Keeping Time: A Novel Page 2

  The shower stem valve, the portion behind the wall, must have a frayed washer. Replacing it was easy, nothing to it. Simply change the washer in the valve.

  In no time at all, spread out before her on the counter, all she needed to replace the part. The man telling her how to do it—slowly, patiently, acting as if he had all the time in the world, which he probably did since she was the only customer in the shop. Assuring her the job could be done easily in less than an hour. Not expressing the slightest doubt about her ableness, which was something she would be forever grateful for.

  And forever perplexed by. Assuming he must be either blind or crazy, but for the moment, anyway, his lack of doubt feeding her like nutrients.

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY. Already. The rain, continuing. Dennis’s call coming like clockwork. Ready for it, Daisy, picking up the phone, saying she had found someone else to mow her lawn and that he needn’t worry about such things anymore. Thanking him for having done it for so long.

  Her revelation, met with silence. Then sputtering, questions, apologies. Dennis, feeling his mother’s words were an accusation. In time, however, reconsidering. Seeing how reasonable it was. Why not get some kid to mow, pay him a few pounds? Dennis, suddenly quite pleased with the news. Not saying a word about The Carillion. Talking instead about Gabriel’s graduation party that was scheduled for the following day. Saying he would pick her up at three. Hanging up, his brain crowded with to-do lists.

  Daisy, feeling both good and bad—good because she had managed to get the news out about the kid and the mowing. Good because Dennis had accepted it. Bad because it was totally made up. She hadn’t actually done a thing about getting anyone to mow. Thank goodness for the rain. If it never stopped, she would never have to.

  She headed into the bathroom, ignoring the increasing drip, to get ready for lunch at the club. Stepping over the neatly organized href="page-te

  THREE

  NOTHING TO IT. Just unscrew the shower head from the wall, peek into the shower stem, find the frayed washer in the valve, pluck it out, replace it with the new one, put the shower head back on, and screw it on tightly.

  Nothing to it.

  First thing Monday morning. Daisy, thinkingLet me see …plCr about her plumbing job during her tea and toast. Washing the plate and tea cup, deciding she needed more suitable work clothes.

  Heading to the wardrobe. Peering into it. Nothing. Everything too fine. Certainly no plumber would put on good clothes to set out for a day of work. Turning to her chest of drawers. Rummaging through them, not sure what she was looking for but assuming she would know it when she saw it.

  Nothing there sensible for shower repair, although she did find a pink sweater she hadn’t seen in years and now remembered how much she had liked it. Remembered buying it for their trip to Spain. Had a fleeting image of an outdoor café in Barcelona—that sweater, big white sunglasses, and a sun hat with a pink sash. Taking the sweater out, thinking how unlucky it was that Dot would be summering in Spain, probably not only this summer but every summer thereafter, unknowingly robbing Daisy of the only practical plan she had managed to come up with and relegating travel to the memories slot, not the upcoming events one.

  Of course it was hardly Dot’s fault. It was Daisy’s, and she knew it. She should be looking into tours for singles. Thinking maybe she would.

  Then thinking she most certainly would not. She had never traveled alone in her life and was unlikely to start now.

  She put the sweater in her dry-cleaning pile. Then, Daisy, out of the room, heading for the cellar, admonishing herself not to fritter away any more of the morning searching for clothes to wear to do the repair. She had to actually do the repair, because if she could get some experience with such basics as screwdrivers, hammers, nails, and pliers, she could stay in the house, send Dennis and Amanda on their way, and decide on her own if and when it was time to go.

  Down the stairs to the cellar, the old coal cellar that had been converted to laundry use and storage. Recalling a pair of old overalls that Paul used to wear. Thinking she probably would be able to find them, and use them, because they were held up by shoulder straps. It might feel good to wear something of his. He would be helping her change the frayed washer.

  It was damp in the cellar. How could it be anything but, with constant rain?

