Lost in the Forest (16 page)

Maria said, “I suppose because I had no idea she’d look like that.”

Eva let out a dismissive pffft of air.

“Oh, Eva,” Maria said, cajoling. “I thought it was a kind of joke, one we’d get and she wouldn’t. No harm done, really.”

Mark said, “Come on, Eva, don’t spoil your party.”

She turned to him. “You don’t think that was distasteful? You don’t think it was a betrayal of Daisy, really?”

“You just don’t like the idea that she’s growing up,” Duncan said. “That she’s sexual. And that’s too completely banal, Eva. The budding child, the jealous mom. How unworthy of you.” He was actually smiling, unafraid of Eva’s rage.

She turned to Duncan and said, “You don’t know anything about Daisy.”

His lip lifted. “She’s probably got a few secrets from you too, darling.”

Mark looked up and saw his daughter crossing the lighted living room, nearly at the open doorway “Daze!” he said, a little too loudly.

The others looked around. She was wearing her gauzy shirt again, and the baggy khaki shorts she’d had on before. But she was barefoot and she hadn’t removed the garish lipstick or the
black eyeshadow. As she approached the candlelit table, he was actually more startled by her appearance now than he’d been when she was in costume. It was as if she’d not changed back all the way, as if some aspect of the character she’d acted had lingered in her. And in this light, he saw how beautiful she was going to be, with her stern elongated face. As elegant as a Modigliani.

She sat down just as Gracie appeared at the doorway, the glowing cake a warm light under her big generous face as she approached them. She began to sing “Happy Birthday,” and they joined in. Mark was sitting next to Duncan, and it seemed to him that even singing, the man could imbue his words with sarcasm.

But the singing, the cake, and Gracie’s and Daisy’s arrivals had moved them on—the ugly moment of Eva’s anger was forgotten by the time she blew the candles out. While they ate dessert, Fletcher and Maria were talking about their intention to see
A Fish Called Wanda
, and then they were all speaking of John Cleese—was he the funniest man alive?—and speculating as to which of the Monty Python actors would survive independently the longest.

Mark saw Daisy refill her own wineglass. He leaned over, “How much have you had to drink, Daze?”

She looked at him, levelly. She’d eaten most of her lipstick off with the ice cream and cake, but he was aware of a changed consciousness about her on his part.

“If you can’t tell how much I’ve had, what does it matter?”

Was it a joke? Was it hostile? Mark couldn’t tell. Was it only a question? He looked away, then back. He said, “You’re turning into a real smart-ass, aren’t you?”

Something cool and slightly tough happened to her face. She smiled at him and then turned away.

Gracie and Maria had brought Eva’s presents outside, and she opened them one by one in the slow, gracious way she had, commenting even on the papers they were wrapped in, the funny or sweet cards. They were mostly kitchen items—everyone knew she liked to cook. A pudding mold, a fancy device for slicing vegetables. But Gracie had given her the painted basket, and Mark had
gone back to the same store, alone, and bought her an antique necklace of jet beads. She exclaimed over everything, but it seemed to him she was especially warm about the beads. She put them on immediately at any rate, and turned to the table, her face lifted. “How do I look?” she asked flirtatiously, and Mark was in the chorus answering, beautiful, wonderful, fabulous. And she did, he thought.

A candle guttered and went out. “Oh, that’s my cue,” Eva said. “It’s late, and I should get Theo home.”

She stood and thanked them all again, thanked Gracie especially. Hugged her. They were all standing now. Maria began to gather Eva’s presents. Daisy and Fletcher were clearing. Eva had gone into the house.

She came back into the living room with Theo, his dead weight draped over her upper body and shoulder, his bottom sitting on her arm. He whimpered as she came into the light, and turned his face into her neck.

“I’ll put the presents in the car,” Maria said.

“No, let Daisy,” Eva answered. “I need her anyway. We’ve got to get going.”

But Daisy was in the kitchen, helping, so Maria and Mark together carried the presents out, along with a big chunk of cake Gracie had wrapped in tin foil for Eva to take home.

When she’d settled Theo in the backseat, Eva got behind the wheel.

Mark shut her door and stood leaning on it, looking down at her. “Why don’t I bring Daisy home in a bit?” he said. “I’d like the time with her.”

