The Newcomer - Part II
Brynn is a struggling horologist who one day comes home to find her beloved cat Phoenix joined by an uncanny twin. In Part I, uncertain about where the cat came from, she brings the newcomer to the vet. When the vet scans the cat’s microchip, she learns that she’s the registered owner.
I pulled into the strip mall parking lot of The Time Emporium ten minutes late for my shift. I had been expecting to say my goodbyes to the newcomer cat at the vet, but obviously that plan had been thwarted, so, feeling sweaty and frazzled, I heaved him and the carrier out of the car and hurried towards the shop.
Halfway across the lot, my cell phone started to ring with an urgency I knew was in my head but felt real all the same. I paused, balancing the cat carrier on my hip, and fished it out of my pocket.
Jerry again. It was very on brand for him to only call when I was already overwhelmed. I had a sneaking suspicion he did it on purpose. Even as kids, Jerry loved it when I made a mess. Every broken vase and spilled juice in our household was a reminder of his innate older sibling superiority.
I silenced the call and shoved the phone back in my pocket.
The Time Emporium was a large room with high ceilings and walls, every inch of which was filled with clocks. Every type imaginable: grandfather, cuckoo, mantel. And always, at all times, all of them sang their song: tick tock tick tock tick tock. A huge glass display case stood in the center of the room filled with wristwatches, always ticking softly. I’d been working there for about a year, ever since I saw the sign in the window: HELP WANTED, ASST. HOROLOGIST. As far as the job went, my opinion on it varied depending on the weather, the moon, the way the wind was blowing…But I knew one thing—I knew about clocks. My dad had only ever had one hobby, and it was fixing up broken ones from the inside out. It was really the only personal thing I knew about him even now, and the only language we ever managed to successfully communicate through. Clock-speak. By the time I was fourteen I had repaired and rebuilt an entire antique Jaeger-LeCoultre table clock. No big deal.
The shop was empty, but the door to the back office was ajar. It was an irritating place to work on days like this. In an entire shop full of clocks and watches, tardiness rarely slipped by unnoticed.
“Hey Martin, I’m here, sorry!” I called out, expecting my elderly boss to appear. Instead, to my horror, Rosemary stepped out of the back.
She was in her thirties, around the same age as me, but had always carried herself with an adultishness that felt alien. She wore thick rimmed glasses and took things very seriously. She was also, unfortunately, my ex.
We stood there staring at each other. Martin had been diligent about not scheduling us together, despite his initial “don’t ask, don't tell” policy about our relationship (he was, after all, about ninety years old). So it was the first time we’d come face to face since the breakup a few months prior. The cat in the carrier let out a shrieking meow, breaking the silence.
“You brought Phoenix to work?” Rosemary asked.
“Yes. No. Hi.”
“Hi, Brynn.”
“Are you—are we both scheduled? I mean, I know I’m scheduled…” I trailed off pathetically.
“We’re both scheduled,” Rosemary said. “Martin’s sick, and he’s over the drama.”
“Is there drama?”
“Nope,” she said tightly. “Is there drama for you?”
“Nope.”
“Great.”
Another uncomfortable silence stretched on, finally punctuated by a second loud meow. I knelt down and unzipped the carrier. The newcomer leapt out immediately and set about exploring the shop.
I looked up to find Rosemary frowning at me.
“My place is getting de-roachified. Please don’t tell Martin,” I said.
“Whatever.”
Rosemary sat down at the workbench behind the counter and turned her attention back to what she had been working on before I came in: a disassembled antique wall clock. Its parts were laid out on the workbench like an operating table.
“It’s slow today,” she said, without looking at me. “You can probably sneak out early.”
“Cool.”
I sat down uncomfortably in the chair by the register and watched her work. This, Rosemary at the workbench, was exactly what had hooked me in the first place. Her long, slim fingers moving over the tiny, delicate innards of the clock; the way she handled each and every piece like it was the most important one. At thirty-three she was young for the position of Head Horologist, a role more commonly occupied by elderly men. But Rosemary was good at her job. She’d done an apprenticeship, gotten her certificate from some fancy watchmaker’s school. Being here was an ambition for her, a piece in a bigger plan. Not something she’d just stumbled into by humoring someone else’s passion. I’d always found that equally sexy and annoying.
“So how have you been?” I asked.
“I’ve been good. Different.”
“Different?”
“Yeah,” she said, still focused on the clock. “Things are constantly changing.”
“What does that mean?”
She just shrugged elusively.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thank you,” she replied primly.
“You look great too, Brynn! Oh my gosh, thanks Rosemary, that’s so sweet of you,” I said, poking the bear.
“You look the same.”
I was never going to win against Rosemary in a battle of bitchiness. No one was.
“I guess you didn’t get my messages,” I said. “They must’ve gotten sent to spam or something. Or absorbed by radio wave interference. Or maybe you thought they were from another Brynn who you like less than me and deleted them by mistake. Or maybe—”
“I got your messages,” she said.
I watched her grind down the edge of a tiny gear, hoping she might say more. She didn’t. Feeling fidgety and anxious, I crossed to the workbench drawers and pulled out the Omega Speedmaster I’d been fixing the day before. I sat as far as possible from Rosemary and studied the sleek chrome wristwatch. Its second hand was stuck and was ticking back and forth in the same tiny sliver of the watchface, never completing its circle. I stared down at the watch and suddenly felt very, very alone.
“Hey, Rose?” I said. “How do you unstick a rusted gear?”
She looked up at me with an expression I didn’t like; it was too closely related to pity. She opened her mouth to answer when suddenly—
CRASH!
We both jumped to our feet as an antique cuckoo clock that had been hanging on the wall opposite us fell to the floor and shattered. At the same time, and with a loud meow, the newcomer cat leapt into the air, apparently fleeing the scene of the crime.
“Phoenix!” Rosemary shouted. She whirled on me. “Look what your fucking cat did!”
“It wasn’t Phoenix!” I blurted without thinking.
She shoved past me and knelt down to survey the damage.
“Get him out of here. Martin isn’t coming in today anyway. Just go home, Brynn.”
I stood there stupidly for a moment. Rosemary tenderly picked up the broken pieces of the clock. The newcomer cat sat contorted with a foot in the air licking his asshole.
To be continued…
Amy Monaghan is a queer writer and visual artist. She is a graduate of the MFA Screenwriting program at UCLA, where she was a winner of the 2019 Screenwriter's Showcase, and also holds a BFA in Photography from Rochester Institute of Technology. In 2024 she was selected as Grand Canyon National Park's Artist in Residence.
Follow her on Instagram and read more of her work here.