Keeping Time: A Novel Read online

  They got back to her house after six, pulling into the driveway just minutes before her daughter Lynn got there to take Brandon home. Elisabeth would be there to get David, Josh, and Michael as soon as she got back from taking Pete to the eye doctor for new contact lenses.

  Spaghetti, meatballs, and salad for dinner. Together at the table—Ann, David, Josh, and Michael. David and Josh chattering at length about teachers, friends, sports, whatever. Ann, wondering, as she often did, if fear of eating alone kept her going as she did.

  Michael, not part of the conversation. Plugged into his iPod. In a world of his own despite hitting elbows with her every time he lifted his fork to his mouth. Ann, wishing he would unplug his ears and talk to them, but she was never one to enforce rules if the behavior wasn’t hurting anyone. More than anything she wanted her grandsons to be happy there with their grandma.

  Elisabeth got there at 7:30, her copper-colored blouse untucked on one side, her hair falling haphazardly out of the holder, her lipstick long faded. A worried, wary look in her eyes. Because of something she had just heard on the car radio.

  Ann, loading the dishwasher. Elisabeth, sending the boys off to gather their things, scowling at Michael as he passed. Saying, “How about saying thanks for this morning? I missed a meeting because of your misplaced flash drive.”

  “Thanks for this morning.” With absolutely no expression.

  “Do you have . How are you?”shato dress like that?” Elisabeth, yanking one of his ear buds out.

  Michael, looking at her. Scowling. Saying, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Jamming the ear bud back in before hearing the answer.

  Elisabeth saying loudly, “Only everything.” Staring in disgust at the back of his jeans as he headed out of the kitchen and into the living room to get his backpack. His pants were riding ridiculously low below his waist, weakly fighting gravity and the ten pounds of extra denim hanging around his legs. His belt was midway across his butt revealing four inches of plaid boxer shorts above them.

  “What makes him think the whole world wants to see his underwear?” Elisabeth, asking Ann. “It’s so arrogant, really.” Wondering, not for the first time, how he would feel if she went around exposing the top four inches of her panties.

  “Oh, he’s all right,” Ann, saying. “It is a stupid fashion, but we partook of stupid fashions in our day, too.”

  Elisabeth, thinking her mother was probably right. Feeling rattled by what she had just heard on the car radio. What should have been nothing more than a typical news snippet had unnerved her into having even less patience with Michael and his iPod than usual. A familiar litany running through her head: She would never let Josh and David, both talented classical musicians—almost as talented as Michael—follow in Michael’s footsteps. She would never let them quit piano. She was still regretting every day that she had caved in to Michael’s demands to quit after nine years and thousands of dollars of lessons. Look where it had got him.

  “Everything all right?” Ann, asking. “How was your day?”

  “Hectic. Ridiculous.” Elisabeth, watching her mother sponge off the table. Then, not that she had planned to bring it up, “By any chance have you been following the news about this guy they’re calling Dart Man?”

  Ann, shaking her head.

  “Well, there’s this guy in Manhattan riding around on a bicycle, shooting darts at the butts of women.”

  “What?” Ann’s face, scrunching up. Was there no end to the perversions of the human race?

  “I’m not making this up,” Elisabeth, saying. “He’s hit five women in the last three weeks and one today. I just heard it on the car radio. The darts are not fatal, but obviously it hurts to get shot in the butt, and the police can’t figure out who’s doing it and why.”

  “Crazy.” Ann, shaking her head. Returning the sponge to its cradle at the sink. Thinking about getting the vacuum—the floor, its usual mess. She had to vacuum every night, at least the playroom and kitchen. The rest of the house could usually go longer.

  Elisabeth, “Here’s the thing. I think Richard might be Dart Man.”

  Ann, looking at Elisabeth, surprised to see that she was saying this with a straight face. No longer thinking about getting the vacuum. Thinking her daughter had gone off the deep end. Saying, “Elisabeth, you can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “I am.”

