Keeping Time: A Novel Page 12

  In the afternoon she went to her room, opened her suitcase, and pulled out the letters. Treating them with care, she brought them back out to the garden to look again at his picture and reread the old letters from New York.

  While in New York.

  AT 6:30, ELISABETH, pulling into Ann’s driveway, parking. Getting out.

  Walking into the house, a lot on her mind. Richard had not called all day, meaning that the news of his bike would happen face-to-face rather than via the safer, more desirable method of over the phone.

  Suddenly barreled down by Michael, his iPod slung around his neck, unplugged, wearing his droopy jeans. Frantic. Telling her not to have her usual gab with her mother. He had to get home.

  Elisabeth, perplexed, annoyed, telling him he would have to wait. She had to get his brothers together and say hello to her mother. Michael, huffy, impatient, following her into the kitchen, the tips of his feet crashing into the heels of hers.

  Ann was busy, scrubbing the kitchen counter. Scrubbing, with oomph. Frown lines circumnavigating her face. Elisabeth, greeting her. Michael, hurrying Elisabeth along, pressing her to get a move on. Elisabeth, unable to get an unbroken sentence out to her mother, asking Michael where the fire was.

  “I have to get home to Daisy.”

  “Daisy?” Elisabeth’s eyes widening, not hiding her surprise. Realizing then that she hadn’t given Daisy a thought all day. Scrambling to remember if she even knew what Daisy had planned to do. Casting back to the morning, when she had overslept and flown out of the house. She hadn’t even exchanged a word with Daisy. Daisy had spent the whole day without interacting with a single member of the house. What must she think?

  “Yeah, Daisy,” Michael, in a tone of voice that implied, “You got a problem with that?”

  Elisabeth, looking at her mother. She could see all manner of emotions in her face but could read only half. She didn’t want to attempt the other half. tell her she couldahabck

  Michael, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Fidgeting with his iPod, saying, “Can we get going?”

  “Go get your brothers. I’ll be right there.” Elisabeth, turning to her mother as he left the room. “Where’d that come from?”

  Ann, “I thought you’d know. Fast friends, indeed.” Sarcastic. Haughty.

  Elisabeth, shaking her head. “I have no idea. The truth is, I’m sorry to say, that I forgot all about Daisy. I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t. Why’d she even come anyway? When is she leaving?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t she just get here?”

  “Michael hardly ate dinner. He didn’t talk. He didn’t listen to music. He read right through it, saying he had to study. His textbook was practically on his dinner plate.” Like it was an accusation of the highest order. The next words spit out more fiercely. “Apparently he made some deal with Daisy that he’d do well on all his tests.”

  It was hard to say which woman felt worse.

  Ann, “I made his favorite dinner. I spent all day on those barbecued ribs. He barely touched them.”

  Michael, flying back into the kitchen, his brothers in tow. “We’ll be in the car. Hurry.”

  Mother and daughter, locking eyes. KO’d by someone a quarter their size. A fraction of their weight.

  ELISABETH, SUCKING IT in on the car ride home.

  Pulling into her driveway feeling terrible, embarrassed that she was able to give a houseguest, a cousin, so little thought. Cringing at what Daisy must be thinking. Guessing she must be disappointed and disgusted.

  Michael, bolting out of the car before it was even in Park. Up the porch steps two at a time. Josh and David were slower, struggling to lift their heavy unzippered backpacks off the car floor. Both boys yanking too hard, their notebooks, workbooks, and textbooks spilling out all over the car floor. Then somehow lunch boxes, mixed up. Both boys steadfastly refusing to carry in his brother’s.

  The argument, finally ending. Elisabeth, following Josh and David up the porch steps. Telling herself that tomorrow she would make proper arrangements for Daisy. Today was just a consequence of her oversleeping. Tonight she would stay in her bed and get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a better day in every way.

  Following them into the house. Seeing something different in the family room. Continuing into the kitchen, seeing something different there, too: flowers. In vases, placed all over the room. On tabletops. Counters. Windowsills. Elisabeth, blinking twice, stunned.

