An Unfortunate Relocation

By Andrew Carmitchel

Professor Hamlit Bidwell wants no more than for everything to be in its place and for life to be predictable. When he receives notice that he is soon to be visited by his long-lost niece and her little boy, he is mildly irritated. He has no idea how dramatically his life, and his whole outlook on it is about to change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312935037

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An Unfortunate Relocation

An Unfortunate Relocation

by Andrew Carmitchel

Lulu Press, Inc.

Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Carmitchel

All rights are reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the expressed written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied, in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction.  All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Due to the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.Printed in the United States of America

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Dedication

Esther, my mother,

who told me to go write her a book

and to Marty, my wife,

who wouldn't let me quit.

(With apologies to Mr. Dickens.)

Chapter 1 - A Problem With Time

Professor Hamlit Bidwell had a problem (two of them, really, but they were intertwined) that was all but shredding his ability to concentrate on his morning paper.

That morning’s edition of the New York Times and his coffee lay before him, and in their correct places, right where he’d set them not fifteen minutes before. The Times was placed precisely where it belonged on his desk, centered directly in front of him, and the cup of black coffee was placed a half arm’s length up and to the left of the paper (Professor Bidwell being left-handed). These necessary items were exactly where they were supposed to be on Sunday morning, as was everything else in the room, from each piece of furniture to the box of Kleenex, that was placed (as always) on the upper right corner of his desk. All these things were in their places, and all gave every appearance of dutifully, happily awaiting their Master’s perusal with the calm, knowing beneficence that we so often thoughtlessly assign to inanimate objects.

All was as it always was, except for one thing.One increasingly irritating thing. The clock. The clock, hung up high on the wall above the door, was wrong, and he could not quit looking up at it. It was ticking away as merrily and unconcerned as it had been the day before, but as it did so, it was continually broadcasting an outright lie. And it was a lie told in ignorance, which is the most grating kind to witness.

The clock said it was 9:15, when in truth (because of the blasted, confounding bi-yearly change known as Daylight Savings Time) it was 8:15.

Professor Hamlit Bidwell found himself, in the main, only sipping coffee, while giving only intermittent, peremptory glances at his paper.

This was a man who had to have things a certain way. Sundays meant an hour with his paper and coffee, breakfast out with his two boarders, then a return in the late morning for more reading. It had been his routine for years. But it was being upset today, and by a simple act of negligence.

His Help had not done the job and, worse, was not there to immediately correct the problem with the time, and in fact, would not be on the premises for almost 24 more hours.

Because it was Sunday.

From the time that he’d noticed it, then (as soon as he sat down and looked up) the Professor had remained stymied. The irritation he felt was such that he felt it impossible to concentrate. He was, for all intents and purposes, frozen by time.

So he sipped coffee, and did little else, but dangle there in a daze of illogical resentment.

It was only when he heard, many minutes later, the muffled thumps and rumbles from above that he was able to retrieve his conscious mind from its self-imposed stupor. One of his boarders, perhaps both, was rising to meet the day. He looked at his paper, blinked, yawned, and tried to rouse himself. There is nothing like the pedestrian strains of our every day music to halt dreams and forcefully re-engage us into the rhythm of the ordinary.

This is silly, he said aloud, because it was.

Though the sounds of his boarders rising, washing, and fumbling for footwear had snapped Professor Bidwell’s mind back to somewhere near common sense, his irritation had not gone completely dormant. It gnawed at him, even as he tried to force himself to think of other things.

He lazily looked at the Times, his hands, the clock, then his coffee cup. He stretched out his arms and yawned again, loudly. He didn’t really need to, but it seemed to benefit the situation. It was a kind of confirmation that these small things didn’t matter. He looked up at the clock again, then back down at this desk. He tried to think about what he’d like to have for breakfast.

It was then, while thinking about waffles, that his eyes landed on the telephone. The impulse was immediate. He should call her, he thought, just to let her know. She would want to know, he assured himself, and it would certainly make him feel better.

But, still...

He looked up at the ceiling when he heard a heavy thump coming from upstairs, and wondered if Mr. Willingham had fallen over trying to put on his shoes again.

He looked back down at the phone.

A fat, lazily circling fly, a relic from a fetid summer now gone, caught his attention. At first, watching its aimless flight was a welcome abstraction; something else to look at. But then he heard the buzzing, and that buzzing seemed to grow louder, and became a droning that seemed to mirror his own irritation.

They would be coming down to go to breakfast soon. There wasn’t much time.

He picked up the phone and dialed the only number he knew by heart. She answered on the fifth ring.

How can I help you this morning, Professor Bidwell? said Mrs. Molly Irvin.

Her voice sounded tired, resigned, and just hearing this tone made Professor Bidwell regret the call. Here he was, bothering her early on Sunday morning, her day off, yet again. And for what? A clock. A damned clock. He felt himself blush, but quickly decided to carry on. She was there, after all, and would, or should, want to know.

Good morning, Mrs. Irvin, he said.

