Keeping Time: A Novel Read online

  “Should we ring a bell?” Elisabeth, asking. “While we’re here, maybe we should talk to the super.” She was wearing Richard’s Levis, down low like Michael’s. She had begun reaching for them automatically, putting them on without thinking. One foot was on a higher brownstone step than the other. The back of her hand was on the top of her knee, palm upward, fingers relaxed, cupped, and idle.

  Daisy, nodding. The bottom of her beige pleated skirt billowed around her calves in the soft breeze, a breeze that brought with it the mixed smell of window box flowers. Flowers were everywhere in this neighborhood, seemingly at every window and on every step. A hotdog vendor had set up across the boulevard at one of the entrances to Prospect Park, selling water, ices, ice-cream pops, hot pretzels. The sun, bright, strong, and intense, shot rays through the medium-sized maple trees lining the sidewalk. It was a fragmented ray by the time it hit the brownstone steps, creating moving patterns of shadow and light on all three of them.

  Cars were speeding along the three lanes of the boulevard. An occasional one turning down the street, looking for a parking spot. A small red-haired woman in a lime green T-shirt walked alongside a huge black scruffy dog. The top of the dog’s head, reaching almost to her shoulder.

  Michael, answering, saying, “Definitely, we should talk to the super. Maybe he knows something.”

  Daisy, nodding. “Let’s.”

  So they did. Michael, reading the directory of names alongside the buzzers, saying, “It looks like this is the super—Brian F. Davis.”

  Looking at the others for the go-ahead, his finger poised above the bell. Daisy and Elisabeth, nodding. Michael, ringing. They waited, shifting their weight around, listening to the breeze through the leaves, the call of birds, the sound of a basketball bouncing at some distance. Children. A sweaty man about Richard’s age on the opposite sidewalk, wheeling his bike down the hill. A pang of guilt rippling through Elisabeth. Elisabeth p?” Elisabeth, asking, shaushing that pang right out of her body.

  They heard someone approaching—thongs on creaky hardwood floors—before the door swung open. A latch, slipping across. A man of medium height, weight, build, and age, holding a wooden spoon with something brown and gloppy on it, looking at them. Loose denim shorts and a black shirt. Probing dark eyes under thick eyebrows. A crooked wide nose, not precisely centered over thick lips, dark uncombed hair, too long on the top, short around the ears. The beginnings of tomorrow’s stubble were visible today, polka-dotting the bumpy contours of his lower face and neck.

  “Mr. Davis?” Elisabeth, asking.

  “Yes?” Ready to turn down any request. To send them packing. One hand, resting on the doorknob, the other holding the spoon. Preparing to shut them out.

  “We’re looking for someone.” Michael, saying.

  The man’s eyes on Michael. Considering him.

  “We’re hoping you can help us.” Daisy, adding. “We’d really appreciate it.”

  The man, turning to Daisy. Then back to Michael, not understanding her accent.

  “We’re looking for someone who lived in this building in 1945.” Elisabeth.

  The man, looking at Elisabeth. Blinking. Repeating, “1945.”

  “We know it’s a long shot,” Elisabeth, conceding. “We thought we’d try. This is the last known address of the man we’re looking for.”

  Brian Davis repeating it, “1945.”

  “It’s ridiculous, we know.” Daisy, adding a little self-deprecating chuckle.

  “No,” Brian Davis, snapping, a rough edge to his deep voice. Surprising them, the three automatically stiffening. “What is ridiculous is that there may be someone here who can help you.” His left hand, dropping from the doorknob, falling to his side, indicating that he wouldn’t be shutting the door in their faces after all. “One of my tenants has been here since 1938.”

  Daisy, grasping the information, becoming weak at the knees. Was there really someone here who had known Michael Baker? Could it be possible?

  “No kidding.” Elisabeth. Impressed.

  “No kidding.” Brian Davis, repeating, sharply. Again his voice, loaded with unconcealed harshness—but not toward them. “Hulda Kheist, third floor, since 1938.”

  Somewhere down the street a car horn was honking. A tall black man, skating elegantly past down the hill on Rollerblades, his pale blue T-shirt pressed against his firm stomach and chest. The breeze suddenly picking up, stirring the leaves. Daisy’s skirt flapping against her thin legs. She reached for Michael, taking the back of his upper arm, holding it because of the sudden wind. And the news. She hadn’t expected either.

