Keeping Time: A Novel Page 9

  Elisabeth, hurrying ahead through the house, calling the others. Looking for them. No one was coming. Ann, going off to the bathroom.

  Daisy, hurrying to keep up with Elisabeth, following her into the kitchen, noticing top-of-the-line appliances and that everything was oversized. Thinking that like America itself, everything in it was so big.

  Elisabeth, showing her a seat at the long oak table, asking, “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” But thinking what she wouldn’t give for a cup of tea.

  “Are you sure?” Elisabeth, asking. “Not even a cup of tea?” Teasing. “You know what they say about Brits here, right? That you’re all tea freaks.”

  Daisy, speechless. Wondering how she could request one now. Her taste buds standing erect, eager for the next tide of tea to wash over them. What time was it anyway?

  A quick peek at her watch. Sounds of children’s laughter from outside. It was nearing eleven at night her time, though just five there in the kitchen. Feeling suddenly tired. Normally she would be asleep by then. Thinking maybe she could just ask Elisabeth to be shown to her room and be allowed to sleep.

  Hearing instead: “We’re having a big welcoming dinner for you tonight.” Elisabeth, standing across the table, pushing stray hair behind her ear. “My sisters are all coming. There are four of them. They should start trickling in the next hour or so with their husbands and children. Everyone wants to meet you.”

  Daisy, thinking, oh no, but saying, “Oh, how lovely. Gorgeous.” Wondering how she would ever get through it. It was starting in an hour or so? Wondering if she had misunderstood the American accent. Hoping she had.

  “Now where are Richard and the boys?” Elisabeth, to herself. “I’ll just be a minute.” Feeling awkward leaving Daisy alone at the table. “Will you be all right for just a moment?”

  “Oh, fine,” said Daisy. “I’ll be just fine. You take your time.”

  Elisabeth, blinking, not getting that, not more than a word. But seeing that Daisy was nodding. Elisabeth, scooting out of the kitchen and through the living room, heading for the sliding glass doors. Stepping out into the brilliant sunshine. Stopping dead in her tracks on the deck. Because of what she saw: a large archery target on a stand. Brand new. Yellow arrows sticking out.

  Elisabeth, staring at Richard in a perfect archer’s position, looking quite expert as he pulled back the bow cable, stretching it to its maximum tautness with the arrow. Releasing. He, Josh, David, Pete, and now Michael, all watching the arrow shooting through space, hitting the target, almost a bull’s-eye.

  “Whoo hoo!#V6habck” The boys cheering deliriously at having their father home and awake and doing something they could do.

  “Your best shot yet.” David, his face gleaming with pride.

  Richard, turning to Elisabeth. “Did you see that? Total control of an object moving 333 feet per second. I’d like to see anyone beat that.”

  Elisabeth, standing where she was, her jaw slinging so far down that it was nearing the waist of her pants.

  “You want to try, Lizzie?” Richard, asking her. “Come here. I’ll show you how.”

  “I want to try,” the boys all crying, moving en masse to the target to pluck the arrows out, fighting over who got to go next every step of the way.

  Elisabeth, stunned, stuttering, “Where did you get that?”

  “The sporting goods store. I got to the laser-tag party a few minutes early. I had time to run next door. I thought it would be good for me to rehone my skills after all these years. You didn’t know I was an archer, huh?”

  Wiping the film of sweat off his face, handing the bow to Pete. Starting toward her. The boys, racing to the starting line, to the spot where Richard had shot from, arguing over the arrows.

  “I was good in college.” Richard, not noticing Elisabeth’s stunned reaction. “Most of us on the dart team did archery, too. I must say it doesn’t look like I lost much.” Standing in front of her, reveling in the memory of it before breaking back to the present and taking a quick deep breath. “So, where’s your houseguest?”

  Elisabeth, trying to absorb the image of her husband hitting bull’s-eyes. What was he picturing when he lined the arrow up? Swallowing hard. Not answering his question. She didn’t have to because Ann was coming out onto the deck with Daisy in tow.

