Celestial Navigation

by Anne Tyler

  He felt that his sense of time, which was never good, had deserted him. Had he missed something? Had the days carried everyone else on by and left him stranded in some vanished moment? Maybe his family had just gone out to a movie. Maybe they had abandoned him forever. Maybe they had grown up and moved some thirty years before, had children of their own and grown old and died. He couldn’t prove that it wasn’t so.

  Then, turning to the refrigerator for food and solace (fumbling at some new kind of double door where he had expected the old single one), he found a note stuck on with a teapot-shaped magnet. “Dear Jeremy, I have taken the children and left you. I borrowed Brian’s cabin at the Quamikut Boatyard. I think it’s best. Love, Mary.”

  He took the note off the door and read it over and over. It seemed that the air had gone out of him, so that the words striking his deflated chest jarred all the way through to his backbone. Finally he folded the piece of paper several times and tucked it in his shirt pocket. He headed through the house and back upstairs, fixing the image of his new statue very firmly in his mind like some magnetic star that would guide him through this moment. In the studio he resumed work immediately. He sanded the wooden head smooth again, at first so hard that the friction burned his fingers through the paper but then more slowly and then more slowly still. Like some clumsy, creaking wheel, he ground to a stop. He dropped the sandpaper and stood motionless, one hand upon his statue, staring numbly at the bare walls of the studio.

  Deserted, he was like an old man who sees the last of the guests to the door and returns, stretching, and yawning, to an empty room. Now I am alone again, he says. Finally. We can get down to what I have been waiting to do.

  What is it I have been waiting to do?

  7

  Spring and Summer, 1971: Mary

  First it was like a picnic. I mean that I planned it with the same kind of bottled-up, excited energy. I lay awake all Thursday night making mental lists of what I would need for the children—just the essentials. We were finally getting down to the essentials again. I calculated the earliest time I could telephone Brian in the morning, and I decided on seven. Which was too early, as it turned out. I have forgotten the pattern of life without children. Brian answered sounding hoarse and sleepy, and he didn’t seem to be thinking well. I said, “Brian, do you still have that house by the river?”

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “It’s Mary Pauling.”

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you still have that house by the river. Where your boat is moored.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “Would it be all right if the children and I went out there for a few days?”

  “Out—?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you this but you did say you never use it yourself. Didn’t you?”

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want to take the children there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You and the children but not Jeremy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But this is not a vacation house.”

  “No, I know that.”

  “It doesn’t even have hot water. And it’s filthy.”

  “Yes, we’ve been there once, remember?”

  “Mary,” Brian said. “Are you—I mean, is this—you’re not leaving him or anything.”

  “Oh,” I said, “you know Jeremy, he’s just so caught up in his work right now and I thought it would help if we got out of his hair for a while.”

  Then Brian said, “I see. Well, of course. You can use it as long as you like.”

  I could tell that he was still puzzled. But how else could I have explained it? “Actually, Jeremy forgot to marry me, Brian, and of course I could have reminded him but that would have been the third reminder on top of my proposing in the first place, and what kind of wedding is that?”

  By then I was packed. I had done that at dawn, while waiting for it to be time to call Brian. I tiptoed into the children’s rooms as they slept and I felt for their things in the dark. All night I had been looking forward to it—I do like getting organized to go someplace—but it turned out not to be what I had expected. For one thing, the bare essentials for six children can fill a trunk in no time. You don’t get the same feeling of purity as when you run away with one small child and her favorite doll. Clothes, vitamins, toothbrushes, baby aspirin, diapers, Edward’s potty chair, Pippi’s antihistamine, seven pairs of plastic pants … Also, I felt so sad. Hadn’t I once sworn never to leave anyone ever again? Especially not Jeremy. Oh, never Jeremy.

