The Watch with the A-Shaped Scar

I stopped in the dining-room doorway, rainwater running off my sleeves and gathering around my shoes. My father turned pepper over his potatoes, unaware that one look at his wrist had knocked my thoughts sideways.

“Mason, you’re dripping on the floor,” my mother said, getting up with a paper towel. “Dry yourself off, then sit down. Chloe should be home soon.”

I accepted the towel, but kept staring at the watch. Its olive-colored strap was worn pale at the edges and dark in the creases. It looked just as it always had.

“You’ve got the face of someone who saw a ghost,” my father said. He put down the pepper and reached for his fork, still focused on his dinner. Years spent organizing logistics had left him with a way of concentrating that made the rest of us seem to disappear.

“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice came out strangely faint. “I ran here. It’s pouring.”

“Go put on a dry shirt,” Mom said, folding her napkin across her lap.

I went upstairs in a daze. On my bed, I tried to reason through what I’d seen. I was eleven, old enough to know that impossible things usually had ordinary explanations. Dad had a watch. So the one behind the pawnshop glass couldn’t be his.

Hamilton made plenty of field watches. Plenty of men had served in the military. Plenty had received watches when they left. There had to be more than one like his.

Then there was the scratch.

I shut my eyes and reached for a memory from six years earlier. I remembered the cold heft of a steel watch in my little hands, and the bright point of a bobby pin.

I remembered my hand slipping. Metal rasped against metal. When I looked, a crooked mark shaped like an A sat beside the lower lug, where the strap met the case.

The watch in Miller’s Pawn & Loan had the same jagged A.

After changing into a dry shirt, I returned downstairs. The front door opened just as I sat at the table, and Chloe came in shaking rain from her umbrella.

At sixteen, she had plenty to say about the weather, especially what the humidity was doing to her hair. She dropped into the chair beside me, carrying the scents of wet wool and jasmine perfume.

Dinner settled into its familiar pace. Dad asked about Chloe’s piano teacher. Mom mentioned the neighborhood association. I kept quiet and watched Dad’s left hand whenever it moved.

He cut his chicken, reached for his glass, and turned his wrist. Light caught the face of the watch.

I had to see the casing. If Dad’s watch had the mark, the pawnshop one would make no sense. If it didn’t, I didn’t know what I would think.

“Dad,” I said when the conversation paused.

He raised his eyes. His dark brows drew together. “Yes, Mason?”

“Could I look at your watch?”

The room quieted all at once. Chloe stopped chewing, and Mom held her fork halfway up. Dad looked straight at me. For just a moment, something hard passed across his expression, like a door shutting.

“Why?” he asked. His voice stayed even, which usually meant I should be careful.

“I was thinking about it,” I said, pretending the quick thud in my chest was nothing. “About your time in the military. I wanted to see the writing on the back.”

“You’ve seen it. It has my unit number and discharge date.” He didn’t offer me his wrist. Instead, he drew his left arm off the table and rested it beneath the edge, out of view.

“I know. I just wanted to look again. The case, I mean.”

“It’s equipment, not a toy.” His voice dropped into the tone that meant he considered the discussion finished. “Eat your dinner.”

Mom gave an uneasy smile and glanced between us. “Let him see it, Arthur. He’s curious about your service.”

“He’s seen it before,” Dad said, keeping his eyes away from her. He lifted his glass with his right hand. “We’re done talking about this.”

I looked down at my plate, a knot tightening in my stomach. He’d moved his wrist on purpose. He didn’t want me to see the watch.

A couple of hours later, the house had quieted into its evening routine. I went to Chloe’s room and tapped softly on the door.

She was stretched across her bed, phone in hand, headphones around her neck. Looking up, she seemed a little irritated. “What?”

I shut the door behind me and clicked the lock. “I need your help.”

She sat up, studying me now. “Did you break something?”

“No,” I said, moving closer to the end of her bed. “I need to check Dad’s watch.”