  Daisy, sitting on a high stool at the counter, carefully watching Elisabeth’s reaction. “I hope you like it. Please don’t mind that I went at your garden with clippers. I only took flowers you had plenty of, of course—some geraniums, butterfly weed, and Iceland poppies in the vase here and over there. In that vase some blue bugles, musk roses, and violets. You have so many beautiful wildflowers, I couldn’t resist helping myself,” smiling guiltily, “to your sneezeworts, your gorgeous oxeye daisies and your poppies. Most of them couldn’t even be seen outside. There were all in the back, hidden by high#tT close shrubs.” Looking for a reaction. Not getting any.

  Daisy, her delicate neck wrinkled and stretched, her head held high, looking over at Elisabeth with sympathetic eyes. “Oh, you’ve had a long day, haven’t you? How about I make you a nice hot cup of tea?”

  Elisabeth was not moving, not speaking. Only standing there at the kitchen counter, blinking, in a light blue knit top and a string of pearls with matching pearl earrings. Dark blue puffy crescents rose out of sunken hollows under both eyes. Where her eyelashes met her eyes was rung in deep red. Her mouth sagged, and its outside corners were flanked by parentheses. She looked tired, careworn, and beaten—the offer of a cup of tea was the least Daisy could do.

  Elisabeth, declining. Shaking her head. Wanting to get out of there. Wondering if she had hit bottom yet.

  “I like the flowers, Daisy.” Michael, noticing how stumped his mother was. His arms were thrust straight down, his hands balled in his low front pockets, standing there, rocking back and forth from toe to heel. “It looks good in here.” A look at his mother, a tone of voice as if to say, “For a change.”

  Elisabeth, glancing from the kitchen into the living room. Flowers were in there, too, changing the room that had been put together by a host of interior designers. The elaborate living room furniture, window treatments, and Persian rugs were all top quality, all enormously expensive, all put together by someone else. The whole house was redone when David started kindergarten four years ago. Elisabeth and Richard had agreed that the time had come to upgrade to more mature, sophisticated, formal living areas. The last of the children was in school, so it was time to lose the playroom look. But Elisabeth had been without time or confidence to do it herself. Looking at it now, she was able to appreciate how tasteful it was, but how unreflective of them. She didn’t even want it. She should sell it all on eBay and go back to the comfortable college dorm room, playroom, or ski lodge look.

  Turning her attention back to Daisy, smiling, saying, “It does look nice in here. Thank you so much, Daisy. I’m sorry we weren’t home for dinner. I hope you’ve been able to find something to eat.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me.” Daisy, making the under suggestion of the year. “I’m fine. I had a gorgeous day, gorgeous.” She had managed to make do. She had several cups of tea, and scrounging around in the refrigerator had yielded a few hard-boiled eggs and a package of American cheese that she had sampled, carefully unpeeling the cellophane. She had never had it before, not even when she was almost marrying an American. Despite a small stomach growling, she had been content all day. Eagerly anticipating getting closer to that American she had almost married.

  “Oh, good.” Elisabeth, showing guilt to the door. At least for the moment. Reminding herself to ask her mother later why she hadn’t invited Daisy for dinner with her and the boys. Maybe Daisy would have eaten those barbecued ribs. “I just need a minute to change out of my work clothes.” Looking at Michael who was still in low-flung jeans. Making
a point of noticing.

  “Come on, Ma. Quit it already.”

  “I’ll stop dressing like you do when you do.” Elisabeth, prancing out the door.

  Michael, rolling his eyes, watching her go.

  Daisy, turning#x201C;I believe you and I have so tell her she couldahabckme business to discuss.”

  “I did okay on the test. I can do better. I begged my teacher to let me take another tomorrow. She hasn’t decided yet, but I’m going to study tonight either way. Will you tell me anyway? I did do better than on the last test. Who are you tracking down?”

  Daisy, looking him over. He had a guarded, eager expression, trying hard not to give anything away. But he was a breeze to read nonetheless. Daisy, seeking her own boys in him, catching glimpses, recollecting their thirteen-year-old lives. Finding commonalities—the thirteen-ness. It was there. She could see it.

