Keeping Time: A Novel Page 16

  The silence, becoming awkward. Neither woman knew what to say. Finally, with difficulty, Ann, saying, “Before you go, Daisy, I owe you at least this.” Daisy, curious, nodding. Ann, taking a deep breath. “I know I haven’t been very nice to you. I’m sorry. I just can’t help it. Every time I try to move us into the future, the past keeps coming in and knocking my good intentions out of the way.”

  Daisy, blinking at her. “The past?”

  “Look,” Ann, saying, “let’s just be honest here.”

  Daisy, “Yes, of course, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I’m sorry.”

  Ann, eyeing her warily, saying, “I’m talking, of course, about what your mother did to me, to us—me and my mother.” Swallowing. “It still makes me sick to think about it.” Taking hold of her stomach.

  Daisy, stupefied. “My mother?”

  “Yes, your mother.”

  “What my mother did to you? How could she have done anything to you? You’ve never even met.”

  Ann, studying her closely. “You really have no idea?”

  Daisy, mystified, shaking her head. “All I know about you is that your mother used to send us sugar, flour, and rice during the war.”

  Ann, “And some thanks she got for doing it.”

  The kettle, reaching its boil. Whistling. Bringing their attention back to it. Both going to turn off the flame at the same time. Daisy, getting there first.

  “Why? What did my mother do to you? I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know that when I was six my father left us? He ran off with another woman, leaving me and my mother with nothing.”

  Daisy, shaking her head. This was news to her.

  “You don’t know that my mother, an immigrant in this country, with no family here other than his, had to sell what little we had to buy us passage back to Liverpool? That we went back with only what we had on our backs? You don’t know that when we got there, your mother—my mother’s older and only sister, the only family she had—turned us away? That she wouldn’t open her doors to us but instead made your father take us back to the docks, dumping us there in the cold and fog. That he told my mother that your mother said that she’d made her bed when she married an American, and that now she and her ‘fat daughter’ had to lie in it.” Ann, taking a breath.

  Daisy, aghast, horrified. Her mouth, hanging open. Finally she was getting Ann. Finally she was understanding. “Oh, no.” Feebly. “I’m so sorry, Ann. My mother was a terrible person, really she was.” Shaking her head. “I didn’t know any of that, none of it. I never even heard that your mother came back.” Daisy, reaching out to pat Ann’s shoulder. “It must be awful#atT close just to look at me. I’m so sorry. And here I was with no idea.”

  Ann, “If that’s the case, then I should be the one apologizing to you. I’m so sorry. I assumed you knew. I thought for sure you would have heard. You were a teenager at the time.”

  “When was this?”

  “I was in first grade. It was May, 1945.”

  Pieces slipping together. “No wonder.” Daisy, pouring the water into her teacup and Ann’s coffee carafe. “My mother and I were not speaking at that time. I had fallen in love with an American soldier, you see, and my mother wouldn’t let me love him. She hated Michael. She hated me for loving him. She tried to break off our courtship. She cheered when he stopped writing to me. I’ve always believed that she had something to do with stopping his letters but could never see how. For all the crying I did, she never once showed me an ounce of sympathy or kindness.” And then, saying it, saying it aloud without shame: “I hated her.”

  Ann, “Maybe that was why she was so violent about my mother’s marital disaster involving an American.”

  “Or why she was so opposed to her daughter’s talking about marrying one.”

  Both women, sifting new information.

  “I hope you believe me,” said Daisy. “It’s the truth. I knew nothing of what you just told me.”

  Ann, “Goodness, I’m so sorry then. I owe you a huge apology for my behavior while you’ve been here. I tried to be nice, I really did, but I couldn’t do it. The bile would rise in my throat, and I’d have to turn away. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Of course I do.” Daisy, taking Ann’s hand in hers. Creating a new reality for themselves. “Come, let’s sit at the table and have our coffee and tea. We have a lot of catching up to do and very little time to do it. I’m going home tonight, as you’ve heard.”

  Ann, “I’m so sorry I let your whole visit go by before bringing it up. What an idiot I am. I could shoot myself.” Allowing herself to be led by hand to the table.

  Daisy, pulling a chair out for her. Scurrying back for their cups, saying, “Well, don’t do that. We have the whole rest of our lives to mend things.”

