Keeping Time: A Novel (21 page)

Daisy, having to sit down. Wobbling over to the counter stool, allowing herself to fall into it. Saying, “I’m sorry.” Her voice, faint. Her head, in her hand, her palm shielding her eyes. Tears, years of tears, welling up. “I just need a minute.” A minute to close a hole sixty years open.

“That’s okay,” Hulda, saying. “I have all day. I’m only going to be putting my closet back together again. I can’t even close the door now.” Giggling good-heartedly. “Wait, there’s another article here. I haven’t read it yet. I ran right to the phone. Let me see …”

Silence over the phone as Hulda read and Daisy wept. Telling herself it was silly to cry over something sixty years old. She tried to stop, tried not to let it overpower her, but tears kept coming.

Elisabeth, going to Daisy. Wrapping her in her arms. Daisy, reaching up, holding Elisabeth’s forearm. Ann, grabbing hold of Daisy, too.

“Does the other article say anything?” Daisy, asking, her voice shaky.

“The headline is ‘Heroic Son Released from Hospital to Ruined Dreams.’ It’s dated July 28, 1945. It says he’s being released from the hospital and that injuries sustained in his attempt to save his parents make it unlikely that he’ll ever be able to play the piano professionally again. It goes on to list all the competitions he won all over the world and how he had played for Arthur Rubinstein when he was sixteen. It says Mr. Rubinstein was so taken with Michael that he presented him with a watch which he’d inscribed. It ends by saying he plans to leave New York. He’s going to his aunt Lucille and uncle William in Littleton, New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire?”

“That’s what it says. That’s good information. Littleton, New Hampshire.”

“Thank you so much, Hulda. You’ve been gorgeous, just gorgeous. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to. I’m thrilled to be of some use. Just let me know if you find him. I’ll be rooting for you.”

“Of course, of course,” Daisy, assuring her.

Closing comments. Daisy and Hulda saying good-bye, promising to stay in touch. Daisy, giving Hulda her address and phone number in Liverpool, saying she’d be sure to call her once she got back to England.

Hanging up. Turning to Elisabeth. “I need your Michael.”

DAISY, ELISABETH, MICHAEL, and Ann, leaning over one another’s hunched shoulders, eyes on the computer screen silently and tensely. Michael, keying in
Michael Baker New Hampshire
.

Bingo. It reduced the number to 249,000, even including thirteen phone book results: thirteen addresses, and thirteen phone numbers.

Daisy had a major decision to make, and it took her less than half a minute to reach it. Asking Michael to go back to the Web site where they had arranged her flight.

Asking him to cancel her ticket.#use close

Michael, bursting into smiles. Getting right on it.

Elisabeth, noticing Ann rubbing Daisy’s back affectionately. Elisabeth, saying, “Well, it’s about time, Mom.”

Ann, replying, “I couldn’t agree more.”

Daisy, smiling. Picking up the phone. Dialing Lenny.

THEY CALLED THE thirteen Michael Bakers with phone numbers in New Hampshire. Daisy’s hand, shaking. Asking for Michael Baker. No luck.

Some of the Michael Bakers answered the phone. None of them was a Michael Leonard. None of them knew a Michael Leonard. Other Michael Bakers called back later in the day. None of them was “the one,” either.

Elisabeth and Daisy, pulling out an atlas. Looking up New Hampshire. Finding Littleton in the White Mountains. Studying surrounding towns.

Michael and Ann, scrolling down through the other 248,999
Michael Baker New Hampshire
Google entries, looking for something, anything, that might indicate a man in his early eighties.

Busy all afternoon until Daisy insisted they take a break and celebrate the New Hampshire find with a trip to Ben & Jerry’s. Insisting on buying ice cream for all and even a pint to take home for Richard, who couldn’t join them, having unexpectedly gone into the office on a Saturday. Elisabeth, declining the cone—thinking of Heather Clarke’s waistline. Taking herself next door instead, , stopping. Th

THIRTY-SIX

DEEP IN THE NIGHT. Daisy awake, unable to sleep. The result of the information from Hulda in the newspaper clippings. Daisy, in the dark of the night, pacing her room. She had tried to sleep but couldn’t. Only tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling. Trolling her mind, reliving July 1945, looking through the prism of time with new information. Pouring concrete into blank, unfinished spaces with all that she now knew.