  “You think your husband is Dart Man? too far.

  “He could be. He might be.” Elisabeth, nodding her head.

  “Where would you get such an idea?”

  “Well, listen. First”—Elisabeth, ticking the following off on her fingers—“they say he must be smart to be getting away with it. Richard’s really smart. They say it’s probably someone with no prior record. Richard has no prior record. They say it’s probably someone with no impulses to violent crime. I don’t think Richard has any impulses to violent crime. They think it’s someone just seeking attention. Richard likes attention. He has attacked only on Mondays and Thursdays for some reason. They don’t know why. What days does Richard ride his bike downtown? Mondays and Thursdays! What kind of bike does Dart Man ride? He’s been seen on what’s described as a red mountain bike. What kind does Richard have? A red mountain bike!” Spitting this last bit out with emphasis. Then regrouping for even more: “And here’s the real clincher. What does Richard love doing? Playing darts! Remember back in the days when he actually had a life outside of work? What did he do? He played darts! Remember? He loved darts! Remember how good he was?”

  Ann, standing there staring at her daughter, her forty-four-year-old, successful, businesswoman daughter. Looking for signs on her broad, pale face that she was joking. Maybe a twinkle in her green eyes? A smirk on her thin lips? Waiting for Elisabeth to break into a smile. But it never came. Elisabeth was in earnest. Ann wasn’t sure where to begin. Preschoolers were so much less complicated.

  “Okay, Lizzie, a reality check here, please. Your husband’s not Dart Man. He’s a lawyer, a successful lawyer in a big firm, a partner. Hardly the type to be wanted by the police for anything, much less shooting darts at women.”

  Elisabeth, nodding but not convinced. “I know. It does seem hard to believe, but you never know. Isn’t it possible that a totally stressed-out, pushed-to-the-edge man could end up committing this kind of act? You hear stories all the time about people suddenly snapping. And what do these people do when they snap? Something they’re good at. Darts. He played at Yale. He was on the team!” Elisabeth, all worked up, her voice picking up speed and intensity. “You hear stories about women finding out all kinds of outrageous things about their husbands all the time. There are stories like this in the paper just about every day.”

  “Yes, but you’re not one of them. You’re not going to find this out about your husband.” Looking long and hard at her daughter. “You need to go home and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll probably laugh at yourself in the morning.”

  Elisabeth, nodding, hoping her mother was right. Hurrying into the playroom to gather the boys. Get them home. Josh and David still had their piano practice, an hour each. And Michael had a European History final plus math and chemistry and other year-end finals and state Regents exams in a week. He couldn’t afford any more subpar grades. He should be home studying. Elisabeth, imagining that it was going to be a struggle to get him out of his iPod stupor and into his textbook. Thinking back with longing to the time when he was the most cooperative of all her boys, to the days when her word was everything. What had happened? When? No answer.

  Checking her watch, telling them to hustle. Worrying about later tonight when Richard got home from work. What if she couldn’t look her gynecologist T close at him? What if all she could see were darts?

  Pushing the image aside. “Come on, boys.” Shaking her keys, surveying the room for any of their things. “Let’s get a move on.”

  Yawning. Then noticing the overseas envelope. Pickin
g it up.

  The boys filing out, one after the other. “Bye, Grandma,” in chorus.

  “Bye, boys. See you tomorrow.”

  “What’s this?” Elisabeth, asking her mother, watching recognition click in her eyes, followed by tension. “Who’s Daisy Phillips?”

  “A cousin. From England. Her mother was my aunt Meredith.”

  “Why is she writing you?”

  “She’s planning a trip to New York. She asked if she could stay with me.”

  “How nice!” Elisabeth, smiling, the idea of someone flying in from England breezing over her like a current of fresh air. “When is she coming?”

  Ann, frowning. “I didn’t exactly tell her she could.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Mom!” Michael, screaming from the porch steps. “What’s taking you so long?”

