Keeping Time: A Novel Page 3

  Michael asked her father what there was to do in the town. He said he would be there for four days and that while he’d be lodging at Gilbert’s mother’s, he wanted to give his friend time alone with his family. He wondered if there was any good fishing around. He said he would like to stay outside, the weather was so nice.

  Daisy’s father told him he could set him up with all the gear he would need to fish, and that Daisy could walk him over to the best fishing around. Daisy felt her face, already red, get impossibly redder when Michael turned to look at her. She felt heat pricking around her neck and ears. Felt her insides melting like butter. Michael smiled and said thank you, said that that would be great.

  Daisy cleared his plate and teacup while her father took him out back to the shed. She stared at the crumbs he had left behind, wanting to eat them, to inhale them. She did neither, only scraped them into the trash can and washed the plate clean. Daisy, remembering the difficult, awkward, stumbling conversation as they walked along to the lake. Remembering how he had asked her if she thought it would be all right to sit with him for a while while he fished. How she had nodded without speaking, and sat primly on the rocky bank under a tree.

  How she was totally hooked long before that first fish was.

  And Daisy, propped up on the hospital bed, was certain of this: He had loved her, too. He called her Little Nugget. He spent hours playing the piano for her, sitting side by side on the piano bench. He showed her card tricks, stowed cherry lollipops in the pockets of his uniform. Bought Maltesers to share with her. He divided the last malted milk ball in the bag in half, then divided his half again and slipped it into her mouth.

  The war ended. Michael was going home. He came to her, knowing he shouldn’t. He sneaked off base that last night and traveled the distance in the dark by a train, a bus, and a ferry, and got to her in the middle of the night. He tapped lightly on her bedroom window, careful to wake only her. Daisy opened it quietly, and in he climbed. He got down on one knee on the braided blue rug on her floor, took her hands in his, studied her fingers, and ran all his strong, gorgeous musical fingers over hers. Then he cleared his throat and said that there was no other like her on all the earth, not in his country or anyone else’s, that he wanted nothing more in all the world than for her to be his wife, and that he was then and there pledging himself to her forever, whether she consented to be his wife or not.

  Daisy, remembering him, his eyes, his breath on her neck. It was all coming back to her now. The spigot opened, and all manner of things rushed out. Remembering the way he had looked at her when he spoke those words—handsome, honest, strong. And his voice as he whispered, how it broke with emotion, and how she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  There was an absence of sound. No rustling of starched bed linens or cotton pajamas. No creaking of the floorboards. From the moment those words left his mouth until she spoke, it was as though all was suspended in a vacuum.

  Remembering how she had consented, of course, right then and there. His words were a dream come true. Falling back through time, from { text-indent: 0; habmeher hospital room into her old bedroom again. Landing on her bed. Feeling his arms wrapped around her. His body on hers. His breath on her neck. His joy repeated softly in her ear. Sensations of tingling and warmth behind both ears and deep, deep, deep in her stomach.

  The plan: Michael would go back to New York, to Brooklyn, and get work. As a pianist. Performing and teaching on the side. Daisy, recalling the memory of his playing at her parents’ house. There was no piano on the base, he’d used theirs. His fingers swept brilliantly over the keys, bringing that piano to life like no one else could—not before, nor since. Recollecting how worried he’d been about taking her overseas, away from her family, without being able to provide for her. And, of course, her mother wouldn’t help. She was never nice to him. Coldly polite was all she could manage. She warned Daisy not to let it get serious. Her words fell on deaf ears. Daisy would have walked to the ends of the earth for him.

  The last thing he did was take off his watch and slip it on her wrist, telling her that it would have to stand in for an engagement ring. He said his most important possession should be worn by his most important person.

  He wrote every day, long passionate letters about her, about them, about his piano competitions, about his attempts to line up students, and how he was counting the hours until he could return to Liverpool to get her, bring her home, make her his wife, and be her husband.

