Keeping Time: A Novel (3 page)

Looking down at the drape of it; the hem reaching the cellar floor. Getting a glimpse of the back. Picturing her sons seeing her now. Laughing at what they would think.

Taking it off, replacing it neatly in the box, her mind drifting
back to the one unopened box, the one housing the jewelry box. Returning to it.

Opening it. Peering inside. Seeing the jewelry box among other miscellaneous things, after almost sixty years. Reaching in. Lifting it out. Bringing it over to the stairs. Leaving it there to take up with her once she had found the overalls.

Seeing something at the stairs reminding her of what the old hardware store man had said to do. Doing what he had said. Turning the main water shutoff valve.

Feeling like a plumber.

Three boxes later, finding Paul’s overalls. Bringing them upstairs with her along with the jewelry box—and something else: the baby blankets. Into her bedroom, her arms full of reclaimed booty. The overalls over the back of the chair, the jewelry box on the bedside table, the baby blankets laid lovingly on the bed.

Daisy, stepping back to admire the blankets. In their new home.

HALF AN HOUR LATER—overalls on. Shower head off. Frayed washer out. Stepping stool in. Daisy on it—one hand on the white shower tile for support, one finger probing around to make sure the new washer was placed correctly and smoothed out. Getting down to retrieve a flashlight, peering inside.

All looking good. Daisy excited, replacing the shower head again. Screwing it in.

She had done it. Off the stool again, back on the bathroom floor, looking up at the shower, congratulating herself. It looked perfect. And as the seconds passed, no drip!

Then, a humbling thought. She had turned the main water shutoff valve. Of course there was no drip. Quickly returning to the cellar to
turn the water back on, then hurrying back to the shower to watch for water.

No drip! Now she could be proud.

Standing there, letting the minutes pass, enjoying herself. She
could
learn to do new things on her own. Eager to tell Dennis. She would call him right away and ask him to come over tomorrow even singsong voice.

Feeling proud and happy, running into her bedroom to change out of her overalls and into her work clothes.

NOTHING COULD SHAKE Daisy’s good mood because nothing had felt so good in a long time. When, during Grace Parker’s retirement party, Grace appeared at Daisy’s side to whisper and point out Grace’s replacement, Daisy looked at the New Grace Parker and didn’t worry. When Daisy heard the New Grace Parker—fifty years her junior—cheerfully and enthusiastically talking about the new technologies they would now be implementing to improve and update the library, Daisy didn’t panic. And when she heard more about Grace’s illustrious retirement plans, Daisy didn’t feel a sharp pain in her side.

Instead, Daisy wanted to talk about her plumbing repair.

Imagining herself going back to the old hardware store man and discussing it with him. Maybe picking up some new tools or buying herself a little tool box. And asking him if he knew anyone who could cut her lawn. She was convinced now that it was true: Hardware stores really could fix life’s problems.

But Daisy was too tired after the library to do anything but go home, and when she got there, she was too tired to do more than a simple meal, some TV, Cointreau, a little light reading, and early bed. Eyeing the jewelry box on her bedside table. Too tired to look. After all those years, it could wait another day.

Getting into bed, under her new rel="styleshe

FIVE

DAISY, THREE DAYS in the hospital recovering.

Sleeping through the first two days.

The third day, Daisy sitting up. Feeling guilty, contrite, foolish. Her visitors: Dennis, Amanda, and Gabriel, and Lenny. He showed up three hours later than everyone else, full of good cheer, scooping Daisy up in his massive arms, planting a hearty kiss on both cheeks before lowering her softly back down on the stiff hospital pillow. And with him, someone new. A new girlfriend, Sarah. All eyes on Sarah during introductions; everyone silently wondering if Lenny realized he had broken the mold with this one—starting with her age, which was apparently in striking distance of his. And her hair color—a natural brown. And her clothes fitting as if they were picked for her current self, not her younger self. And her overall look—a smarter, warmer, more plainly attractive one than all his many previous girlfriends.

All of them kicking around in Daisy’s private room, politely sharing the shortage of chairs, shuffling around one another, altering positions. Gabriel, claiming the foot of her bed.