  I didn’t tell the children until Miss Vinton had had her breakfast and left for work. I knew they would have passed it on to her; they can’t keep secrets. Miss Vinton took an endless time buckling her mackintosh, smoothing the lapels down, checking on a little stain near the hem. I thought I was going to start screaming and shaking her, but instead I went on smiling. I looked steadily downward so she wouldn’t notice any difference in my face. “Have a good day, Miss Vinton,” I said. Then just as I was closing the front door after her I saw how straight she held her back, that rigid board of a spine marching off to deal with the world, those enormous Mary Janes flapping along, and I wished I had told her after all and given her a hug for goodbye.

  Mr. Somerset sometimes slept till noon and Olivia even longer. She had a job now at a sort of leather shop. I never had figured out her hours, but I was fairly sure that she would sleep through our going. (The night before, making supper, setting out a tray for Jeremy, I started crying right in front of her. “Oh,” I said, “I just can’t go on with these everlasting trays of his,” so she took over. She gave him part of her casserole—something organic, I believe. Later I was so ashamed. Haven’t I been trying all this time to instill some sort of stability in her? This morning I didn’t want to say anything to her at all. I couldn’t face her. I wouldn’t know how to explain.) I stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, listening for any sounds from her room or Mr. Somerset’s. Then I said, “Children?” They were still dawdling over breakfast. They thought they were going to school that day. I went out to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. “Guess what, children,” I said. “We’re taking a little trip.”

  They wanted to know where—all but Darcy. Darcy just got very still. She was feeding Rachel her Pablum, and she stopped the spoon in mid-air and didn’t even notice when Rachel started shouting and grabbing for it.

  “We’re going to spend a few days at Mr. O’Donnell’s cabin near the boatyard,” I said. “Remember last summer, when he took you all to see his boat? We’ll leave after breakfast; Mr. O’Donnell has kindly offered to drive us there.”

  “Something’s gone wrong,” Darcy said.

  “Of course not, honey.”

  “But it’s a school day. I have a math test.”

  “You can always make it up.”

  “It’s going to count for half my grade.”

  “You can make it up, Darcy.”

  “Are we leaving Jeremy or something?”

  Well, of course she would guess that. I suppose she remembers leaving Guy, although she has never said so or asked me a single thing about it. I said, “No, Darcy, don’t be silly. We’re giving him a little peace and quiet, is all.” Then I said, “Mr. O’Donnell is just providing the transportation.”

  Which I might not have needed to add, but I couldn’t be sure. You never can tell what is going through that head of hers.

  At nine o’clock Brian was supposed to be picking us up. (There was a city bus, but it didn’t go the entire way and I was just as glad we weren’t relying on it.) I gave each child a coat and a load to carry. “Hurry now,” I said, “out to the vestibule. Not outdoors, just in the vestibule.” I didn’t want Jeremy to see us leaving. I was afraid that one of the children would suddenly decide to run up and kiss him goodbye, but nobody thought of it. Then too he might come down on his own. Why hadn’t I taken him breakfast, so that he would have no reason to leave his studio? The fact is tha
t if he did come, if he said a single word to keep me with him, I would gladly stay forever. I didn’t want to go. Yet I kept feeling this pressure to get out of the house before he discovered it. I kept saying, “Move, Edward, we’re in a hurry,” and when Hannah wanted to run upstairs for her bear I said, “No! Stay down!” I scared her. She went immediately to the vestibule and stood sucking her thumb and staring up at me. I was like a burglar trying to escape without a sign, leaving behind me those gleaming countertops washed clean of every fingerprint. I made them all whisper. “Olivia’s asleep, hush!” I said, and they stared. Hush for Olivia? She could sleep through nuclear warfare. We stood packed solid in that little cube of a vestibule, steaming up the front windows and keeping utterly silent. Yet if Jeremy would only come! If he would come and say, “What’s going on, Mary?” and blink at me and put out one of his warm, pale hands to touch mine! Then I would herd everyone back in and lock all the doors and draw all the curtains, and Brian could wait outside our house forever.

  His car was a powder-blue Mercedes. Well, I suppose he is quite rich. He drew up soundlessly and peered toward the house, and I pushed the children out before he could honk and attract Jeremy’s attention. “Hurry, now,” I said. “Give me the baby, Darcy. Don’t forget that basket. Where’s my purse?” I was preceded by a parade of belongings, like some pampered movie star. Children, grocery bags, stuffed animals—I was padded with belongings. I felt I should apologize to Brian for having so many children, but during the first few minutes he was out loading things into the trunk and I was passing around Dramamine tablets. I had forgotten who was prone to car sickness; we so rarely drove. I gave Abbie a tablet by accident and then made her spit it out again. “Oh look,” I told her, “you ought to know if you get sick or not—” All of which helped me get over being embarrassed in front of Brian. I knew that he must be shocked at me. I have a very clear picture of how I appear to others: I am so big and slow and unexcitable, and women like that don’t act on impulse. They never leave people, certainly. Now when he was back in the car and maneuvering the rush hour traffic he kept throwing me sideways glances, maybe worrying that I would burst into tears or list all my grievances or spill some dark secret that he didn’t want to hear. I didn’t, of course. I kept the tears away by refusing to look behind me all the while that our house was in sight—that narrow, funny, lovable house with its potty bay window and the children’s old tattered construction paper Valentines glued to the upstairs panes and the dead Christmas tree on its side in front, dripping tinsel, waiting all these months to be collected—and who knows, maybe Jeremy drawing back a frayed lace curtain high on the third floor and peering out, dim and cloudlike, trying to understand what I had done to him.

  What was my purpose, sailing away in this ridiculous baby-blue car?

  We headed out through stretches of Baltimore that I had only seen once or twice before in my life, rowhouses layered over with ugly new formstone, dead-looking saplings scattered along a divided street so wide and gray that looking at it seemed to bleach my eyes. Meanwhile the children said nothing. I had never known them to keep so quiet for so long. They sat in a row in back, each of them framed by stuffed-in bits and pieces that couldn’t fit into the trunk. They gazed dreamily out the windows. Maybe they were in a state of shock, suffering through an experience I would never be able to erase. Maybe they were just admiring the view. Who knows? Children live in such a mist. I believe that most of what happens comes as a total surprise to them even when you think you’ve explained it. I said, “Abbie? Are you comfortable? Pippi?” They looked at me blankly, then looked away again. Hannah wet her finger and drew an H on the windowpane.

  “In a week or so it will be spring,” Brian told me. “Then would be a good time for you to be out there.”

  “It’s a good time now,” I said. “It’s spring now.”

  “This morning I could see my breath.”

  “We’re not made of glass, you know.”

  “Mary, that cabin is no better than sleeping out. Maybe you’ve forgotten. There’s no heat, no—”

  “I remember that,” I said, “but it’s the only place I know of to go.” Then I saw his face close over, braced for me to begin my story. I said, “And I certainly do thank you. Last time we were there the children loved it.”

  The closed look didn’t fade. He said, “Tell me this, Mary. How long were you planning to stay?”

  “Well, I hadn’t made any definite plans yet.” I mean—

  “Probably not long,” I said. I felt I had to help him out.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you have enough money?”

  “Oh yes,” I said.

  “Because if you don’t, now—”

  “Brian, you know better than anyone that Jeremy’s just sold four pieces,” I said.

  Actually the little money Jeremy had made was still in the bank, and I had left the checkbook on his bureau, where he would be sure to find it. I wasn’t a genuine burglar. What I took was my household-hints money, my money-back-offer money, my coupon money, which I had been saving against trouble all these years as I once promised myself I would. It had mounted up. Fifty dollars for telling how I use old bottle crates to make spice racks, twenty-five for the third-best recipe based on sliced pasteurized processed cheese food and a dollar back for ten labels off canned beans. The money was in a plastic refrigerator container in my purse, and I reached in to touch it and felt strong and competent and too big for the car. Never mind, children; I might carry you away without ever saying why but at least I will be with you, and I will provide for you. I learned my lesson the first time around. Women should never leave any vacant spots for the men to fill; they should form an unbroken circle on their own and enclose each child within it.

  We passed barren stretches now, where the fields had been peeled back and naked buildings sat on jagged slabs of concrete, looking as if they had recently been uprooted from some more crowded place. We passed long avenues of service stations and cut-rate tire dealers and machine shops, and then oil refineries and warehouses and strange mechanical monsters standing alone in tangles of dry grass—electrical objects on wiry, spraddled legs, tanks and cylinders, gigantic motors with bolts as big as grown men and twisted black pipes that could suck up a house, all silent and unused. The cars around us now were rusted and crumpled, fantastically finned, driven by gum-chewing men; we were close to the Bethlehem Steel Works. “Look!” said Pippi. “Country!” and she pointed to a matted gray line of tree branches far, far beyond an auto graveyard. “When we get to the river, can we swim?” she asked.

  “Philippa Pauling! You’d get pneumonia.”

  “Typhoid, more likely,” said Brian. “Bubonic plague.” He looked over at me. I thought he might be about to smile, although it was hard to tell beneath that beard of his. And the children were perking up too—pointing out sights on the road and quarreling over whose turn it was at the window. The junkyards gave way to houses, all tiny and papery-looking but with signs of real people in them, at least. Wooden donkeys pulled wooden carts across the front yards, and there were bird baths and flowered mailboxes and silvery balls on pedestals everywhere we looked. Some people had set up housekeeping in trailers with cement bases built in under them. Now, why would anyone want to do that? All those temporary objects resting on permanent foundations? Well, maybe it was just my mood that made me wonder. I felt like a solid stone house, myself, jacked up on little tiny wheels when I had no business going anywhere.

  Now the space between neighbors grew larger and we passed through woods—scrubby and meager, but woods all the same. We turned off onto a gravel road lined with more houses, most of them smaller than the boats that sat in the driveways. Cabin cruisers—ugly things. I never could see why some people like boating so much. I’ve never cared for the water at all, not one way or the other.

  To get to Brian’s house you go straight down to the river, through a cluster of bleak shacks and a store and a long shed where they do repair work
in the wintertime. There were only a few boats tied up at the docks. The season had hardly begun. We went plummeting along a dirt road that ran alongside the water, and then Brian braked and we looked up to see his cabin: a gray weathered rectangle with a tin roof, and not a perfect right angle anywhere on it. Everything was sagging, leaning, buckling, splitting. The tops of both steps were missing; anyone entering would find himself stepping into wooden boxes, sinking down into cold black spidery caverns. I knew all that ahead of time, of course. I had meant what I told Brian. But still! There are some things you can’t actually summon up in your memory—smells, they say (although I always could) and then the exact atmosphere, the weight and texture and quality of air, that exists in certain places. I knew that Brian’s shack was dismal but I had forgotten how just standing next to it would make you feel dank and chilled, a despairing feeling, and how when you went in some heaviness would press down on your skin and cause your heart to sink. This is not just myself I am talking about. The minute we were inside Brian reached out and touched my arm, unnecessarily, as if the gesture had been startled out of him. “Mary!” he said. “You can’t stay here.”

  The children climbed in one by one and fell silent, and stood in a huddle together shivering.

  Part of it was the cold, of course. There is nothing so cold as air that has been trapped beneath tin all winter. Then there was the dirt. When Brian bought his ketch the shack came with it, automatically. The previous owner had stayed here whenever he was working on the boat or preparing for an early morning sail. Brian couldn’t have cared less about the shack itself. He let the grit form a film on the table and the mildew grow on the swaybacked couch and the rust trickle down from the faucets in the kitchen sink. Boys broke windows, birds flew in and died after battering themselves against the walls. Why, I could have shoveled the dirt out! I pictured myself with a great garden spade, laboring over the cracked beige linoleum. Then I saw how I would rip down those tatty plastic curtains and scour the sink white again and cover the couch with some nice bright throw, and all my muscles grew springy the way they had the night before when I was planning the packing, and I knew that we would stay.