  Ann, watching Daisy balancing the cups, saying, “Let me help.”

  Daisy, hurriedly saying, “No, no. You just sit right where you are. Let everything inside you settle while I devote myself to trying to undo in some small way the cruelty of my mother—not that I ever can.” Placing the cups on the table. Settling across from Ann.

  Ann, watching Daisy. Reaching over and squeezing her hand. “It won’t be difficult to start loving you now.”

  The phone, ringing. Neither making a move to get it, assuming that someone else would. Still ringing. Ann, shouting for Josh or David to get it, guessing that Elisabeth couldn’t hear it over the vacuum. Neither Josh nor David, who usually raced for it, moved. No one upstairs was getting it, either. Ann, calling the boys again, louder.

  The machine, picking it up.

  Daisy and Ann, sitting right there, with no choice but to listen to the noises and gibberish com# it washabcking out of the answering machine. High-pitched, excitable, inscrutable. Grabbing their whole attention. Daisy and Ann, both sitting at the table in someone else’s kitchen, listening. Eyes locked. Stifling an urge to laugh together. Team players at last.

  What was that, anyway, coming over the machine? Damned if either of them knew—until one of them did.

  Daisy, almost dropping her teacup. Lurching out of her chair, spilling hot tea on her hand and the front of her dress. Racing across the room to grab the receiver. Barely registering the pain from the tea, pressing the receiver to her ear, saying, “Hulda?”

  There was some confusion until Hulda realized that she was no longer leaving a message, that in fact it was a human ear on the other end of the line—Daisy’s, no less, the very person she had been hoping to speak to. Hulda, excitedly, “I remembered something! Something came to me. Something I remember now.”

  Daisy’s stomach, stirring. Catching up to the surprise of hearing Hulda on the phone, dying to hear what she would say. Daisy, concentrating, not letting Elisabeth’s sudden appearance in the room distract her. Ann, telling Elisabeth who was on the phone, someone named Hulda.

  Elisabeth, exclaiming, “Hulda!” Wide-eyed and excited, briefly filling Ann in, in short staccato sentences.

  “What?” Daisy, asking.

  Hulda, saying, “I remembered the family. They lived on the second floor.” Hulda’s voice high, screechy, very excited. “The son was a pianist and a soldier. Michael. Very handsome, now that I think of it.”

  Daisy’s stomach, lurching. A tidal wave cresting in her throat.

  “I remember now that he said he had a sweetheart in England he’d be going back for as soon as he could afford it.”

  “That was me!”

  “Yes,” Hulda, saying, having already figured that out. “So, listen. There was a terrible tragedy, very sad. His parents died in a restaurant fire on Fourteenth Street in the city. George and Maria, I remember them now. I looked and found pictures and newspaper articles about the fire. I’ve been going through my closets ever since you left. I’m sorry it took so long. I have so many photographs and scrap papers and memorabilia and junk.” Chuckling self-effacingly. “But I remembered that this happened and
thought it could be them.”

  “Oh, my,” Daisy, picturing Michael. Such a terrible thing. “When did it happen? Does the newspaper say?”

  “I have it right here on my lap … July 16, 1945.”

  “That’s when he stopped writing to me! My last letter is dated July 15. That must be why!” Not because he had stopped loving me! Not because he had stopped loving me. Daisy’s heart, pounding in her chest.

  Hulda, speaking again, “It says here he was just coming from a doctor’s appointment, apparently on his way to join them, when he saw the fire. He ran into the restaurant through flames to save them, injuring himself.”

  “Oh, no,” Daisy, crying. “What happened to him?”

  “It doesn’t say. It only says ‘injuring himself.’ It says the injuries put his plans# it washabck to be a concert pianist in doubt. In fact, that’s the title of the article: Tragic Fire Fells Parents and Dashes Hopes of Heroic Son, a Rising Musical Star.”

  Daisy, having to sit down. Wobbling over to the counter stool, allowing herself to fall into it. Saying, “I’m sorry.” Her voice, faint. Her head, in her hand, her palm shielding her eyes. Tears, years of tears, welling up. “I just need a minute.” A minute to close a hole sixty years open.

