Keeping Time: A Novel (11 page)

Daisy, tapping Ann on her shoulder before beginning her struggle through the crowd that had loosened and thinned somewhat but was still
large enough to pose a challenge. Daisy, going ahead, politely tapping people on the shoulders, excusing herself through the reluctantly parting crowd. Ann and Elisabeth in her wake. Elisabeth, grabbing Michael by the sleeve. Michael, muttering complaints.

Daisy, in the front, pointing out her suitcase. In the meantime, a very loud murmur was springing up. People, reacting to something coming toward them on the conveyor belt. Pointing. Others craning their necks to see. Everyone ready to laugh at the dummy who had done it—

Michael, “What kind of a moron would do that?”

Daisy, aghast, pushing away a trickle of sadness. They would never get their Dunkirk’s. Then stifling a laugh. Wishing Dennis and Lenny were there. Maybe Dennis wouldn’t find it funny, but Lenny would. He would be roaring with laughter.

#

Michael, “Whoever did it is probably too dumb to feel embarrassed.”

Daisy, watching her mistake approaching, about to be in front of them. Despising that she was going to have to admit it was hers. How could she ask Michael to pick up such a mess? They would probably try to lose her in the parking lot.

The crowd, watching, all eyes on the suitcase, waiting to see who would claim it. Daisy, quickly trying to recollect what was in the bag, thinking maybe she could just walk away, leaving it there to rotate forever.

No such luck. Remembering: toiletries—expendable; nightgowns—expendable; a second pair of shoes—expendable; books and maps of New York—expendable; Dennis’s and Lenny’s baby blankets—not.

Her moment of reckoning. The canvas suitcase, two feet away.
Should she let it go around again? Daisy, feeling herself heating up, blushing all over her face. Her skin awake in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. In her earlier days, blushing—the vibrant red, the intense heat—had chronically plagued her, but it hadn’t in recent decades. Suddenly here it was again—and sort of sweet. Making Daisy feel younger, delighted that blushing was still possible.

The suitcase. On the belt right in front of her. Daisy, newly alive, reaching past Ann, bending over to lift it, aware of gasps of surprise behind her. The suitcase was sticking to the belt. Daisy, tugging to wrench it free.

Peeling it off with a loud sucking sound. The bag, swinging, dripping. Daisy, drawing it closer in, stopping the swinging with her body. Feeling dozens of eyes on her as she turned to her gaping American cousins, saying, “I’m afraid it’s my bag. Terribly sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it before I put it in your car, of course, if we can find a loo. I can see my unfortunate mistake in packing. I’ll never do that again, I tell you.” Giggling. “And let others learn a lesson about last-minute packing. It was the no-liquids-on-board sign I encountered only minutes before checking bags that led to this.”

Breathlessly finishing her explanation, holding the bag far enough away that the dripping jam hit the floor, not her. Expecting some reaction. She wasn’t sure what, but there should be something in the wake of her confession. Instead, three completely blank faces looking back at her without a shred of comprehension.

“Was that English?” Michael.

“It must be.” Elisabeth.

“I didn’t catch a word of it.” Ann.

“Was that just her accent?” Michael. “Because I don’t think it was even English.”

“I’m afraid we’re not getting you,” Elisabeth, saying, talking to Daisy as if she were deaf. “We don’t understand your accent.”

Daisy smiling, not getting Elisabeth, either. Standing there awkwardly, holding the bag, looking into the faces of her cousins. For some seconds nobody speaking, then Daisy hoisting the straps of the offensive bag on her forearm, almost to her elbow. Her hand, at a right angle to her body in a rather regal fashion, her head held high, her nose tipped upward, dignified. Turning, moving through the crowd, which parted quickly, afraid of getting smeared. Daisy, carrying herself as if showcasing the finest luggage the world over.#roe close

The cousins, slowly following, avoiding the sticky drops landing on the floor.

“Goodness.” Ann.

“Holy shit.” Elisabeth.

“Maybe not generic,” Michael, “but totally weird.”

The three following Daisy and her trail of orange marmalade in search of the bathr

TWENTY

T HWACK!

An arrow hitting, not the yellow bull’s-eye but the next ring, the red one surrounding it. Following it, three more arrows, all farther from the bull’s-eye. Disappointing. Frustrating.

The next arrow, getting closer to the target.