  Calling back, “I’m coming.” Turning back to her mother. “Why didn’t you tell her she could?”

  “I was afraid I wouldn’t have time to entertain her.” Coming clean with only part of the truth.

  “Does she need to be entertained?”

  “Well, no. She said she’s coming to take care of business. But once she’s here, I’m sure she’ll need at least some attention. She’ll have some requirements. I’m afraid I just won’t have the time or energy to devote to her.”

  “Mom, that’s crazy. Did you tell her not to come?”

  “No. But I didn’t tell her to come either. I didn’t write back.”

  “Mom! Come on!” Josh, yelling from the front door. “I’ve got to start practicing.”

  “Get in the car. I’ll be right there.&

  ELEVEN

  DAISY, MAKING HER way into the house, barely fitting through the front door, struggling with two overly full shopping bags in each hand, containing shoes, two new pairs; three new skirt sets; a pretty pale pink robe with matching slippers. She hadn’t felt so thrilled in a long time. Enjoying every aspect of the preparation for her trip, ignoring worries that she still hadn’t heard back from Ann. Preparing herself so that when she did hear back, she would be ready to hop on the first available flight.

  To New York, of all places, a place she had never been. She had never wanted to go after the disappearance of Michael. Whenever Paul had suggested going, and he had many times over the years, Daisy always came up with an excuse not to.

  Pushing through the doorway with visions of New York, Manhattan, the skyline, the Empire State Building, Times Square, Broadway swirling in her head. Hoping she’d have a chance to see all those things while she was there. Needing to check how far Long Island was from Manhattan and where exactly Port Washington was, the town Ann lived in.

  Hurrying to her bedroom. To start packing.

  DENNIS, PULLING INTO his mother’s driveway. Hurrying up the front path to her rose–framed yellow door. Her roses, consistently thriving, healthy. Rain was beginning to fall, the first in two days. The weather forecast once again predicting a deluge.

  Up her front steps two at a time. Ringing the bell, shielding the papers in his hand from the rain. Hunching his shoulders forward. Protecting them. They were the reason for the visit.

  The door opening. Daisy, smiling as she let him in. She knew why he was there; the smile was a put-on. Inside she was sick, sick, sick. Starting to lose her resolve again. Starting to think she really couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sell the house.

  “Come in, Dennis. I’ll make you a tea. I see the rain is starting again.”

  “No, no thanks. I only have a few minutes. I have to get back to work. We have some deadlines that are going to be murder to meet.”

  Following her into the kitchen. Taking a seat at the table. Placing the papers in front of him. Lining them up tidily.

  Daisy, putting the kettle on. “Lucky we had those two dry days. I was able to get the grass cut.” Thinking, finally it looked like a sane woman lived there.

  “Who’d you get to do it?”

  “No one,” Daisy, saying, proudly. “I did it myself. It was no trouble at all.” No trouble if you didn’t count all that had happened before yesterday, and didn’t count that it had taken her more than six hours, on her hands and knees on the ground with a pair of household.listoffigures { font-size: itDaisy Phillips scissors clipping the grass almost blade by blade before getting the lawn mower to do its job.

  “Really?” Dennis, unbelieving. “No trouble at all?” Naturally thinking of all that had happened before yesterday. Wondering how she could honestly claim it was no trouble at all. “Now, Mum—”

  “Perhaps you can do it while I’m gone,” Daisy, breaking in. “Just once or twice—if the rain lets up.”

  Dennis, running his hand over his eyes, rubbing them. “You’re not still thinking of going to New York, are you?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  Dennis, sighing, “When?”

  Daisy, not answering at once. She had still not heard back from Ann, but was determined to go with or without her cousin’s house to stay in. “Soon.” The water starting to boil, the kettle to whistle. Daisy, turning off the heat, carefully pouring the water into her teacup. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice hot cup of tea? It’ll do you good.”