  Then he stopped writing, quite suddenly. He just stopped writing after months of daily letters, without a word of explanation. Daisy wrote letter after letter, begging for some" xmlns:ops="h

  word, but got nothing. Nothing ever

  came. She wrote constantly to his parents, Brooklyn town hall, the U.S. military. Nothing.

  Daisy, on the hospital bed, knowing this: Part of her was still bothered that she had never received an explanation. And knowing this, too: She was glad that she still had the watch, and that it was at home now, waiting for her in that jewelry box on her bedside table.

  SIX

  THE HOUSE, UNINHABITABLE for two additional days after Daisy was released from the hospital. Dennis had to hire experts to clean out the cellar and restore the electrical panel. It was going to cost an ungodly sum, but he was hoping he would make it up on the sale, which he was now pretty sure was going to happen. His mother had not argued the point since her hospital stay, falling silent whenever it came up, listening to his plans and suggestions without a word of refusal.

  Daisy, spending two nights at Dennis and Amanda’s. Offering to make them a cup of tea every chance she got. Neither one ever accepting. After dinner the second night, when Dennis and Amanda went into the living room to watch television, Daisy excused herself to shower. Taking a new and particular interest in their shower head. Loving that she could picture the valves behind the wall.

  After showering, getting ready for bed. Having to convert the sofa into a bed. Dennis, coming in as she was retrieving the linen foreign language.itDaisy Phillipss from the closet.

  “I’ll set up the bed, Mum. It’s heavy.”

  “Don’t worry, Dennis. I’m fine. I’ve made up this sofa bed many times before.” Putting the linens down on the arm of the sofa.

  Dennis, moving to help her. Taking the seat cushions off on his side.

  Daisy, stopping him, saying, “Please, Dennis. I’ll do it.”

  Dennis, stepping back, watching her, thrusting his hands into his pants pockets.

  Daisy, taking a deep breath. “I have to tell you something, Dennis. I’ve changed my mind, I’m not going with you tomorrow to look at The Carillion and houses for you and Amanda. It’s good of you to want me to move to Chessex, but it’s not necessary. You and Amanda can go. I’ll be fine here on my own. As Gabriel said, not many people of any age could have lasted eleven hours in the position I was in.” Watching his face, reading his barely concealed frustration. Removing the other sofa seat cushion, placing it neatly on the floor under the window.

  Dennis, plunking himself down in the chair, his shoulders forward, rubbing his eyes. “You’re making this awfully difficult for me.”

  “I don’t mean to, but I’m keeping the house. I can’t move, Dennis. I’ve been in it all my life. It’s where I will stay till the end.” Daisy, reaching down to pull the mattress out of its collapsed position. Tugging, but barely budging it. Throwing all her weight into it. Still, it hardly moved. “I could have died on Tuesday.”

  Dennis, watching her, resisting the urge to help. “I know that. It’s exactly the point I’m trying to make.”

  Daisy, groaning. Straining herself—to no avail. Saying, “Right,” through clenched teeth. “When I was up on that ladder”—a moan escaping from her—“I decided that if I ever got out of there alive, I was not going to move to a senior apartment. I don’t need to take the easy road, Dennis. I want to live life, to really live life till the end.”

  Dennis, watching. Sympathizing with
her mattress struggle. It pained him to watch her unwillingness to give up despite the impossibility of success. Having to make himself stay put. Saying, “I was hardly suggesting suicide. There’s a great big space between senior living and throwing in the towel, but you are almost eighty years old. How am I going to move across the country and leave you in a house by yourself? And, besides, I thought you might welcome the chance to have an easier life.”

  Daisy, pulling. And pulling. Wanting so much to yank that mattress out, to show him that she could do it, but she couldn’t. She was too weak to lift it out. Leaving her no choice but to admit defeat. Right there in front of him. Daisy, turning away, hiding tears.

  Without a word Dennis, stepping over. Sliding the mattress out with one hand.

  A FIVE-HOUR CAR TRIP, raining when they left Liverpool. Sunny in Chessex. That alone could make the trip worth taking. Daisy, in the back of the car, refusing to let the point of the journey weigh on her, refusing to be mad at herself for going. Telling herself that she had been wanting a bit of travel, and here it was.