  She turned on the light and stood looking at the piles of boxes—some Paul’s, some hers. Thinking it would be interesting to see what was in Paul’s. He was not a hoarder. Seventy-eight years of life were distilled into a handful of boxes. Daisy, approaching the first of them, looking for some kind of label. Nothing was marked. Finding some that were hers, all her old treasures, but now she was not even sure what was in them—except one. She knew one. One that hadn’t been opened since the day it was closed, one that contained a jewelry box.

  Daisy, opening a box of Paul’s. Bowling shoes. His and hers. Underneath, ice skates, a black pair, a white pair. And ski pants and ski jackets, plus random hats, scarves, gloves. Daisy, remembering skiing at Saint Moritz, where they had bought them. Thinking it unlikely she would ever need anything in that box again. Donate it.

  Closing that box, opening the next. Old Christmas decorations from years gone by. Daisy, lifting, inspecting, touching, lost for a time in memories. Closing it. Moving on, aware that time was ticking along. Old gardening tools, gardening gloves, packets of seeds never planted. No overalls.

  Next box of Paul’s, baby things. Tears springing to her eyes. He had kept their baby blankets! Daisy, gasping, running her fingers over first Lenny’s, then Dennis’s. How sentim@er. Ann, ental Paul had been. How lovely.

  She had loved having babies. Never wanted those days to end. She may have been uncertain about marrying—and she was, terribly—but she had never held one single doubt about becoming a mother. Feeling tender inside, once again holding the blankets in her hands. Sniffing each one for some trace of baby scent. Nothing. Just a deep pungent mildew. Putting them back for the time being.

  The next box, her own box, her wedding gown. How strange to see it again. Remembering how it had felt to wear it. The conflict. Her mother’s impatience. Daisy, shuddering, her mother’s face in her mind’s eye.

  Slowly lifting the gown out of the box, holding it up to her shoulders, leaning forward to see how it fell. She had loved the dress, the fake little pearls, and the high lace neck. Wondering if it would still fit. Thinking it possibly might.

  Doing something she hadn’t seen coming.

  Trying it on, right there in that gloomy cellar. Stripping off her nightgown and stepping into it. From nightgown to wedding dress. Not even stopping to consider how silly it was. Just doing it. To feel it again.

  Looking down at the drape of it; the hem reaching the cellar floor. Getting a glimpse of the back. Picturing her sons seeing her now. Laughing at what they would think.

  Taking it off, replacing it neatly in the box, her mind drifting back to the one unopened box, the one housing the jewelry box. Returning to it.

  Opening it. Peering inside. Seeing the jewelry box among other miscellaneous things, after almost sixty years. Reaching in. Lifting it out. Bringing it over to the stairs. Leaving it there to take up with her once she had found the overalls.

  Seeing something at the stairs reminding her of what the old hardware store man had said to do. Doing what he had said. Turning the main water shutoff valve.

  Feeling like a plumber.

  Three boxes later, finding Paul’s overalls. Bringing them upstairs with her along with the jewelry box—and something else: the baby blankets. Into her bedroom, her arms full of reclaimed booty. The overalls over the back of the chair, the jewelry box on the bedside table, the baby blankets laid lovingly on the bed.

  Daisy, stepping back to admire the blankets. In their new home.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER—overalls on. Shower head off. Frayed washer out. Stepping stool in. Daisy on it—one hand on the white shower tile for support, one finger probing around to make sure
the new washer was placed correctly and smoothed out. Getting down to retrieve a flashlight, peering inside.

  All looking good. Daisy excited, replacing the shower head again. Screwing it in.

  She had done it. Off the stool again, back on the bathroom floor, looking up at the shower, congratulating herself. It looked perfect. And as the seconds passed, no drip!

  Then, a humbling thought. She had turned the main water shutoff valve. Of course there was no drip. Quickly returning to the cellar to turn the water back on, then hurrying back to the shower to watch for water.

  No drip! Now she could be proud.

  Standing there, letting the minutes pass, enjoying herself. She could learn to do new things on her own. Eager to tell Dennis. She would call him right away and ask him to come over tomorrow even singsong voice.

  Feeling proud and happy, running into her bedroom to change out of her overalls and into her work clothes.

