Keeping Time: A Novel (9 page)

Overcome with tenderness for him. Seeing that nothing had really changed. They had gotten older. They had gotten busier. She had gotten crazier. Holding the framed photo in her hand, feeling tears forming in her eyes, wishing herself back together with him in bed in the quiet of their room. So she could listen to his breathing and try to imagine his dreams as she always used to do.

And she would apologize to him—not aloud, of course. He didn’t even know he was accused. She would apologize to him in her head for even thinking that this steady, responsible, wonderful husband, father, and man could ever have done what she had seriously been thinking G">one phoabout.

Elisabeth, putting the picture back on the desk. Sitting down, not in his chair but in a facing chair. To take just a moment. To summarize where she had been and where she was now. To run through the medley of her emotions. Getting up, going around his massive desk to sit in his chair—to reconnect on some level. To put herself back squarely where she had always been with him. Seating herself in the high-backed black leather chair, her arms on the armrest. Planting her feet and swiveling the way her boys would have done. Picturing Richard in it, holding a meeting. Allowing herself a surge of pride in him. Look at the size of his office. Look at his view. That was Central Park out there, thirty-six floors below. He had done very well for himself. He had gone to Yale, on scholarship, both undergraduate and law school. His father had been a New York City bus driver; his mother, a medical secretary.

Elisabeth, feeling better than she had in some time. It was 1:45; she had a long drive ahead of her. She had better get going, and she would—without even looking in a single drawer. It was over. She would tuck this little episode away.

Standing up. Starting out of his office.

Stopping dead in her tracks.

There, on the back of his door, a dartboard. Four darts in the bull’s-eye.

ELISABETH, HURRYING BACK to her car, telling herself to stay calm.

All the way down Fifth Avenue, telling herself that dartboards had been hanging on the backs of office doors since the beginning of time. That it had probably always been there on his. That it meant nothing. Wanting to get herself back into her former place: loving and trusting her husband.

Forcing herself to stop

FIFTEEN

DENNIS, ON THE WAY to the airport. Almost crashing the car.

It was true that the cabbie in the next lane was driving as though he fully believed in the promise of a rich afterlife. It was also true that Dennis was not entirely without blame. Swerving back into his own lane, taxi horns blaring. “Did you see that?” Running his hand nervously through his hair. A bead of sweat being born on his left temple. “He should have his license revoked.”

“Yes.” Daisy, calm as could be, hands folded neatly in her lap, her leather purse straps thread through them. Although she hated to, asking, “Incidentally, did you tell Amanda that I’m not selling my house?”

Dennis’s face, darkening. “Yes. Yes, I did. She knows.”

“Fine, then. I just wanted to be sure.”

Dennis, thinking that she could be sure. Remembering the huge row it had caused.

The cabbie pulling alongside their little blue Audi, waving his fist at Dennis. Cursing in a foreign language.

“Maniac,” Dennis, muttering, regaining his composure.

Daisy, “Any new thoughts on a move for you two?”

Dennis, sighing. “We’re still going. Amanda is dead set on it. I’m
sorry to say we could be moved by the time you get back, in which case Lenny will have to pick you up from the airport.”

“That’s no problem. I hope you’ll be happy in your new home.”

Dennis, hoping the same. “Now, do you have everything you’ll need?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Passport?”

“You asked me that already. Yes, passport and tickets are right here.” Calmly tapping her bag.

A car horn blasting. Dennis had drifted into the wrong lane again. He swerved back, feeling apologetic. “Oh, dear, I seem to be all over the place today. I don’t know what’s with me.”

Daisy did. He was a basket of nerves. She was relieved when he finally parked the car. He hurried to the back, pulling out her suitcases—two of them, a big one and a medium-sized canvas one. Both were on wheels. She had her purse and her carry-on. Together they entered the terminal.

Daisy, feeling a thrill just being there. So many people from all over the world, momentarily drawn together on invisible intersecting paths. Quickly scattering in different directions, feeding off one another’s energy and creating new energy, spiraling onward and#ing away. What st away. Most were hurrying, rolling suitcases swiftly behind them, eyes focused ahead. A small grungy group in their early twenties sat stupefied in corners on the floor, staring blankly, sipping coffee from plastic cups with covers, their overstuffed backpacks sprawled out beside them. Barely speaking, as if they had run out of things to say a few countries back and were too tired to care.

