The Fob Watch

Grandpa would never have wanted me to wear black at his funeral.

A pink suit. A pink velvet suit. A pink velvet suit with polka dots even. But never, ever just a plain black one.

Looking at him in his casket, I have to think he'd be proud of me if he could open his eyes now and see my outfit – cerulean blue silk button-down, flared denim pants, a turquoise bolo tie hanging loosely, tangled between the buttons of the shirt. He'd be smiling because they are all his old clothes from when he was my age. His chestnut-colored leather jacket draped over my arm; the creases in the leather matching the long creases in his face as he lay there.

Even dead for a few days and there still seemed to be color left in his skin. Rows of smile lines deeply set, a soft hue of pink in cheeks, his lips full and moisturized. Why, he looked like he was just asleep.

But based on his clothes - his Sunday best he would call them - I knew he was gone. He was wearing a chartreuse colored three-piece suit. A fob chain hanging from his pocket, a thin silk scarf with geometric patterns neatly tied around his neck.

Grandma Howie was the best grandpa there ever could have been.

I felt a hand gently squeeze my shoulder, "You doing okay, champ?"

I shrugged. "No," I answered. "But am I hiding it well?"

Dad half-smiled. His eyes were red from tears, "Yeah buddy. Yeah you look like you're doing pretty good."

"He wouldn't want you to cry at his funeral you know," I say to him.

Dad put his hands on the edge of the casket, staring deeply into grandpa's cold eyelids. I imagine him cycling through the memories of them as Dad grew up.

"Yeah buddy, I know I know. But you know what," he asked, "I wouldn't be crying if he hadn't left so damn soon." He said the last bit with a haphazard laugh, reaching to hold Grandpa's hand.

"I thought 65 was old?"

Dad huffed and choked down a short laugh again, "It might seem old when you're 13. But no Matthew, it's pretty young."

I looked down at Grandpa in the casket. Now would be the time he would have cracked some smart joke that'd leave me laughing (though I wouldn't really understand), and Dad solemnly shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment.

"How did he die so young then?"

Dad still hadn't let go of grandpa's hand. He was caressing this thumb, gaze still locked on grandpa's closed eyes.

"Grandpa was in a war a long time ago. Right before I was born actually. Vietnam. He told you about it, didn't he?"

I nodded. "A little. Only the good stuff though he'd say."

Dad nodded too, "Yeah only the 'good' stuff, I bet. Well Grandpa saw a lot of really bad stuff. And the bad stuff made him really sick."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes when bad things happen to you, you kinda lose yourself. You lose interest in things you once loved to do and you start behaving . . . differently. Grandpa was really sad and started hurting his body when he was really young. It just finally caught up to him is all."

"So Grandpa did it himself?"

"God no, buddy," his dad shot back quickly but quietly. Dad released grandpa's hand and put both hands in his pants' pockets. "I mean, in a way, sure. He kinda did. But I’d say, and I think Grandpa would have agreed with me, Vietnam did it. Vietnam killed Grandpa a long, long time ago."

I looked at Grandpa again. I had so many more questions to ask him. I want to shake him. To tell him to stop playing this game, that I know he’s alive. His thin lips curved at the end, making it appear he had a sly grin. It was just like Grandpa would’ve smiled if he was still here.

“Dad,” I whispered.

I felt his eyes trying to meet mine, but I kept them locked on the casket.

“How long ago was Vietnam?”

His dad sighed a deep sigh, the one he made when he was frustrated. “Jeez Matthew, I dunno. I think Dad, I mean – Grandpa, did his first tour in ‘68 or 69. It’s 2000 now, making it about 30 or so years ago.”

“So if Grandpa didn’t go to Vietnam he’d still be here?”

Another sigh.

“I dunno Matthew,” he answered after a while. “Maybe. Maybe he would be. But no one will know. We can’t go back in time and change the past.”

He rubbed a hand through my hair and ruffled it – something Grandpa never would have done. Grandpa knew I had gelled it just like he taught me. “I’m going to go find your mother. You should step away for a bit and go say something to your cousins.”