  Nor had Michael expected the news. Or that Daisy would need his arm. Looking at her, touched that she had reached for him.

  “What wonderful news,” Elisabeth, saying. “She may really be able to help us.”

  “Wonderful for you, maybe,” Brian Davis, spitting out, “but not for me since she pays only $278 a month and basically has done so since I bought this ?” Elisabeth, asking, shabuilding fourteen years ago.” Getting agitated. The hand holding the gloppy spoon traveling up the door frame, resting against it high over his head. One foot, toes down on the top of the other, creating a triangle in the space between his legs. “They told me when I bought this rent-controlled building that its being rent controlled wouldn’t be a problem, that the woman in apartment three was seventy-eight-years old and that when she went, I’d be able to bring her apartment up to current market value. She has a beautiful floor-through with views of Prospect Park that would rake in a fortune. I’d just have to live in the basement apartment until then. Then when I rented hers out, I’d be able to afford to move upstairs to the second floor, to what’s half the size of hers, pulling in $4,500 a month. Instead, I’ve been holed up for fourteen years. Fourteen years! Living like a rat underground while she and her bird live in total luxury for $278 a month! I’m forty-one years old and stuck in a hole in the ground waiting for Mrs. Hulda Kheist to go, one way or another.”

  Momentary silence. Elisabeth, wondering how many times he had told his story over the years. It had to be beyond count. A young woman in a blue floppy hat was walking by the apartment, heading down the hill, humming what sounded like Beethoven’s Ninth, pushing an empty shopping cart. One wheel was squeaking. Distracting them.

  “She taunts me. Tells me she’s going to live to be a hundred because of all the Swiss muesli she eats. I hear that, and I can’t help thinking of this story I heard on the radio—1010 Wins. You know it?”

  Daisy and Michael, shaking their heads.

  “I know it.” Elisabeth.

  “ ‘You give us ten minutes, we’ll give you the world’—that’s their motto. It’s news radio. Anyway, I heard once that there was this old guy, seventy-one-years old, who was caught strangling his ninety-four-year-old mother in her nursing home bed. Caught red-handed, his fingers tight around her throat. Why? He was tired of waiting for his inheritance. He was stuck in a sinkhole of poverty, drowning in bills, about to be thrown out on the street with no place to live, and there’s his mother, barely functioning, spending thousands of dollars a day to live another day of life she’s barely living—money that would otherwise be going to him.” Shaking his head. “I really felt for that guy. He ended up in jail, the poor schlub.” Daisy, Elisabeth, and Michael, standing uncomfortably, looking wordlessly at him. “It’s a wonder you don’t hear more stories like that, I’m telling you.” Staring at the concrete below their feet, contemplating the unfairness of life.

  “Oh.” Daisy, after a minute. Breaking the silence, “That is something. And is she here, this Mrs. Kheist?”

  “No. It’s Saturday morning. She gets her hair done and then gets her groceries. She’ll be back within the hour probably. If you want to come into my dump and wait, you can, or you can go over to the park or maybe down to Seventh Avenue to get something to eat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Davis.” Daisy, politely. “I think we’ll go over to the park for a bit. If you see Mrs. Kheist, pleas
e let her know we’ll be back in an hour.” Turning to Elisabeth. “Is that okay?”

  Elisabeth, “Fine. Let’s walk over to the park.”

  Daisy, turning back to B#heT closerian, saying “Thanks.” Noticing that he was eyeing Elisabeth’s wardrobe choice. Daisy had grown used to seeing Elisabeth in those jeans but remembered her first impression of them. She could imagine what Brian was thinking. Starting down the steps after Elisabeth, her hand lightly attached to Michael’s proud arm. Saying, “If it’s all the same to you, Elisabeth”—tentative words coming out in a rush—“I did see some rather nice shops just down the street. Perhaps we could pop in.”

  Elisabeth’s eyes flickering. “Shops? Yes. I saw them, too. Yes, let’s go.”

  “You don’t mind, Michael?” Daisy, asking.

  “No.” Although he did.

  They turned around, moving together on the sidewalk down the hill.