  Richard, stepping forward, wiping the last bead of sweat off his temple with the inside of his upper arm, adjusting his black rectangular glasses, taking Daisy’s hand in his. “Good to meet you, Daisy.” Cupping her hand warmly, noticing how delicate her wrists were. He had never seen such wrists before. “How was your flight?”

  Daisy, nodding, comforted by the warmth of his greeting. “Fine. Just fine.” Her hand, cozy in his, making her long for more coziness, for bed.

  “Mom,” Elisabeth, asking, “did you see that Richard is shooting arrows?” Using her eyes to signal the underlying point. “He’s a real marksman.” Added for emphasis.

  Ann, blinking, slowly getting the implication. Turning to look at the target. “Archery, Richard?” Asking, her voice steady, conversational, pleasant, but inside her a case was creaking open. Worries creeping out like garden snakes. Suddenly taking Elisabeth’s fears seriously. Then quickly discarding them. They were ridiculous, weren’t they?

  Richard, unaware of this exchange between his wife and his mother-in-law, continuing with Daisy, “Has Elisabeth shown you your room? You must be tired. It has to be close to midnight your time.”

  Daisy, almost falling into him in relief. Somebody understood. Answering that she would appreciate being shown her room. Richard, prodding Elisabeth to take Daisy while he went to the car to get her luggage.

  Ann, remaining on the deck?” Elisabeth, askingare close after the three had gone, surveying her grandsons’ attempts at archery. Tamping down questions.

  TONGS, PRESSING SIDEWAYS into one of the three thick slabs of steak. Flames below, rising, enveloping the meat, spitting noisily as fat dripped to feed them. A group of them, camped in a circle around the flames. Daisy, back from being shown her room, insisted on joining the real American barbecue, soldierly taking part, fighting drooping eyelids, stifling yawns. Everyone watching the spectacle of meat over flame, titillating olfactory sensations.

  Richard, moving the tongs to apply pressure on the other two steaks, muttering aloud, “Tender, like a woman’s behind.”

  Everybody around the grill suddenly staring at him. Surprised to hear him say such a thing in front of their guest, upsetting the sensibilities of an old English lady.

  “Richard!” Elisabeth, exclaiming. Who would say such a thing? Answering her own question: Dart Man.

  Richard, “Oh, sorry. I can explain.”

  Elisabeth, hearing his words repeating themselves in her head. Feeling sick.

  Richard, chuckling. Turning to Daisy. “I do apologize. I’m just repeating something that happened at work. We have this legal assistant, a guy in his early twenties who wants to be an actor. Apparently—I wasn’t there, but I heard about it—one of the senior partners asked him to make up a contract involving legal tender, and this legal assistant says, “Tender, like a woman’s behind.” Richard, smiling. “Apparently it was very funny.”

  Daisy, giggling.

  Elisabeth, not.

  Daisy, looking around, changing the subject. Admiring the expansive lush lawn. “It must take you ages to mow.” Picturing herself back in Paul’s overalls, picturing her lawn mower.

  “Oh, I don’t do it. We have gardeners come in. Right, Liz?” Noticing that she seemed far away in her thoughts. Wanting to bring her back into the picture. Wanting her to jump in, to join the conversation.

  But she didn’t. She was too deep in thought, working out whether she would really call the police on her husband of twenty-one years—and, if she did, what she would say.

  And what they would say.

  And what they would do.

  ENGLAND HAS the most awful weather. For the life of m
e I don’t know why people come,” Daisy, looking at the faces around her, trying, despite her exhaustion, to engage them, “but they do. They just keep coming.”

  Daisy, seated not far from the Olympic-sized built-in swimming pool at a marble-topped cast-iron picnic table, part of a fabulously expensive outdoor garden set that came complete with an outrageously costly woven couch and loveseat, both of which exploded with bright orange-striped pillows, all of high-quality fabrics. Low-hanging candlelight. They were all elbow to elbow—Ann, her five daughters, their husbands, and their children. Daisy, doing her best to remember names and faces.

  Most couldn’t make heads or tails of Daisy’s accent and had broken into private conversations. Ann, Elisabeth, her sisters, and her brothers-in-law couldn’t, not really; they were successful# face, habck only to narrowly varying degrees. Daisy, commenting on the landscaping, knew the names and characteristics of every last thing growing in the garden.