Dad slowly walked away with his hands deep in his pockets, his face to the ground. Dad is sad. Grandpa was always the one I asked questions; he always had an answer, always had something to say. Not Dad. Never Dad.

I reached for Grandpa’s hand once more, wanting to squeeze it and feel the familiar weight, when I saw the fob watch chain twinkle out of the corner of my eye.

I looked to the ceiling. The low amber lights wouldn’t have made the brass chain sparkle like that. But then again, maybe it was gold. Grandpa always liked the finer things.

What would Grandpa have done? Leave it? No. Grandpa was brave – he was bold. But Grandpa showed me everything. He even shared all his old clothes and stories and photos and records. But not this. Not this fob watch.

He would want me to have it, I think. But Grandpa was so particular. . . he would’ve had his funeral outfit picked years beforehand. Everything would have to be just right, especially if he wasn’t going to “be” there.

It has to be an accident. Or maybe, Grandpa just forgot. In any case, I need to see it and then I’ll put it back. No one would ever notice.

I took a deep breath as I slid my hand against the pearl white silk of the casket. I crept my fingers into Grandpa's pocket, grabbing the watch from the top to avoid the chain making any noise.

As I exhaled, I snapped my arm back into my pocket, watch in hand.

Another deep breath. Another exhale.

I turn my head left and right -- no one paying attention.

I sneak past the distant relatives and the noisy cousins into a small, private room with a baby grand piano nestled in the corner and close the door. I pull out the watch for inspection.

The watch, nearly as big as my palm, was definitely gold. It was heavy, with delicate filagree on the case. Flipping it up, I exposed the white face with the black roman numerals with the clock hands both at the number 12.

But there was also an inscription written in a faint script that I missed when flipping the watch open.

“Round the hands to wind the wheels of time. Turn to twilight to take the traveler home.”

A riddle? Grandpa would have some sort of Rumpelstiltskin riddle inscribed.

"Round the hands to wind the wheels of time," I whispered.

Well, if I could "wind the wheels of time," I would go back and stop the Vietnam War from happening. I would make sure that Grandpa lives way longer, and never, ever goes to that war.

What year did Dad say again? 1968.

Turning the little hand all the way to the 1, then to the 9.

Turning the big hand to the 6, then all the way to the 8.

I close my eyes and whisper, "Take me to Grandpa Howie."

The room around me is still silent but I can't hear the sounds from out in the hallway anymore. I'm scared to open my eyes.

I open them.

I'm still in the room.

Gosh, I'm so stupid. How could I think this could ever possibly work? I need to put it back before anyone notices that it's gone.

Sulking out of the room, I keep my eyes glued to my shoes. How embarassing. Grandpa would never be caught doing something like this.

I turn the knob of the door and step foot on tile linoelum instead of the purple carpet of the funeral home.

"What the . . . "

Brown kitchen cabinets with orange accents face me. A cream color fridge with magnets and papers decorated all over the sides. I smell coffee brewing, and hear voices yelling past the kitchen.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Ma. I will, I will ok? Yes, I will let Miss Terry know you'll pick up your dry-cleaning tomorrow. Jeez. . ."

A man with honey colored hair and tanned olive skin appears before me. His eyes, bewildered. He wears flared denim with a chambray shirt. A bolo tie wrapped around his neck, just like mine. His eyes are wide, but not scared. Taken aback maybe, but not confused.

I know this man. I've seen him before.

"HOWARD LOUIS. DO YOU HEAR ME?" A raspy yell comes from down the hall and then a stout old woman comes barreling in the tiny kitchen, bumping into the man.

"Oh!" she exclaims, "Howie, who is this? I didn't know you had friends over this early!" Her salt and pepper hair was done in curlers, she crossed her arms covering her chest, embarrassed to be caught in her terry-cloth robe.

"Er, um - Ma, this is . . . my friend. He's ah, Steve's little cousin. I'm taking him to the shop to show him around."