  “That’s okay,” Hulda, saying. “I have all day. I’m only going to be putting my closet back together again. I can’t even close the door now.” Giggling good-heartedly. “Wait, there’s another article here. I haven’t read it yet. I ran right to the phone. Let me see …”

  Silence over the phone as Hulda read and Daisy wept. Telling herself it was silly to cry over something sixty years old. She tried to stop, tried not to let it overpower her, but tears kept coming.

  Elisabeth, going to Daisy. Wrapping her in her arms. Daisy, reaching up, holding Elisabeth’s forearm. Ann, grabbing hold of Daisy, too.

  “Does the other article say anything?” Daisy, asking, her voice shaky.

  “The headline is ‘Heroic Son Released from Hospital to Ruined Dreams.’ It’s dated July 28, 1945. It says he’s being released from the hospital and that injuries sustained in his attempt to save his parents make it unlikely that he’ll ever be able to play the piano professionally again. It goes on to list all the competitions he won all over the world and how he had played for Arthur Rubinstein when he was sixteen. It says Mr. Rubinstein was so taken with Michael that he presented him with a watch which he’d inscribed. It ends by saying he plans to leave New York. He’s going to his aunt Lucille and uncle William in Littleton, New Hampshire.”

  “New Hampshire?”

  “That’s what it says. That’s good information. Littleton, New Hampshire.”

  “Thank you so much, Hulda. You’ve been gorgeous, just gorgeous. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m thrilled to be of some use. Just let me know if you find him. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  “Of course, of course,” Daisy, assuring her.

  Closing comments. Daisy and Hulda saying good-bye, promising to stay in touch. Daisy, giving Hulda her address and phone number in Liverpool, saying she’d be sure to call her once she got back to England.

  Hanging up. Turning to Elisabeth. “I need your Michael.”

  DAISY, ELISABETH, MICHAEL, and Ann, leaning over one another’s hunched shoulders, eyes on the computer screen silently and tensely. Michael, keying in Michael Baker New Hampshire.

  Bingo. It reduced the number to 249,000, even including thirteen phone book results: thirteen addresses, and thirteen phone numbers.

  Daisy had a major decision to make, and it took her less than half a minute to reach it. Asking Michael to go back to the Web site where they had arranged her flight.

  Asking him to cancel her ticket.#use close

  Michael, bursting into smiles. Getting right on it.

  Elisabeth, noticing Ann rubbing Daisy’s back affectionately. Elisabeth, saying, “Well, it’s about time, Mom.”

  Ann, replying, “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Daisy, smiling. Picking up the phone. Dialing Lenny.

  THEY CALLED THE thirteen Michael Bakers with phone numbers in New Hampshire. Daisy’s hand, shaking. Asking for Michael Baker. No luck.

  Some of the Michael Bakers answered the phone. None of them was a Michael Leonard. None of them knew a Michael Leonard. Other Michael Bakers called back later in the day. None of them was “the one,” either.

  Elisabeth and Daisy, pulling out an atlas. Looking up New Hampshire. Finding Littleton in the White Mountains. Studying surrounding towns.

  Michael and Ann, scrolling down through the other 248,999 Michael Baker New Hampshire Google entries, looking for something, anything, that might indicate a man in his early eighties.

  Busy all afternoon until Daisy insisted they take a break and celebrate the New Hampshire find with a trip to Ben & Jerry’s. Insisting on buying ice cream for all and even a pint to take home for Richard, who couldn’t join them, having unexpectedly gone into the office on a Saturday. Elisabeth, declining the cone—thinking of Heather Clarke’s waistline. Taking herself next door instead, , stopping. Th

  THIRTY-SIX

  DEEP IN THE NIGHT. Daisy awake, unable to sleep. The result of the information from Hulda in the newspaper clippings. Daisy, in the dark of the night, pacing her room. She had tried to sleep but couldn’t. Only tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling. Trolling her mind, reliving July 1945, looking through the prism of time with new information. Pouring concrete into blank, unfinished spaces with all that she now knew.

