The Watch From the Ones at Home

“The invitations come out of my own office, by hand. That is why you got one.” He rubbed his forehead. “Two lists. Nobody laid one beside the other. That was not Tennessee’s job, Mrs. Lowe. That was mine. I had both pieces of paper on my desk the week before, and I did not read them. I signed the bottom and went to a meeting.”

Dennis pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Fisk. You are making my back hurt.”

Mr. Fisk sat. I put a cup of coffee in front of him.

“They send the watches twelve to a carton,” he said. “There were eleven names, so there was one left in the box. It has been in my secretary’s bottom drawer since the banquet.” He opened the blue lid and turned it toward Dennis. “I took it down to Abrams yesterday myself. She told me what it would cost, which was a good deal more than I expected, and I paid it. She did not say one word to me the whole time she worked. I had the feeling I was not her favorite customer.”

I looked at my coffee. I did not dare look at Dennis.

The watch in the blue box was gold-toned and bright, with the company’s mark small on the face. Mr. Fisk lifted it out and turned it over. On the back it said: Dennis R. Lowe. 38 Years. Wheeler Plant.

“It is a week late,” he said, “and it is being handed to you in your kitchen instead of in front of the men you worked with, and I cannot fix that part. I would if I could. But the years are right. I checked them twice.”

Dennis took it. He held it in his palm and read the back.

“Thank you,” he said. “I mean that. It took something to drive out here.”

“It should not have taken a card.”

“No. But you came when you knew, and you did not send the girl.” Dennis set the blue box down by his cup. “I will keep this. It has my years on it, and I worked every one of them. My grandson is going to want to know where his grandpa spent his life, and that says it.”

Mr. Fisk let out a breath. Then he saw the Bulova. Dennis had his sleeve pushed up.

“You already have one.”

“I do.”

“From the men? I heard they took up a collection.”

“No, sir. The men’s money is in the foreman’s desk for the next fellow who gets hurt. This is from my wife.” He unbuckled it and handed it across.

Mr. Fisk read the back. He read it the way everybody has, twice. He handed it over without saying anything, and I liked him better for that than for anything he had said so far.

“That one says where I worked,” Dennis said, nodding at the blue box. He buckled the Bulova back on. “This one says where I was going. I will wear this one, if it is all the same to you.”

“It is all the same to me, Mr. Lowe.”

Before he left, Mr. Fisk told us two more things.

The first was that he had telephoned Tennessee on Thursday. Starting next year the watch list at the Wheeler plant would be made at the Wheeler plant, by hand, and laid beside the invitation list, and he would read both of them himself. Any man or woman who put in their years would get a watch, whatever word was typed on the pension form.