Keeping Time: A Novel Read online

  Asking him, “You like cupcakes?” Michael, nodding. “You like carrot cake?” More nodding. Hulda, grinning proudly. “Wait till you taste these.”

  Those plus three-dozen Mailaenderli cookies plus apricot tarts plus raspberry torts. Michael, thrilled, “You did enough baking for a week!” Pointing at the bird with his chin as he moved toward the door. “Is Yodeli going to be okay by himself?”

  “He won’t like it, but he’ll be okay for one night.” Hulda, picking up her purse, taking the plastic container of tarts and torts@are close. Taking a deep breath. About to follow Michael out, pausing and turning back. Michael, standing in her doorway, watching her go back to Yodeli. Kissing him good-bye. Patting the top of his head with her free hand. Telling him to be a good bird while she was gone. Even saying, “I love you.”

  Michael, waiting in the hall while she locked the door. Looking at the painting on the wall. Not on a canvas but on the wall. It was of mountains, the Alps, and was about seven feet wide and four feet high, on the wall adjacent to her door. He had noticed it the first time they came up. They all had—it was impossible to miss—but no one had asked about it. Now he did. “What’s with the painting?”

  Hulda, still busy with the locks, double locks, triple locks. Without turning to look saying, “The Jungfraujoch. Albert did it for our first wedding anniversary in 1939.” The sound of strong metal sliding. Clicking in. The last lock, in place. Hulda, turning to look at the painting. Contemplating it, as though for the first time, her old eyes becoming misty behind her glasses

  . “I was so missing home when I came back to

  this. Albert wanted it to be permanent, so he painted it right on the wall. It was nervy, I know, but he was young and in love. It drives the owner of the building, Mr. Davis—I think you met him—crazy.” Michael, nodding. “He’s been threatening to paint over it for years, saying the minute I’m gone, he’s going to paint right over it. He says he has a bucket of white paint ah ready. It will be a pleasure, he screams. He doesn’t much care for me, you know. He wants my kitchen.”

  Starting down the stairs, Hulda, moving spryly for her age but slower by far than Michael. He walked patiently, keeping to her pace. Asking her what that incredible smell was.

  “Mr. Davis is a chef.”

  “Really? In a restaurant? That creepy guy?”

  Hulda, snickering, finding pleasure in his words. “No. ‘that creepy guy’ is a podiatrist. He cooks for fun. The place always smells good. During the holidays he puts out some of his dishes here”—pointing as they neared it—“on this table. He is a marvelous cook. A miserable person but a marvelous cook.”

  Michael, looking at the table. There was mail on it now—newspapers, flyers, magazines. Picturing it with plates of hot, delicious food on cold, snowy, Christmastime days. Thinking it must be very cozy in there with all the dark, heavy wood; old-fashioned, low-hanging light fixtures; and century-old wooden stairs and banisters. Imagining various tenants coming together and lingering with one another for a change. Picturing Brian Davis in a good mood: sharing his food, smiling at his tenants, and maybe even being nice to Hulda for just those few hours each year.

  Michael, opening the heavy front door for Hulda. Hulda, stepping out into the humidity of the day, starting over to the air-conditioned SUV. Michael, helping her in, then getting in the front seat. All of them waving good-byes to Yodeli. Hulda, looking back lovingly at the brownstone’s façade as they started down Second Street.

  Daisy, again picturing her life there.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  DENNIS, HANGING UP THE PHONE, shutting off Lenny’s exuberance, having just heard the latest installment on his mother’s return. Now postponed indefinitely. Thinking she must be having a good time in New York. It was crazy in his line of work that he had never been there. Maybe someday he would go. He was aware, though, that his relocation had just pushed “someday” further into the future.

  Monday evening. Why he hadn’t realized that Amanda would be spending more time with her mother once they had moved within shouting distance of each other eluded him. It was after six, tea time. He was alone in a huge house. Still mostly unpacked, he had been working nonstop the whole of the previous long week—and solo most of the time. Dennis, thinking back to how Amanda couldn’t wait to buy the house and to get in it. Now it seemed that she couldn’t wait to get out. Sighing. Assuming that she would be home soon. If he put off the sausages long enough, she might be back in time to join him. He wasn’t that hungry anyway.

