Keeping Time: A Novel (8 page)

“Well,” Elisabeth, struggling to say something that would belie the obvious conclusion this teacher must be drawing, that she was a totally checked-out parent, “you see …” feeling very much the forty-four-year-old she had become, perimenopausal, period-skipping. This must
be it, she thought. The slow decline, rapidly accelerating. Wishing that someone else would step in and do the talking. How about Richard, for example? He would do a much better job. “Let me see … his last math test—” Her eyes falling upon her computer screen, stopping her in her tracks. The headline news: Dart Man struck again.

Mrs. Caulfield’s voice cutting into her thoughts. “Okay.” Sounding exasperated. “We must come up with a strategy to get through to him the importance of the Regents exams and getting his grades back to where they should be. He has a math and English Regents, too, I understand.” conclusionhabme

“I, uh …” Elisabeth, scanning the news story to see when and where Dart Man had struck. Incapable of pulling her eyes from the screen. Unable to focus on the telephone in her hand. Reading that the police were seeking any information regarding this elusive criminal who had struck again this afternoon on East Forty-eighth Street and Lexington Avenue, hitting a woman in her mid-thirties while waiting for the light to change.

Elisabeth’s mind flying through the facts. It couldn’t be Richard. He rode his bike only on Mondays and Thursdays, and today was Wednesday! A feeling of relief washing over her. It was finished—all her silly Dart Man fears, just because Richard liked darts and rode his bike in the city twice a week. She really needed a vacation. Thank goodness school and all the attendant parental duties were finally ending, bringing on the relative relaxation of summer.

“Mrs. Jetty?” The voice again, interrupting her.

Elisabeth, snapping out of it. Trying to backtrack to the last question, the one she was supposedly busy working out an answer for.

“I, uh—” groping for a response. Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a big problem anymore. Nothing she couldn’t handle. “Mrs. Caulfield, Michael will be all right. I’ll see to it that he studies for the new final you are so generously letting him retake on Monday. And he’ll do fine on the Regents. I’m confident he will.”

“I hope you’re right.” Mrs. Caulfield, barely concealing her doubt.

Cordial good-byes. Hanging up. Elisabeth, leaning back in her chair.

Inhaling, exhaling calmly. All tension regarding Richard dissolving. Regaining her footing—not as confident as she had led Mrs. Caulfield to believe, but confident enough. She would find the strength and persistence toword, but ther

THIRTEEN

THE NIGHT BEFORE Daisy’s trip toabies in strollersitDaisy Phillips New York, her fingers and toes, tingling with excitement. Two red suitcases lay open side by side on her bed. Daisy, sitting quietly next to them, her hands in her lap. Reviewing things again.

She had packed and repacked several times. Sometimes the baby blankets made the cut; sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes she thought it was stupid to take them; sometimes she thought it would be nice to have them. Sometimes she didn’t have the space for them; sometimes she did.

Checking her passport, tickets, flight information, U.S. currency. She had gone to the hairdresser. She had called her friends to say good-bye. She talked to her new boss at the library and explained that she would be gone for a month or more. The new boss smiled sweetly and suggested that Daisy needn’t call when she got back, thanking her for her past services. Daisy didn’t mind. Without Grace Parker she no longer had the same appetite for the job.

Going over all the travel plans in her head. The baby blankets—for the moment, anyway—omitted. Daisy, looking at the clock. Only seven. Wanting a good night’s sleep before traveling, but seven was ridiculous. And, besides, there was something else that needed doing.

Getting up, pouring herself a Cointreau, taking it into the bedroom
with her. Thinking about Paul, picturing him getting ready. She had seen it so many times that it was not hard to imagine. It calmed her to think of him—or maybe that was the Cointreau. Or maybe both.

Back on the bed, thoughts of Paul leading to thoughts of Michael. The reason for the trip. Finishing her drink, deciding not to put it off any longer. Picking up the shoe box from her bedside table that had been brought up earlier from the cellar, before the flood. The shoe box containing Michael’s letters—letters that she hadn’t seen in almost six decades.

Carrying the shoe box tightly against her body to the piano, the grand piano where Michael had played, thirsting for it as if it were life-providing water, so parched were his days on the military base.