Daisy started several conversations that went nowhere. Instead, the talk seemed to motor around in circles on wheels of its own, spiraling
around a center that Daisy hoped would never bloom. It went like this:

GABRIEL: I think it’s cool, Nan, that you hung in there all day on the top of that ladder.">They thanked heritDaisy Phillips

   A general nodding in agreement.

DAISY: I feel awful about having all those people come to the house. Can you imagine? Firemen, electric workers, ambulance people, all out in that pouring rain to rescue a simpleton stranded on a ladder in her own cellar.

LENNY: It wasn’t your fault, Mum. It could have happened to anybody.

DENNIS: Except that the bubble in the washing machine hose probably burst when she turned the main water valve back on. The renewed pressure probably did it.

LENNY: So? All she did was turn the main water on and off like anybody else would have done. I’m proud of you, Mum, changing that washer successfully.

   Daisy smiled. Proud of herself, too, until remembering where it got her.

DENNIS: I admit the wire that shorted out, the one that exploded the panel box, was a bit of simple bad luck, but none of this would have happened if the water main hadn’t been touched. It was crazy of you, Mum, to think you could do this sort of thing on your own.

LENNY [shrugging]: You don’t know that. Maybe the hose was going to burst at that moment regardless. We’ll never know. It’s not as if there’s any special skill involved in turning on a water main.

GABRIEL: I think it’s cool, Nan, that you hung in there all day on the top of that ladder.

   A general nodding in agreement.

DENNIS: So, I guess we can all agree now that Mum shouldn’t be on her own anymore. This is precisely the kind of thing we’re seeking to avoid. And, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, bringing up Chessex again.

LENNY: Then don’t. She doesn’t want to go, do you, Mum?

   “I, uh, well …” Daisy, scanning mental files, sifting through categories of polite, diplomatic answers. Refraining from shouting out that she didn’t want it indeed. Feeling Amanda’s eyes on her as if they actually had weight to them.

LENNY [continuing]: See, she doesn’t. [Eyeing Daisy closely] Right? Senior apartments? That’s not like you, Mum. You don’t really want that, do you? And, besides, it’s too far.

DENNIS: Far from what, Lenny?

LENNY: From me. [Simply put.]

DENNIS [exasperated]: Easy for you to champion her staying, Lenny. When’s the last time you did anything for her? When’s the last time she called
you
for help?

LENNY [a wide, guilty smile. Wiping his mouth with big, meaty fingers.] Must have been when Thatcher was PM.

DAISY: Those poor firemen will probably be telling the story forever, talking about the silly old woman on the top of the ladder.

G tell her she could since ulABRIEL: Maybe, but I think it’s cool, Nan, that you hung in there all day on the top of that ladder.

   A general nodding in agreement, and they would start around again. The same conversation playing through the long minutes of the afternoon, straight into the slowly dimming evening until, after Lenny, Sarah, and Gabriel had said their good-byes while Amanda, with her thick, glossy mahogany hair and amber eyes, her long and lanky body, her long slender
nose on her long slender face, was glancing at a fashion magazine—the pictures, not the articles—a new topic of conversation popped up, breaking the pattern.

For Daisy, a doozy.

Dennis, staring blankly at the TV—the evening news on, suddenly turning to his mother, saying, “By the way, Mum, who’s Michael?”

“Michael?” Daisy, blinking.

“You were talking about a Michael when you were babbling. When I found you. You were saying, ‘Michael’ and something about a box or a watch.”

“Did I really?” Daisy, mystified.

Dennis, nodding. “Any idea who you might have meant?”

Daisy, shaking her head.

But of course she did.

She knew this: Michael Baker. 1945. Years before Paul.

A U.S. soldier. So handsome in an American way, like the movie stars. Like Gary Cooper. An easy, open, honest face, quick to reveal emotions. Surprising Daisy, this quality in a soldier, she had always thought they had faces made of stone. His uniform, dark green. Remembering the way it made him look: important, part of something essential. Capable, strong, smart, daring, brave. Ready for anything. Fearless, but not reckless.

