Keeping Time: A Novel (18 page)

Daisy, scratching through the veneer of memories, trying to reach deeper. Half a minute later, saying, “His father worked in the newspaper business and liked to fish. His mother read a lot of books and played the piano. She played on Sundays at church. Michael was very proud of that. I don’t know what they looked like. I never met them.”

Hulda, concentrating, shaking her head. The kettle whistled.

Over tea, seated at a small square table under the open kitchen window, thick summer heat filling the room, Daisy told Hulda about herself and how she had come t#" aid="shao know Michael Baker. She hoped that giving her details would trigger a memory—his cherry lollipops, his card tricks, the way he couldn’t sing and couldn’t hold a tune but could play the piano like none other. He liked to hum and whistle. He might have had a cat. Daisy thought so but wasn’t sure. She thought she remembered his mentioning they had a cat. He liked Maltesers Candies and English marmalade; he had taken two-dozen jars from Dunkirk’s back to New York with him. Daisy, finishing her thoughts, sitting back in her chair, feet together, back straight.

Every eye fixed on Hulda, searching for—hoping for—sparks of recognition.

Nothing. She pushed a plate of cookies toward Michael. Urged him to have one.

He did. Chewing it slowly, telling her the cookies were great.

Hulda, her small eyes shining from a very wrinkled face, saying, “They’re called Mailaenderli. It was my mother’s recipe and her mother’s before her.”

Michael, eating. “What’s his name?” Pointing toward the bird.

“Yodeli.”

“Yodeli?”

Hulda, nodding. “Yodeli Kheist.”

“What kind is he?”

“A Quaker Parrot, twenty-two years old. My late husband named him.”

“He just sits there? He doesn’t fly away?”

“He has no flight wings. They get snipped by the vet.”

“Cool,” Michael. “Can I touch him?”

Hulda, nodding. “Come with me.”

Michael, following her to Yodeli. Watching excitedly as she pet the top of the bird’s head, stroking his long wings, whispering soft, cooing, loving words in another language. After a moment, picking up Michael’s hand, holding it, bringing it slowly to the watchful bird, letting Michael touch it gently—its head and green feathers. Yodeli stiffened but allowed it. Michael, holding his breath. Elisabeth and Daisy, twisting in their seats at the kitchen table to watch. Hulda, continuing to whisper unrecognizable words in a singsong voice.

“Where are you from?” Daisy, asking. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all,” Hulda, saying. “That’s Swiss-German I’m speaking. I’m an old Swiss girl from outside Zurich, a village called Neerach.”

“Is that why he’s called Yodeli?” Michael, asking, tentatively petting it. “Can he yodel?”

Hulda, laughing. “We tried for years. We used to play yodeling albums, hoping he’d pick it up.” Shaking her head. “He never did.”

“I’ve been to Switzerland many times,” Daisy, saying. “It is a gorgeous country, just gorgeous.”

“It is,” Hulda, saying, naming cantons she thought the most beautiful. Alps. Lakes. Villages. Cities.

Michael, continuing with the bird. Turning to his mother. “Mom, can we get one?” Young again. A child’s plea.

Elisabeth, not responding.

Michael, repeating the question. Gently petting it, cooing at the bird, studying it up close,# includhabck looking into its black eyes. Remaining with it even after Hulda returned to the table, slowly lowering herself back into her kitchen chair, talking to Daisy.

Elisabeth, not answering Michael. Feeling grouchy, left out. All this talk about places she had never been. England—Daisy, repeating how awful the weather was and how baffled she was that anyone would want to visit. Switzerland—Hulda, declaring the weather in Switzerland was equally awful to that of England, but the food was better. Segueing into further talk about other places they had both been in Europe.

Elisabeth, frowning, plunking her chin gruffly into the palm of her hand, with her elbow impolitely on the table. Questioning herself: Why was it that she had never been to Europe? She had always wanted to go. Grouchy now about how all her dreams had been ignored for twenty years, swallowed up by children. The two older women, spiraling backward. Elisabeth, catapulting forward, picturing herself in a conversation when she was Hulda’s age. What would she be able to say about her life other than that she had raised five children? That she had once stolen her husband’s bike and left it in Central Park at two in the morning? That she had been a good CPA? That she had never lived anywhere other than Port Washington and was living out her days five miles from where she grew up? That she had never used a passport because she had traveled
only to Mexico, Canada, and the Caribbean, where she hadn’t needed one? That after being a reproductive powerhouse she was moving toward menopause at an age when some women were still having babies?

