Keeping Time: A Novel Page 8

  “Mom,” catching up on the front porch, “you’re not really going out like that.”

  “Why not?” Elisabeth, innocently. “I think I look nice.”

  “No, you don’t! You look horrible!” Scanning the street, making sure no neighbors were watching. Holding his ground on the porch while she got in the car.

  “Come on. We’ve got to hurry now.” A singsong voice.

  “You’re not really going to do this.” Holding his textbook flat against his chest like a shield. “You’re not really going to meet your cousin dressed like that. You’re just doing this to get me.”

  “If you change, I will,” Elisabeth, putting the key into the ignition, her car door open. One leg was out of the car, sneaker flat down on the driveway.

  Staring each other down. Michael, tense on the porch. Elisabeth, giddy in the driver’s seat. Finding that, surprisingly, being dressed like Michael did not leave her embarrassed at all. It made her feel goofy and silly and fun and unburdened. Maybe there was something to not caring what other people thought. And, besides, at forty-four it wasn’t as if she was going to look good anymore, only good for her age.

  “But what’s your cousin going to think?” Michael, actually pleading.

  “She’ll think you and I dress alike. Now make up your mind: Either go change and I will, or get in the car.” Cool as a cucumber.

  Michael, stalled on the porch. Undecided. Overwhelmed. Not sure if he was being toyed with and should be mad and refuse to change, or if he should protect his reputation, his mother’s, his whole family’s for that matter, or if he should be proud of his mother for not caring what other people thought.

  Elisabeth, “Come on, buddy. Make a choice.”

  Michael, sputtering, “Just change, Mom. Come on. It’s not the same for me as it is for you. Don’t try to pretend it is.”

  Elisabeth, starting the car, revving the engine, reviving whiffs of the Williamsburg Bridge, a scent of the Long Island Expressway, the essence of the long stretch of the left lane. “Why shouldn’t it be? If you don’t care about showing everyone your underwear, why should I? Didn’t you ever hear of the goose and the gander?”

  “That’s about gender. This is about age.”

  “Whatever. Now let’s get going. It’s already too late to change. Just get in.”

  A tall, thin neighbor, Mr. Toomey, with a beard and a runner’s body, dressed inappropriately for the hot weather in a long-sleeved New York Mets tell her she couldkiha baseball sweatshirt, walked past, his little brown pencil-legged Chihuahua leading him. Elisabeth greeted him from the driver’s seat. He waved back.

  Michael, red in the face, horrified at what Mr. Toomey must be thinking, notwithstanding that Mr. Toomey should be the last person on earth to cast aspersions on anyone else’s wardrobe choices. Michael, reluctantly going, dragging his feet all the way to the car. Elisabeth, watching him in the rearview mirror, buckling himself in. The car shifting into reverse, slowly backing out of the driveway.

  Out of nowhere, a car, careening into the driveway, screeching to a halt beside them, missing them by a hair. Leaving Elisabeth and Michael jointly jolted, having to straighten themselves out, to right themselves.

  Ann. Turning off her car, heaving herself out with an effort.

  “Mom!”

  “Grandma!”

  Both, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m coming.” Ann, hurrying around to the passenger seat. “Goodness, I was so afraid I’d miss you.”

  “Really?” Elisabeth. “You’re coming? This is a shocker.”

  Ann, opening the car door. “I was afraid of what she’d think if I wasn’t there, how bad it would look.” Getting in, pulling the door closed. “You know what they say: You never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

  “Yeah, Mom.” Michael.

  WHAT’S SHE GOING to be like, do you think?” Elisabeth, asking her mother on the notoriously unpleasant Belt Parkway, cutting across Queens.

  Michael, in the back, supposedly studying the book on his lap. Instead studying the highway and the houses and city parks that flanked it.

  “I don’t know.” Ann, considering.

  “It’s amazing that you’ve never met her.”

  Muscles on Ann’s face, tensing. “I met only her mother—when I was small. That one trip my mother and I made to England in 1945. After that trip, my mother no longer had any appetite for England, and nobody ever came here to see her. He. Approving. M

  SEVENTEEN

  THE LANDING, TOTALLY SMOOTH. Like sliding across glass.