  Amanda, occupying herself with CDs, singing unself-consciously. she had just heardT closeDaisy, wondering, not for the first time, why this beautiful yoga teacher, still in her thirties with no children, had married this not bad looking but not exactly princely antiques expert and magazine writer, seventeen years her senior. Was being a mother to a twenty-two-year-old stepson enough for her? Or were more grandchildren on the way? And what would Dennis think of that? Did he want to become a father again at his age? Daisy would have loved to know, but of course she would never ask.

  The tour of The Carillion going rather well. The apartments were clean, bright, and cheerful. Dennis’s fears of listless people hanging around, more dead than alive, were unfounded. Daisy was genuinely surprised at finding it so pleasant. She was shown one- and two-bedroom apartments. The two-bedroom ones even had little terraces.

  After, arranging themselves back in the car, Daisy with more piles of the colorful brochures. Stopping for a quick bite at a café. Talking about the merits of The Carillion. Amanda, eating quickly, excited about showing Dennis the houses she had picked out for him to see. Six had made the cut.

  Finishing their plates. Daisy, taking out her purse to pay. Dennis, stopping her, saying it was his idea to take her across the country; the meal was on him. Daisy, saying no. Throwing money on the table. Dennis, pushing it away. Daisy, not picking it up. Repeating that she wouldn’t.

  She didn’t. The money, temporarily forgotten. A controversy over the bill drawing their attention away. The waitress had charged them for a plate of sausages that had never come. Dennis, recounting the meal for the waitress. Daisy, watching Amanda quietly slipping the forgotten money into the palm of her hand.

  Then into her wallet.

  SEVEN

  DAISY, BACK AT WORK. At the library—without Grace Parker.

  Missing Grace Parker.

  The only one who had asked her about her sick days was the janitor, Old Joe, ninety-one years old, who never missed a day. His presence in the library was a continuing source of comfort to her.

  Old Joe, while emptying wastepaper baskets, asking her why she had been out. Daisy, telling him the whole story of her basement flood. He listened, intrigued, his mouth hanging open. Really, it was worthy of a much larger audience, but there it was—he was it. It was lovely to have such an interested set of ears, but something even better came out of the morning’s conversation.

  Daisy, cross the AtlanticitDaisy Phillipstelling him about Dennis’s pressure on her to move and about her recent wavering commitment to stay—how she had started out so sure of herself but Dennis’s constant harping was beginning to chip away at her resolve. She was beginning to fear that he might be right. Telling him that she was now seriously considering a move she had always been so set against.

  Old Joe’s response: a booming, “Nonsense.” Telling her she had years in front of her before she’d have to call it quits on her house, that there was nothing she couldn’t handle.

  Formulating a new plan: He would have his great-great-grandson, fifteen-year-old Patrick, mow her lawn. Daisy, suggesting that fifteen might be too young. Old Joe assuring her that by Patrick’s age he had already been plowing whole fields, and, besides, Daisy was desperate. It had not rained today or yesterday—the first two-day break in more than a month—and the weather forecast was grim for tomorrow. Although Daisy had never paid any attention to such things as scheduling the mowing, or even noticing the regularity with which it got done, she did know enough to assume that after thirty-eight straight days of rain, a two-day break in the weather would have people hurrying to their mowers.

  Old Joe, getting Patrick on the phone, arranging the whole thing.

  Daisy, buoyant. Feeling confident again. Wanting to kiss Old Joe.

  Refraining.

  DAISY, BACK HOME again after work.

  Back for the first time since being removed by paramedics. Relieved to turn the key in the front door. Relieved to be home.

  Readying the mower, leaving it out front for Patrick. Then going into her bedroom, changing out of her work clothes. Seeing the jewelry box on her bedside table. Reaching for it. With hands trembling slightly. Opening it.

  Seeing the watch.

  A ringing doorbell. Patrick.