  BY THE TIME they returned to 11440 Second Street, they were all weighed down with shopping bags. And something else. New. On Elisabeth. And Michael.

  Jeans that fit, that didn’t have enough extra material to sail to China. Both were relieved to see the other in different clothes.

  Michael, placing his finger on Hulda Kheist’s bell. Silently checking with Daisy. She nodded a go-ahead, and he pushed it, alerting the woman in apartment three that someone down below wanted her.

  The woman in apartment three looked up from the TV, startled. It had been a long time since she had heard the bell. Figuring it was a mistake, returning her attention to CNN.

  Down below, Michael, saying, “Do you think she’s back?”

  “We’ve been gone more than an hour.” Elisabeth.

  “Maybe it takes her a little while. Let’s give her another minute and try again.”

  Giving her another minute then trying again.

  The woman in apartment three beginning to consider that it might not be a mistake. Starting to get up off the old couch, pushing herself up with hands pressing into the worn moss green fabric. A plane, passing in front of the sun, momentarily darkening the otherwise sun-drenched room. Wide front windows overlooking Second Street, and sunlight spilling across the floor, creating a healthy environment for the many green leafy potted plants that were spread across windowsills, providing for a very happy parakeet.

  “Try again,” Daisy, whispering to Michael. Under the rumbling of the plane overhead, Michael, ringing again.

  The woman in apartment three, shuffling to the front door. Her back, slightly hunched, her head thrust forward from the neck. Her knobby finger, pushing on the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Hello?” Daisy. Her voice, too high-pitched to travel well. Too excited. “Uh, hello?” If possible, her voice even higher the second time. Two sparrows were engaged in a loud, lively conversation in the neighbor’s front garden. Daisy, turning to Elisabeth, tapping the top of her forearm. “Maybe you should talk.”

  Elisabeth, stepping closer to the intercom. Her mouth, not far from the dented, tarnished silver plate. “Uh, hello. My name is Elisabeth Jetty.” Politely, in her best CPA voice, wearing her brand-new, one-hour-old, snappy, beige summer linens: loose drawstring pants, khaki-colored cotton and linen top, and brown leather-strapped flat sandals. “I’m here with my son and#heT close cousin who is visiting from England. We were hoping we could talk to you about someone we’re trying to find who used to live in this building.”

  The woman in apartment three, letting the words make their way slowly through her. Her heart pumping harder at the possibility that this might be a Saturday worth noting, something to remember, something that was not routine.

  “Oh? I will buzz you up.” An accent of some kind shaping her words.

  The buzzer, sounding. Michael, pushing the heavy glass door. Crossing through the echoey dark-wood-paneled front hall, less grand than in earlier days, and up the stairs, each hoping they wouldn’t see Brian Davis again. They didn’t. They ran the smooth dark oak banister under their hands, listening to the creaking of the wood. Passing a steel gray door on the second floor, plastered with sheets of a child’s drawings, mostly flowers, top-corner-page suns, and long bright yellow rays. Continuing up to the third floor, Daisy, leaning on Michael’s arm. Michael, thinking, “See, good thing I’m here.” Daisy, thinking, “Such a nice lad. It’s a good thing he’s here.”

  Arriving on the third floor. Standing in a small cluster in front of the steel gray door not plastered with children’s drawings. The woman in apartment three, looking at them through the peephole. Finding them wholly unthreatening, opening the door. Saying, “Hello.”

  Elisabeth, employing the voice she had used below, “Mrs. Kheist? Thank you for seeing us. I’m Elisabeth Jetty. This is my son, Michael, and this is Daisy Phillips from Liverpool.” Her words, resonating louder in the cavernous hallway.

  The woman, nodding again. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hulda Kheist. Won’t you come in?” Stepping back so they could get past her and into the apartment: Michael first, then Elisabeth, then Daisy.

  Hulda, motioning them over to the couch. They sat down, three in a row, rather too closely at first. They had to shuffle apart a bit. The three of them, exhaling, facing Hulda expectantly, with knees soldered together, palms touching palms.

  Michael hadn’t sat that upright since his days in the high chair when he would slobber over apple sauce and baby food and finger his Cheerios. Feeling strange, he looked past Hulda Kheist to anywhere else in the room. His eyes settling on a large green bird with the best view in the place: perched high on a wooden horizontal bar in front of the window. The bird was riveted on them, eating seeds from a silver bowl under the perch.