Good morning.. Can I help you, sir?

Professor Bidwell squirmed in his chair. He thought he could hear someone coming down the stairs. Or perhaps it was the furnace kicking on. He had heard, or read, that it was supposed to be a cold day.

I was wondering about the clocks, he said. Didn’t you have the boy set them back? You know, the whole Daylight Savings time thing?

She made a sound that most would have assuredly identified as a sigh (perhaps of disgust), but that the Professor chose to interpret as one more along the lines of contemplation.

Yes, Mrs. Irvin said, in a definitive tone. Bobby changed all the clocks on Saturday morning, as you had requested. Didn’t you see him there, Professor?

Professor Bidwell had indeed seen him (and his surly look), and picturing the boy only fueled his growing sense of aggravation at a job not well done. He then delivered up a sharper response than he really meant.

Yes. But he didn’t do the job, now did he? The one in my study, that I’m looking at now, is an hour ahead.

There was silence, then another sigh, or something close to a sigh. This one sounding more assuredly spiteful than the last.

"I’ve sat down to read the Times in my study here and the clock that I’m facing is still on yesterday’s time, the Professor repeated. There was no immediate response, so he added An hour so, of course," a few moments later.

Now there was an even longer silence. It went on long enough for it to occur to him that there might not be anyone still listening on the other end.

In truth, she was trying to quell her anger before responding. It was Sunday morning. Her day, and while things of this sort were not uncommon, there were limits.

Mrs. Irvin? he said. Mrs. Irvin, are you there?

Yes. Yes sir, I’m here. Mrs. Molly Irvin said. She sounded (as she intended to sound) patient and resigned. We’ll fix the clock tomorrow, first thing. Unless you or one of the other gentlemen wouldn’t mind fetching the ladder and perhaps doing it yourself.

Professor Bidwell heard this, but didn’t respond... There was an unmistakably ironic tone in her voice that he wasn’t used to hearing.

He tried to remember where the ladder was, or if he owned one. Surely, he did.

I have to go now, Professor, Mrs. Irvin said. We’re getting ready for church.

The Professor made no response. Church, after all, rather closes a matter. Had he seen a ladder hanging in the garage?

I’m sorry Bobby missed a clock. We’ll take care of it tomorrow.

It took him a few moments to realize she had hung up. He was still holding the phone to his ear, in fact, when his portly, gregarious boarder, Jasper Willingham swung open his office door without knocking, as usual.

Good morning, Ham! Mr. Willingham all but shouted. Are we ready for Sunday breakfast?

Professor Hamlit Bidwell looked up at the always jovial Mr. Willingham. The man could be so suffocatingly happy sometimes. But he was always grateful, always polite, always anxious to be helpful. Always.

Professor Bidwell glanced once more at the clock, then back at Mr. Willingham. Then a loud buzzing, and he swiped at the fly with the phone he still held, right after it had flown in front of his face, nearly bopping himself on the nose in the process. He missed both fly and nose, but reflexively and belatedly leaned back hard when his brain fathomed that he was about to bean himself, and he had to fight, with short desperate kicks, to keep from tumbling over backwards in his chair.

When he’d recovered, he sighed in relief, and reached to put the phone back on to its holder. But he paused mid way, and seemed to study his own hand, the one still connected to the phone, for a few motionless moments. Then he looked up again at Jasper Willingham and smiled, while simultaneously, and finally, putting the phone back in its cradle.

And good morning to you, Jasper, he said. Say, I was wondering if, by any chance, you have, somewhere along the way, cultivated any experience with ladders and clocks?

Chapter 2 - Sunday Breakfast

It was a long established Sunday morning custom (for the most part because it was Mrs. Irvin’s blasted day off) for Professor Hamlit Bidwell and his two boarders, Mr. Jasper Willingham and Sergeant Gail (to be known as Gus, not Gail, damn it!) Moody to go out to breakfast together. It was a custom, truthfully, that only Mr. Willingham seemed to enjoy, or show the least pleasure in, to any neutral observer of the event, no matter which particular week the observer chose to watch.

On any given Sunday, our observer would have quickly noted that the overt, even stark differences in personality, temperament, levels of patience, and even dress, gave at least the outward signs of a perilously combustible trio:

There, coming in the door, and invariably in the lead, would be the rotund, cherubic and ever-smiling Mr. Willingham. A Santa Claus if there ever was one, he calls out a greeting to all, known and unknown, and at a pitch that of necessity stops all previous conversation. The eyes of the diners and would-be diners are forced to look up, with various degrees of either wonder or irritation at this untoward Sabbath morning interruption. What they see, though, immediately dampens their alarm. Here is their Sunday-best dressed, but inevitably disheveled, jolly old uncle. A man who with his harmless well of bottomless mirth and rather pointless optimism about everything would somehow brighten the darkest family funeral.

We all know one.

