Keeping Time: A Novel (13 page)

“Darned if I know.” Elisabeth.

“You didn’t even ask?”

“It’s not my place.” Elisabeth, thinking, Where
is
Mom anyway? Elisabeth understood that Ann didn’t want a houseguest, but she had assumed that she’d be all over Daisy once she got here. How could she not be? This was her long-lost relative, her first cousin, her mother’s niece. How could it be that Ann seemed the least interested of them all? Why was it that she had barely spoken to Daisy last night and had not even called this morning to ask Daisy what she would be doing for the day?

It was very hot in the room. No air-conditioning. Several fans, both ceiling and upright, spun at top speeds, a rapidly clicking metronome. The pianists playing slow pieces could well be doomed. The fans brought no relief. They were not up to the monumental task of cooling the room that had upward of one hundred people and a temperature upward of one hundred degrees.

The audience sweltering, swooning around her. Elisabeth, drowsy, but Daisy—the least accustomed to soaring temperatures—barely
noticing. Delighted to be there. Tracing back how she came# like habck to be in attendance at an American piano recital, a New York event. Little more than a day ago she didn’t even know these boys existed. Now she was ready to root for them, to lay claim to them.

She looked at the program, scanning for their names. They were near the end; a good thirty-five kids were before them. Daisy, settling down, eagerly waiting for the program to begin. Stealing a glance at Michael, wondering if he was studying. She had to lean forward to peer past the chests of Richard and Elisabeth, who were both busy futzing with cameras—Elisabeth with the camcorder, Richard with the digital—connecting attachments, manually focusing. Neither noticing that Michael was staring at the ceiling.

The head of the music school, presenting opening comments. Followed by a line of performers—very young children, four- and five-year-olds. Proud, nervous parents hovered in the aisles to record their first recital. Every heart in the place opened wide to the children. Elisabeth could remember when she was one of those parents, when it was all so new. Michael was the first in the family to take piano, taking the audience by storm. Elisabeth, remembering his first recital: His head barely topped the keyboard, and he had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand. Nobody could come close to matching his visceral connection to the instrument, his ease at the keys. Nobody.

But he was willing to throw it all away.

Heating up again, the cauldron of unresolved anger stirred anew. Elisabeth, turning to look at him. Maybe it was a good thing he was there, and not just so she and Richard could keep an eye on him. Maybe seeing the little children perform would reawaken something in him. Maybe, just maybe, he would go back.

After one look at him, Elisabeth dismissing it. She couldn’t miss it. He was totally disconnected. Not even looking at the children, not the little boy playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” or at the others nervously awaiting their turns, sitting up front in their suits and party
dresses and the black leather, faux leather, or patent leather shoes on their little feet that didn’t reach the floor. He wasn’t reading his book, either. He was staring like a dunce out the window.

Elisabeth, sighing. Yawning. It was so hot in there that it was making her sleepy. Telling herself that she should have forgone the pleasures of her midnight ride. But happy that she hadn’t. Putting the backs of her hands on her cheeks to cool them, breathing deeply, thinking again about Richard. Wondering if she should just ask him, broach the subject. But how? “Richard, dear, have you recently discovered any new hobbies? New activities to blow off steam?” Or “So, how do you choose your targets? Must they be tender, like a woman’s behind?” Sighing. It was hopeless. Turning her low-level attention back to the little boy at the piano.

For Daisy it was different. She was hanging on to every note. Cherishing the faces of the children. Their little bent wrists, bowed heads, small fingers at work. One after another after another, long past people began shifting in their seats, long past the first sighs of boredom began to be audible, long past when Richard seriously began stifling yawns, hot under his collar, daydreaming of a solid night’s sleep, scrolling through his email, the BlackBerry back in position in his left hand, answering urgent emails despite his exhaustion, long after Elisabeth, slumped low in her chair, with continuing deliberations about her Dart Man problem, long after the others in the room had bowed out, Daisy hung in with gusto. Extending the same level of interest to each student that she had given those who had gone before. Clapping just as hard#elievedhabck after the sixteenth “Twinkle” as the first. Others may have been bored—clearly they were; others may have been dreaming thoughts a million miles away—clearly they were. Most grown-ups stared blankly ahead, but not Daisy. This was indeed a treat for her.