The woman looked at me dubiously. But nodded and walked away in silence.

The man quickly grabbed my arm and hurried me to the side door. We walked outside and were in a driveway, nestled in an average suburb.

"What are you doing here?" the man asked with his brows furrowed, still holding my arm but gradually tightening his grip.

I tried to squirm away from him and he released his hold, his face softening.

"Is your name Howie?" I ask.

The man's eyes looked so old, but he can't be older than Dad is. He has to be even younger.

The man nodded, "Mhm."

Oh my gosh. I did it.

"Is it 1968?" I say with eager excitement.

"Yes. Summer of. . . " the man said.

"I did it! Oh my gosh I did it!" I lept into Grandpa Howie's arms. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes, but I could still faintly smell his hair gel.

The man hugged me back, but loosely.

"Little buddy," he pulled away, "I think you need to go home now, okay?"

"What? Why? I just got here! Do you even know who I am?" I shout.

I can't believe this. Grandpa Howie, in the flesh! Young and alive! I want to hold him. I want him to show me around, I want to talk to him for hours and take this younger version back with me. I want to know him, be him, never let him go.

"Ah, little guy I think you need to go back right where you came from," he answered, his face hardening. "You shouldn't be here kid."

"But, but," I stutter, "do you know who I am? I'm your grandson! Well, like, not yet but I will be! I came back to save you! I used your watch Grandpa and I'm here! I'm here to stop Vietnam and come save you!"

Grandma Howie clasped a hand to my mouth and shook his head.

"Matthew, I need you to go back where you came from. It's not right that you're here."

"See! You do know me! Grandpa, I have to talk to you. I can't leave yet. I need to stop the war and you're going to die and I need to -"

He yanked my arm again and walked me to the backyard of the house. A small yellow garage with a modest patch of grass was all that was there, but he hurriedly shoved open door with me in tow.

A brown fabric couch sat in the middle of the garage with a tattered rug underneath, facing a small tv.

"Sit," Grandpa ushered, pointing me to the couch.

I did as I was told. I sat in silence for minutes while he paced back and forth in the garage. He'd run a hand through his gel hair then fix it every few minutes or so. His brows were furrowed again, and he'd still a glance at me every few moments.

"Okay," he said, "what is it that you need to tell me?" He stood directly in front of the couch, standing straight as if he was bracing for impact.

I took a deep breath, preparing my thoughts. Heck, I didn't even have enough time to think about this. It's only been half an hour or so!

“Okay so Howie, you’re my Grandpa," I start. "You go to Vietnam and when you get back you’re really sad but you get married anyway and you have one son, who is my dad, and then um and then you, you don’t take care of yourself and, and you’re really sad and then you die at, you die at like, a really young age Dad says. 65. If I can't stop the Vietnam War in time, then I'm going to stop you from going!”

Grandpa Howie doesn't say anything. He stands in front of me, silent. His expression slowly turns into a soft smile. Then he begins to laugh.

Tears start to well in my eyes. Does he not believe me? Is this even real? Am I just dreaming? Why would he laugh?

"What's so funny? Why are you laughing?" I cry, "Grandpa this is serious!"

He stops, tears on his face but I can't tell if they're from laughing.

“Oh Matthew, I know who you are," he says as he wipes the tears from my cheeks, "I know you're my grandson.”

"You do?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“So you believe me?

“I always believed you.”

"Then why are you laughing? Why did you make me feel crazy?”

“Because you think you can stop the Vietnam War. What are you buddy, twelve? Thirteen? But I made you feel crazy because I wanted you to go away.”

“Thirteen, actually. But go away? But Grandpa, I’m trying to warn you! I’m trying to warn you not to go to Vietnam!”

He smiled -- he looked like Dad. “Matthew, I’m going to Vietnam. I’m sorry to tell you. And I'm even more sorry to tell you that the Vietnam War has already started, so you cannot stop it, kid.”

