Amy Powell Faeskorn writes from rural south Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Fiction Attic Press, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. Find her at amyfaeskorn.com.
Jake jammed the nightstand drawer shut and grabbed the lamp before it toppled over.
“What was that?” Nana yelled from downstairs.
“I dropped the alarm clock,” he said.
He leaned against the edge of her bed and unsnapped the velvet pouch, tipped it over to dump the contents onto the comforter.
Grandpa’s watch. The gold Rolex Datejust she had told everyone was lost in the flood. The one Grandpa had bought aboard the U.S.S. Albert W. Grant in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The one he sometimes let Jake wear while CHiPs blared from the console TV in the basement, Grandpa chewing black licorice, Jake respooling fishing line. The one Jake was supposed to inherit.
Deep scratches in the bezel blurred the Roman numerals at eight and two o’clock. The face read 7:06. The second hand was stopped at 52, the date on the 14th. Jake’s birthday.
“Jake, come now. Have some mandel bread,” Nana called.
He plunged his left hand into his front jeans pocket and pushed the rumpled lining down as far as it would go. He picked up the watch, turning it over and rubbing his thumbs along the band. The clasp clicked shut as he gripped it in his fist. He slid it into the space he had just made. It bulged. He wondered if Nana would notice, then decided he didn’t care.
At the doorway he remembered the pouch. He lunged for it from where he was standing, crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it in the top dresser drawer.
The steps creaked as he walked downstairs and into the living room. The plastic slipcover on the couch gave out a slow groan as he sat down.
Nana emerged from the kitchen. “Nu?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. Jake pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands. Twiddled his thumbs. Willed himself not to speak.
The timer buzzed on the counter and Nana went back to turn it off. The oven door screeched as she slid the cookie sheets out of the oven, the smell of almond and cinnamon sugar seeping out into the air. She beckoned him toward a glass of milk and two slices of mandel bread on a small chipped plate with a paper towel for a napkin.
She gave the seat of the chair three pats. “Nu?” she asked again. She touched his shoulder and pulled imaginary lint off of his shirt.
“So,” he said, exhaling, left hand resting on his pocket. He looked at her face, glassy eyes darting toward the window, mouth barely a smile, wrinkles deep around the corners, her expression frozen in its perpetual sigh.
He munched the last of the mandel bread, took a slug of milk, twisted the paper towel into a rope and tied it in a knot. Tore the ends into tiny pieces. Placed his right hand on her bare wrist.
Squeezed it tight.