Above all, facing Michael’s pain, picturing her handsome young soldier, seeing the horrors of July 1945 through his eyes, and living the tragedy. How hard it must have been. How young he was. How could life have been so cruel to him, to come home from war to that? And she, blithely unaware, was an ocean away, angry at him, indignant, insulted. If only she had known, she would have gone to him, unwanted or not. Did he know that? Why hadn’t he asked? Why didn’t he send word? She would have gone in a heartbeat with her mother’s blessing or without.

It would have been without.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, MORE PLANS for New Hampshire. Lengthy discussions. Strong opinions. Deliberations. Attempts at determining when to go, how to go, and who should go. Certainly Elisabeth, but she would have to put in for vacation time. Certainly Michael. But what about Pete, Josh, David, and Ann? Ann, saying she’d love to but couldn’t possibly. Because of her grandchildren, she had to be home. And Steve, who was due home from college just that day, naturally wouldn’t go. And Richard, who could surely use a vacation but couldn’t take one just then. He told Elisabeth she should go and enjoy herself. Raising her suspicions. Asking him again if he really liked her hair.

Daisy, overcome with gratitude. Asking to use the phone, to thank Hulda again. Getting her on the fourth ring. Filling her in. Hearing Yodeli in the background, mixing with street sounds of Brooklyn.

Hulda, very pleased to hear that they were going to New Hampshire. Excited. Asking questions. Discussing.

Daisy, listening, her eyes growing wide. Turning to the others. “Hulda wants to come with us.”

MONDAY MORNING, ELISABETH, in her new funky hairdo, her overnight bag packed, doing something radical. Michael on her bed, watching, listening, doubting that she would really go through with it, that she would really call in sick. It was something she had hardly ever done, even when she was short of being at death’s door. When the boys were small, she was always afraid to call in sick when s# believeha home andhe really wasn’t sick, fearing that one day she would really be sick or one of the boys would be, and her days would be gone. And vacation days were not something to lean on. They had to be limited to holidays, or the boys would seriously know their grandmother better than their mother. And this year she would have to save vacation days to help settle Pete
into college in August. So, with vacation days always in demand, she had to be very prudent with sick days and always had been—until now.

Ninety degrees before 9:00 a.m. Humidity, equally high, the skies a gloomy gray, but nobody cared. Anticipation lifting spirits. Elisabeth, picking up the phone. Michael, watching. Elisabeth, spilling the lie, dribbling it into the mouthpiece, saying she was too ill to go in. Michael, cheering silently. The secretary, saying to feel better, sounding sympathetic. Elisabeth, hanging up, sitting down on her bed. High-fiving Michael. Yee-ha! A minivacation!

Bubbling with excitement, the trio—Daisy, Michael, and Elisabeth—going to New Hampshire, a first for all of them.

The car, packed. Small overnight bags. Wheels, starting to roll over gravel, backing out slowly. Michael, in the front with the Mapquest directions, seven bags of potato chips, three boxes of Chips Ahoy—Costco sized—and enough water to cause a catastrophic flood. Elisabeth had carrots and celery. Daisy had her teabags.

Waves of good-bye. Josh and David pressing their mouths up to Elisabeth’s window, pretending to cry. Elisabeth, rolling down the window, calling them on it. The boys smiling, admitting they were faking. Blown kisses as the car slowly backed out of the driveway.

Then Daisy, calling out: “Wait! One last thing, if you don’t mind.” Opening the SUV door. Hurrying back into the house.

The car, idling.

Daisy, hurrying back out with the bottle of Cointreau. Slipping into the car, smiling. “If I’m going to be face-to-face with Michael Baker tonight, I might be wanting a drink.”

FIFTY MINUTES LATER MICHAEL, ringing Hulda’s doorbell. Elisabeth and Daisy were double-parked in front. No spots available as far as the eye could see. Heat, assaulting the sidewalks and streets.

