Keeping Time: A Novel (6 page)

Preparing a quick breakfast for four of her five sons; the fifth, Steve, away at college. Fantasizing about having Richard home to help instead of on the 6:00 a.m. train to the city every day. She cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher. Ready to hit the road by 8:15 when her middle son, thirteen-and-a-half-year-old Michael, realized he couldn’t find his flash drive which he needed for his European History class. It not only had his project on it—he said he didn’t care about that, which was no surprise to Elisabeth who had neither seen him do it nor heard him mention it—but had his best friend’s project on it, too.

Elisabeth and the boys turned the house upside down before her youngest, nine-year-old David, located it. For some reason found on the fireplace mantel instead of in an ordinary place such as the countless shirts, pants, jackets, or backpack pockets they’d check.

The whole drama caused the boys to miss their buses, compelling Elisabeth to drive them to school, two separate schools. David, eleven-year-old Josh, and seventeen-year-old Pete—all except Michael, the guilty one—jabbering anxiously about being late, begging Elisabeth to go faster although she was locked in immovable traffic while the clock sped on, making her late for her meeting. In the tension, knocking over her coffee, spilling it all over the front seat of the SUV, covering everything within a two-foot radius, including her new suit, old shoes, and open briefcase. Several files, dozens of tax returns, and the tan leather would carry the smell of stale coffee till the end of their days.

Elisabeth, arriving at work frazzled, harried, mentally jammed. As difficult as the early morning hours had been, finding there that things could get worse. Having been late to the meeting, her boss, Palmer, had injudiciously offered to cover for her. Apparently in no shape to do it. A liquid breakfast.

Palmer’s boss had to deal with it. Once the clients had gone and Palmer had been sent home, Elisabeth was called in on the carpet. Asked
to please close the door. Her heart, sinking fast at those words. A stern reprimand for being late. Followed by a general discussion regarding Palmer, what to do about him, and a thorough rundown of her upcoming deadlines and any of Palmer’s deadlines that she was aware of.

Finally, Elisabeth, chastised, returned to her office, obediently getting busy behind her large desk, surrounded by pictures of Richard and the boys. None more recent than five years ago, in frames of various worth. Wondering if this was it.

Was it? Was this it? Was this all there was?

Chin on her palm on her elbow on her desk. Longing for something to cheer her up. Giving in to her usual quick pick-me-up. Doing what she often did: logging onto PuppyFinder.com. To stare at the sweet faces of puppies. Today Yorkshire terriers; yesterday it had been beagles, before that collies. A brief run through all the puppies before reluctantly X’ing out. Forcing her way back into the grind of the day.

In the meantime, Ann was at home with her grandchildren. All five of her daughters left one or more of their too far.

Ann spent the morning as she always did: entertaining, reading to, painting with, coloring with, allowing thirty minutes of TV time to, and otherwise feeding, diapering, and occupying all seven children. She fed them breakfast at nine—each got cinnamon toast and a glass of juice—and then let them discover life on their own in the playroom while she had her tall coffee, the third of the day, and three pieces of whole wheat toast. Ready to act in a heartbeat if she needed to. Watching carefully over the children from her kitchen table. Admiring the way they interacted with one another at such young ages and how intently they focused on something they had never seen before.

Lunch was macaroni and cheese in seven small bowls, one large one for her, and broccoli, which—and this always surprised her—they all
liked. She took hers with melted butter; theirs was plain. Each child got a cup of milk.

Ann had another tall coffee.

At 3:15, David and Josh arrived and started their homework, enjoying the cookies and milk she gave them while she had another coffee, her fifth and last for the day. At 4:00, because it was a Tuesday, she piled the two grandkids she still had left into the Chrysler minivan—the others had already been picked up—to drive David and Josh to their piano lessons, dropping off one of the two other grandkids at home on the way.

Ann, playing with four-year-old Brandon during the piano lessons, doing her best to keep him from getting too bored and out of control. Pulling a bag of pretzels out when all else started to fail. Keeping him happy until they piled back into the minivan and headed home, a full thirty-five-minute drive when traffic was not a problem—which never happened on Long Island. First swinging by the school to pick up Elisabeth’s Michael from baseball practice. He greeted her with a nonchalant wave, climbed into the minivan, remaining hooked up to his iPod—as usual. Lately.

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. Picking 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.”