What Time Is It?

Because he wanted to dust quickly every morning, Hampton Cleves’ room furniture had only a black clock radio marring the tall dresser opposite his bed. Boy and man in the two decades Hampton lived with his mother in the house on Twill Lane; he wiped every surface each morning before marching downstairs to breakfast.

It was the same meal over which he dawdled each day of his formative years. Hampton hated leaving the house, not fearing the world outside but preferring what he accomplished inside its rooms.

As a teenager and in early manhood, he lived quietly; only very determined people found him. Fewer still could do business with him. Hampton had a knack for photographing young children. Toy manufacturers paid him pennies to portray happy toddlers loving the toys they found in his studio. Others paid him dollars to capture what happened in the hidden playroom behind his room. Both client sets were usually satisfied

Now, the law was about to find him, ironically because of an alcoholic divorcee neighbor. After realizing what happened to her last night, Hampton expected the police would be here in the morning. Checking out near neighbors is usually a priority. He had just hours to finish. Langston was satisfied with his night’s work. Four garbage containers were at the bottom of Boston Harbor. At that moment, he was back in his room, shaking and muttering while hugging his knees to his chest. The clock said 10:00, but its numbers did not register in his brain.

There were two equal windows in Hampton’s room. The one facing the street hid a white shade that was never drawn. The other sported a black studio curtain that was almost always drawn down. The dichotomy existed since Hampton left high school and in the years it took him to build his modest claim to fame.

Surprisingly, Hampton’s nerves returned when the first police car drew up to the house next door. With the car came the first neighbors to surround the house. Although their voices were subdued, Hampton could hear their combined murmurs. Knowing the police would talk to him, he wanted to speed up this morning’s time. That they would come, he had no doubts. What they knew or suspected was the unknown. He looked at the clock; it read 10:20.

The noises outside his room grew louder, and his mind tried to blot out the FedEx package waiting to be picked up. He crawled off the bed to the front window. He hid from the light in the window but could clearly see the carousel house containing the subdivision mailboxes and pick-up boxes. There were now three police cars and more people in front of the house. As he scrambled back to the bed, Hampton saw the clock read 10:30.

Hampton heard the front door open and close. His mother was going to find out what had happened. He already knew what had happened and had no hope of erasing those events. The clock buzzed to tell him it was 10.30.

Hampton moved cautiously from bed to the chair before the sports curtain. Pulling aside the curtain opposite the neighboring house’s window, he could see into the crowd containing some people in uniform; two in business suits and one or two women. Hampton watched them for a few minutes and returned to the bed. The clock said 10:45.

The downstairs door opened and closed, bringing Hampton back to the present. He knew his mother wouldn’t come to his room, but she would settle down in her big chair below him. She surprised him by coming up the stairs and standing outside his door. Hampton didn’t move; he didn’t say anything. His mother moved away from the door and went into her room. He heard the bed springs creak as she lay down. The clock on the dresser said it was 11:00.

Hampton was tired of watching the people in the room. He stood back from the front window because the crowd had gotten bigger, spilling over to fronting his house. Two men carrying a stretcher came out of the house. The crowd stood back when they saw it contained a covered body. Without realizing it, Hampton also shrank back from the window. He moved so far back that he crashed into the dresser. When it stopped teetering, the clock registered at 11:15.

Observing the body and its wrappings, Hampton didn’t register those two men leaving the house after the body and made for his front door. Two beefy members rang Hampton’s doorbell. They waited and rang it again. Accepting his mother would not answer the door, Hampton squared himself to do it. One last look at the clock somehow reassured him the noon pick-up would happen.

The men at the door showed him their badges, and Hampton let them in. Their parlor was his mother’s realm, but he led them to its plush sofa. When he did not sit down, they ignored his invitation for them to sit. Both men towered over Hampton, their voices louder, almost intimating.

“Are you Hampton Cleves? The older of the two men said,

“How did you know my name? Hampton asked.

“We compiled a list from neighbors, other sources,” the man continued.

“I didn’t know that many people knew me.”

“Some called you a recluse.”

“Among other things,” the other detective said almost under his breath.

“What do you do, Mr. Nieves?” the first detective returns to questioning.

“I photograph children using toys and wearing clothes,” Hampton spoke with certainty.

“For who?”