Daisy, down at the piano, allowing herself to remember sitting beside him on the very same bench, watching the flight of his fingers over the keyboard, marveling at their speed and touch, delighting in the miraculous sounds they produced. In love with his face—the knit brows, taut jaw, hair flung back off his forehead, penetrating eyes deep in concentration. All of it, all of him, channeling into deep, mysterious reservoirs of passion. For the music, for life, for her. When he played, Daisy could feel his every heartbeat merging with hers.

Lifting her hand, running her fingers slowly over the keys. Paul had often suggested that the boys study piano, but she had always found a reason to dissuade him. She just couldn’t bear to see them tinkering with it. Couldn’t bear to have it have a place in her life or cause her to think about what could have been.

Taking a deep breath, opening the shoe box. His handwriting, there. Until this moment she would not have been able to bring his handwriting to mind, but now that she saw it, she recognized it immediately. A nostalgic warmth passed through her, gazing into the box at the dozens of letters in there. She would read them all.

Picking up the first one, relieved to see that it had a return address on it: Michael Baker, 11440 Second Street, Apt. 2, Brooklyn, New York.

This was her starting point: step one in tracking him down.

Gingerly opening the envelope, musty, threatening disintegration.

tell her she couldexpectedulDaisy, reading—slowly at first, because they were just words, but as she continued, a certain rhythm, a particular way of speaking, an American accent, beginning to reawaken in her—the way he had called her Little Nugget.

By the end of the third letter it was his voice, not hers, that she heard.

DAISY, REREADING EACH LETTER TWICE, eighty-seven in all. Each one as well written and full of feeling as the others.

Rereading the letters, an unreal experience. It was like a book, someone else’s life, someone she knew intimately. She was so absorbed by the letters that she almost didn’t hear the doorbell.

Lenny. Lenny and Sarah. Lenny, throwing himself around Daisy, planting a heavy kiss on her cheek, saying, “We’re just coming from Dennis’s. He tells me you’re off to New York. Are you?”

Daisy, laughing happily, stepping back to let them enter. A piece of her, still in the letters.

“Come in,” Daisy, cheerily. “How about a nice hot cup of tea?”

“No, thanks. We’re not going to stay long.” Following Daisy into the kitchen. “We just wanted to stop by, wish you well.”

“Oh, have a quick cup. It won’t take long.” Daisy, putting the kettle on.

Lenny and Sarah pulling out chairs, seating themselves at the table. “So what’s all this about New York?”

Daisy, spilling everything, except anything about the watch.

Lenny, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach, listening, smiling. “Maybe we’ll go too, someday, huh, Sarah?” Sarah, glowing at the thought, saying she’d love to. “You go lay out the groundwork, blaze the trail. Sarah and I can follow in your footsteps.”

Daisy, smiling, studying Sarah. Delighted to take in her warm eyes and other features. Happy that this one seemed different in looks, in manner.

Lenny, “And I hear that when you come back, this house might be sold.”

The water, reaching its boiling point. The kettle, screeching. Daisy, jumping up, turning off the heat. Standing there, kettle in hand. Puzzled. “Who told you that?”

“Dennis just did.” Lenny, pushing away the teacup she had laid out for him.

Daisy, carefully pouring water into her cup. Sarah, waving a hand over her cup, saying, “No, thank you.” Daisy, returning the kettle to the stovetop. Asking, “Just now? What exactly did he say?”

“He said you’ve signed the papers. The two of them are practically spending your profits already, about to close the deal on a house in Chessex as if you were already dead and gone.”

Daisy, lips pressed together, staring at Lenny.

“If I might say,” Sarah, speaking up, “it was his wife. It was Amanda who was doing all the talking. If you ask me, Dennis looked as surprised to hear about them close to settling on a new house as you were, Lenny.”

“Could be, could be,” Lenny, agreeing.

Daisy, feisty. “Well, there’s not going to be any sale of this house. Dennis knows that. I never signed the papers. There’s not going to be any profits, so#connecthabck there’s not going to be any big house for Amanda—at least not till I’m dead and buried.” Crossing her arms over her chest.

“Good. I never did like the talk of it. Dennis was probably just afck to its usua

FOURTEEN

THE NIGHT BEFORE DAISY’S ARRIVAL, the house, quiet. Everyone asleep.

