3.2 draft

Franklin Alexander Bartholemew III could feel the small beads of sweat running down his back as he sat staring at the small hand of the clock. The long hand seemed permanentaly stuck between IV and XII. If only he could push the hand forward with his mind, or somehow transport himself into the the future time, he could finally stop and have his lunch. His eyes blurred as he stared, listening to the steady rythm of the pendulum. He shook his head and ran his eyes up and down the clock, enjoying the careful scroll work on each side of the clock's cabinet. He smiled as his eyes came to rest on the image of the bird etched in the glass covering the inner workings. Strange, he thought, I have no idea how the thing works, yet I can tell time.

His Grandfather had brought the clock back from one of his many adventures abroad, and then his father had placed it here, in the center of the office, where it had hung for how many years, he did not know. The metal arm inside the clock struck the coil and the air vibrated as the clock marked the hour. Franklin's ears hummed as the sound washed over him, and he pushed back from his desk, anticipating the lunch hour. Leaning back in his chair, he thrust his arms up, stretching, and let a wide yawn overtake his mouth even as it forced his eyes shut.

Settling back, he waited for Miss Metoyer to come tipping up the stairs with his lunch, as she did most everyday. He contemplated the machine sitting on the desk in front of him, and read the small brass plate attached to the front, "Phelps Elctro, Printing Telegraph, 1882." The word electro repeated itself in his mind, and he smiled, remembering the hours of training he received from that Italian fellow who'd sold the contraption to his father almost eight years ago. More sweat trickled down his forehead, his back, under his arms. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face. Looking back at the telegraph machine, the little keys reminded him of his sister's piano, sitting in their family parlor, just off The Strand, over on Post Office St. One made beautiful, music, the other made their family money.

The stairs outside his office creaked gently, announcing Miss Metoyer with his lunch even before the door opened. Swiveling around in his chair, their eyes met as the Creole woman pushed the door with her ample backside while swinging the large wooden tray onto the smaller tea table by the window. Her long curly hair was pulled back, and he noticed small tendrils stuck to her cheeks from the heat. The puff of her blouson sleeves tappered down to her slender wrists. He admired her small waist and imagined the long legs under her apron and the many folds of her long skirt. Her buttoned boots rested on the floor with the attention of a soldier addressing an officer. A grin broke out across her face and the spell was broken.

"Betcha thought I wasn't coming today" she said, pouring a glass full of the dark, sweet tea from the big glass pitcher. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of pitcher onto the linen cloth folded carefully beneath it. He allowed himself to relax and smile. He gestured for her to pour herslef a glass of tea and join him. This would've no doubt never happened when his grandfather was alive and ruling the law firm with his iron fist, but now with his father in control, and so often out of the office, Franklin enjoyed taking these liberties.

"JoJo, you're simply the best, and I never doubted you for a minute," he found himself saying, although he had indeed doubted the very fact not more that fifteen minutes ago. He reached out as she handed him a plate with bread slices, two chicken legs and some cheese. Their fingers touched briefly, and the electrical current ran up both their arms and they again locked eyes for longer than what seemed physically possible. He dropped the plate on his desk, causing the chicken legs to jump around, and a few pieces of cheese to tumble to the floor. Oh leave it for the mice, he thought. She smiled and seemed to agree.

They ate in silence, and when the clock marked the half hour she rose to go. He frowned and she immediately sat down. Nervously, she handed him the newspaper she'd carried up in the pocket of her apron. Knowing he hated to think about business during his lunch, she immediately regretted not waiting until his plate was empty and she had cleared the dishes and re-filled his glass, or offered him the piece of the pecan pie she'd hidden under a lace doily on the back of her tray. He snatched the newspaper and his eyes quickly scanned the large print just below the date, September 7, 1900. The bold block letters spelled out “unsettled weather likely” and the smaller type below mentioned something about the Leeward Islands, and tropical storms accompanied by h a map of the Gulf of Mexico and more notes from a ship that had recently arrived from the Antigua Islands. He quickly flipped the pages, and stopped on "Betty Bowers Social Register." The front page headlines, and subsequent business stories rarely interested him as much as reading the gossip and scandal of the island's most prominent citizens.

"You got that look on your face..." and before Miss Metoyer could ask him what it was, he blurted out news of the marriage of the oldest man in town to one of the youngest women they knew, the arrest of a church elder for drunk and disorderly conduct, and the discovery of an infant left at the steps of the Archbishop's Mansion. They did not take pleasure in the misfortunes of their neighbors, but it confirmed that things were never as calm and serene on the surface as people would have them believe, and they secretly shared a thrill in peeking behind the curtain of polite society. Their own relationship, if ever discovered, would be equally scandalous, and they somehow understood this, even as they never openly admitted it.

The clock marked the two o'clock hour, and reluctantly, he allowed her to collect the last of their lunch remmnants and slip silently out the door. Only the creaking of the stairs on the other side of the door hinted that she'd ever been in the room at all. He stood up and walked over to the large window, surveying the city and bustling port below. He marveled at the sheer force of commerce, the endless bales of cotton being loaded on the ships, the negro and white men counting bushels of corn while they haggled over quality and price, the wagons continually arriving with their cargos of rice, sugar cane,cotton, and the children darting in between the carriages of the rich men who occasionally tossed out coins to the precious little urchins. On such a day, it seemed strange to think that anything might have the power to disturb the bustling economy he and his family helped create and control. His gaze briefly flitted out across the open bay, to the dark clouds that were now growing on the distant horizon. He licked his lips and wondered if he could finish the last pieces of that delicious pecan pie.