  “I will tell you, of course I will. I’m happy to. Should I wait for your brothers and parents?”

  A wave of his hand making it clear where he stood.

  So Daisy beckoned Michael, patting the top of the counter stool beside her.

  Michael, getting on it, bending his knees all the way, slipping his big feet on the high top rung. Listening. Daisy, talking. Telling him everything. The past flowing out of her mouth and into his young ears, open wide and waiting.

  Michael’s head, spinning with the details. When she finished, he popped off the stool and pulled on her hand that had so little weight to it. Yanking her to her feet. Marching her out of the kitchen.

  “His name is Michael, like mine?” That, making him happy. “Baker? We’ll find him on the computer. We can probably find him tonight. Come on. You might be able to talk to him before bedtime!”

  Daisy’s hand, rising to her collarbone, her arthritic fingers spread out like a bumpy fan. Allowing herself to be pulled down the hall, shuffling hurriedly over the hardwood floor in low-heeled shoes. Permitting him to pull a chair over for her at the computer. Getting excited herself as it blinked on, listening as Michael tossed out plans. They would start by googling Michael Baker.

  Daisy’s heart, pounding.

  Michael, keying in Michael Baker, typing faster than Daisy anticipated. He was very efficient, like a secretary in the old days, in the days when no thirteen-year-old boy would ever have been caught dead typing.

  He got 10,840,000 results.

  Michael, frowning. “His name is too common. Do you know his middle name?”

  “Leonard.”

  Michael, entering it. Got 6,010,000 results, including thousands regarding a murderer with the same name in Minneapolis. Michael, frowning again. Working on new approaches when his mother walked in. Her baggy jeans, riding low, biting a nail, her hair spilling untidily forward. An overflowing laundry basket resting on her left hip, her arm around it like a friend. Telling Michael to get s to Michael. &

  TWENTY-FIVE

  RICHARD, WEARY, WALKING in the front door close to eleven. Putting down his briefcase, pouring himself a drink, noting that the level of Cointreau in the bottle had gone down. Picturing Daisy sipping a glass, speculating that the family had been graced with another night of stories. Wishing he had been there.

  The house was quiet. He turned on the TV, flipping briefly through the channels as if they were pages of a magazine, making his way through his drink. He would have these few minutes before going upstairs and telling Elisabeth what had happened. He had tried calling several times throughout the day to tell her. But couldn’t reach her.

  She was awake when he walked in. Sitting on the bed, leaning back against a tall pile of pillows, a laptop propped up on blankets over her stretched legs. Saying, “Hey” to him but not looking up from the screen. Busy on the computer. Richard, sympathetic that she still had taxes to deal with.

  But Elisabeth wasn’t doing taxes. She was scrolling through images of Old English sheepdog puppies. Hiding behind them.

  Richard, loosening his red and blue tie with his forefinger, undoing it in small, incremental, right and left movements. His head, moving in the same rhythm in opposite directions. The sound of silk shifting silk. Elisabeth, pressing the arrow down key, moving the screen slowly so as not to miss a puppy, hearing, “You’re never going to believe what happened today.”

  “Oh?” Showing only a minimal amount of interest.

  Richard, “Somebody stole my bike.”

  “No!” Acting totally surprised.

  “Yeah. Right out of the garage. They took the lock and everything.”

  “How’d they do that?” Acting incredulous. Her eyes wide.

  “Damned if I ?” Elisabeth, asking aplCrknow. It was made of kryptonite. The attendant claims he saw nothing.” Richard, taking his usual great care placing his tie on the rack. The rest of the house could be in shambles for all he cared, but not his suits, ties, shirts. Those he babied, keeping them picture perfect.

  “No kidding.” Elisabeth, in all seriousness, as if trying to imagine such a thing. Saving for later, for private moments for many years to come, the deep introspection and speculation about how she could have done what she had done. Now she was just working at keeping guilt and shame at bay and the bit of laughter that went with it.