  Above all, facing Michael’s pain, picturing her handsome young soldier, seeing the horrors of July 1945 through his eyes, and living the tragedy. How hard it must have been. How young he was. How could life have been so cruel to him, to come home from war to that? And she, blithely unaware, was an ocean away, angry at him, indignant, insulted. If only she had known, she would have gone to him, unwanted or not. Did he know that? Why hadn’t he asked? Why didn’t he send word? She would have gone in a heartbeat with her mother’s blessing or without.

  It would have been without.

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, MORE PLANS for New Hampshire. Lengthy discussions. Strong opinions. Deliberations. Attempts at determining when to go, how to go, and who should go. Certainly Elisabeth, but she would have to put in for vacation time. Certainly Michael. But what about Pete, Josh, David, and Ann? Ann, saying she’d love to but couldn’t possibly. Because of her grandchildren, she had to be home. And Steve, who was due home from college just that day, naturally wouldn’t go. And Richard, who could surely use a vacation but couldn’t take one just then. He told Elisabeth she should go and enjoy herself. Raising her suspicions. Asking him again if he really liked her hair.

  Daisy, overcome with gratitude. Asking to use the phone, to thank Hulda again. Getting her on the fourth ring. Filling her in. Hearing Yodeli in the background, mixing with street sounds of Brooklyn.

  Hulda, very pleased to hear that they were going to New Hampshire. Excited. Asking questions. Discussing.

  Daisy, listening, her eyes growing wide. Turning to the others. “Hulda wants to come with us.”

  MONDAY MORNING, ELISABETH, in her new funky hairdo, her overnight bag packed, doing something radical. Michael on her bed, watching, listening, doubting that she would really go through with it, that she would really call in sick. It was something she had hardly ever done, even when she was short of being at death’s door. When the boys were small, she was always afraid to call in sick when s# believeha home andhe really wasn’t sick, fearing that one day she would really be sick or one of the boys would be, and her days would be gone. And vacation days were not something to lean on. They had to be limited to holidays, or the boys would seriously know their grandmother better than their mother. And this year she would have to save vacation days to help settle Pete into college in August. So, with vacation days always in demand, she had to be very prudent with sick days and always had been—until now.

  Ninety degrees b
efore 9:00 a.m. Humidity, equally high, the skies a gloomy gray, but nobody cared. Anticipation lifting spirits. Elisabeth, picking up the phone. Michael, watching. Elisabeth, spilling the lie, dribbling it into the mouthpiece, saying she was too ill to go in. Michael, cheering silently. The secretary, saying to feel better, sounding sympathetic. Elisabeth, hanging up, sitting down on her bed. High-fiving Michael. Yee-ha! A minivacation!

  Bubbling with excitement, the trio—Daisy, Michael, and Elisabeth—going to New Hampshire, a first for all of them.

  The car, packed. Small overnight bags. Wheels, starting to roll over gravel, backing out slowly. Michael, in the front with the Mapquest directions, seven bags of potato chips, three boxes of Chips Ahoy—Costco sized—and enough water to cause a catastrophic flood. Elisabeth had carrots and celery. Daisy had her teabags.

  Waves of good-bye. Josh and David pressing their mouths up to Elisabeth’s window, pretending to cry. Elisabeth, rolling down the window, calling them on it. The boys smiling, admitting they were faking. Blown kisses as the car slowly backed out of the driveway.

  Then Daisy, calling out: “Wait! One last thing, if you don’t mind.” Opening the SUV door. Hurrying back into the house.

  The car, idling.

  Daisy, hurrying back out with the bottle of Cointreau. Slipping into the car, smiling. “If I’m going to be face-to-face with Michael Baker tonight, I might be wanting a drink.”

  FIFTY MINUTES LATER MICHAEL, ringing Hulda’s doorbell. Elisabeth and Daisy were double-parked in front. No spots available as far as the eye could see. Heat, assaulting the sidewalks and streets.

  The return buzz coming almost immediately. Michael pulling open the glass exterior door, stepping inside. Hit by an enticing aroma. The scent was everywhere, saturating the humid air. His appetite kicking in. Hoping it was coming from Hulda’s. Remembering those cookies. But nearing her floor, the scent, diminishing. Oh, well.

  Hulda, waiting at the door. Letting him in. Michael, carrying on a quick conversation with Yodeli. Hulda, showing him what he should carry down to the car: her small canvas overnight bag and several tins.