When at last the time came, she watched keenly. David, stepping up to the piano, his thick dark brown hair untamable like his father’s, his face round like his mother’s, but the freckles on his nose and cheeks and the dimples around his mouth were all his own. He bowed, sat on the
bench, and then inched across to center himself. He adjusted his fingers, lining them up with the middle C. Not a sound in the room as he began.

Daisy, concentrating intently on every note, gently swaying with him, barely breathing, sharing his tight, restrained breaths. Listening closely, hoping before each note, chord, and rest that he would nail it.

He did. A flawless performance, not one mistake, not even a little one.

The audience, impressed. Clapping loudly. Daisy, surprisingly clamorous for one with such small hands. Turning to Richard and Elisabeth to share their excitement, to applaud with them, to partake in their pride at David’s unquestionable achievement.

Instead, horrified at what she saw.

Elisabeth and Richard, both snoozing. Dozing. Snoring. Lids closed, chins on chests—the two of them, mother and father, side by side, in seats eleven and twelve in row J. Richard had deep rumbling breaths, Elisabeth had a high-pitched wheeze.

Daisy, clapping with all her might through the arthritic pain it caused. Catching Michael’s eye on the other side of them. Reading his look that more or less said, “See what I mean?”

Daisy’s eyes, back on David who was standing beside the piano bench, about to take his bow, scanning the room for his family somewhere in the applauding audience. Daisy running defense, refusing to allow him to see what he would his point, fe

TWENTY-TWO

AFTER DINNER, MICHAEL.” Elisabeth, the evening of the recital. Seated at the rectangular kitchen table with Richard, Daisy, Ann, and all the boys. Piles of Chinese food were spread out before them. Chopsticks, clicking. Hands, reaching simultaneously with giant spoons to scoop out mounds of fried rice, sesame chicken, beef in orange flavor, shrimp in black bean sauce. “You have to study right after dinner. Right, Richard?” Looking across the table at him, seeking support. Trying not to think of darts.

Richard, nodding. “Absolutely. I’ll be watching.” Hoping it was true. He had a memo to write by morning. He needed it for an 8:00 a.m. meeting downtown.

“I’ll be watching, too,” Elisabeth, adding. Also hoping it was true. She had their own tax return to do; they had an extension only until Tuesday. There was no time tomorrow; back-to-back meetings were scheduled for all those other people with June 15 deadlines. Dreading the piles of paperwork and forms she had to pore over. It was going to be a long night. Wishing she weren’t a CPA.

“Actually, I don’t think I need to study,” Michael, announcing, sitting back in his chair.

“Really.” Elisabeth, trying to remain calm. “Why is that?”

“Studying is a waste of time.”

“You’re studying.” Richard, firmly.

“How about a nice hot pot of tea?” Daisy.

“Not for me.” Richard, thinking of cognac.

“Not me, either, thanks,” Elisabeth saying. “But if you want one, I hope you’ll help yourself. Feel free to make yourself at home.” Shooting a glance across the table at her mother, trying to wake her up because, shockingly, Ann was displaying no interest in Daisy whatsoever and hadn’t been all evening. Elisabeth had to push her into coming to dinner at all, and since then she and the boys had been locked in a noisy conversation at the other end of the table.

Since the embarrassment of the recital, Richard and Elisabeth had been treating Daisy like royalty. Hanging on to her every word. Making the supreme effort—by Elisabeth, anyway—of struggling through Daisy’s formerly inscrutable but now slowly becoming comprehensible accent.

“Well, then, perhaps instead of tea …” Daisy, starting.

Richard, getting it. “Would you care for an after-dinner drink?”

Daisy, giggling delicately. “Perhaps I could do with a bit.”

“A bit of what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t suppose you have any Cointreau?”

“I believe we do.” Getting up tell her she couldI. What st from the table, knees stiff.

“Lovely. Thank you.”

Richard returning with Daisy’s drink, standing beside her, slowly sipping his scotch. Checking the time, thinking he should be starting the memo.

Daisy, with the familiar taste on her tongue, comforted. Peering down the long table at Michael. “What is it you have to study, Michael?”