“But why do you need to go?!” I pleaded. “Please, please don’t Grandpa Howie! You’re going to die so young and I’m only going to be 13 and there’s so much you haven’t told me yet! Please don’t go!”

I was choking on my tears. I was yelling at him. Words continued to spill from my mouth but I eventually stopped as I felt Grandpa’s t-shirt on my cheek and his arms wrapped me into a tight hug. He rubbed my back, cooed me to calm down. I held him so tight. He’s not even dead yet in this decade and I miss him so much.

He lets me cry for what feels like hours, but I know it can't be that long. Losing him again is something I can't bear.

“I know about the fob watch,” he whispers into my shoulder.

I release him from his hug.

“Before I told you?”

He nodded. “You see, I’ve seen. . . the future. I know what happens to me. This is why I will go to Vietnam.”

“What? How?”

He laughed. “How?” He laughed again. “Well, unfortunately I can’t explain the magic of the watch, I only know how to use it. Like you do now.”

“No,” I snapped, “How do you know what happens to you? You’ve used it to travel?”

He nodded again. “Right before my final tour ends in ‘Nam, my buddy gives me this watch right before he dies. Tweety, that’s what we called him. Louis Tweety. He was my best friend. Right before he died, he gave me this fob watch and said, ‘Howie, take this watch. You can’t bring me back, don’t even try. But use it, see your life after this. Turn the hands, Howie. Turn the hands to where you want to go.’ At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. You know, I’d see plenty of guys die before Tweety. They get . . . they see things. They begin talking very strange. But one day, I used the watch. Then I kept using it. Figuring out how to work it. So I know what happens. I know what happens to me.”

“How does your past-self know this? Tweety hasn’t given you the watch yet?”

“That’s right. But I came back to this time before. Once you move back, your memories follow.”

My lips were parted but if my jaw could have dropped to the floor it would have. I feel the salty tears creep into my mouth.

“So Tweety knew about the watch? He knew he was going to die? Why would he even go then if he knew he was going to die?”

“Same reason why I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believed Tweety when he said I couldn’t bring him back. But when . . . when your Grandma died, I tried . . . I tried to see if I could do it. If I could figure it out. But Tweety was right. I couldn’t. So all those years your Dad said I was bad to myself, that was true. I was. But I was bad to myself not because of Vietnam. But because I knew your beautiful Grandmother, who I wish lived long enough for you to meet her, was going to die before your dad was a teen. I knew the year. It was a fatal countdown. And I tried. I traveled so much, I wasn’t a good dad and I wasn’t a good husband. All so I can try and save Grandma from getting sick and dying. At the same time, I’ve seen the future. I’ve seen you grown up, Matthew. And your dad - what he looks like when he’s old and gray. If I don’t die, that doesn't happen. If I don’t go to Vietnam, I’ll never meet your grandmother and we’ll never have your dad. And then . . . well then I wouldn’t have you, buddy. If I never went to Vietnam, I still would have died at 65. Maybe not in the same circumstances or the same life, but I would’ve died at the age on the day that I did. But the meeting of your grandmother, the birth of your father. . . those are the variables that change. And I would never leave those to chance. I never wanted to try my luck with another woman. A woman that wouldn’t get sick. Because I loved your grandma and dad too much. I met you. I love you. And I won’t let time change that.”

I sighed.

I can't stop the Vietnam War, and I can't stop Grandpa from dying.

"I didn't want you to find this watch," Grandpa said. "It's a curse, you know."

I didn't answer because I knew I understood him without his explanation.

He continued, "Man will continue to fantasize about time-travelling. Dreaming of changing the world. Dreaming of solving all of humanity's faults. . . but no Matthew. This watch is not a blessing. It is only a man's grim reminder of his mortality. It does nothing but warn you of your future, that is all. I wanted it to be buried with me. When you go back, can you put it where you found it please? Can you do that one thing for me?"

I nodded. "Yes Grandpa, I can do that."