Except Elisabeth—again. Lying in bed, her nightgown clammy, damp, matching the sheets beneath her, listening to Richard snore, as she had done so many nights before. But unlike any other night, this time quietly slipping out from under the covers. Creeping silently out of the room, down the stairs to the powder room where she had left a change of clothes. Still not fully sure that she would actually go through with it. It would be, arguably, the craziest thing she had ever done. Moving forward with the plan, brewing coffee in the dimly lit kitchen of the dark, silent house, asking herself again about the wisdom of her quest.

Deciding that crazy or not, she was going to do it.

Pouring the steaming hot coffee into her well-worn stainless steel travel mug. Unable to remember the last time she had had coffee from a regular ceramic mug while sitting at her kitchen table. Who didn’t only have coffee on the go anymore? Adding skim milk, a no-calorie sweetener. Grabbing a box of cookies, a can of peanuts, not wanting to get sidetracked by hunger or exhaustion. Slinking soundlessly out of the kitchen into the cool night air, down the front path, and onto the paved driveway.

Slowly opening her car door, noiselessly. Placing her coffee in the
cup holder, the food and her handbag on the passenger seat. About to get in, stopping herself, with one foot in and one out. Deciding to check his car first.

Over to it, his brand-new silver BMW. Kneeling on the driver’s seat. Her palms surfing the upholstery, the carpeting, under the seats. Scanning the whole interior.?” Elisabeth, askingfha home and

For darts.

If he was Dart Man, he would have darts.

Scouring the inside, coming up empty. Relieved but not surprised. It would be foolish of him to keep them in there. Their absence proved nothing. They would be too easily detected in his car, stashed under a seat or in a glove compartment. The boys could go into his car on a whim, and so could she. Elisabeth, out of his car, closing the door softly.

Slipping into her leased black Mercedes SUV. Heading out.

To Manhattan. To Richard’s office. To check for darts.

Knowing it was crazy but going all the same—through the dark and empty Port Washington streets, along the harbor and around the curve to Main Street, past the hardware store and the library, past the many restaurants, gas stations, pubs, delis, and bagel stores toward the highway.

Daisy was coming tomorrow. Elisabeth needed to know if she had invited this old cousin to Dart Man’s house.

IT WAS NO TROUBLE for Elisabeth to get into Richard’s building through revolving doors into a vast lobby at 1:30 in the morning. All it took was her driver’s license. The security guards tended not to mess with partners’ spouses.

The elevator, opening into the ultramodern, high-tech reception room of his thirty-sixth floor office. Elisabeth, checking the long hallways, right and left, relieved to find them free of people. She hadn’t exactly figured out what she would say.

Although she hadn’t visited it in years, she had no trouble remembering the way to Richard’s office. When Steve and Pete were small she used to take them to Richard’s office every Christmas. They would all go together to see the tree at Rockefeller Center before elbowing their way through FAO Schwarz and joining the line of people inching past the wonderful store windows: Macy’s at Herald Square, Lord & Taylor, and Saks on Fifth Avenue. Elisabeth loved the boys’ rosy-cheeked faces peering keenly at the creative, beautifully crafted, mechanically operated moving displays.

But they hadn’t made the Christmas trek to the city in years. Elisabeth, promising herself then and there, creeping down the artwork-lined, plush-carpeted hallway, that despite whatever insanity was going on at the time, come hell or high water she would take her boys in next Christmas—David, Josh, and even difficult Michael who was still defiantly refusing to study, claiming not to care about school or grades.

Another blowout earlier in the evening. She had to hide his iPod, send him to his room, imprison him all night, not knowing what he was doing in there. He was asleep before she was; that much she knew.

Elisabeth, switching on the light in Richard’s office, stepping inside. Feeling sneaky and creepy.

And guilty—because of the first noticeable things: all over his desk and credenza, pictures of her and the boys, pictures she didn’t even know he had. Elisabeth, staring at them, her heart beating faster, picking one up, holding it. Seeing her life objectively just as any visitor to Richard’s desk might. Her life looking mighty good. Smiling faces of her handsome sons on vacations. She and Richard through the years, starting with the wedding photo, tracking time through to this past Christmas. A picture she didn’t even know he had, of them hugging in front of the decorated tree, in a rare moment when they were both home and awake and unoccupied enough to pose for a#. Thankhabck picture. Steve, home from college, had taken it. She remembered that. And here it was, framed, on his desk.
When had Richard done that? When had he selected the picture, bought the frame, and framed it without even mentioning it to her?