  Not only did Michael feel strange, he looked strange. Elisabeth, staring at him across her shoulder for a good long minute. Getting to know him, this different him. Seeing how his face was maturing. A new look in his eye; there now but not before. The slow, inexorable march to manhood seemed recently and quite suddenly to be picking up the pace.

  Daisy sat poised with all her attention on Hulda, her heart thumping, sitting so close to this connection to her alternate life.

  Hulda, lowering herself slowly into the large velvet armchair. Michael, staring at her, wondering how old she was. Hulda, sitting regally, her head held high, facing them diagonally. She had dyed, permed light brown hair, a high forehead; lantern jaw; small, quick, dark eyes; scrawny neck; weak shoulders under a flimsy lacy white robe.

  The room was large and had graying white walls, last painted in days gone by but clean and not peeling. The room also had very high ceilings,# includhabck and the window that overlooked Second Street was wide enough for a pack of elephants to fit through, shoulder to shoulder. It spanned almost the entire wall and was where the bird sat. Opposite the couch was a high, wide fireplace that had been built when the apartment was built, in the late 1890s. It remained unchanged through the decades. Thickly glazed dark green tile formed the boundary of the opening and part of the surrounding wall and floor.

  In short, the apartment did have the potential to be utterly smashing. It was a truly authentic real estate gem.

  Brian Davis’s frustration, silently spotting the air. Dripping on them.

  “Forgive me for being in a housecoat,” Hulda, saying. “I don’t often have visitors.”

  Nodding kindly. Telling her not to worry.

  “So,” Hulda, clapping the palms of her hands on her knees, “what can I do for you?” Her accent was from somewhere in Europe. Germany? Poland? Sweden?

  Daisy, speaking. “I’m looking for a man who lived in this building until 1945. His name was Michael Baker. He lived here with his parents.”

  A heavy silence, Hulda ingesting Daisy’s words. The others, waiting quietly. The bird, chirping. Michael, turning his head to watch it. Daisy and Elisabeth, keeping their eyes on Hulda, as if watching the wheels slowly creaking behind her eyes.

  “Baker,” Hulda, repeating softly. Tapping her huge forehead with the tip of a very old finger
. “Let me think—1945. I moved in here in 1938, so it would have been seven years after that.” Squeezing her eyes shut. “The children were in primary school.”

  “Here,” Daisy, leaping forward on the couch. Opening her purse, pulling something out of it, a creased white envelope. “I have a picture of him.”

  Michael and Elisabeth, surprised to hear that, trying to catch a glimpse of him as the picture was passed over the coffee table faceup and into Hulda’s shaky hand.

  Hulda, taking glasses with thick black frames out of a pocket in her housecoat, looking down at the picture in her lap. A young, handsome serviceman in a stiff army hat. Broad shoulders, a straight nose that rounded at the bottom, a serious expression in his eyes, gazing back at the camera. Hulda’s thoughts, moving in reverse, skidding through time. Hoping the picture would trigger something—create an individual out of a generic army face. But Hulda could find no personality exhibited in the picture, nothing to latch on to, nothing to distinguish him.

  Hulda, thinking and thinking. Then saying, through a sorrowful mouth: “I’m sorry. I don’t remember him. There were soldiers all over Brooklyn. I’m so sorry.” Handing back the picture.

  Daisy, Elisabeth, Michael, a trio of silence.

  Hulda, “And you came all this way. Hoping I’d remember him?”

  Daisy, nodding. “I have something of his, given to me sixty years ago, that I’d like to return to him or any children if he’s gone. We were hoping you’d remember him because I’m afraid we don’t have much else to go by.”

  “How did you come to know to ask me?” Hulda, wondering.

  “We started with the landlord.”

  “Oh, dear,” Hulda, saying. A sober#nchabck silence. Brian Davis, with his scowl and dripping wooden spoon, suddenly conjured into the room by all four of them, wavering like a ghost before them. Somewhere outside, a dog barking. “I’m relieved that he was helpful. That’s not always the case.”

  A moment passing. Brian, fading away.