  Dennis, shaking his head. “How soon? Do you have dates worked out? What does your cousin say?”

  “My passport is in good order, and I’ve done all my shopping and packing. I imagine I’ll be gone a month.” Putting the kettle back on the hob, sitting down to her tea.

  “A month? Really? That long?”

  “I imagine so. Yes. Perhaps even longer.” She had no idea where Michael Baker lived; she had only his return address from letters sixty years old. She had no idea whether he was dead or alive or how to find him. Or how to find any children he may have had. “I’m buying an open-ended ticket.” Stirring a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. The spoon making its familiar, cozy, homey sound as it hit the inside of the teacup on every rotation.

  Dennis, “It seems like a crazy time for you to be planning an open-ended trip, but I don’t suppose I can change your mind.”

  “No, I don’t think you could, Dennis. My mind is quite made up.” Wishing she had received a positive word from Ann.

  “Well, now then.” Dennis, clearing his throat, realigning the papers in front of him on the table. “On to the reason I’m here. These are the papers the agent needs to show your house. You just have to sign in a few places.” His finger targeting the first blank line.

  Daisy, stirring her tea. The silver spoon sound ringing out merrily—tink, tink—in a nice little rhythm.

  “Mum, I hate to be an insensitive boor, but I really haven’t got much time. Just sign here and one other place so I can get going. Please.”

  Daisy, unable to take the pen from him. Staring at the forms, unable to move.

  The phone, ringing.

  So startling, Daisy jumped. Racing to pick up the phone.

  Hearing, “Hello? Are you Daisy?” An unfamiliar voice. An American voice! Daisy’s heart, leaping with joy.

  “Yes, this is Daisy.”

  “Daisy, this is your cousin Ann. How are you?”

  “Oh, Ann! Fine, I’m fine. How are you?” Daisy, giddy with glee. No time to wor tell her she coulder. Ann, ry that the news might not be good, that right there in front of Dennis she might hear that she couldn’t stay with her. Feeling only one thing: relief. Relief that Ann wasn’t dead and that she had called.

  Looking at Dennis sitting stiff-backed at her table, showing equal parts exasperation and curiosity.

  Ann, “I thought calling might be better than writing. I wanted to respond to you as soon as I could, not to keep you waiting.”

  “Yes. Gorgeous. Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry to say that, well, the situation is, well, I’ll just get right to it. I’m afraid that it would be very difficult for you to stay with me, but my daughter Elisabeth would love to have you. She has an extra room. She lives only five miles from me.”

  Daisy, th
rilled. Relieved. “Gorgeous.”

  “Just let us know the date and time of your arrival. We’ll be happy to pick you up at the airport.”

  “Gorgeous,” Daisy, repeating, barely thinking straight. “I was hoping to come in a few days if that would be okay.” Stumbling over her words. Turning back to face Dennis. Seeing him sitting at attention, tuned into her every word.

  Ann, saying, “That would be fine. Take my telephone number, call me when you have the tickets and the times all sorted out.”

  “Gorgeous,” Daisy, repeating, worrying that Ann was thinking she was a simpleton who knew only one word.

  Ann was thinking no such thing, of course. She was thinking she should get off the phone to break up the fight brewing between Matthew and Brandon over a purple crayon—before one or both ended up in tears.

  Daisy, taking the number, thanking Ann. A whole new Daisy returning to the table. Picking up her tea, sipping it happily, filling Dennis in on Ann’s end of the conversation.

  Despite himself, Dennis, totally interested. He vaguely knew he had American cousins—his mother had mentioned it from time to time through the years—but he had never given them any thought. Now they suddenly had names: Ann, Elisabeth. They had just become real. He had to pull himself back to the reason he was there, finding that he would rather be thinking about these new cousins, this Ann and her daughter Elisabeth and to imagine them and their lives in New York. On Long Island.

  But he had a job to do—two jobs to do: One in Liverpool, where he was desperately behind. The other right there in that kitchen, wh