Too Late
New York City
Watt was quite sure if Cornelius knew who the main benefactor to this expedition was, he would refuse to go. And he was also sure that if Callum knew he was paying for Cornelius’ passage, and who he was, he’d refuse to do so.
As a young man, Watt had never received an answer from his parents in regards to the questions that plagued him for years upon years. Why did they abandon their vacation spot at Harbor Point, and why did his father forbid him from speaking to the Tremblays?
He knew in his heart the questions were connected, and that something had happened while he was submerged in the fever delirium of measles.
He remembered Cornelius sitting at his bedside, nursing him back to health with photographs and stories of the town.
Always talking, always there. Having already survived measles, Cornelius was the only other person Watt saw during that time, besides the medical staff and his parents.
Well, he didn't really remember seeing them, but surely they checked in on him. That time was one of several gaping holes where his memories should’ve been.
He’d survived, and lost his best friend for reasons unknown. The moment he was able to be moved, the family fled Harbor Point and never returned.
Watt needed answers, but by God he did not want to ask questions.
Watt sat in the dining room of his parent’s townhouse, a beautiful manor on a sprawling estate in Midtown.
Besides the three summers Watt spent in Harbor Point, this is where he grew up.
His father and mother sat at opposite ends of a Victorian era dining table, and Watt filled the space between them.
His father wore an old fashioned tuxedo, while Watt wore a double breasted evening suit.
His mother shone in a rose colored dress that came to rest around her ankles, and her signature pearls hugged her throat.
This evening was dedicated to Watt’s upcoming journey, or more importantly, what could be gleaned from it.
He'd been told it was a celebration, but it was only them.
The Johnsons attended many social events and were held in high regard, but they had little in the way of what Watt considered to be true friends.
Watt’s accomplishments were not his own, they belonged to the Johnson family.
Not only his success, but his failures as well.
Or what his Father viewed as failure. Leaving archaeology for anthropology had been a disappointment, but paired with Watt’s abrupt departure of Carter’s team before their ultimate discovery, the move was a personal blow to his Father’s reputation, especially during the height of mummy fever.
He made this clear to Watt on a regular basis, and any new projects that Watt took on would always be cast in the shadow of what could have been.
That would explain why tonight’s affair was mild.
They ate in affable silence, as important conversation could not be held until after dinner had been consumed.
After the staff cleared the dinner service, Callum Johnson affixed Watt with his full attention.
He said, “Now, Walter. Tell us how your man hunt played out.”
Watt tried not to flinch. “Very well, sir. Dr. Sawyer has agreed to join us.”
His old man scoffed. “Well of course he has, what fool would say no?”
People often told Watt that he looked just like Callum, and Watt tried to find himself in the deep frown lines surrounding his father's mouth.
He could allow the broad forehead and stubborn jaw, expected and even welcomed the thick head of silver and bronze, but he hoped to God he never developed such a permanent expression of distaste.
“Sawyer … I dare say it rings a bell, but I cannot place the man. What’s his first name?” Callum asked, dark eyes contemplative.
‘Anyone with a lick of sense would've said no,’ Watt thought.
He had to go about this next bit carefully, and he tried not to let his apprehension show.
He said, “He worked under Woolley, sir. I believe that was his first dig before doing some survey work in Peru and Colombia. Dr. Cornelius Sawyer.”
“Cornelius Sawyer …” Callum studied Watt’s face for a long moment, then shrugged. “Must not be noteworthy, but if it is he who Mrs. Fawcett desires to accompany you, then accompany you he shall.”
“Yes, sir.” Watt nodded, nearly sagging with relief. If Callum decided to withdraw his funding, it would’ve put a real damper on things.
“Come now, Watt. Tell us something about him,” Alice said. She had a particular look in her eye that Watt knew all too well. She had something to say, but wouldn’t in Callum’s presence. “I’d like to know what type of man will be gallivanting in the jungle with my son.”