Daisy and Dennis, walking over the smooth floor to the check-in counter. The line of travelers ahead of them snaked a distance away from the counter, reaching all the way to the end of the roped area where a large sign was posted that displayed universal symbols of what was no longer being permitted in carry-on luggage.

Daisy, stopping at the sign. Good feelings vanishing. Because nobody
had told her—or maybe they had and she had forgotten—that she couldn’t bring any liquids on board, including toothpaste, shampoo, and makeup, none of which she had. But if those things were prohibited, certainly other similar things would be, too, things she did have.

Dennis, stepping past the sign to take their place at the end of the queue behind a businessman. Looking back at Daisy to see why she had stopped. Seeing her looking troubled. A couple with three small children, lining up behind them, a sprawl of suitcases and attendant accoutrements.

Daisy, nervously, “Dennis, I have a problem.”

Dennis, “What is it?” Eyes swiftly scanning her in search of something obvious. Casting a worried glance at the family behind them, all craning their necks to see if the line ahead was moving along without him.

It was. A gap. Opening between him and the businessman.

Daisy, pointing at the sign. “Look what can’t be brought on board.”

Dennis, looking. “Okay. Do you have any of that?”

Shaking her head. “No, not quite that.”

“Well, then good.” Slightly exasperated, sidling up behind the businessman.

Daisy, not sidling up with him. Glued to the floor in front of the sign. “Orange marmalade.” Apologetically. “I have six jars of orange marmalade.”

“Orange marmalade! In your carry-on?”

Confirming it. “A gift. Three jars for Ann. Three for Elisabeth.”

“They can’t get marmalade in New York?”

The family behind, as if on cue, making their way around Daisy and Dennis, pushing and pulling and dragging dozens of suitcases in various sizes—first the father, then the mother, then the three small children. Behind them, another group immediately forming. And a messy group behind them, folding in.

“I don’t know,” Daisy, her voice cracking. “I don’t know if they can get marmalade in New York. They probably can, but not from Dunkirk’s.
I wanted to bring them marmalade from the oldest original marmalade factory in Liverpool.”

Dennis, looking past his mother, anchored in front of the sign, to the group of tense, impatient travelers behind her. “You’re sure it’s in your carry-on?”

Daisy, nodding.

“Well, then, we’d better get it out. You’ll have to put it in your suitcase and check it through.” Poorly concealing a scowl. Giving up his place in line. Setting out, with Daisy fo# otherhabckllowing fast behind him, to find an available uncrowded area to make the transfer. Walking across the concourse, weaving through hassled crowds.

Daisy, making an effort to recapture some of her initial excitement, but it was gone. All she felt was dumb—for biting off more than she could chew and for undertaking such a foolhardy journey. And nervous because any minute now she and Dennis would be making their good-byes. He would leave her all on her own in this great big anonymous, uncaring world. And what if she couldn’t do it? What if she had made other orange marmalade mistakes? Now that she had had enough time to think about it, she remembered that she had been told about the carry-on restrictions. And she had forgotten. It was true that she sometimes forgot things.

Suddenly feeling her age, self-doubt coming on strong. Should she cancel the trip? Plead with the airlines? Try to recover what money she could? Call the cousins, thank them, and invite them to Liverpool? Go back home to enjoy the quiet routine of her life?

Looking at the back of Dennis’s head as he steadily navigated across the crowded concourse. Even the back of his head looked piqued, the way his hair was falling to his collar.

His annoyance, bracing her. Riling her up, restarting the belief that she could do it. After all, Dennis forgot things, too, all the time. And Lenny? What didn’t he forget? Either one could have forgotten the

SIXTEEN

WHILE DAISY WAS BOARDING, carefully stepping in from the connecting tube to the inside of the plane, her hand lightly patting the exterior first, something she and Paul did before every takeoff—Ann was thinking about who should go to the airport to get her.

Elisabeth, knowing her mother’s aversion to highways, had already assumed she would be the one picking up# up the . What st Daisy. Richard and Pete were still sleeping. David and Josh were downstairs watching TV. Elisabeth, leaning inside Michael’s door in her bathrobe and slippers, guarding it. Blocking his escape. Fondly remembering her last night’s secret drive. Saying, “Monday, you got it? Mrs. Caulfield’s being really nice letting you retake the final, and you’re going to reward her kindness by getting a hundred. And the only way to do that is by studying. And the only way I can be sure that you’re studying is to watch you. Yesterday you accomplished nothing. I am not taking my eyes off you from now till then. You can’t go to baseball practice, you can’t listen to your iPod, you can’t play with your Xbox or your Wii or your computer. You are studying all day today and tomorrow. Got it, Michael?”

Michael, looking so much younger in his pajamas. So early in the
morning. Still warm from sleep. Hair ruffled. He had no fight in him, no teenage attitude—just a blank look.

Elisabeth, “And you’re coming with me to the airport.”

Michael, yawning. “For what?”

“For what. For Cousin Daisy, that’s what.”

Michael, groaning. “Do I have to?”

Elisabeth, nodding. “You do. We’re leaving here at noon, so you’d better get up now, come down to breakfast, then start hitting the books.”

Without waiting for an argument, turning and heading downstairs to begin breakfast. Moments and memories of her magical midnight ride threading through her, providing her with little mini boosts of fresh life, energy, outlook. Pushing away the image of the dartboard on the back of Richard’s door, switching instead to the glorious driving portion of her secret night. Wondering half-jokingly if it was too late to become a long-haul truck driver.

Getting Richard out of bed with the news that he had to take David to a bowling party at ten and get Josh to a laser-tag party at eleven, and then be back at noon to pick up David and back to the laser-tag party at one to get Josh. Elisabeth, telling him that the parties were in opposite directions, and with the usual weekend morning traffic, they were probably an hour apart. Reminding him that their houseguest was on her way and that they were having all her sisters and their families for dinner to welcome her.

Richard, in a blue T-shirt, plaid flannel drawstring pants, looking at her very unlawyerlike. Unshaven and nubby, with dark eyebrows and hair tossed wildly, the muscles and skin around his jaw, tense. Totally dazed while she said all this, slipping a mug of coffee into his hand—a gesture of kindness to help jump-start his day. Elisabeth, witnessing long beats of confusion swirling around him before they gave way to his murky recollection of having heard it all before.

Five to twelve, Elisabeth and Michael alone in the house. Elisabeth,
appearing in Michael’s bedroom door. Finding him at his desk, where he had been for the last hour and a half. Wondering if he’d actually gotten anything done. Thinking she might have seen him closing a desk drawer when she got there.

“Time to go.” Elisabeth. Way upbeat.

“Go without me.” Murmuring. Without hope.

“Uh-uh. No way. Let’s go welcome my long-lost cousin.” Making it sound adventurous.

“Like I’ve got anything to say to an old lady.” Closing his book. Caving fairly easily. Actually, #Athabckhe had been reasonably cooperative all morning, going through gestures of defiance without any real passion. Making Elisabeth feel guilty. Obviously he was enjoying her full attention, her being focused on him and only him, holding him on her radar. Elisabeth, even joking with him a little, like she used to. Wondering if that was all there was to it, if that was all it was going to take, and, if so, how long she would be able to keep it up.

Michael, getting up. They were almost of equal heights now. His denim jeans, struggling to hang on well below his hips, boxers puffing out above.

Elisabeth, scowling. She didn’t want to—the morning had been so calm—but she couldn’t help it. Saying, “Oh, come on,” in a nice enough voice. “You’re not really going to wear that, are you?” Keeping her cool.

Michael, looking down at himself, feigning incomprehension. “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” As if they hadn’t been through this a million times before.

“You’re not going to greet an old English woman in pants that don’t reach much higher than the tops of your socks, are you?” Keeping it light, jokey.

“Why not? Why should an old lady care what I’m wearing?” Starting to take it seriously. Old defenses recurring.

Elisabeth, looking long at him, trying to remember herself at age thirteen. Wondering if she had ever thought like that. And wondering if
he was right. Why should Daisy care? Wondering if she should let it go or send them both trudging down the same well-worn unpleasant path again. After such a smooth morning.