Eva looked at him a moment. Could she tell that he was using Daisy as a way to come to her house? That what he wanted was time with her, Eva, time which might be possible if he brought Daisy home?

“Okay,” she said. Her voice was tired. “But not too long. We get up at the same old time as usual tomorrow.”

“No, we’ll just get the cleanup launched.”

In the truck ten minutes later, Daisy was unusually voluble. She was explaining the Latin roots of the words they’d acted out. Latin-root words were good for Charades because they divided up wonderfully, she was telling him. She loved Latin-root words. “Even though you’re not supposed to.”

“And that would be because …?”

“Oh, they’re too long, too elaborate and formal. Simpler words are more elegant. This is what
they say
,” she pronounced, heavily, and her hands lifted, her fingers curved to make quotation marks.

“You got me,” he said. “Words, turds, in my book.”

“Well, we know about you and books.”

He laughed. “Ah, Daisy, sad but true.”

“Maybe I’ll be a writer,” she said. “Famous, of course.” She laughed quickly, and then made a face: how absurd, how pretentious.

“I’d read
your
books,” he said. “Every word.”

“I like to write,” she said, suddenly serious. “I’m good at it.” A little silence fell between them. Mark was watching the glowing red taillights ahead of him. It made him think of the nights he’d followed Amy home, the slow fever rising in him at the thought of what they would do together, what they were about to do. He remembered catching up with her at the door, slamming into her, carrying her back to the bed. He remembered her legs, their grip around his hips.

He did that while he was married to Eva, while he loved Eva. What a useless fuck he was, finally. There was no chance Eva would take him back. None.

Daisy was talking about writing. About how hard it was most of the time, finding the right words. But how every now and then it felt like a gift, like something that just happened, that she just
knew
. And then it seemed she was reciting a poem about that. Or something ordered and rhythmic that connected to the idea.

When she was silent again, Mark said, “Is that you?
Your
words?” They’d stopped at the intersection entering St. Helena.

“Pphhhh!” she laughed. “I
wish
. It’s Emily
Dick
inson, Dad.”

“Well, pardon me,” he said. The light changed. “Still, I like it. Her. Them. Them words.”

After a moment she said, “But it’s true, you know.”

“What?”

“That when the words come, it seems easy and natural.
Native
, is what Emily Dickinson says. It seems so native that you forget what a gift it is.”

“ ‘Native’ is a nice word for natural. Native. To me that’s like, when I hold a grape, when I taste it, knowing how soon we should pick. I can measure it too—I do measure it—but I also know it by its weight in my hand, by its flavor.” He smiled. He was salivating, thinking of it. “What is it she said about sipping wine?” he asked.

“I didn’t think of that, Dad.” Her face was open, delighted.

“Of what?”

“Of the connection with
wine
! How she’s comparing the arrival of the right words with the right wine.” She frowned. “Well, maybe with a holy wine.”

He thought of Eva, of how he’d like her to be hearing this—Daisy, talking this way. Talking to him. “Can you write it down for me?” he asked. “The whole poem?”

“Sure,” she said.

At Eva’s house, there was no one downstairs, but Mark could hear her moving around above him, putting Theo down. He and Daisy went into the living room. Daisy sat down in a big armchair. She leaned back, her legs stretched out in front of her. She slowly heeled her sandals off. “I would hate to be forty-three,” she said abruptly.

He laughed and looked over at her, part woman, part girl. “Say it this way, Daze: ‘I will hate it when I am forty-three.’ Because one thing for certain is that the day is going to come when you too will be forty-three. That is for sure.”

“Yeah, well. You may believe that, but I don’t.”

Mark was restless, moving around the room, picking things up, examining them—the icons of Eva’s life with John. Though
some of them he recognized. Some of them she’d had when they were married too: a wooden darning egg, a glass box that held the buttons from the Civil War uniform of a great-great-uncle. He stopped in front of a painting on the wall. It was a small landscape, done with thick luminous smears of paint. You wanted either to eat it or be in it, he thought.

“The oldest I want to get is about twenty-five,” Daisy said.

“But all the good stuff happens after that,” he said distractedly.

“Oh, yeah. Like divorce and betrayal and dying and general wretchedness.”

He looked at her. She had said this casually, sarcastically, but she had said it. Is this what she thought? Is this what his life and Eva’s had made her believe? And John’s too, he supposed, dying the way he did.