“European history.” As if the words themselves were toxic.

“He used to love history,” Elisabeth, slipping a plate into a slot in
the dishwasher, letting the water run uselessly down the drain in the sink.

Ann, collecting leftovers, spooning them into plastic bins.

Michael, his young voice strident. “What difference does history make? It’s not like we ever learn from it. Knowing about World War I didn’t stop World War II.”

“I wish it had,” Daisy, saying, “I could have done without being bombed.”

“You were bombed?” Michael’s eyes lighting up. “You actually saw bombs falling?”

Daisy, nodding. “Too many to count. We were bombed very heavily. Liverpool was second heaviest in England behind London because of our large ports on the River Mersey, ports that were easily accessible to the United States. We had loads of naval ships stationed there, and we also used the ports for import and export. More than ninety percent of the materials used during the war passed through those eleven miles of quays.”

“Really? And you were right there?” Josh, jumping in.

“Right there, all hunkered down. And your great-great-grandmother, our grandmother”—gesturing to include Ann, who was leaning so far inside the refrigerator that she had almost disappeared—“spent the war in her car.” Chuckling. “She was a tough old thing, our nana. She had a new car. She was one of the first in the village to own one and certainly the first in the family. Oh, she was so proud—so proud that when the sirens went off, sending us all diving into air-raid shelters, she wouldn’t go. She wouldn’t get out of her car. She didn’t want to leave it unattended, unprotected, afraid it might get bombed. So she sat in it. Everyone yelled for her to get inside. Even the Air Raid Wardens screamed at her. But she ignored them all and just sat there in her car, bombs falling all around her.” Daisy, laughing again. “She was a character all right.”

For a moment, nobody speaking. Richard, reseating himself at the table, telling himself that the memo could wait. Elisabeth, too, joining them. Those few sentences suddenly opened a whole new family to her, a whole new ancestral history. And for her boys, who sat staring wide-eyed at Daisy, a whole new world.

DAISY WAS OVERJOYED that they liked her stories. They must have, because they sat huddled around the table, plumbing her for more memories. They all got past her accent—except Ann.

Normally, Daisy would have assumed that the distance, which was made painstakingly clear, was just Ann’s way, that she was simply a remote person. But Daisy thought she perceived reactions to it from Elisabeth: raised eyebrows, curious sideways glances, puzzled expressions, making her think that it was something new, and darned if Daisy—or Elisabeth, for that matter—knew?” Elisabeth, asking.e close why.

Elisabeth had to tear everyone away from Daisy’s stories, making everyone get on their way, sternly reminding them, over their protests, that it was a school night and that Josh and David still had homework. Pete and Michael had studying, and she and Richard had work. Daisy scurried off to her bedroom to gather her things for the bathroom. Longing for a shower. Relieved to find the bathroom unoccupied. Hoping she wasn’t inconveniencing anyone by being there. Deciding to make the shower brief. But that wasn’t likely to happen because she couldn’t even get it going. Arthritis in her hands and fingers. Making it impossible to turn the shower knob.

Standing at the lip of the tub, staring down at the white-tiled wall in despair, cursing the fixtures. Getting them to turn with her mind, willing it.

Trying again.

This time getting the cold on. The icy water descending fast and furious into the tub, but what was the good of that when she couldn’t get the hot water on? Looking around the room to see if there might be something she could use. Lifting her nightgown off the sink, placing it on the
knob, wrapping the nightgown around it, making the fixture grippable. Trying to join her fingers to the plumbing, to bring them into perfect harmony like ballroom dancers.

No luck. The nightgown, back in a loose ball on the sink. Daisy, sinking down, shoulders hunched forward, on the porcelain edge of the tub, trying to figure out what to do. There was only one thing. Surrender.

Standing up, turning off the cold water, opening the bathroom door, heading down the hall in search of one of the boys.

The first bedroom door was closed, but there was a light on behind it. Daisy, knocking, startling Michael. Surprised to see Daisy standing there. He had been certain at the knock that it would be one of his parents checking on him, making sure he was studying—which, as it turned out, he was not.

Behind his back, his iPod. Still playing. A discernible beat.