A Little Slice of Time

An illicit trade gets Death reassigned to a new District

The door creaked open and a tiny chime rang.

The musty smell of a pawnshop wafted into the fresher air outside. Margaret moved inside the shop, grateful for the warmth despite the smell of recent, less-than-fresh patrons whose scent still lingered. She raised the pie in her hands to her nose to clearing her senses and reminding her why she was here.

“Margaret, the scent of your apple pie precedes you. To what do I owe this exquisite pleasure?” The sonorous baritone rose from the back of the shop, from behind a mountain of papers, supplies, containers and cases. His sinuous movement belied his tall and gangling form, touching nothing scattered about him as he made his way to the counter top.

Margaret swallowed and proffered her gift. “It’s for you, Mr. Cummings. I wanted to ask for an extension on our agreement.”

Mr. Cummings put his hand on hers beneath the pie, but did not try to extract it from her grasp. Not perceptibly at any rate. Margaret could feel his desire for the pie, but she knew he would not be so easy. “Dearest Margaret, you know I cannot give you an extension. It would be the second such we have given. It is not in this agency’s best interest to give such away casually.”

“But you promised he would get better.”

“I promised he would not get worse. Those were the exact words.” When Mr. Cummings looked into Margaret’s eyes, he saw a hint of her former beauty. A fiery spirit to match her once-fetching looks. He steeled himself for their confrontation.

“I am being rude. Perhaps we should discuss this over some coffee and a taste of your wondrous new gift. It’s scent is positively heavenly. Come. You know the way.”

With the deal almost done, Margaret released the pie into his cadaverous hands, with their bony white knuckles and long sinuous fingers. Though his touch was cold, his hands were always soft and gentle, his manners impeccable. She followed quietly into the tiny kitchen in the back.

Gracefully, Mr. Cummings slid around his kitchen. Like magic, pie and coffee were served. “I need for you to know Margaret, the deal you made with the former proprietor is not binding to me.”

“But… I don’t understand. You look the same. I thought you were…him.”

“We always look the same. In whatever way you perceive us to be, we will always appear as such. You are of such an age, I can no longer hide my true nature from you. I replaced the previous Mr. Cummings because of your deal with him. It was considered… improper. I know all that he knew, except for the taste of your work. Let us partake.”

The two ate quietly, sipping coffee, thinking of places and times far removed from this tiny pawnshop in the Bronx.

Mr. Cummings dabbed his mouth languidly. “Exquisite.”

“Thank you.” Margaret smiled despite her trepidation.

“I cannot offer you what he did. But you still have many years. Perhaps you would be willing to share them with your husband?”

Margaret’s eyes welled with tears. She didn’t know that was an option. Mister Cummings understood. “Wait here.”

He returned with a charm bracelet and a pair of cuff-links. “Each charm offers him two years of health and exchanges your life for his. You can spare no more than this. Do you understand what this means?”

Margaret understood. She could feel the creak of age as she placed the bracelet upon her wrist. “He must take you someplace nice, once a month wearing these cuff-links. He will be mobile and free of infirmity. Our deal is almost done.”

“Almost?” Margaret patted her eyes dry.

“I understand why my compatriot did what he did. Craft such as yours is rare. Being offered such is even rarer. It would be my honor to partake of such a gift, say, once a month, perhaps delivered on your way to your outing? Unofficially, of course.”

Margaret hugged Mr. Cummings and despite the innate shiver his bony form gave her, held tight, thankful.

“Do you have a preference?” She whispered into his crisply ironed shirt.

“No, dearest Margaret. Feel free to surprise me.” She looked at him, marveling at his generosity.

With a step lighter than the one she came in with, Margaret Simms rushed home to her husband, who upon her arrival, would be feeling well enough to rise from the bed and greet her at the door of their tiny apartment.

With the roar of the Number 5 train above his shop masking the chime which indicated Margaret’s departure, Mr. Cummings repaired to his kitchen, eager for another bite.

The phone rang as he sat at the table. Wrapping his cadaverous hand around it, he already knew who it was. “It was everything I said it would be isn’t it, Brother?”

“You did it no true justice, Brother. Indeed something to live for. Please excuse me.”

“Of course. I’ll see you next month?”

“I will save you a piece.”

“I knew you would.”

A click, and the line was silent. The new Mr. Cummings returned to his pie in peace awaiting the next petitioner seeking another sliver of time.

A Little Slice of Time © Thaddeus Howze 2016, All Rights Reserved

Thaddeus Howze is a writer, essayist, author and professional storyteller for mysterious beings who exist in non-Euclidean realms beyond our understanding. Since they insist on constant entertainment and can’t subscribe to cable, Thaddeus writes a variety of forms of speculative fiction to appease their hunger for new entertainment.

Thaddeus’ speculative fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies: Awesome Allshorts: Last Days and Lost Ways (Australia, 2014), The Future is Short (2014), Visions of Leaving Earth (2014), Mothership: Tales of Afrofuturism and Beyond (2014), Genesis Science Fiction (2013), Scraps (UK, 2012), and Possibilities (2012).

He has written two books: a collection called Hayward’s Reach (2011) and an e-book novella called Broken Glass (2013) featuring Clifford Engram, Paranormal Investigator.