phoenix every single session. How proud he was. How he hoped he\u2019d come home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd that every single session,\u201d she said, \u201cthe person sitting next to him was you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Wednesday, he went to Lindgren Jewelers on Main Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ole Lindgren is eighty-nine. Still works three days a week. His granddaughter runs the store now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick showed him the fake watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ole looked at it. He looked at Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re the son,\u201d Ole said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m the son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ole nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour father came in here every six months,\u201d he said. \u201cFor six years. To have me check the battery. And to ask me if you\u2019d called.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick stared at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery time,\u201d Ole said. \u201cHe\u2019d hand me the watch. I\u2019d check it. And he\u2019d say, Ole, has my boy been in? Like you might\u2019ve come home and stopped by without telling him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He handed the watch back to Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou never had,\u201d Ole said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Thursday, Rick called his son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From Dad\u2019s kitchen. At seven o\u2019clock. Phoenix time five o\u2019clock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I heard him through the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMason? Hey, buddy. It\u2019s Daddy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A long pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know, buddy. I know I\u2019ve been sad. Grandpa died.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah. I know you told Grandpa. At Christmas. About the garage. That\u2019s okay. You did the right thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His voice cracked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMason,\u201d he said. \u201cCan I tell you a story? About Grandpa? About a watch?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He talked to his son for two hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Friday, the day before he left, Rick sat at the kitchen table with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Six-fifteen in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had the real watch in my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gold Hamilton. Fourteen-karat. 25 YEARS FAITHFUL SERVICE.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d been winding it every morning. At six-fifteen. In Dad\u2019s chair. Twenty-two turns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick watched me do it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan I try?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I handed him the watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He held it in his left hand. He turned the crown with his right thumb and finger. Slowly. Carefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow many?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTwenty-two.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He counted out loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOne. Two. Three.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got to twenty-two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He held it up to his ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He closed his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe did this every morning,\u201d Rick said. \u201cFor forty years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd then for six years,\u201d Rick said, \u201che didn\u2019t. Because the real one was in a box in his closet. And he was wearing a fake one that didn\u2019t need winding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He opened his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d he said. \u201cWhy would he give it up? The thing he loved most? The thing he did every morning?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at my brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause he didn\u2019t need it anymore,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe had somebody else to keep track of,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked up the black notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

LAURIE\u2019S TIME.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe wasn\u2019t winding the watch,\u201d I said. \u201cHe was winding this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick handed me back the real watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put it on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My left wrist. It was too big. It slid around. I\u2019d have to get a link taken out. Ole said he\u2019d do it for free.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick put on the fake one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His left wrist. Gold-tone brass. Thirty-eight dollars. Battery good till 2030.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We sat there together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At our father\u2019s kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wearing two watches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One real. One fake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Both ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was four months ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick calls me every Sunday now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seven o\u2019clock my time. Five o\u2019clock his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s never missed one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first few calls were short. Awkward. Ten minutes. He didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now they last an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tells me about Mason. About Brittany. About the apartment they moved into after the bank took the house in Scottsdale. Two bedrooms. Near Mason\u2019s school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tells me about his new job. Selling insurance again. For a small agency in Tempe. Less money. Better hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s home every night at six.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reads to Mason. Every night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He doesn\u2019t cry in the garage anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In September, he drove back to Galesburg.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For Dad\u2019s birthday. September fourteenth. He would have been ninety-one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He brought Mason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seven years old. Sandy hair. Rick\u2019s chin. He\u2019d never been to Illinois. He\u2019d never seen snow. He\u2019d never seen a train yard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We took him to the BNSF yard on the south side of town. The hump yard. Where Dad worked for twenty-five years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We stood at the fence and watched the cars come over the hump. Rolling down into the classification tracks. Banging into each other. Coupling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mason pressed his face against the fence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhich ones are the quiet ones?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve been telling him the story,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery night,\u201d Rick said. \u201cHe asks for it. Tell me about the quiet cars, Daddy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick knelt down next to his son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pointed at a long string of grain hoppers. Rolling slowly down the track. Steady. Not making a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose,\u201d he said. \u201cThe ones that just keep going. That carry everything. That never come off the track.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mason looked at the hoppers for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike Aunt Laurie,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick put his hand on his son\u2019s head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly like Aunt Laurie,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That afternoon, we went to Hope Cemetery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All three of us. Me. Rick. Mason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We stood at Dad\u2019s grave. A simple granite stone. Next to Mom\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