Callum frowned. “They’ll hardly be gallivanting, Alice.”
“All the more reason,” she replied, keeping her cool gaze on Watt.
She was father's opposite, pale with dark hair, willowy and petite. Her health had always suffered in the city, which is why they vacationed for most of the year in the country. Before attaining the manor upstate, they’d spent that time in Harbor Point, the scenic tourist section of Harbor Springs.
He didn’t have a friend in his mother, per say.
She treated him the same way she treated her husband.
Distant, and aloof. As he understood it their marriage was a love match, but if there had been any sentiment between them it’d fled by Watt’s early childhood.
And so Watt found it odd, her sudden interest in his life.
Carefully, he said, “It is in my opinion that you cannot find the true measure of a man in such a short visit, Mother, but from what I can tell he seems to be honest and knowledgeable.” He stared into her sharp green and yellow eyes. “Someone I can rely on.”
Alice Johnson evaluated him for a long moment. Finally, she said, “Good.”
March 14th, 1930
Central Park was freezing, but Watt hadn’t missed Frederick’s birthday in over ten years and didn’t plan to now.
He stepped off East 72nd Street and into Central Park, utilizing the same path he walked every month for the last decade.
There’d been times that he wasn’t in the City and missed his visits, but he always made up for it.
It was damned cold and the sky was a miserable grey, but no snow or rain fell.
Watt focused on his breath propelling into the air in great thick clouds, doing his best not to think about anything in particular at all.
He’d been doing so much thinking over the past few days that his nerves were raw.
After five minutes of brooding, Watt came upon The Grove.
A paved walkway demarcated a large area that held eighteen oak trees.
White concrete pedestals were beside fourteen of them, and a boulder sat in the center of them all.
The trees were taller than Watt, much taller than they’d been when he and his comrades planted them a decade ago.
It was not a cemetery, but it felt like one.
Watt’s hands flexed at his sides, and his feet were temporarily glued to the walkway.
He stood there, staring. The plaques full of names were hidden by snow, but he knew by heart they were affixed to the boulder and the pedestals.
He wished Maggie were here, but he didn’t like taking her out for so long when it was this cold out.
He sighed, and stepped into the snow. His polished shoes disappeared beneath the powdery stuff, but that didn’t stop Watt from approaching the tree in the very back, the one dedicated to Company G. His heart thrashed against his rib cage, swollen with exercise and longing.
Watt brushed the snow off the white concrete pedestal situated upon its own little hill, revealing the shield shaped plaque.
The names were small and the font filled with ice in places, but he knew them.
Knew them all. The air in his lungs crystallized, and he coughed.
He'd been smoking again, and his lungs were already sensitive from the damage wrought by measles and gas.
He knelt in the snow, shrouded by Company G's tree.
Quietly, he said, “Happy Birthday, Frederick. I—” Watt dashed a hand at the burning in his eyes.
“I’m going to be leaving soon, so I won’t be visiting for a while.
Not sure if I’ll be coming back, actually.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I think this might be goodbye, for good this time.
It's a real dangerous route we have, and if the land doesn't kill me my companion just might.”
Watt coughed again, then wiped furiously at his eyes which wouldn’t stop leaking.
He searched desperately for something grand to say, but found he had nothing.
In fact there was a great nothing growing inside of him, yawning and stretching its claws, ready to tear him apart.
He stood, knees cracking, and whispered, “Goodbye.”
Before he left, Watt cleaned off the rest of the plaques, saying goodbye to the rest of his comrades that he’d loved and fought alongside.
Men that he should’ve been in the ground with.
But for some damn reason he was above dirt, filling his shoes with snow and planning hopeless adventures into South America with a man who couldn’t stand him.
Last but not least, Watt stood before the boulder which was relatively new compared to the trees, having joined them only four or five years ago. An enormous tablet covered the back, filled with names, while an inscription covered the face of it.
Beneath the snow, the inscription read: