by Anne Tyler
They passed the Seeing Eye Palmistry Parlor, really just a private home with a sign propped in the living room window. A girl was sitting out on the steps, maybe waiting her turn; she had a small, heart-shaped face and she was dressed all in black except for her purple suede shoes, which showed up clearly in the light from the porch. A man trudged down the sidewalk with a little girl riding his shoulders and clutching two handfuls of his hair. It seemed the scenery had grown more intimate, more specific. Maggie turned toward Leroy and said, “I don’t suppose any of this is familiar.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Leroy said.
“You have?”
“Only in passing,” Fiona corrected her quickly.
“When was that?”
Leroy looked at Fiona, who said, “We might have driven by here once or twice.”
Maggie said, “Is that so.”
In front of their own house, Ira parked. It was one of those houses that appear to be mostly front porch, at least from the street—squat and low-browed, not at all impressive, as Maggie was the first to admit. She wished at least the lights were on. That would have made it seem more welcoming. But every window was dark. “Well!” she said, too heartily. She opened her door and got out of the car, clutching the groceries. “Come on in, everyone!”
There was something befuddled about the way they milled around on the sidewalk. They had been traveling for too long. When Ira started up the steps, he accidentally banged Fiona’s suitcase against the railing, and he fumbled awhile with the key before he got the door unlocked.
They entered the musty, close darkness of the front hallway. Ira flipped on the light. Maggie called, “Daisy?” without a hope that Daisy would answer. Clearly the house was deserted. She shifted the grocery bag to her left hip and picked up the notepad that lay on top of the bookcase. Gone to say goodbye to Lavinia, Daisy’s precise italics read. “She’s at Mrs. Perfect’s,” Maggie told Ira. “Well, she’ll be back! How long can it take to say goodbye? She’ll be back in no time!”
This was all for Leroy’s benefit, to show that Daisy really existed—that there was more to this house than old people.
Leroy was circling the hallway, with her baseball glove tucked under one arm. She was squinting up at the photographs that covered the walls. “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing to one.
Ira as a young father stood in dappled sunlight, awkwardly holding a baby. “That’s your grandpa, holding your daddy,” Maggie told her.
Leroy said, “Oh,” and moved on at once. Probably she had hoped it was Jesse holding Leroy. Maggie cast her eyes around the room to see if she could locate such a picture. You could hardly make out the wallpaper pattern for all the photos that hung here, each framed professionally by Ira and each mat and molding different, like a sample of something. There was Jesse as a toddler, as a little boy on a scooter, as a thumbtack-sized face among rows of other faces in fifth grade. But no picture of Jesse as a grownup, Maggie realized; not even as a teenager. And certainly not as a father. They had run out of wall space by then. Besides, Maggie’s mother was always saying how trashy it was to display one’s family photographs anywhere but a bedroom.
Fiona was pushing her suitcase toward the stairs, leaving two long thin scratches on the floorboards behind her. “Oh, don’t bother with that,” Maggie told her. “Ira will carry it up for you later.”
How must Fiona feel, returning after so long—walking across the porch where she’d decided to keep her baby, passing through the front door that she had so often slammed out of in a huff? She looked drawn and dispirited. The sudden light had crumpled the skin around her eyes. She abandoned her suitcase and pointed to a photo high on the wall. “There I happen to be,” she told Leroy. “In case you’re interested.”
She meant her bridal photo. Maggie had forgotten that. A wedding present from Crystal, who had brought a camera to the ceremony, it showed a coltish young girl in a wrinkled dress. The frame was a black plastic diploma frame that must have come from Woolworth’s. Leroy studied the photo without expression. Then she moved into the living room, where Ira was switching on lamps.
Maggie took the groceries out to the kitchen, with Fiona close behind. “So where is he?” Fiona asked in a low voice.
“Well, he’s probably …” Maggie said. She flicked on the overhead light and glanced at the clock. “I told him we’d eat at six-thirty and it’s barely that now and you know how he loses track of time, so don’t worry—”
Fiona said, “I’m not worried! Who says I’m worried? I don’t care if he comes or he doesn’t.”
“No, of course not,” Maggie said soothingly.
“I just brought Leroy to visit you two. I don’t care if he comes.”
“Well, of course you don’t.”