  Richard had little trouble with her accent, having the advantage of English clients, even some from western England who had similar accents. He understood Daisy, became her translator, and was charmed by her. Listening intently to all she said. Impressed by her wide knowledge of the plants—his trees, shrubs, bushes, and flowers. Abashed that he couldn’t tell a daffodil from a tulip and that he barely ever looked at his gardens. Asking her questions about home. About family.

  “We all have long, miserable faces in our family.” Daisy, using her hands to pull her cheeks down to demonstrate. “We’re not miserable people. We only look like we are.”

  Mosquitoes and lightning bugs moving in, taking over territory. Grown-ups lathering children in mosquito repellent. Daisy, mentioning that there were no mosquitoes in Liverpool. It went unheard. No one was listening, everyone buzzing around like the insects they were trying to avoid.

  The grown-ups, moving indoors. The sisters and Ann, in the kitchen. Their husbands, except Richard who was cleaning the grill, standing in the living room in a circle, beer in hand, discussing the Mets. Records swapped, plays analyzed. Their backs to Daisy who sat unnoticed on the sofa, mostly forgotten.

  Exhausted amid the chaos, noise, and boisterous activity of the children running in and out of the house, she had found a comfortable spot to settle in. Josh and David, in drying bathing suits, scratching fresh mosquito bites, and settling down on the other end of the sofa to play Game Boy Advance SP, their heads touching so that both could see the small screen.

  Daisy, without warning, fell fast asleep. Her head, thrown unflatteringly back on the sofa; her mouth, wide open, facing the ceiling. Snoring.

  The husbands noticing, turning away. Elisabeth and her sisters, after finishing in the kitchen, drifting back into the living room, seeing Daisy. Turning away, averting their eyes. Ann, sighing, feeling strangely impatient at the sight.

  Michael, “Looks like she&hers waiting f

  TWENTY-ONE

  LATER, DEEP IN THE NIGHT. Daisy’s internal clock telling her it was dawn. Time to get up.

  Sitting up in bed with darkness all around. For the first few seconds, confusion. Patching together reality. Spotting a clock: 1:30 a.m. She had been asleep about three hours. Remembering how she had been brought to the room by Richard. What a nice man. Remembered sinking into the pillow. That was all.

  Wondering where her toiletries were. Wanting to brush her teeth and use the loo. Spying the bag, pulling back the covers of the bed. Going to the canvas bag, the marmalade bag. It was better now but not perfect. Some areas were still sticky, but they were certainly better. Finding what she needed, trying to remember where the bathroom was. Richard had shown her. It was at the end of the hall, wasn’t it? But which way? Right or left? Hoping she wouldn’t have to creep around opening wrong doors before she found it.

  Putting her hand on the doorknob, admiring it—an old round cut-glass knob that was unlike anything from home. A very nice doorknob. Turning it, pulling open the door. Standing, listening to the quiet, sleeping sounds of the house.

  Peeking out into the dim light, looking for a memorable marker. Padding, barefoot, silently, in her lightweight robe, making no noise as she crept along, not wanting to wake anybody. Three doors down she found it.

  Then, creeping back to her room. Listening to her own quiet breath and to the night’s stillness in the house. But, hearing a sound in the quiet, a rustling of cotton. It was not her robe, she was sure. It was a sound from behind, from another hall.

  Daisy, listening. Sure enough, hushed movement. Not wanting to have a conversation at that hour, hurrying noiselessly back to her room, closing the door with great care. Listening for sounds from the hallway.

  Surprised instead to hear noises from outside, from the driveway. A car door, slowly opening. Daisy, crossing the room to the window. Peering out.

  Elisabeth, slipping into the car, pulling quietly out of the driveway, backing into the deserted street. Driving away.

  Daisy, wondering as she watched, until the red taillights piercing the blackness disappeared.

  ELISABETH WASN’T SURE herself what had motivated her to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night, get in her car, go back over the Triboro Bridge, cross Central Park at Ninety-seventh Street, cruise down Broadway to Houston Street, then head east to the Williamsburg Bridge. But she had, and now she was gliding onto the bridge, a traffic-free bridge with wide-open lanes, oldies blasting on the radio, singing her head off, loud and proud at deafening volumes, the center lane all to herself. The glow of city lights was behind her, she had taken part in the mystery of city nights, had become part of its nightly playing out in the dark. Now that she had done it and was head#foha home anding home again, she knew what had motivated her to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night and into her car.