  Daisy, in the middle seat, darting her head from side to side, trying to get around the man’s big beefy head on her right, eager to snatch her first view of New York, JFK International Airport. Her stomach, hosting all manner of activity.

  The plane slowly taxiing in, coming to a final halt. The unmistakable sound of hundreds of seat belts unbuckling in unison skirting around in the enclosed air. People from front to rear popping out of their seats as though orchestrated.

  EIGHTEEN

  ELISABETH, FINDING A PARKING SPOT.

  Michael, not wanting to join them in the terminal. Sitting in the back of the SUV, not unbuckling. His long legs and big clumsy feet were spread out before him, his arms folded across his narrow chest, his facial muscles set firmly over smooth pink skin. Declaring, “I’ll wait here. I’ll study.”

  “No, come in.” Elisabeth. “We may need you. There’s no telling how much luggage she brought.” Lifting the latch to open her door.# looking hashe could

  Ann, getting out. Stretching her back in the parking lot. The day, sticky hot, the strong midday sun high overhead, the skies, a perfect clear blue.

  “So now I’m your pack mule?” Michael, irritated.

  “You’ve always been.” Elisabeth, smiling. The waistband of her panties, riding high, her jeans low. Elisabeth, scanning the stretch of terminals in front of her, looking for British Airways.

  Michael, “I thought I was supposed to be studying.”

  “You are. But since you didn’t study the whole way here when there was nothing else to do, I don’t see the point of starting now when there is.”

  Michael, deliberately huffing and puffing, loudly. Stumbling out of the SUV, squinting in the bright light. “So let’s go.” Grumbling.

  Starting toward the terminal.

  “I do believe I’m getting a little nervous.” Ann, before preceding their one-at-a-time entrance through the revolving doors into the arrivals section.

  Elisabeth, “I am, too. I mean, did she say how long she’s staying?”

  “She didn’t.”

  Michael, moving slowly along behind them, doing his best to show them how much he didn’t want to be there—even before the horror of his mother’s attire. In shock that she had actually gone through with it.

  Ann, eventually noticing—while standing at the arrival gate. Her eyes on Elisabeth’s clothes, blinking twice. Comprehension, rapid. Quick perusal of Elisabeth’s face. A hurried shifting to Michael’s. Michael was looking at her, his eyes urging a definitive reprimand from mother to daughter.

  Ann, uncertain where she should fall, whose side she should be on.

  e in the aisle

  NINETEEN

  FROM LIVERPOOL, KNOWN for its maritime history, its great shipping ports, its industrial center, its sports stadium, and, of course the Beatles, came Daisy, marching along as if to a beat, rolling along a red carry-on, bright, cheerful, curious eyes on everything. Taking it all in.

  Ann’s heart, skipping a beat, seeing in Daisy the very image of her own mother—as if her mother, gone now all those years, had returned.

  Daisy, spotting them, hurrying over. The minute she had laid eyes on the three of them, she knew they were the ones. The short, heavy woman in the dark blue pants suit with brushed back hair, guarded light brown eyes, soft round nose, lightly wrinkled tan skin, looking nothing like anyone else in the family. The younger, forty-something woman—an
d here Daisy had to blink; her clothes were indescribable—making Daisy rethink her presuppositions that New Yorkers would be as fashionable as Europeans. And the teenager—tall, slim, stretched, gangly, displaying all the arrogance of youth.

  Daisy, wheeling her carry-on toward them. Ann and Elisabeth, welcoming her movement in their direction; summoning her, gathering her with their eyes. Elisabeth liked her immediately—the way she carried herself, her diminutive frame, the curious and accepting air about her.

  Ann, finding everything about her familiar. Seeing in Daisy all the things Ann’s mother had been and had hoped for in a daughter but never got. Instead she got a squat, broad, heavy daughter with the body-type genes that were handed down from her grandfather on her father’s side. Disappointing her mother and crushing Ann, humbling her for life.

  “Ann?” Daisy, when she got a respectable distance to speak.

  Ann, nodding. The two women standing there, gazing at each other. Neither one reaching out to touch.

  “Daisy,” Elisabeth, stepping forward. “How nice to meet you. I’m Elisabeth, her daughter. Did you have a nice flight?” Reaching over to gently pat Daisy’s arm.