  NOTHING COULD SHAKE Daisy’s good mood because nothing had felt so good in a long time. When, during Grace Parker’s retirement party, Grace appeared at Daisy’s side to whisper and point out Grace’s replacement, Daisy looked at the New Grace Parker and didn’t worry. When Daisy heard the New Grace Parker—fifty years her junior—cheerfully and enthusiastically talking about the new technologies they would now be implementing to improve and update the library, Daisy didn’t panic. And when she heard more about Grace’s illustrious retirement plans, Daisy didn’t feel a sharp pain in her side.

  Instead, Daisy wanted to talk about her plumbing repair.

  Imagining herself going back to the old hardware store man and discussing it with him. Maybe picking up some new tools or buying herself a little tool box. And asking him if he knew anyone who could cut her lawn. She was convinced now that it was true: Hardware stores really could fix life’s problems.

  But Daisy was too tired after the library to do anything but go home, and when she got there, she was too tired to do more than a simple meal, some TV, Cointreau, a little light reading, and early bed. Eyeing the jewelry box on her bedside table. Too tired to look. After all those years, it could wait another day.

  Getting into bed, under her new rel="styleshe

  FIVE

  DAISY, THREE DAYS in the hospital recovering.

  Sleeping through the first two days.

  The third day, Daisy sitting up. Feeling guilty, contrite, foolish. Her visitors: Dennis, Amanda, and Gabriel, and Lenny. He showed up three hours later than everyone else, full of good cheer, scooping Daisy up in his massive arms, planting a hearty kiss on both cheeks before lowering her softly back down on the stiff hospital pillow. And with him, someone new. A new girlfriend, Sarah. All eyes on Sarah during introductions; everyone silently wondering if Lenny realized he had broken the mold with this one—starting with her age, which was apparently in striking distance of his. And her hair color—a natural brown. And her clothes fitting as if they were picked for her current self, not her younger self. And her overall look—a smarter, warmer, more plainly attractive one than all his many previous girlfriends.

  All of them kicking around in Daisy’s private room, politely sharing the shortage of chairs, shuffling around one another, altering positions. Gabriel, claiming the foot of her bed.

  Daisy started several conversations that went nowhere. Instead, the talk seemed to motor around in circles on wheels of its own, spiraling around a center that Daisy hoped would never bloom. It went like this:

  GABRIEL: I think it’s cool, Nan, that you hung in there all day on the top of that ladder.">They thanked heritDaisy Phillips

  A general nodding in agreement.

  DAISY: I feel awful about having all those people come to the house. Can you imagine? Firemen, electric workers, ambulance people, all out in that pouring rain to rescue a simpleton stranded on a ladder in her own cellar.

  LENNY: It wasn’t your fault, Mum. It could have happened to anybody.

  DENNIS: Except that the bubble in the washing machine hose probably burst when she turned the main water valve back on. The renewed pressure probably did it.

  LENNY: So? All she did was turn the main water on and off like anybody else would have done. I’m proud of you, Mum, changing that washer successfully.

  Daisy smiled. Proud of herself, too, until remembering where it got her.

  DENNIS: I admit the wire that shorted out, the one that exploded the panel box, was a bit of simple bad luck, but none of this would have happened if the water main hadn’t been touched. It was crazy of you, Mum, to think you could do this sort of thing on your own.

  LENNY [shrugging]: You don’t know that. Maybe the hose was going to burst at that moment regardless. We’ll never know. It’s not as if there’s any special skill involved in turning on a water main.

  GABRIEL: I think it’s cool, Nan, that you hung in there all day on the top of that ladder.

  A general nodding in agreement.

  DENNIS: So, I guess we can all agree now that Mum shouldn’t be on her own anymore. This is precisely the kind of thing we’re seeking to avoid. And, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, bringing up Chessex again.

  LENNY: Then don’t. She doesn’t want to go, do you, Mum?

  “I, uh, well …” Daisy, scanning mental files, sifting through categories of polite, diplomatic answers. Refraining from shouting out that she didn’t want it indeed. Feeling Amanda’s eyes on her as if they actually had weight to them.