  Daisy, putting down the jewelry box. Hurrying to answer the doorbell. Seeing Patrick, so overjoyed that she almost kissed him. Quick hellos and a handshake, before happily leading him out to the lawnmower.

  There really wasn’t much to say. The boundaries of her lawn would be clear to anyone. Presuming he knew more about operating the self-propelled mower than she did—anyone would.

  Relief tickling through her as she heard the sputter, the choke, then the roar of the machine—because it was Patrick doing it, not Dennis.

  Standing for a moment, watching Patrick guide the mower through the tall grass. Seeing that it wasn’t going to be easy, because of the ridiculous height of the grass, the soaking ground under it.

  “I’m sorry the ground’s so wet,” Daisy, pleasantly, over the noise. “If the forecast didn’t call for rain tomorrow, we could have put it off till it dried out a bit more.”

  Patrick, nodding. Pushing hard with his developing biceps. Concentrating too much to chatter.

  “I’ll just be in the house then, if you need me.”

  Patrick, nodding again. Ramming the mower through the tall wet grass.

  Daisy, returning to the house, calculating how long the job was going to take, how much she should pay him—much more than she had originally planned. Crossing the threshold of her bedroom,m { margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:0em; font-size:.9em; line-height:1em; } div.toc_sha Patrick and the problems of the grass evaporating from her mind, replaced by the jewelry box.

  Opening it again. Seeing the watch. Surprising her that it didn’t look familiar. Daisy, sitting on the bed, on the baby blankets, taking in every detail of the watch’s face: the hands, the numbers, the band, the clasp. In her memory the face was small, in fact it was large; the band was leather, in fact it was silver; the numbers were just black lines, in fact they were roman numerals.

  Examining it. Turning the watch over.

  Causing a surge of emotion. Seeing an inscription on the back—a surprise so big that she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Rereading the inscription again and again, running her finger over it, tracing the words, touching them, testing herself that she was reading it correctly. How could she have forgotten something like this? How could she have forgotten such an inscription?

  “To Michael, Good luck. Arthur Rubinstein.” Arthur Rubinstein!

  Her hands, shaking as her mind raced back over the hills and dales of the years. Trying desperately to trace when and where information like that could have gone. How could she have forgotten a fact so significant?

  It was inscribed by Arthur Rubinstein! The Arthur Rubinstein!

  Daisy, utterly floored. Puzzling ov
er it intensely, only dimly aware that the former low-pitched drone of the lawn mower had changed to a high-pitched screeching. A terrible straining. Tearing through the great expanse of time, searching her head for clues, then beginning to tune into the very wrong sounds of the lawn mower. And that they were escalating. Finally reaching a crescendo with a sound not usually associated with a home gardening machine. A sound so bad that Daisy had to get up and look out the window.

  To find Patrick no longer on the grass. Patrick, in her flower bed. The wheels of the mower were embedded in mud, turning without traction, spinning uselessly. Patrick, struggling mightily to get the mower out of the mud and back on the grass.

  Daisy, watching him, wrapping the watch around her wrist, clasping it on, remembering when it was on her much younger wrist. Only half aware that she was doing it, her attention split between that and seeing that Patrick wouldn’t be able to get the mower out of the mud. The mud was too deep, too thick, too sticky. The engine, revving like a turbo booster.

  Daisy, running out of the house. Hurrying over to the flower bed. Patrick’s face, a mess of emotions.

  “Can’t you get it out?” Daisy, calling. Making sure not to sound accusatory, though she had to yell over the sound.

  Patrick, shaking his head. “It’s really stuck, Mrs. Phillips.”

  Daisy, seeing that not only was it really stuck in the mud, but also stuck in brambles. The front wheels were deep into the bush, with twigs and gnarled branches sticking out from under the body of the mower. “Let me help you,” Daisy, yelling.

  “Maybe if you could take over for me at the back, I could lift the front and unjam it.”

  Daisy, nodding. Moving to take his spot. Noticing that he was sunk three inches into the mud, realizing that she would be, too. Looking down at her shoes. They were not a ratty old knockabout pair, but ones she cared about.