  It was glorious, just glorious.

  Releasing inner aspects that had been holed up too long. Drawing something from the inside out like a salve, something from her earlier self, from a time brimming with self-confidence and self-assurance. Reconnecting with another Elisabeth Jetty. One she liked better.

  NO ONE HAD ASKED DAISY why she’d come to New York. She had expected they would. If they didn’t soon, she would have to bring it up herself. Eager to get started.

  Sunday seemed too hectic. In the morning they all skittered off to church, except Richard, who was stuck on back-to-back business calls in his home office, from which he emerged yawning, tousled, and hassled. Rubbing his red-ringed eyes, giving Daisy a hasty “Good morning” before fleeing to make his appointment at the car garage for a mandatory annual New York State inspection due no later than today and a well-overdue oil change.

  Elisabeth, bags under her eyes, wearing the same strange pants as before. The house was whirring. At one o’clock was Josh and David’s year-end piano recital. David would be playing Beethoven; Josh, Chopin. Elisabeth, ironing their white button-down shirts. Searching for two ties. Tracking down four black socks. Praying their shoes still fit since the last recital in January.

  Pete had a baseball game; he wouldn’t be able to make his brothers’ recitals. Ann wouldn’t be there for the same reason. Elisabeth, hustling around the house looking for this and that, answering the phone that rang endlessly, making plans for the whole family, which she jotted down on the giant bulletin board in the kitchen. Distracted by everything that crossed her path, shouting orders to study to Michael every time she passed him.

  Michael, looking up from his game saying, “You’re not really going to wear that to the piano recital.”

  Elisabeth, looking down at her clothes, which were the same as before except a new shirt. Pleased that he had commented. Richard hadn’t said a word. Elisabeth, repeating her mantra: “When you change, Michael, I’ll change.” Hurrying off with a laundry basket riding her hip.

  Daisy, sitting awkwardly, was clear now, at least, as to why Elisabeth was dressed the way she was. Pretending to read her book amid all the activity. Feeling unseen. Thrown a bit because no one had asked her what her busine
ss was and why she had come. Hoping someone would. Needing their input. Deciding to talk to Michael, alone on the sofa, across from where she sat. Asking pleasantly about school.

  Michael, barely looking her way, saying, “It stinks,” rubbing his nose. His eyes on the screen, involved in a battle between his clones and the attacking enemy.

  Daisy, trying again. “Are you performing in today’s recital?”

  Michael, “Nah. I quit piano.” Groaning inwardly, anticipating the obligatory speech about regret or grabbing second chances. Strangely, it didn’t come. Daisy just turned away, humming quietly to herself. Michael waited a few seconds, but still it didn’t come.

  Because Daisy wasn’t thinking about his decision regarding piano. She was wondering if this Michael would have any good ideas about how to find the other Michael. Wondering what this #bee closeMichael would do, how he would find someone not seen or heard from in sixty years. Young people usually had good ideas. They knew things. But he seemed reluctant to talk. Daisy, thinking she would try again later.

  Lunch—all were called to the table. Daisy, truly hungry. She had missed some meals since she left. She ate heartily what was offered: a bowl of macaroni and cheese with the boys. Elisabeth was too busy hustling around the kitchen to sit and eat—emptying the dishwasher, scrubbing pots, cleaning countertops.

  Daisy, uncomfortable doing nothing while Elisabeth was a whirlwind of great magnitude in close proximity. Looking over, watching her a moment, then asking, “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  Elisabeth, looking up from scrubbing maple syrup off the maple cabinetry. Blinking at Daisy quizzically, as if she were parsing some foreign language. But this time it wasn’t the language, it was the concept. She smiled, relaxing her shoulders.

  Saying, “No, thanks. I wouldn’t have time to enjoy it. But you go right ahead if you like. I think I have tea bags.” Throwing the sponge into the sink. Heading for the cupboard to explore.