EUGENE J. DOMBEK \u2014 1934\u20132025 \u2014 HUSBAND. FATHER. RAILROAD MAN.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A MAN OUGHT TO KEEP TRACK OF TIME.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d picked the inscription. Rick agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick knelt down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took off the fake watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gold-tone brass. Thirty-eight dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at it for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he dug a little hole. With his fingers. At the base of the headstone. In the grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He put the fake watch in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He covered it with dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRick,\u201d I said. \u201cDad said to keep it. To wear it. Every day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He brushed the dirt off his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad wanted to be buried with a watch,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cI took it off his wrist. In front of everybody.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the little patch of disturbed dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m giving it back,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mason was watching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDaddy,\u201d he said. \u201cWhat time is it now? If you don\u2019t have a watch?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick looked at his son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At my left wrist. At the gold Hamilton. Twenty-two turns every morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAsk Aunt Laurie,\u201d Rick said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mason looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held out my wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the watch. At the white face. At the black Roman numerals. At the little second hand sweeping around in a perfect circle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s 3:47,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mason nodded seriously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you know it\u2019s right?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knelt down next to my nephew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I wind it every morning,\u201d I said. \u201cTwenty-two turns. At six-fifteen. In Grandpa\u2019s chair.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery morning?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat if you forget?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen it stops,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd it\u2019s not right anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mason thought about that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo it only works,\u201d he said slowly, \u201cif you show up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick made a sound behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was crying again. Standing at our father\u2019s grave. In the September sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, buddy,\u201d he said. \u201cIt only works if you show up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick did one more thing before he left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He went back to DaVita.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He asked Denise if they needed volunteers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Drivers. For patients who can\u2019t drive themselves. Who don\u2019t have family nearby. Who sit alone for four hours, three times a week.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Denise said they always need drivers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick said he lives in Phoenix.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Denise said there\u2019s a DaVita in Tempe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He started in October.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Saturday. He drives a man named Hector to dialysis. Eighty-one. A retired copper miner from Globe. His wife died in 2022. His kids live in California.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick picks him up at noon. Sits with him for four hours. Drives him home at five.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hector tells him stories about the mines. Rick tells him stories about the railroad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hector says Rick\u2019s terrible at Wheel of Fortune.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rick says Hector cheats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Last week, a package came in the mail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From Phoenix.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A small padded envelope. Rick\u2019s handwriting on the front.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside was a notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Black. Spiral-bound. A dollar ninety-nine at Walgreens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the cover, in Rick\u2019s handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RICK\u2019S TIME.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first page was dated October 4.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sat. 10\/4\/25. DaVita Tempe. Drove Hector. 12:00 \u2013 5:15. 5 hrs 15 min. He told me about the cave-in at the Old Dominion mine in 1967. He was 23. He dug out two men with his hands. I didn\u2019t say anything. I just listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sat. 10\/11\/25. DaVita Tempe. Drove Hector. 12:00 \u2013 5:00. 5 hrs. He fell asleep halfway through. I sat there anyway. Held his hand. Like Laurie did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sun. 10\/12\/25. Called Laurie. 7 PM her time. 1 hr 10 min. Told her about Hector. She cried. I think that\u2019s good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every night. Read to Mason. 30 min. Tonight it was the quiet cars again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were twelve pages.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Saturday with Hector. Every Sunday with me. Every night with Mason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the bottom of the last page, a total. Written carefully. Underlined twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

TOTAL SO FAR: 74 hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Long way to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man ought to keep track of time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And under that, one more line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Battery\u2019s good till 2030. I don\u2019t need it. I\u2019m winding my own now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat at my father\u2019s kitchen table holding my brother\u2019s notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wearing my father\u2019s watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was 6:15 in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took off the watch. I held it in my left hand. I turned the crown with my right thumb and finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twenty-two turns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it up to my ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People ask me sometimes about the funeral.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

About my brother reaching into the casket. About the gold watch going into his jacket pocket in front of everybody. About the son who was important.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They ask why I didn\u2019t fight. Why I just said Alright, Rick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They think I was weak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tell them the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father spent twenty-five years in a railroad yard listening for trouble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knew which cars were going to come off the track before they did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knew his son would reach into his casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So he gave him something to reach for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something shiny. Something heavy-looking. Something gold-tone. Worth thirty-eight dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a message inside that he\u2019d only find when he tried to sell it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Call your sister.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he gave me something too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watch was nice. The watch was gold. The watch had his name on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the thing he really gave me was a black notebook from Walgreens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Six hundred and twelve trips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two thousand five hundred and ninety-four hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Plus ice storms. Plus toenails. Plus everything he didn\u2019t write down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For four years, I thought my father didn\u2019t see me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought he was still watching the loud car. The football star. The framed sports page in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought the quiet cars didn\u2019t get noticed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was keeping track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The whole time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Every Friday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In a notebook he hid in a fireproof box behind his hats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So that when he was gone, and his son reached for the shiny thing, and his daughter said Alright, Rick and walked away, she\u2019d go home and open the box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And find out what he\u2019d been doing every morning for six years instead of winding his watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was winding me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man ought to keep track of time, my father used to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because it runs out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He kept track of mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now I keep track of his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every morning at six-fifteen. In his chair. By the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twenty-two turns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And somewhere in Phoenix, every Saturday, my brother sits next to an old copper miner in a vinyl chair at a dialysis center.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Holding his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Writing it down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keeping time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Keeping TimeAt 9:02 on Thursday morning, my cell phone rang. I was standing in my father\u2019s kitchen in Galesburg, Illinois, washing his coffee mug. The brown one with the chip … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":24199,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-24198","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family-story","category-lastest-story"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t