  Pouring himself a drink. Sitting down in the enormous living room facing the wide windows. Too tired to unpack another box, too distracted to read, too frayed to think about how he should be coming up with plans to find work.

  Drawing in a long, deep mouthful of ale. Closing his eyes, letting it settle on his tongue, slide slowly down his throat. Listening to the unbroken quiet.

  Thinking that as long as Amanda wasn’t out shopping, he didn’t really care that she was hardly ever home.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  MANHATTAN. OVER THE WILLIAMSBURG BRIDGE—in traffic, of course. Elisabeth, recalling those nights a few short weeks ago when she was able to fly across the bridge. Missing those nights. That feeling of being alive. Thinking back wistfully, knowing she would probably never do it again.

  A new feeling striking her. Occurring to her as she sat in her SUV in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Noticing that she was feeling a surge of being alive similar to the ones she’d had on those nights. Right then and there. Elisabeth, looking out over the East River below, and the city before them, with its buildings and its beauty and its tens of millions of separate lives. It was daylight now,@ȁpl Manhattan full of mystery and energy and the continual unfolding of private lives.

  It slowly dawned on her that she didn’t need the night and the open roads and the speedometer needle flickering at seventy, although that had all been wonderful. She had mystery and energy and private lives unfolding right there in the car, in the form of her son, who was almost unrecognizable from the boy a month ago. Replaying in her head how he had jumped out of the car at Hulda’s without being asked, to help this slow old lady down three flights. Elisabeth, glancing at him in the passenger seat now, seeing him content with his books and maps.

  Shifting her attention to the rearview mirror, to her traveling companions. Daisy and Hulda, content back there, smiles on their faces, chatting about their lives. Elisabeth was now a part of those lives, a main character in this act as they were now in hers. Who would have thought a little while ago that she would be part of something like this, whatever it was that was about to transpire. People popped up in one another’s books in the most unexpected ways.

  Finally getting over the bridge, traffic easing. Elisabeth, turning north to cross Manhattan at Thirty-fourth Street because she wanted a page in her book where she got to show—and watch—a seventy-seven-year-old woman laying eyes on the Empire State Building for the very first time.

  DAISY, THRILLED BY THE Empire State Building and the other nameless and less famous skyscrapers. Gushing at all of it—the streets, signs, vendors, and people of New York. Enjoying her breeze through Manhattan. Elisabeth, apologizing more than once for not having taken her in before, saying it was terrible, promising they would when they got back from New Hampshire, and that they would also do the Circle Line ferry, a double-decker bus tour, a Broadway show, and Chinatown. Michael, interrupting to ask if they knew that Liverpool was the home of Europe’s oldest Chinatown, a fact remembered from his research paper. They did not. Thanking him for telling them. Elisabeth, promising Daisy that they would see Soho, Little Italy, Central Park, and a sunset over the Hudson River.

  Daisy, nodding. It all sounded wonderful. Those were the very things she had hoped to see in New York, but what she had actually found was far better: Elisabeth’s family. Elisabeth. Richard. The boys. And finally Ann. Hands down, they were all she needed.

  CONNECTICUT WAS PRETTY, lush, leafy, well moving. Mostly. Some snarled
traffic around Stamford and again around Yale.

  Massachusetts, lovely. Traffic-free. They took a break at a rest stop somewhere outside of Worcester to stretch their legs and backs. Michael, letting Hulda lean on him, not minding Daisy on his other arm. Crossing the hot, sticky parking lot with an old lady on each arm. Everyone needing to use the bathroom.

  Normally Michael would have begged relentlessly for a Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie. Elisabeth, mentioning how surprised she was that he had not. Michael, squinting against the glare of the sun off the car fenders, saying, “Not half as surprised as I am that you called in sick. Besides, you must be kidding about Mrs. Fields when I have Mrs. Kheist’s.”

  Hulda, overhearing, smiling. Her eyes, shining. What higher compliment could she ask for?