Fiona sat down heavily in a kitchen chair and threw her purse on the table. Like the most formal of guests, she was carrying that purse with her from room to room; some things never changed. Maggie sighed and began unpacking the groceries. She put the ice cream in the freezer, and then she slit open both packs of chicken and dumped them into a bowl. “What kind of vegetables does Leroy like?” she asked.
Fiona said, “Hmm? Vegetables?” She didn’t seem to have her mind on the question. She was gazing at the wall calendar, which still showed the month of August. Oh, this wasn’t a very organized house, not that Fiona had any right to complain. The counters seemed to collect stray objects on their own. The cupboards were filled with dusty spice bottles and cereal boxes and mismatched dishes. Drawers sagged open, exposing a jumble of belongings. One drawer caught Maggie’s eye, and she went over to riffle through the layers of papers stuffed inside. “Now, somewhere here,” she said, “I could almost swear …”
She came across a PTA announcement. A torn-out recipe for something called Amazin’ Raisin Pie. A packet of get-well cards that she’d been hunting since the day she bought them. And then, “Aha,” she said, holding up a flier.
“What is it?”
“Picture of Jesse as a grownup. For Leroy.”
She brought it over to Fiona: a darkly photocopied photo of the band. Lorimer was sitting in front with his drums and Jesse stood behind, his arms draped loosely around the necks of the other two, Dave and what’s-his-name. All wore black. Jesse had his eyebrows knitted in a deliberate scowl. SPIN THE CAT was printed in furry, tiger-striped letters beneath their picture, and a blank space at the bottom allowed for a specific time and place to be written in by hand.
“Of course it doesn’t do him justice,” Maggie said. “These rock groups always try to look so, I don’t know, so surly; have you noticed? Maybe I should just show her the snapshot I carry in my wallet. He isn’t smiling there, either, but at least he’s not frowning.”
Fiona took the flier to study it more closely. “How funny,” she said. “Everyone’s just the same.”
“Same?”
“I mean they were always going to be going somewhere; didn’t you always think so? They had such high-and-mighty plans. And they used to keep changing so, changing their views of music. Why, one time Leroy asked me just what kind of songs her daddy played, new wave or punk or heavy metal or what, exactly—I think she wanted to impress her friends—and I said, ‘Lordy, by now it could be anything; I wouldn’t have the foggiest notion.’ But just look at them.”
“Well? So?” Maggie said. “What’s to look at?”
“Lorimer’s still got his hair fixed in that silly shag haircut with the tail down the back of his neck that I was always dying to chop off,” Fiona said. “They’re still wearing the same style of clothes, even. Same old-fashioned Hell’s Angels style of clothing.”
“Old-fashioned?” Maggie asked.
“You could picture how they’ll get to be forty and still playing together on weekends when their wives will let them, playing for Rotary Club get-togethers and such.”
It bothered Maggie to hear this, but she didn’t let on. She turned back to her bowl of chicken.
Fiona said, “Wh
o was it he brought to dinner?”
“Pardon?”
“You said he brought this woman to dinner one time.”
Maggie glanced over at her. Fiona was still holding the photo, gazing at it with a bemused expression. “Nobody important,” Maggie said.
“Well, who?”
“Just some woman he’d met someplace; we’ve been through a lot of those. Nobody long-term.”
Fiona set the photo down on the table, but she went on looking at it.
Out in the living room, ragged music started thrumming forth from the hi-fi. Evidently Leroy had found one of Jesse’s castoffs. Maggie heard Hey hey and Every day and a familiar twanging of strings, although she couldn’t say who was playing. She took a carton of buttermilk from the refrigerator and poured it over the chicken. A headache was tightening the skin of her forehead. Now that she thought of it, she realized it had been nagging at her for some time.
“I’m going to call Jesse,” she told Fiona suddenly.
She went over to the wall telephone and lifted the receiver. There wasn’t any dial tone. Instead she heard a ringing at the other end. “Ira must be using the extension,” she said, and she hung up again. “Well, so anyhow. Vegetables. Which vegetables will Leroy eat?”
“She likes tossed salad,” Fiona said.
“Oh, dear, I should’ve bought lettuce.”
“Maggie,” Ira said, entering the kitchen, “what did you do to my answering machine?”
“Me? I didn’t do anything.”
“You most certainly did.”