"Good," he put his hand on my shoulder, "I love you kiddo. I love you so much -- and technically, we haven't even met yet!" He tried to laugh through tears but I could not force a smile. I had only just got here and I was already needing to leave.

"How do I get back Grandpa?"

"Well, you need to go through the door you came. Turn the watch hands to midnight then tell the watch where you want to go and it will take you there."

I pulled the watch back out of my pocket. It felt like a million pounds in my hands. It was no longer beautiful to me; it felt like a weapon.

"Don't be mad at it," Grandpa said. "The watch is a curse, but sometimes even the worst things bring out some good. I'm glad I got to see you. I'm glad you got to see me."

He stood up and walked me back into the house.

"Was that woman Great-Grandma Kathy?"

Grandpa smiled, "Yep, that was her."

I grinned, "She was just how you told me."

His smile widened and he pressed me tightly against his chest. "I love you Matthew. I love you more than you'll ever know. We'll see each other one day again. I promise."

I looked up at him. His eyes tenderly locked on to mine. "Promise?"

He squeezed me harder, "Promise." He kissed my head and opened the door I came in. It was the door to a bathroom, white ceilings and white floors.

"Remember what I said ok kiddo? Turn the watch and tell it where you want to go. Open the door when you're done and you'll be back home. Don't forget to put the watch back. I love you Matthew."

"I love you, too Grandpa Howie."

He shut the door with a smile. I turned the hands of the watch, my tears blurring my vision.

Take me back to Grandpa's funeral. I close my lids.

I wait a few moments, just like the first time, and open my eyes when I hear faint noises in the background. I'm still in the bathroom, but I know when I open the door I'll be right where I asked to be.

Taking a deep breath I turn the knob. . . the funeral parlor. The small room with the baby grand piano. I turn around and see the bathroom is gone. The only thing behind me is the hallway of the funeral home.

Now there's only one thing left to do.

I walk back to Grandpa Howie's casket and gingerly put the watch back in his pocket, this time hiding the chain deeply inside it.

I stare at his wrinkled plump face and smile. To see him, moments ago, with youth in his veins then now to see him asleep in death was almost beautiful.

"Matthew," Dad came up behind me and put his arm around my shoulder.

“I’m sorry for earlier, buddy. I didn’t mean to get frustrated with your questions. It’s just a tough day, that’s all.”

Looking up at Dad, I see Grandpa Howie in his features. The round tender eyes and the honey colored hair.

I wrap Dad in a hug, "It's okay. Sometimes the worst days bring out good things, too."

He holds me for a moment and I hear him sniffle back tears.

When he looks at me his eyes are red again, but they're soft and gentle. "You're so much like Grandpa, you know. I know this is really hard on you, too. I know how close you guys were."

"It's okay Dad," I say, "I'll see Grandpa again one day."

He nodded, "Yeah buddy, one day we will. Are you ready to get going? Mom is catching a ride with your aunt. "

I nod and follow him as we say goodbye and thank you to all the family and friends, thanking them for being here and sharing hugs and tears. We leave the funeral home when the sky is pink and purple and Dad starts the car while he runs back inside to grab his coat.

I lean against the hood of the car, my mind wrestling with the things that happened today. Did I really go back in time? Did I really see Grandpa? Was I just dreaming?

But then I hear a loud, sharp whistle.

I turn to the street and see him standing there. Young, golden, shining. Grandpa Howie.

He’s holding the hand of a small, short woman. Her eyes are big and dark like her short, dark hair. They’re both smiling and waving at me.

I wave back.

"Who are you waving to Matt?" Dad asks, jogging around the other side of the car.

Surprised I turn to him. He can't see them. I look back and they're gone.

"Grandpa," I reply, "and Grandma, I think."

He stares at me, expressionless, then grins. "Let's go home now. It's been a long day."

I get in the car and feel the weight of the day crash down on me. I feel the shifting and movement of the car and fall into a deep sleep. The sound of the music humming in my ears and the snapshots of the day spinning like a carousel through my memory.

Sometimes, the worst things bring out good things.

I think that's pretty true.