  N to get the mower outp. Ann, ORTHERN MASSACHUSETTS. DAISY, telling them about the flood in her basement, about fixing the shower head, about being on a ladder for eleven hours, about mowing her own lawn. No one could believe it. Michael, more impressed than ever.

  Hulda, telling them that three months ago she had wallpapered her own bathroom. She said that years ago Albert had insisted on painting it green but she had always hated the color. She saw some man on HGTV wallpaper a room and thought she might be able to do it herself. She went down to Seventh Avenue, picked out something she really liked, and did it successfully. It took almost a week, but she had done it.

  Ninety-three years old and she had wallpapered her own bathroom. Now she was thinking of doing the other, the one Albert had insisted on painting red. Red? A red bathroom? Whoever heard of such a thing? Hulda, laughing. That was Albert.

  Elisabeth, thinking she had n>

  lawns or fix her own shower heads. She had never gotten stranded on a ladder for eleven hours and never wallpapered a bathroom. She hired people to do those things. All she did were tax returns and drive her kids around. She never did anything worth mentioning. Except maybe this trip.

  THE NEW HAMPSHIRE BORDER. Much hoopla—until doubt set in about the wisdom of the trip and the chances of finding him. Being so blindly hopeful, they had allowed themselves only one overnight to do it. It was a needle in a haystack, a wild-goose chase.

  Continuing north on I-93, getting quieter in the car. Getting hillier outside. The same clusters of big-box stores flanked the highway during the last 250 miles, but now they were set against increasingly hilly backgrounds. As the hills got bigger, Hulda’s heart pumped faster. Mile after mile north, the only sound was from Hulda.

  Passing Concord. Passing the lakes region. The White Mountains appearing before them in the distance, towering blue. Passing exits. The blue changing, defining itself. Cars thinning out on the road. Anything but jeeps and SUVs bailing out one by one. The blue of the mountains becoming green. Grand trees.

  Then even grander when the peak of the great Mount Washington came into view. Michael, reading from an atlas. Mount Washington was the tallest mountain in the Northeast. All of them, setting their attention on it, the mightiest peak among the mighty.

  Almost losing Hulda in a swoon. Sounds from her throat pouring forth with unrestrained pleasure, leaving Michael thinking that there was a world of emotion he had yet to discover, levels he had never reached—although maybe he came close once when he played Chopin. Hulda’s hands trembled with emotion. Tears in her eyes as she urged everyone to look, look, look! They already were. Seeing mountains, majestic mountains. Look. How like Switzerland! Not as high, of course. They were not her beloved Alps but, still, they were exquisite mountains. Asking, “Please, could you stop the car at the next scenic overlook?”

  They did. Hulda, stumbling out of it almost before it was fully stopped. Leaning against the car, gazing, in black shoes, stockings drooping around her ankles, causing brown rings around them. Her pastel paisley dress fell crookedly below the knees; it dipped lower over the right one and crumpled more on the left side. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her fingers [email protected] closeing with excitement. Facing the mountains, the midday sun warming her face. Breathing in deeply. Saying, “Fresh mountain air!” Spoken exuberantly through lips stretched in a smile. Inhaling again, taking it in slowly through her nose as if appreciating each molecule individually. Taking it all in, all the mountain air, all that was available, into her lungs.

  The others, watching her. Enjoying her joy. The sight of Hulda sucking in the mountains wrapped around them, comforting them like fleece.

  Then, all too soon for Hulda, the others were eager to get going again. Daisy, feeling the pull of Littleton. Elisabeth was fine either way, going on or staying a bit longer. Feeling strangely content. Not having to think about the next moment. Feeling the peace of not needing to know the time. She was able to live in the moment for the moment, having unbroken minutes to devote to an appreciation of the mountains and the beauty of the earth.

  Quiet in the car. The sound of asphalt under their wheels, air slipping past the windows. Hulda, saying, “You know, Michael, you won’t be my age for another eighty years. Can you imagine? Eighty years from now—almost into the next century.” Hulda, gazing at him. Michael, twisting around in the front passenger seat to look at her in the back. Hulda, continuing, “And if you remember me when you’re my age, eighty years from now, then a part of me, some essence of me, would have stretched almost two hundred years, from my birth to you at age ninety-three.”