He didn’t want to think this. He didn’t want her to think it.

“No,” he said. He wanted to correct this vision. “The
good
stuff. Like marriage and children and getting really skilled at the work you choose. And choosing the work, too.”

She shifted in her chair, watching him. Her hands were laced together across her belly. She shrugged and said, “Yeah, and
then
divorce and betrayal and all that other stuff.”

“Also,” he said, pretending deep thought, “it must be that getting
nicer
happens a little later too. Probably after twenty-five. Definitely long, long after fourteen.”

“Very funny, Daddy. And I’m fifteen, for those who don’t keep up with these things.”

“Fifteen.”

“Remember? You gave me a bracelet?”

He did remember. Vaguely. He came and sat down across from her. Between them was a low square table with three stacks of books on it. There were also several Matchbox cars. Mark picked one up. A convertible. “Well, how’s fifteen?” he asked.

“You must have noticed, Dad.”

“I guess I haven’t. How is it?”

“Fifteen. Fifteen sucks. I hope I’m never fifteen again.”

He set the car down. “Little fear of that.”

“Thank God.” She sat up a little straighter and scratched her leg. She was frowning. “But I wonder what work I
will
be good at.”

“Maybe you’ll run a bookstore. Eva says you’re good at that.”

She made a face. “That’s Mom’s thing.”

“Maybe you’ll be … an actress. You were terrific tonight, playing the dominatrix.”

She looked at him. Her face lit mischievously, her dark brows opening her eyes wide. “Maybe I’ll just be a dominatrix.”

He laughed. Daisy. This was fun, being with her.

When they heard Eva on the stairs, Mark was watching Daisy’s face. It shifted—it closed somehow—and he felt a pang for Eva, for what this meant about her relations with Daisy. Before Eva had stepped in the doorway, Daisy was standing up. She passed her mother as Eva entered the room. “Night, Mom,” she said.

“Okay, sweetie,” Eva answered. She seemed distracted. She wouldn’t have noticed, then.

She came in and sank onto the couch at its opposite end. “Lord!” she said. Daisy was gone, pounding up the stairs.

“You feeling better?” Mark asked.

“Oh! Yes.” She frowned. “You mean, about Daisy at the party?”

He nodded.

“Yes. I was just mad at Duncan and Maria, really. I mean, don’t
you
think it was distasteful?”

“Honest to God, Eva, I didn’t. Daisy seemed really fine with it. She was being funny about it just now.”

“Funny how?”

“Joking about it. But not in any … 
distasteful
way.”

“You sounded just like Duncan then.”

“Please.” He turned toward her. She was still wearing the necklace. “Anyway, happy birthday.”

“Yes.” She sounded tired. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It was a nice party, wasn’t it?”

“Except for the distasteful parts.”

She laughed, a snorty laugh. Then she sighed. “Am I such a stuffed shirt? I just want to protect her.”

“From what? No one at the party would hurt Daisy. It’s a safe place for her to pretend to be whatever she wants to pretend. And she was pretending. She put it away, with the costume. Just like dress-ups when she was little.”

“You’re right. I know it. Maybe I was just pissed off because she seemed …” Eva shrugged. “I don’t know. Suddenly to have a life. Beyond my ken, as it were. I felt it with Em too, earlier this summer, schlepping her around. How they’ll have these
lives
. They’ll go off. They’ll fly away, and I seem … stuck. My life seems … so set.” She laughed sadly. “Happy birthday indeed! I. Feel. Old.” Her head swung a little on each word. The necklace glittered.

“Not you, Eva.”

“Well, thanks. You’re sweet.”

“No, I mean it. You’re still—”

She threw up her hands. “ ‘
Still
!’ ” she cried out, and smiled. “See? Listen to yourself.
Still
. You mean,
after all this time. Deep into your old age:
Still.”

“Nah,” he said.

“Nah what?”

“Nah, that’s not what I mean.”

“Okay then,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m just teasing you, anyway.”

“I mean I want you, Eva.”

Her mouth opened a little. He reached his hand out quickly to cover both of hers, which rested on her lap. He was aware of their warmth, and of his fingertips touching her leg through the loose fabric of her skirt. He slid toward her on the couch. He lifted his other hand to her face and set his palm against her cheek. He heard her sharp intake of breath. She leaned her head against his hand. She closed her eyes.