The return buzz coming almost immediately. Michael pulling open the glass exterior door, stepping inside. Hit by an enticing aroma. The scent was everywhere, saturating the humid air. His appetite kicking in. Hoping it was coming from Hulda’s. Remembering those cookies. But nearing her floor, the scent, diminishing. Oh, well.

Hulda, waiting at the door. Letting him in. Michael, carrying on a quick conversation with Yodeli. Hulda, showing him what he should carry down to the car: her small canvas overnight bag and several tins.

Asking him, “You like cupcakes?” Michael, nodding. “You like carrot cake?” More nodding. Hulda, grinning proudly. “Wait till you taste these.”

Those
plus
three-dozen Mailaenderli cookies plus apricot tarts plus raspberry torts. Michael, thrilled, “You did enough baking for a week!” Pointing at the bird with his chin as he moved toward the door. “Is Yodeli going to be okay by himself?”

“He won’t like it, but he’ll be okay for one night.” Hulda, picking up her purse, taking the plastic container of tarts and torts@are close. Taking a deep breath. About to follow Michael out, pausing and turning back. Michael, standing in her doorway, watching her go back to Yodeli. Kissing him good-bye. Patting the top of his head with her free hand. Telling him to be a good bird while she was gone. Even saying, “I love you.”

Michael, waiting in the hall while she locked the door. Looking at the painting on the wall. Not on a canvas but on the wall. It was of mountains, the Alps, and was about seven feet wide and four feet high, on the wall adjacent to her door. He had noticed it the first time they came up. They all had—it was impossible to miss—but no one had asked about it. Now he did. “What’s with the painting?”

Hulda, still busy with the locks, double locks, triple locks. Without turning to look saying, “The Jungfraujoch. Albert did it for our first wedding anniversary in 1939.” The sound of strong metal sliding. Clicking in. The last lock, in place. Hulda, turning to look at the painting. Contemplating it, as though for the first time, her old eyes becoming misty behind her glasses

. “I was so missing home when I came back to
this. Albert wanted it to be permanent, so he painted it right on the wall. It was nervy, I know, but he was young and in love. It drives the owner of the building, Mr. Davis—I think you met him—crazy.” Michael, nodding. “He’s been threatening to paint over it for years, saying the minute I’m gone, he’s going to paint right over it. He says he has a bucket of white paint ah ready. It will be a pleasure, he screams. He doesn’t much care for me, you know. He wants my kitchen.”

Starting down the stairs, Hulda, moving spryly for her age but slower by far than Michael. He walked patiently, keeping to her pace. Asking her what that incredible smell was.

“Mr. Davis is a chef.”

“Really? In a restaurant? That creepy guy?”

Hulda, snickering, finding pleasure in his words. “No. ‘that creepy guy’ is a podiatrist. He cooks for fun. The place always smells good. During the holidays he puts out some of his dishes here”—pointing as they neared it—“on this table. He is a marvelous cook. A miserable person but a marvelous cook.”

Michael, looking at the table. There was mail on it now—newspapers, flyers, magazines. Picturing it with plates of hot, delicious food on cold, snowy, Christmastime days. Thinking it must be very cozy in there with all the dark, heavy wood; old-fashioned, low-hanging light fixtures; and century-old wooden stairs and banisters. Imagining various tenants coming together and lingering with one another for a change. Picturing Brian Davis in a good mood: sharing his food, smiling at his tenants, and maybe even being nice to Hulda for just those few hours each year.

Michael, opening the heavy front door for Hulda. Hulda, stepping out into the humidity of the day, starting over to the air-conditioned SUV. Michael, helping her in, then getting in the front seat. All of them waving good-byes to Yodeli. Hulda, looking back lovingly at the brownstone’s façade as they started down Second Street.

Daisy, again picturing her life there.

THIRTY-SEVEN

DENNIS, HANGING UP THE PHONE, shutting off Lenny’s exuberance, having just heard the latest installment on his mother’s return. Now postponed indefinitely. Thinking she must be having a good time in New York. It was crazy in his line of work that he had never been there. Maybe someday he would go. He was aware, though, that his relocation had just pushed “someday” further into the future.