“We used to work together.”
“He’s never mentioned you.” Loo glanced down at the duffel bag. He’d kept it right by his side the whole time he was in the house.
Jove followed her line of sight. He bent down and unzipped the front. “Come take a look. I’ve got some great stuff in here.” He pulled the sides apart like he was opening a person, spreading the ribs with his hands.
The duffel was full of watches. The heavy kind, with powerful leather straps, that told the month and the day and marked the time zones of Paris, New York, Rome and Tokyo—waterproof, with glass thick enough to go scuba diving, gold and silver and platinum faces that were meant to be passed down from generation to generation.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Jove jammed his fingers into the pile and pulled one out by the clasp. “Just listen.”
Loo looked down at the open bag. So many numbers jumbled together, and all she could think of was Marshall’s watch, catching in her hair, and the way he’d wrapped it so tightly on his wrist as he was leaving.
“Are you some kind of traveling salesman?”
“You could say that. I deal with antiques, mostly. I’m a bit of a specialist,” said Jove. “Now the Egyptians, they didn’t think about time the way we do. They thought night and day were two separate worlds. Twelve hours of light, twelve hours of darkness. They used sundials during the day, and then kept track of the stars, starting at twilight and ending at dawn. They didn’t count seconds like we do, either. Time was more”—he waved his fingers at her—“flexible. Sometimes an hour would be sixty minutes. And sometimes an hour would be forty. Do you wear a wristwatch?”
“No,” said Loo.
Jove let out a disapproving puff of air. He reached into the bag again. “Watches used to be important. When you got your first, it was special. A reminder of the days you had left, ticking away right there on your arm.”
He pulled out a man’s wristwatch, held the face between two fingers and let the band dangle in the air. “This one is an automatic. It doesn’t have a battery—you don’t even need to wind it. The movement of the arm, just swinging back and forth—it keeps the gears going. All you have to do is put this on someone living, and it’ll come to life.”
He took hold of Loo and slid the watch around her wrist. The strap was too wide, her arm too thin. She lifted her hand and the face slid away.
“It doesn’t work if you’re standing still.”
Loo got up from the table and walked into the living room. She turned down the hall, past the bathroom, and then she came back to the kitchen. Jove was still sitting in the same chair. He snatched up her hand as she entered the room and pressed the watch to his ear. He frowned.
“Did you swing your arm?”
“Yes.”
Jove shook her wrist back and forth, then he listened again. “Goddammit.”
Loo lifted the watch to her own ear. There was no heartbeat. But outside the window came another noise. A car pulling into the driveway. The truck door slamming, and then Hawley’s boots climbing the stairs. Loo glanced from Jove to the bearskin and back. She listened as her father dumped his gear, then fit his key into the lock.
Jove put a finger to his lips. He hid in the shadow of the bookcase.
“I’m home,” said Hawley.
Across the living room Loo saw her father pause. His eyes locked on hers where she stood in the kitchen, and then slid down to the giant watch on her wrist.
Jove jumped out, laughing, but he didn’t even get the chance to say a word before Hawley was across the room and on top of him. They threw each other into the walls, two giants wrestling inside a dollhouse. Together the men tumbled into the bookcase and it all came toppling over as they struggled and the books fell, crashing across the floor. Loo hurried over and pulled the frame of the bookcase back. Underneath Hawley had Jove pinned and the knife Jove had been using to eat his apple was sunk deep into Hawley’s arm.
“It’s me, you fuck!” Jove shouted. “It’s me!”
Hawley was breathing heavily. “Jove.”
“Did you gain a hundred pounds? Get off. I can’t breathe.” Jove shoved at Hawley’s chest. Loo watched her father crawl off the man and slump against the wall. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
“I pull you a favor and this is the thanks I get.” Jove sat up and pressed his fingers to his nose. There was blood streaming from his left nostril. “See what you made me do?”
Hawley opened his eyes and glanced down at the knife in his arm. He sucked air through his teeth. Then he took hold of the handle and pulled it out. Blood bubbled up behind, quick and fast, spreading over his shirt. He pressed his palm against the cut and turned to his daughter.
“Get the kit.”
Loo ran into the bathroom and threw open the cupboard underneath the sink. Inside was the orange toolbox with the red cross. Loo grabbed the handle and nearly slammed into Jove in the doorway. He was pinching his nostrils and had his head tilted back.
“Got anything I can fix this with?”
“Check the medicine cabinet.”
She hurried past him and got down on the floor beside her father. “Dad,” she said. But her voice stopped there. She wished she’d smiled for him at the beach.
Hawley opened the toolbox. It was jammed full of gauze pads, tape, scissors, plastic gloves, rubbing alcohol, bottles of drugs, vials of liquid and needles. There was a set of surgical tools and a stapler. There was also a bottle of styptic powder. Her father reached for it and tipped a stream of yellow dust onto his arm.
“How long has he been here?”
“About half an hour,” said Loo. “Does it hurt?”
“This?” Hawley shrugged the wound away like it was nothing. He brushed the extra powder off his arm, then handed Loo the bottle.
“Is that guy really a friend of yours?”
“He used to be.”
Jove came back from the bathroom, his nostrils full of toilet paper, a Band-Aid across the bridge of his nose. He had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide tucked into his elbow like a bottle of wine. “Well,” he said, “I’ve never seen a bathroom quite like that before.”
Loo waited for Hawley to pick up Jove and toss him out onto the porch. But her father ignored the man’s comments and pressed a bandage to his arm. Jove set the hydrogen peroxide down on the floor. He put on a pair of rubber gloves from the kit and inspected Hawley’s wound. To Loo’s surprise, Hawley let him do this, holding out his arm and grunting. Jove poked through the medical supplies and took out the stapler and some gauze. He poured peroxide over Hawley’s arm and they all watched it bubble and burn. He winked at Loo.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”
Once Hawley had been patched up, Jove helped Loo set the bookcase right and put the volumes back in place. He took his time, perusing the spines and opening the covers. “I could write better crap than this.”
Hawley wiped blood off the floor. “What the hell are you doing here, Jove.”
“Can’t a man come visit his friend?”
Hawley’s eyes went to the duffel bag.