  Richard, sitting on the edge of the bed, affecting the mattress beneath her. Untying his shoe. Pulling it off from the heel. The sound of a sock slipping out of a tight, stiff space. The heat of his foot, released into the air. Richard, rolling down his sock, picking the tip out of his toes, saying, “The attendant has no idea when it happened, but the man before him, on the six p.m. to one a.m. shift, said he was pretty sure that it was there when he was. The next guy didn’t see anybody taking it. You’d think it would take some time to cut through kryptonite. You’d think it would make noise and draw attention. You’d think someone might notice.” The sound of his other shoe coming off. A trace scent of leather.

  “You would,” Elisabeth, agreeing. Needing a place to hide. Finding one. Reaching over and picking up her glass of red wine from the bedside table. Her fourth. Downing it. Wiping a runaway drip off the side of the glass with her tongue, the last drop.

  Richard, standing up, undoing his belt, yanking it fast through the belt loops like a subway train making no local stops. Throwing it on the bed. It kept its coil.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE INTERNET YIELDED no real results. Michael Baker was way too common a name, as was Michael L. Baker and even Michael Leonard Baker. Michael, Daisy, Josh, David, and even Pete, when he was around, spent long hours huddled around the computer every afternoon after school. This left Ann with just the other grandchildren, begrudging Daisy her visit, her time. Wishing she would go back already.

  Elisabeth’s days were spent in quiet guilt. Nights she was deep under the covers, her back to Richard. There were no more midnight rides. Anxiously waiting to hear that Dart Man had struck again, hoping to hear that Richard was cleared. So far, nothing. Morning after morning she sat with feet planted in low-heeled pumps on the floor under her desk, spreadsheets on the screen, but she was staring acrurchase of a h

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE THREE OF THEM, en route to 11440 Second Street, Brooklyn, New York. Early Saturday morning. Zipping by the Brooklyn Museum, the enormous Brooklyn Library, the Brooklyn Zoo, the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Hordes of people.

  Elisabeth, making a left onto Prospect Park West, the main boulevard. People, promenading. Babies in strollers, dogs on leashes. A gorgeous, lush park, very much like Central Park, on one side; it had been designed by the same team, Olmstead and Vaux, after they had finished in Manhattan. Magnificent architecture, buildings more than a hundred years old. Nineteenth-century brownstones four stories high; flowers spilling abundantly out of window boxes; bikes, skateboards, Rollerblades; children jumping rope, drawings made with thick pastel-colored chalk on the sidewalks.

  Daisy, in the front seat. Her heart, pumping rapidly as they neared the address.

  Michael, in the back, reading the directions
and the history of that section of Brooklyn: Park Slope. Flipping through the chapter on the Brooklyn Bridge. Showing pictures. Elisabeth, nearing Second Street, scanning the curb for parking spots that didn’t exist.

  Richard, at work on a Saturday. David and Josh were at friends’ houses, playing computer games. Pete was on third base, hop#, ’b. They ing to turn the game around. Ann was at the hairdresser, complaining nonstop about Daisy to the woman who was coloring her hair.

  After sixteen rotations around the block, a spot opened up when an old Volkswagen pulled out. Elisabeth, ramming the SUV into the spot. It was so tight between the car in front and the car behind that she and Michael couldn’t get over to Daisy on the sidewalk. They had to talk to Daisy over the top of the car as they confirmed which way to walk, finally heading uphill. Elisabeth was not alone with her bumper-to-bumper parking. They had to walk more than half a block before Elisabeth and Michael found enough space between two parked cars to cross over to the sidewalk.

  A few minutes later they found the address. It was the top building on Second Street, just off the main boulevard, Prospect Park West. A four-floor brownstone with double glass doors. The numbers 11440 were painted on the glass in gold, outlined in black. The same gold and black paint ran around the boundary of the glass doors.

  A directory, listing six names. Daisy, holding her breath as Michael read the names.

  No Baker. Michael, looking at Daisy, expecting disappointment, but he found Daisy smiling. Saying, “Oh, come now, Michael, we didn’t really expect that he’d still be here. We knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.”

  Michael, “I guess.” Scratching the back of his left shoulder, his elbow poking straight at Daisy, bobbing up and down in rhythm.