Elisabeth, pulling into the gravel driveway of their well-tended house with red shutters, a red front door, elegant front porch, impressive lawns, impeccable flower gardens, mature specimen trees. Their house, not unlike others in this typically “gold coast” north shore town. Daisy had noticed that the farther north they went from the highway, the more impressive the houses had become. This one was no exception; it was out of eyesight of any neighbors and, she was told, only a short distance from the Port Washington harbor with its picturesque sailboats.

Elisabeth, shifting into park with a cheery singsong “Here we are.”

The four, getting out. Elisabeth, scurrying to help Daisy. Ann, starting into the house. Michael, trying to escape, until caught. Elisabeth, calling him back to help with the luggage.

Michael, responding with “I’ll get Josh and David.” Slipping away into the house.#hiplCr

“Right,” Elisabeth, murmuring, looking toward the house to see if anyone was coming to help and greet the houseguest.

Nobody.

“Daisy, why don’t you come inside to meet the family. Richard can get your things in a few minutes.”

“Fine, fine,” Daisy, saying. “That would be fine.” Straightening herself up, her dress, her hair. Walking with the others up the bluestone path to the front door, delighting in all she saw, euphoric at the sensation of sun on her cheeks.

Elisabeth, hurrying ahead through the house, calling the others. Looking for them. No one was coming. Ann, going off to the bathroom.

Daisy, hurrying to keep up with Elisabeth, following her into the kitchen, noticing top-of-the-line appliances and that everything was oversized. Thinking that like America itself, everything in it was
so
big.

Elisabeth, showing her a seat at the long oak table, asking, “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” But thinking what she wouldn’t give for a cup of tea.

“Are you sure?” Elisabeth, asking. “Not even a cup of tea?” Teasing. “You know what they say about Brits here, right? That you’re all tea freaks.”

Daisy, speechless. Wondering how she could request one now. Her taste buds standing erect, eager for the next tide of tea to wash over them. What time was it anyway?

A quick peek at her watch. Sounds of children’s laughter from outside. It was nearing eleven at night her time, though just five there in the kitchen. Feeling suddenly tired. Normally she would be asleep by then. Thinking maybe she could just ask Elisabeth to be shown to her room and be allowed to sleep.

Hearing instead: “We’re having a big welcoming dinner for you tonight.” Elisabeth, standing across the table, pushing stray hair behind her ear. “My sisters are all coming. There are four of them. They should
start trickling in the next hour or so with their husbands and children. Everyone wants to meet you.”

Daisy, thinking, oh no, but saying, “Oh, how lovely. Gorgeous.” Wondering how she would ever get through it. It was starting in an hour or so? Wondering if she had misunderstood the American accent. Hoping she had.

“Now where are Richard and the boys?” Elisabeth, to herself. “I’ll just be a minute.” Feeling awkward leaving Daisy alone at the table. “Will you be all right for just a moment?”

“Oh, fine,” said Daisy. “I’ll be just fine. You take your time.”

Elisabeth, blinking, not getting that, not more than a word. But seeing that Daisy was nodding. Elisabeth, scooting out of the kitchen and through the living room, heading for the sliding glass doors. Stepping out into the brilliant sunshine. Stopping dead in her tracks on the deck. Because of what she saw: a large archery target on a stand. Brand new. Yellow arrows sticking out.

Elisabeth, staring at Richard in a perfect archer’s position, looking quite expert as he pulled back the bow cable, stretching it to its maximum tautness with the arrow. Releasing. He, Josh, David, Pete, and now Michael, all watching the arrow shooting through space, hitting the target, almost a bull’s-eye.

“Whoo hoo!#V6habck” The boys cheering deliriously at having their father home and awake and doing something they could do.

“Your best shot yet.” David, his face gleaming with pride.

Richard, turning to Elisabeth. “Did you see that? Total control of an object moving 333 feet per second. I’d like to see anyone beat that.”

Elisabeth, standing where she was, her jaw slinging so far down that it was nearing the waist of her pants.

“You want to try, Lizzie?” Richard, asking her. “Come here. I’ll show you how.”

“I want to try,” the boys all crying, moving en masse to the target to pluck the arrows out, fighting over who got to go next every step of the way.

Elisabeth, stunned, stuttering, “Where did you get that?”