  “Gorgeous.” Daisy.

  “Great.” Elisabeth. “We’re all very much looking forward to your staying with us.” Quelling the cacophony of dissenting voices in her head—her own and those of her children.

  Fortunately, Richard had not dissented. He had merely said, “Fine,” and had then fallen off to sleep, making Elisabeth wish again that she could have more of his time, because by the time she got finished briefly summarizing Michael’s recent attitude and hastily updating him on the lives of their other boys, Elisabeth had less than a minute of Richard’s consciousness to cover everything else.

  “This is my son, Michael.” Elisabeth, pressuring Michael forward with her hand on his back, moving him toward Daisy for the introduction.#hisha home and

  “Glad to meet you, Michael.” Daisy, cheerfully, thinking about the name.

  Michael, nodding, looking hard at the floor, thinking, generic old lady; they’re all the same.

  “Let’s get your suitcases. Baggage claim is this way,” Elisabeth, suggesting. The group falling in line with the remaining stragglers going in that direction.

  A massive crowd had huddled around the baggage carousel. Daisy, taking a deep breath. Tired all of a sudden. She had hardly slept on the plane—nerves—and she was hungry; she had only picked at her food—nerves again. Everything suddenly seemed so daunting: getting her luggage, getting to the house, the strangeness of where she was. Maybe she had taken on too much. Maybe she should get the next plane back, not remove the bags, just carousel them over to the next flight back across the Atlantic.

  A churning of gears from beyond; the belt beginning to move. Suitcases, appearing. The crowd rustling, individuals from the back pushing forward, roughly parting the thick wall of shoulder-to-shoulder people to get at their things. Daisy’s heart pumping anxiously, waiting to spot hers. Ann and Elisabeth, busy stealing peeks at her, sizing her up. Michael, not even bothering. He had already seen what he needed to see. She was a little old lady, and little old ladies were about as interesting as historic house tours where they talked at length about the materials used in the draperies, tapestries, throw pillows.

  Elisabeth, trying to gauge how much time and help Daisy would need, and whether she would be all right on her own all day. Wondering what she had planned. Remembering her mother saying that Daisy had some business she wanted to take care of—but what? And would it involve Elisabeth? Did Daisy drive? Could she manage the other side of the road thing? What if she thought that Elisabeth would be free to drive her around everywhere? Did Daisy know that Elisabeth worked full time? Had Ann mentioned that? Now was a fine time to be thinking about such things, she knew, but like everything else in her life, she didn’t focus on it until it was right under her nose.

  Elisabeth wasn’t the only one wondering what Daisy’s trip would require. Ann was wondering, too. Both women were dwelling on the same thing when Daisy spotted her luggage.

  Daisy, tapping Ann on her shoulder before beginning her struggle through the crowd that had loosened and thinned somewhat but was still large enough to pose a challenge. Daisy, going ahead, politely tapping people on the shoulders, excusing herself through the reluctantly parting crowd. Ann and Elisabeth in her wake. Elisabeth, grabbing Michael by the sleeve. Michael, muttering complaints.

  Daisy, in the front, pointing out her suitcase. In the meantime, a very loud murmur was springing up. People, reacting to something coming toward them on the conveyor belt. Pointing. Others craning their necks to see. Everyone ready to laugh at the dummy who had done it—

  Michael, “What kind of a moron would do that?”

  Daisy, aghast, pushing away a trickle of sadness. They would never get their Dunkirk’s. Then stifling a laugh. Wishing Dennis and Lenny were there. Maybe Dennis wouldn’t find it funny, but Lenny would. He would be roaring with laughter.

  #

  Michael, “Whoever did it is probably too dumb to feel embarrassed.”

  Daisy, watching her mistake approaching, about to be in front of them. Despising that she was going to have to admit it was hers. How could she ask Michael to pick up such a mess? They would probably try to lose her in the parking lot.

  The crowd, watching, all eyes on the suitcase, waiting to see who would claim it. Daisy, quickly trying to recollect what was in the bag, thinking maybe she could just walk away, leaving it there to rotate forever.