Elisabeth, going from irritated to irate. Mad and getting madder—at herself, at Richard, at their narrow, little Manhattan–Long Island–centric lives. It was a great big world out there. Why had she put up with seeing so little of it? Vowing then and there that things were going to change. They would go to Europe this summer. All this time they had been spending money on the wrong things. They should sell the living room furniture, sit on crates, buy tickets, see the world. Instead of obsessing over Richard’s bike, they should take a bike tour of Europe.

Elisabeth, tuning back into what Hulda was saying, how much she missed the Alps.

“I’ve been in this country since 1938. It is my adopted home and has been good to me. I love it here and always have, but I’ve never stopped missing the Alps. I can’t. Mountains are in my blood, my soul. They are a permanently missing piece of my heart.” Smiling, she remembered something. “Albert knew how I felt. He used to console me by saying that we lived in the highest building on the street, the top of the hill.”

“Haven’t you ever gone back to Switzerland?” Michael, asking. “To visit?”

“Oh, yes, of course, but not in twenty years. I’m ninety-three years old.” Looking at him, at his earnest young face that had cookie crumbs on his upper lip. “My wonderful husband, Albert, has been dead twenty-one years. Two of my children, bless their souls, have passed away. I have another son living in Venezuela and many grandchildren, some in California, some in Arizona, and some in Venezuela. My friends are all gone. I have family in Switzerland, of course, but no one I’ve kept in touch with.
Who am I going to travel with? Who am I going to stay with? I’m afraid I’m not as lucky or young or as brave as you, Mrs. Phillips,” turning to Daisy, “I could never go back now, but even when I was younger, fitter, and stronger, when I was your age, I was too cowardly to travel alone. And now, of course, it’s too la tell her she could. e closete. I’ll never see the Alps again. I afrom below. Of

TWENTY-NINE

MOVING DAY. LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND. The sun, shining brightly. Clouds far from sight. Dennis, taking that as a good sign.

Sweaty in his pale pink shirt and rumpled gray pants, guiding the moving men, terrified that they would poke a hole in one of his canvasses after he had hired the cheapest outfit he could find. Now near tears as they moved his art collection—his prized possessions, all that he cared about—out of the house and into the moving van. Feeling overwhelmed, a sudden swooning attachment to the house and to Liverpool, thickening as the day wore on—as the house lightened and the truck got heavier.

Yesterday was his last day of work. He had cleared out his office, touching things that hadn’t been touched in decades. He pulled old favorite books, magazines, and flyers off the shelves, dismantling a life there. He had given notice three weeks ago, announcing to shocked stares and open mouths that he would be leaving, moving away. He wished them well, his#playingha home and successor and the others at their desks, computers, workstations, water coolers. All activity momentarily ceased, all faces turned toward him.

They wished him well, too. Saying they were sorry to see him go, that they were looking forward to reading his new book when it came
out. They would be sure to look for it. Did he have any idea of when that would be?

Dennis shook his head. Smiling with coffee cup in hand, shifting his weight, adjusting the waist of his trousers at the belt buckle, under his small paunch. A reflex.

Driving out of the company car park for the last time, filled with doubts, many and varied, and uncertainties, vast and powerful. Had he done the stupidest thing imaginable in giving up his job? In believing in Amanda and her financial predictions of a rosy future? His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His teeth were clamped together. His jaw was locked and his el. Smiling in

THIRTY-ONE

AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES of talk about Daisy. Truth be told, Daisy bashing.

Ann paid the hairdresser, tipped her generously, keeping her eyes averted because of the clumsiness of the money pass. Fixing her attention on the lone plant in the gold-glazed pot with its long, broad, dark green leaves. It was set in the front window and bent toward the hot June sun. Ann tipped the one who had washed her hair and swept her split ends off the floor. She said her good-byes throughout the store, including the regulars in various stages of hair transformation—some with color glopped on flattened hair, some under hair dryers, some under scissors. She tipped the workers well, those who spent their days dwelling in the falsely sweet scents of hair tonics. She left the store with a more confident step than the one she’d had on the way in. She always did.