“The sporting goods store. I got to the laser-tag party a few minutes early. I had time to run next door. I thought it would be good for me to rehone my skills after all these years. You didn’t know I was an archer, huh?”

Wiping the film of sweat off his face, handing the bow to Pete. Starting toward her. The boys, racing to the starting line, to the spot where Richard had shot from, arguing over the arrows.

“I was good in college.” Richard, not noticing Elisabeth’s stunned reaction. “Most of us on the dart team did archery, too. I must say it doesn’t look like I lost much.” Standing in front of her, reveling in the memory of it before breaking back to the present and taking a quick deep breath. “So, where’s your houseguest?”

Elisabeth, trying to absorb the image of her husband hitting bull’s-eyes. What was he picturing when he lined the arrow up? Swallowing hard. Not answering his question. She didn’t have to because Ann was coming out onto the deck with Daisy in tow.

Richard, stepping forward, wiping the last bead of sweat off his temple with the inside of his upper arm, adjusting his black rectangular glasses, taking Daisy’s hand in his. “Good to meet you, Daisy.” Cupping her hand warmly, noticing how delicate her wrists were. He had never seen such wrists before. “How was your flight?”

Daisy, nodding, comforted by the warmth of his greeting. “Fine. Just fine.” Her hand, cozy in his, making her long for more coziness, for bed.

“Mom,” Elisabeth, asking, “did you see that Richard is shooting arrows?” Using her eyes to signal the underlying point. “He’s a real marksman.” Added for emphasis.

Ann, blinking, slowly getting the implication. Turning to look at the target. “Archery, Richard?” Asking, her voice steady, conversational, pleasant, but inside her a case was creaking open. Worries creeping out like garden snakes. Suddenly taking Elisabeth’s fears seriously. Then quickly discarding them. They were ridiculous, weren’t they?

Richard, unaware of this exchange between his wife and his mother-in-law, continuing with Daisy, “Has Elisabeth shown you your room? You must be tired. It has to be close to midnight your time.”

Daisy, almost falling into him in relief. Somebody understood. Answering that she would appreciate being shown her room. Richard, prodding Elisabeth to take Daisy while he went to the car to get her luggage.

Ann, remaining on the deck?” Elisabeth, askingare close after the three had gone, surveying her grandsons’ attempts at archery. Tamping down questions.

TONGS, PRESSING SIDEWAYS into one of the three thick slabs of steak. Flames below, rising, enveloping the meat, spitting noisily as fat dripped to feed them. A group of them, camped in a circle around the flames. Daisy, back from being shown her room, insisted on joining the real American barbecue, soldierly taking part, fighting drooping eyelids, stifling yawns. Everyone watching the spectacle of meat over flame, titillating olfactory sensations.

Richard, moving the tongs to apply pressure on the other two steaks, muttering aloud, “Tender, like a woman’s behind.”

Everybody around the grill suddenly staring at him. Surprised to hear him say such a thing in front of their guest, upsetting the sensibilities of an old English lady.

“Richard!” Elisabeth, exclaiming. Who would say such a thing? Answering her own question: Dart Man.

Richard, “Oh, sorry. I can explain.”

Elisabeth, hearing his words repeating themselves in her head. Feeling sick.

Richard, chuckling. Turning to Daisy. “I do apologize. I’m just repeating something that happened at work. We have this legal assistant, a guy in his early twenties who wants to be an actor. Apparently—I wasn’t
there, but I heard about it—one of the senior partners asked him to make up a contract involving legal tender, and this legal assistant says, “Tender, like a woman’s behind.” Richard, smiling. “Apparently it was very funny.”

Daisy, giggling.

Elisabeth, not.

Daisy, looking around, changing the subject. Admiring the expansive lush lawn. “It must take you ages to mow.” Picturing herself back in Paul’s overalls, picturing her lawn mower.

“Oh, I don’t do it. We have gardeners come in. Right, Liz?” Noticing that she seemed far away in her thoughts. Wanting to bring her back into the picture. Wanting her to jump in, to join the conversation.

But she didn’t. She was too deep in thought, working out whether she would really call the police on her husband of twenty-one years—and, if she did, what she would say.

And what they would say.

And what they would do.

ENGLAND HAS
the
most awful weather. For the life of me I don’t know why people come,” Daisy, looking at the faces around her, trying, despite her exhaustion, to engage them, “but they do. They just keep coming.”