  LENNY [continuing]: See, she doesn’t. [Eyeing Daisy closely] Right? Senior apartments? That’s not like you, Mum. You don’t really want that, do you? And, besides, it’s too far.

  DENNIS: Far from what, Lenny?

  LENNY: From me. [Simply put.]

  DENNIS [exasperated]: Easy for you to champion her staying, Lenny. When’s the last time you did anything for her? When’s the last time she called you for help?

  LENNY [a wide, guilty smile. Wiping his mouth with big, meaty fingers.] Must have been when Thatcher was PM.

  DAISY: Those poor firemen will probably be telling the story forever, talking about the silly old woman on the top of the ladder.

  G tell her she could since ulABRIEL: Maybe, but I think it’s cool, Nan, that you hung in there all day on the top of that ladder.

  A general nodding in agreement, and they would start around again. The same conversation playing through the long minutes of the afternoon, straight into the slowly dimming evening until, after Lenny, Sarah, and Gabriel had said their good-byes while Amanda, with her thick, glossy mahogany hair and amber eyes, her long and lanky body, her long slender nose on her long slender face, was glancing at a fashion magazine—the pictures, not the articles—a new topic of conversation popped up, breaking the pattern.

  For Daisy, a doozy.

  Dennis, staring blankly at the TV—the evening news on, suddenly turning to his mother, saying, “By the way, Mum, who’s Michael?”

  “Michael?” Daisy, blinking.

  “You were talking about a Michael when you were babbling. When I found you. You were saying, ‘Michael’ and something about a box or a watch.”

  “Did I really?” Daisy, mystified.

  Dennis, nodding. “Any idea who you might have meant?”

  Daisy, shaking her head.

  But of course she did.

  She knew this: Michael Baker. 1945. Years before Paul.

  A U.S. soldier. So handsome in an American way, like the movie stars. Like Gary Cooper. An easy, open, honest face, quick to reveal emotions. Surprising Daisy, this quality in a soldier, she had always thought they had faces made of stone. His uniform, dark green. Remembering the way it made him look: important, part of something essential. Capable, strong, smart, daring, brave. Ready for anything. Fearless, but not reckless.

  Daisy, on the hospital bed, remembering the first time she saw him; she was convinced her heart had stopped, before resuming triple time. All he did was buy a newspaper, a cup of tea, a custard tart. To Daisy his every movement was miraculous. So tall. B
road shouldered. His hands and fingers strong, beautiful. Nothing at all like the boys she went to school with. Built nothing like the men in the village. Where did he get those shoulders? Those dark eyes? That chin? He had to be a movie star. That was her first thought. He had to be there filming a picture. She could feel her face burning red, part of her wanting to look away, to hide, to run, but unable to turn from him. His pull, too strong.

  He wasn’t there filming a picture. He was there with a friend, another American soldier, Gilbert Gilmore. They had been granted a few days’ leave to make the trip involving a train, a bus, and a ferry—all the way from the American Burtonwood, Warrington Air Base, twenty-five miles outside Liverpool, on the other side of the River Mersey—to visit Gilbert’s mother, who lived in Lancashire, where Daisy’s parents’ bakery was.

  Gilbert had gone on to his mother’s. Michael, into the shop.

  Daisy couldn’t help but stare. In all her eighteen years, she had never seen such a perfect individual, and he was right there! Her father was serving him! This man, this soldier, this artwork was sitting right there where other, more ordinary people usually sat. She pretended to be busy, was barely breathing, sneaking peeks as he ate.

  Her father struck up a conversation with him. Daisy listened intently, not missing a word. The two had a lot of trouble understanding each other+e close. It was all English, but their accents were so different that it might as well have been two distinct languages. They both had to slow their words to a crawl, pronounce each word carefully, and sometimes even spell them out. When he told her father his name, Daisy rolled the name, Michael Baker, slowly over her tongue as if it were candy, a sweet special treat reserved for Sundays.