Following Mr. Willingham through the door, at about five steps behind (on average) and appearing at first as an extended, totally mismatched (possibly tumorous?) appendage, comes the short, crew-cutted, roughshod and exceedingly grim personage of Sergeant Gus Moody. Sergeant Moody offers no greeting, and our observer would shortly be willing to bet his home, family and fortune that he never had. He wears the look of a man you dare not look at, and so upon the passage of the larger girthed, beaming Uncle Willingham, diners' heads, after one glance, inevitably snap back to plate or menu. Sergeant Moody would have been a most unwelcome guest at the earlier mentioned family funeral unless, of course, he was the one being buried.

You had to get to know him.

And finally, following these opposites into Sunday dining, but at a length away from the first two that purposefully made same party identification an impossibility (except for the most seasoned and discerning waitress), came the ambling Professor Bidwell. Hamlit Bidwell looked like a professor. He was a tall, slim, inevitably tweed-coated gentleman whose full head of magisterial grey hair gave him a strikingly noble Wordsworthian air. He in fact looked like a middle aged William Wordsworth, which occurred only, and on rare occasion, to the most dedicated of his graduate students, none of whom was likely ever to be present (thankfully, he often thought)) at his Sunday breakfasts. The noble professor always entered late, always gave a look around the establishment that gave the impression that he hadn’t quite decided where to sit, and then always slipped into the booth or table where his boarders were without actually making eye contact with them, or anyone else.

A detached, yet remotely charming, nonchalant diner; our Professor Bidwell.

And so it was that this same patterned entrance was made, roughly speaking, on the Sunday morning of the clock troubles. They were an hour later than usual, and two of the three were in a foul mood. Fouler than usual, it should be said, because the correct setting of the clock had not come without some misadventure, and there was clear damage done.

To put it as concisely as possible, upon hearing Professor Bidwell’s inquiry into his ladders and clock-setting past, Mr. Willingham quickly became agitated with excitement, which was his wont when given the opportunity to help solve a problem, or to be of some service. This excitement doubled, approximately, upon hearing the proposition that there may be a ladder in the garage, and how the retrieval of said ladder (if there was one in there) would greatly enhance the prospects of reaching the clock that so offended the Professor.

At this point, his enthusiasm by now being barely containable, the combined information induced a rashness of behavior in Mr. Willingham that had never been of benefit to him in his long life before, and wouldn’t now. He smiled, then charged preemptively out of the study, then out the front door, and went straight to and entered the garage without hearing another word. This was a shame on several counts, not the least of which was not hearing Professor Tidwell’s warning that his car needed to be removed from the garage first, which was only one of several other safety suggestions Professor Tidwell had been prepared to deliver.

The next few minutes were acutely painful for the Professor. While he frantically searched for his keys, he heard what was, unmistakably, the sound of shattering glass, two or three ominous scraping-type noises, and one huge bang. And after each one of the unwelcome noises, he heard a faint but clear Sorry! or Sorry about that! each and every time.

By the time he had abandoned his search for the keys and instead raced to and then threw open the front door, there was Mr. Willingham, standing there crouched with the ladder, looking as he was getting prepared to smash his way inside if the door hadn’t just then opened..

With the door now opened, Mr. Willingham straightened from his crouch and looked at the Professor. His clothes were horribly untucked and disheveled, the few hairs left on his head stood straight and pointed ludicrously in several directions, and his glasses appeared badly twisted, and clearly stayed in the proximity of his eyes only because of the heroic efforts of his right earpiece. But he was smiling, ear to ear.

I found the ladder, he said.

Before the Professor could gather enough of his wits to form a single inquiry as to the extent of the damages, there came a startling but familiar imprecation from directly behind him.

What the God damned hell is going on out here, God damn it!

Sergeant Gus Moody had arisen from his slumber.

All would be chaos for the next three quarters of an hour.

First, the accidental destruction was assessed, amidst much heated argument and gesticulation. The readily apparent damages were as follows: a shattered garage window, a long, ugly scrape down the passenger side of Professor Bidwell’s Buick, a missing side mirror (also from the poor Buick), and one very deep dent on the interior side of garage’s door.

Professor Bidwell was beside himself, but mainly stunned into silence. Sergeant Moody cursed everything vociferously and equally (including an unfortunate tomcat who had inexplicably wandered upon the scene and had appeared to be also inspecting the damage). And poor Mr. Willingham seemed perfectly vexed by the whole chain of events. He acted much like a man listening in wonder to a vivid description of his sleepwalking, while doubting, to his inner core, that any of it could be true. Limp denials and heartfelt apologies were all he could offer in face of all evidence.

Eventually, they took the ladder in the house and fixed the clock without serious incident (though Sergeant Moody somehow got a bruise on his forehead in the process. God damn it to hell if I know! being his sole response to inquiries on the matter).

And eventually, they went to a tardy breakfast, for it was Sunday after all, and it was still Mrs. Irvin’s day off. There was, it seemed, no alternative.

At that breakfast, after he’d finally gravitated to his seat long after the other two had found theirs, Professor Bidwell did his inspection of his boarders, which was also his custom at Sunday breakfast. He did this by peering over his menu at them.