  No such luck. Remembering: toiletries—expendable; nightgowns—expendable; a second pair of shoes—expendable; books and maps of New York—expendable; Dennis’s and Lenny’s baby blankets—not.

  Her moment of reckoning. The canvas suitcase, two feet away. Should she let it go around again? Daisy, feeling herself heating up, blushing all over her face. Her skin awake in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. In her earlier days, blushing—the vibrant red, the intense heat—had chronically plagued her, but it hadn’t in recent decades. Suddenly here it was again—and sort of sweet. Making Daisy feel younger, delighted that blushing was still possible.

  The suitcase. On the belt right in front of her. Daisy, newly alive, reaching past Ann, bending over to lift it, aware of gasps of surprise behind her. The suitcase was sticking to the belt. Daisy, tugging to wrench it free.

  Peeling it off with a loud sucking sound. The bag, swinging, dripping. Daisy, drawing it closer in, stopping the swinging with her body. Feeling dozens of eyes on her as she turned to her gaping American cousins, saying, “I’m afraid it’s my bag. Terribly sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it before I put it in your car, of course, if we can find a loo. I can see my unfortunate mistake in packing. I’ll never do that again, I tell you.” Giggling. “And let others learn a lesson about last-minute packing. It was the no-liquids-on-board sign I encountered only minutes before checking bags that led to this.”

  Breathlessly finishing her explanation, holding the bag far enough away that the dripping jam hit the floor, not her. Expecting some reaction. She wasn’t sure what, but there should be something in the wake of her confession. Instead, three completely blank faces looking back at her without a shred of comprehension.

  “Was that English?” Michael.

  “It must be.” Elisabeth.

  “I didn’t catch a word of it.” Ann.

  “Was that just her accent?” Michael. “Because I don’t think it was even English.”

  “I’m afraid we’re not getting you,” Elisabeth, saying, talking to Daisy as if she were deaf. “We don’t understand your accent.”

  Daisy smiling, not getting Elisabeth, either. Standing there awkwardly, holding the bag, looking into the faces of her cousins. For some seconds nobody speaking, then Daisy hoisting the straps of the offensive bag on her forearm, almost to her elbow. Her hand, at a right angle to her body in a rather regal fashion, her head held high, her nose tipped upward, dignified. Turning, mov
ing through the crowd, which parted quickly, afraid of getting smeared. Daisy, carrying herself as if showcasing the finest luggage the world over.#roe close

  The cousins, slowly following, avoiding the sticky drops landing on the floor.

  “Goodness.” Ann.

  “Holy shit.” Elisabeth.

  “Maybe not generic,” Michael, “but totally weird.”

  The three following Daisy and her trail of orange marmalade in search of the bathr

  TWENTY

  T HWACK!

  An arrow hitting, not the yellow bull’s-eye but the next ring, the red one surrounding it. Following it, three more arrows, all farther from the bull’s-eye. Disappointing. Frustrating.

  The next arrow, getting closer to the target.

  Elisabeth, pulling into the gravel driveway of their well-tended house with red shutters, a red front door, elegant front porch, impressive lawns, impeccable flower gardens, mature specimen trees. Their house, not unlike others in this typically “gold coast” north shore town. Daisy had noticed that the farther north they went from the highway, the more impressive the houses had become. This one was no exception; it was out of eyesight of any neighbors and, she was told, only a short distance from the Port Washington harbor with its picturesque sailboats.

  Elisabeth, shifting into park with a cheery singsong “Here we are.”

  The four, getting out. Elisabeth, scurrying to help Daisy. Ann, starting into the house. Michael, trying to escape, until caught. Elisabeth, calling him back to help with the luggage.

  Michael, responding with “I’ll get Josh and David.” Slipping away into the house.#hiplCr

  “Right,” Elisabeth, murmuring, looking toward the house to see if anyone was coming to help and greet the houseguest.

  Nobody.

  “Daisy, why don’t you come inside to meet the family. Richard can get your things in a few minutes.”

  “Fine, fine,” Daisy, saying. “That would be fine.” Straightening herself up, her dress, her hair. Walking with the others up the bluestone path to the front door, delighting in all she saw, euphoric at the sensation of sun on her cheeks.