A short walk back to the car, across a busy summer sidewalk. Back in the driver’s seat, feeling awful about her stinging words and the allegations she had leveled against Daisy. Her words spoken above the noise of hair dryers and surrounding female voices. Now the words, coming back to haunt her. Surely she must have said something nice about Daisy. Ann, thinking back to the hour and a half with Henryka, rerunning the
conversation. Hoping she’d recall something, some passable snippet, some comment she had said that wasn’t awful.

Picturing Henryka, standing with the light brown hair dye, laying it on thick. Picturing herself and her complaints about Daisy, laying them on thick. Ann, feeling thoroughly ashamed. It was all so unlike her. Who was this new dreadful Ann?

Pulling out of the parking spot feeling like a heel. Peeking over her left shoulder with one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to her lips, keeping her mouth shut tight. After twenty-four years with the same hairdresser, Ann was used to her as a confessional. But now feeling terribly sorry that she had. How could she have said those things, some of them not even true? Daisy wasn’t luring Ann’s grandsons over to Elisabeth’s after school with home-baked goodies. Daisy wasn’t smiling coolly when they came to her instead of Ann. Daisy wasn’t saying unkind things to them about Ann. Ann knew that but had said so anyway. She had thrown them in as embellishments.

Feeling dirty. Sitting at a red light, shaking her head as if to send all the mean words flying out of her ears. Wishing the morning undone—not the hair, which seemed to have come out especially nice, but the garbage that had come out of her mouth.

Suddenly aware of how dirty her minivan was with pretzels, crumbs of unknown origin, small plastic toys, Pokémon cards spread across the floor like carpeting, plus an apple core and three small juice boxes in cup holders. Turning the car around, heading for the car wash, the one where they let you sit in the car as it went through. Usually she had one, two, or many children with her. They all loved it, issuing squeals of excitement. This time she would go through it alone.

She paid the dark-haired man with the dripping rag, the one who helped guide her wheels onto the track and told her when to shift into neutral. She paid him more than he asked for, telling him to keep the change. Here, as in the hairdresser’s, she was a very generous tipper.

Sitting back, leaning her head against the headrest, relaxing, letting
the car wash carry her through, cleansing her. Suds slopped on every window. Long, heavy, vertical blue slats pierced through, slapping the front, top, and sides of the minivan with giant rotating brushes. Hard water rushing in from every direction.

Ann, loving the intensity. Feeling safe behind the windows and doors, impregnable in her fortress before the calming, almost soothing follow-up: the application of the hot wax.

And then it was over. Gliding the minivan out on tracks, back into the sunshine of the day. She was asked to get out, to stand aside while four young men went in four separate doors with vacuum hoses, detergents, and torn rags to clean the interior, to make it shine.

Ann, standing on the sidelines, blinking in the glaring sunlight, watching. Letting the young ones do the work, sucking out the grime and dirt with their long rubber hoses. Making her respectable again. Disappearing were the dried, twisted Wendy’s french fries that had been wedged under the seat and the little tinfoil balls of chocolate Kisses tucked in the seat back. Her life being cleansed.

Back in the car, feeling better, more orderly. Back to thoughts of Daisy. Forgiving herself now for her transgressions, ready to start anew. Tonight was a planned dinner at Elisabeth’s. They would be back from their trip to Brooklyn and eager to tell all that had transpired. And she would be there, Ann would, with a bouquet of flowers for Daisy and well wishes for success in whatever it was she was searching for. It was something about a watch and a Brooklyn soldier. She hadn’t followed all that Michael had said when he spelled out his reasons for not going to her house#oke close after school.

Ann, stopping at a florist for a big, beautiful bunch of flowers wrapped in tasteful paper, a bouquet so big that she had to hold it with two hands. In her house she laid it across the kitchen counter. Picturing >

Ann, one interested in the arrival, continuing presence, and well-being of Daisy.

Leaving the kitchen. Finding her son-in-law and his brother in her garage. Her son-in-law had a circular saw, his brother was holding the two-by-four that was being cut. Tremendous noise, wood dust flying, settling on their denim jeans and the garage floor. Ann, standing in the doorway, fingering her gold chain necklace, chatting pleasantly, offering coffee, but they refused.