“Big toy companies like Lego, Mattel, American Doll, and smaller companies.”

“How long have you’ve been doing this?”

“Doing what?” Hampton shot back.

“Filming kids?”

“Since I was a kid, toy manufacturers want to know what kids are thinking when getting new toy or new dress.”

“And you tell them?”

“No, we observe them, see what the children do first, repeat, quick to dislike, how the toy is perceived.”

“Where do you do your work?”

“I usually work upstairs, in my room, or the room next door.”

“Then we better go upstairs.”

The three men traipsed upstairs. His mother peeked out from a slightly opened door. The silent detective grabbed the chair near the window and sat in the open doorway. The other detective inspected the room.

“Where’s your equipment?”

“We shipped it yesterday to Boston, to my new home.”

“So you’re moving?”

“My mother’s not well. We’ve purchased an apartment for her in an assisted living facility near Boston. I’ve bought a small condominium in the city and joining a research group there. My mother won’t be able to work with me much longer, so it’s best I give up my single practice.”

“Is she always here when some kid is here?”

“Part of state regulations requires that it’s either her or some else, the state thinks we’re a research lab.”

“Why should they be thinking anything else?”

“No reason, I have a PhD in childhood development and my mother spent 30 years leading an upstate grammar school.”

“Your neighbors say your anti-social.”

“I’m just not interested in them?”

“You haven’t even asked what happened next door.”

“I expected you would say something when you finished interrogating me.”

“Do you study the kids here?”

“We get them comfortable before leading them into the lab,” Hampton said as he opened the built-in closets containing dozens of toys and dresses. As he expected, they tumbled to the feet of the two detectives. He then opened the viewing port, allowing the visitors to see the play lab.

“The room itself is wire for sound and filming.”

“Is that why you have so many kids coming into the house.”

“My neighbors think I’m a pedophile?”

“They just wondered? Where’s your mother now?”

“Down the hall, she’s probably asleep.”

“Were you in your room last night?”

“Yes, like I am most nights.”

“Did you hear anything or see anything unusual?”

“I heard Mrs. Blaine playing the radio or television loud again.”

“She does it often?

“Sometimes once or twice a week, she will get drunk and start dancing in front of one or two people, usually men from the local tavern.”

“What did you do about it?”

“Put cotton in my ears, like I usually do on the nights she becomes an exhibitionist.”

“Ever complain to Mrs. Blaine?”

“My mother did twice. Second time Mrs. Blaine chased her out of her house and up our stairs. Both of them charged into my room. Found me stark naked doing my yoga exercises, Mrs. Blaine stopped chasing my mother and invited me over to her house. Of course, I declined. She turned around and started to leave, calling me a pervert. She’s the one spreading the rumor in the neighborhood that I’m a pedophile.”

“What else did you intend to do?”

“Nothing, we’re leaving. We will be gone by now, but my mother’s room is still unavailable. The present occupant has decided to live longer.

“Mrs. Blaine was murdered sometime between 11pm and 1am this morning,” the first detective said suddenly.

“Any ideas on who could have done it? The second detective said harshly.

“She was loud, brassy and unhappy. According to my mother, not even her children liked being around her.

“We’re trying to contact them now.”

“Our final move was scheduled for next Friday. She’ll live with me until her room is ready. Is there any reason we need to postpone it?”

“No, we heard about the rumors and thought we braced you quickly. Only other thing, we noticed your room looks directly onto Mrs. Blaine’s window. You’re sure you saw nothing last night.”

“I heard some shouting around 3am but if you say she died earlier I can’t help you.”

“Actually, Gus misspoke,” the sitting detective broke in. “Some guy has come to the station to confess. Says he thumped her about 3am, about the time you said, Nieves.”

“Sometimes this clock here runs fast or stops altogether.” Hampton walked over to the clock and picked it up.

“What time is it?” Hampton asked in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

“That’s the right time, it’s noon.”

Hampton’s back was turned between the man and the detectives. They didn’t see him relaxing.

“I think I’ll take my mother out for lunch.” Saying the thought without apparent thought.

“There’s a good place on Hodges Avenue,” the sitting detective said as he closed his notepad.

“Nice of you to your mother.” The second detective murmured.

“You should always be nice to your mother.” The first detective added.

“I try, I try.” Hampton said.