  Michael, emitting a contemplative “Whoah.”

  Hulda, looking earnestly into his eyes. “So, Michael, please do this: Promise to remember me.”

  Michael, saying easily, “I promise.” Smiling. “I promise to remember you when I’m ninety-three—and your bird, your cookies, and this trip. I’ll take you with me all the way to the year 2100.”

  “Good,” Hulda, saying, feeling satisfied. Leani

  THIRTY-NINE

  THEY FOUND A MOTEL first thing. No problem, they had many to choose from. The one they picked was the unanimous choice beyond question and without discussion: The Swiss Hut.

  Pulling into the parking lot. Spilling out of four SUV doors. Watching Hulda gazing at it. Who would have guessed? A Swiss chalet against a mountainous backdrop. It had two flagpoles, two flags: a Swiss one flapping in the same breeze as the American one. It also had exposed exterior dark wood beams against white plaster and red geraniums leaping out of window boxes. Hulda clapped her hands together in the parking lot, a single clap. Exclaiming, “Just like home!” Giddy with glee.

  They were all excited, hurrying to check in. A Swiss hotel portended well, a harbinger of further success. They gathered around the front counter, asking the promising-looking woman if she knew a Michael Baker in town.

  The woman, repeating the name. After a beat shaking her head. Saying she knew plenty of Michaels and plenty of Bakers but no Michael Baker. Asking her how long she had lived there. Her answer: thirty-five years. Asking her if she had known a Lucille and William. They didn’t know the last name but they were Michael Baker’s aunt and uncle, so their name could have been Baker. The woman, repeating, “William and Lucille.” Putting the flat of her pointer finger on the flat of her lips, tapping it three times, then saying no. It didn’t ring any bells.

  They thanked her, got the keys—which were more like credit cards than keys—and found the two consecutive rooms, one for Daisy and Hulda and one for Elisabeth and Michael. They went in. Dropped their things.

  Then hit the road—first the post office, which was easy to find on the main road through town. The woman behind the counter looked almost exactly like the woman at the hotel. They could have been sisters, but they weren’t. Michael asked. She had the same gray hair, the same bifocals on her nose, the same healthy-looking pink-toned, barely wrinkled skin, and the same casual, open demeanor.

  She also had the same answer: no Michael Baker. Now or lately or never? The woman, saying she had been working in the post office for twenty-seven years and couldn’t remember a Michael Baker. Saying this with authority#ppitDaisy Phillips, but they wouldn’
t take no for an answer. They told her why they had come, all contributing morsels of information. Layering it for her: why they believed he would be there and how important it was to find him. Gesturing toward Daisy, explaining that she had come all the way from England to find him.

  The woman, shaking her head. Saying she wished she could help. Suggesting they speak to Harry Gates over at the firehouse. His family had been living in town more than a hundred years. He might know.

  They thanked her. Heads down. Feet shuffling heavily. Tongues tut-tutting. They had jointly believed the post office was their best shot, because if he lived in the town, he would get mail, and the post office woman should know. Elisabeth and Michael, trying to comfort Daisy, telling her it was better to hear nothing than that he was dead.

  Daisy, remaining cheerful.

  Racing over to the firehouse, leaving Hulda on a street bench. No racing for Hulda. She was happy to sit and wait for them and look at the mountains.

  The others clustered together inside the large garage of the firehouse that smelled like oil and wax polish. Asking for Harry Gates, only to be told he had gone home and wouldn’t be in again until Thursday. Daisy, asking him about a Michael Baker. The firefighter, looking down quizzically at her. Elisabeth, taking over. The man, shaking his head, saying, “Nope.” He couldn’t recall any Michael Baker.

  It wasn’t looking good.

  Continuing on—asking at grocery stores, liquor stores, hardware stores. Daisy, pointing out the washer she had used to replace her shower head. Talking seriously, turning it around in her hand, showing them the grooves. Elisabeth and Michael, paying close attention, nodding, an air of bewilderment surrounding them.