Daisy, on the hospital bed, remembering the first time she saw him; she was convinced her heart had stopped, before resuming triple time. All he did was buy a newspaper, a cup of tea, a custard tart. To Daisy his every movement was miraculous. So tall. Broad shouldered. His hands and fingers strong, beautiful. Nothing at all like the boys she went to school with. Built nothing like the men in the village. Where did he get those shoulders? Those dark eyes? That chin? He had to be a movie star. That was her first thought. He had to be there filming a picture. She could feel her face burning red, part of her wanting to look away, to hide, to run, but unable to turn from him. His pull, too strong.

He wasn’t there filming a picture. He was there with a friend, another American soldier, Gilbert Gilmore. They had been granted a few days’ leave to make the trip involving a train, a bus, and a ferry—all the way from the American Burtonwood, Warrington Air Base, twenty-five miles outside Liverpool, on the other side of the River Mersey—to visit Gilbert’s mother, who lived in Lancashire, where Daisy’s parents’ bakery was.

Gilbert had gone on to his mother’s. Michael, into the shop.

Daisy couldn’t help but stare. In all her eighteen years, she had never seen such a perfect individual, and he was right there! Her father was serving him! This man, this soldier, this artwork was sitting right there where other, more ordinary people usually sat. She pretended to be busy, was barely breathing, sneaking peeks as he ate.

Her father struck up a conversation with him. Daisy listened intently, not missing a word. The two had a lot of trouble understanding each other+e close. It was all English, but their accents were so different that it might as well have been two distinct languages. They both had to slow their words to a crawl, pronounce each word carefully, and sometimes even spell them out. When he told her father his name, Daisy rolled the name, Michael Baker, slowly over her tongue as if it were candy, a sweet special treat reserved for Sundays.

Michael asked her father what there was to do in the town. He said he would be there for four days and that while he’d be lodging at Gilbert’s mother’s, he wanted to give his friend time alone with his family. He wondered if there was any good fishing around. He said he would like to stay outside, the weather was so nice.

Daisy’s father told him he could set him up with all the gear he would need to fish, and that Daisy could walk him over to the best fishing around. Daisy felt her face, already red, get impossibly redder when Michael turned to look at her. She felt heat pricking around her neck and ears. Felt her insides melting like butter. Michael smiled and said thank you, said that that would be great.

Daisy cleared his plate and teacup while her father took him out back to the shed. She stared at the crumbs he had left behind, wanting to eat them, to inhale them. She did neither, only scraped them into the trash can and washed the plate clean. Daisy, remembering the difficult, awkward, stumbling conversation as they walked along to the lake. Remembering how he had asked her if she thought it would be all right to sit with him for a while while he fished. How she had nodded without speaking, and sat primly on the rocky bank under a tree.

How she was totally hooked long before that first fish was.

And Daisy, propped up on the hospital bed, was certain of this: He had loved her, too. He called her Little Nugget. He spent hours playing the piano for her, sitting side by side on the piano bench. He showed her card tricks, stowed cherry lollipops in the pockets of his uniform. Bought Maltesers to share with her. He divided the last malted milk ball in the bag in half, then divided his half again and slipped it into her mouth.

The war ended. Michael was going home. He came to her, knowing he shouldn’t. He sneaked off base that last night and traveled the distance in the dark by a train, a bus, and a ferry, and got to her in the middle of the night. He tapped lightly on her bedroom window, careful to wake only her. Daisy opened it quietly, and in he climbed. He got down on one knee on the braided blue rug on her floor, took her hands in his, studied her fingers, and ran all his strong, gorgeous musical fingers over hers. Then he cleared his throat and said that there was no other like her on all the earth, not in his country or anyone else’s, that he wanted nothing more in all the world than for her to be his wife, and that he was then and there pledging himself to her forever, whether she consented to be his wife or not.

Daisy, remembering him, his eyes, his breath on her neck. It was all coming back to her now. The spigot opened, and all manner of things rushed out. Remembering the way he had looked at her when he spoke those words—handsome, honest, strong. And his voice as he whispered, how it broke with emotion, and how she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

There was an absence of sound. No rustling of starched bed linens or cotton pajamas. No creaking of the floorboards. From the moment those words left his mouth until she spoke, it was as though all was suspended in a vacuum.