“I did not! I already told you about that little mishap last evening, but then I put a new message on.”
He crooked his finger, beckoning her to the telephone. “Try it,” he told her.
“What for?”
“Try dialing the shop.”
She shrugged and came over to the phone. After she dialed, the phone at the other end rang three times. Something clicked. “Well, here goes,” Maggie’s own voice said, faraway and tinny. “Let’s see: Press Button A, wait for the red … oh, shoot.”
Maggie blinked.
“I must be doing something wrong,” her voice continued. Then, in the falsetto she often used when she was clowning around with her children: “Who, me? Do something wrong? Little old perfect me? I’m shocked at the very suggestion!”
There was a ribbony shriek, like a tape on fast forward, followed by a beep. Maggie hung up. She said, “Well … um …”
“God knows what my customers thought,” Ira told her.
“Maybe no one called,” she said hopefully.
“I don’t even know how you managed it! That machine is supposed to be foolproof.”
“Well, it only goes to show: You can’t trust the simplest product nowadays,” she told him. She lifted the receiver again and started dialing Jesse’s number. While his telephone rang and rang, she twined the cord nervously between her fingers. She was conscious of Fiona watching them, seated at the table with her chin resting on her cupped hand.
“Who’re you calling?” Ira asked.
She pretended not to hear.
“Who’s she calling, Fiona?”
“Well, Jesse, I think,” Fiona told him.
“Did you forget his phone won’t ring?”
Maggie looked up at him. “Oh!” she said.
She replaced the receiver and then gazed at it regretfully.
“Oh, well,” Fiona said, “maybe he’s on his way. It’s Saturday night, after all; how late does he work?”
“Not late at all,” Ira told her.
“Where does he work, come to think of it?”
“Chick’s Cycle Shop. He sells motorcycles.”
“Wouldn’t they be closed by now?”
“Of course they’re closed. They close at five.”
“Then why bother calling?”
“No, no, she was calling his apartment,” Ira said.
Fiona said, “His—”
Maggie went back to the bowl of chicken. She stirred it around in the buttermilk. She took a flattened brown paper bag from one of the drawers and poured some flour into it.
“Jesse has an apartment?” Fiona asked Ira.
“Why, yes.”
Maggie measured in baking powder, salt, and pepper.
“An apartment away from here?”
“Up on Calvert Street.”
Fiona thought that over.
Maggie said, “Here’s something I always wanted to ask you, Fiona!” Her voice had somehow taken on that chirpy tone again. “Remember just a few months after you left?” she asked. “When Jesse phoned you and said you’d phoned him first and you said you hadn’t? Well, had you, or hadn’t you? Was it you who phoned our house and I said, ‘Fiona?’ and you hung up?”
“Oh, goodness …” Fiona said vaguely.
“I mean it had to be, or why else would the person hang up when I said your name?”
“I really don’t recollect,” Fiona said, and then she reached for her purse and rose. Walking in an airy, aimless way, as if she hardly noticed she was leaving, she wandered out of the kitchen, calling, “Leroy? Where’d you get to?”
“See there?” Maggie told Ira.
“Hmm?”
“It was her. I knew it all along.”
“She didn’t say it was.”
“Oh, Ira, you are so obtuse sometimes,” she said.
She closed the brown paper bag and shook it, mixing the seasonings. You can’t have things both ways, she should have told Fiona. You can’t laugh at him for staying the same and also object when he changes. Why, of course he had moved! Did Fiona imagine he had sat here waiting for her all these years?
And yet Maggie knew how she felt, somehow. You have this picture of a person; you have him tucked away in your mind in this certain fixed position.
She looked again at the band photo on the table. They had all been so enthusiastic once, she thought. So much energy had been invested. She remembered those early rehearsals in Lorimer’s parents’ garage, and the months and months when they’d been thrilled to perform for free, even, and the night that Jesse had come home triumphantly waving a ten-dollar bill—his share of their first paycheck.
“Is that Daisy?” Ira asked.
“What?”
“I thought I heard the front door.”
“Oh!” Maggie said. “Maybe it’s Jesse.”
“Don’t count on it,” he told her.
But only Jesse would sling the door back against the bookcase that way. Maggie dusted off her hands. “Jesse?” she called.
“Here I am.”
She hurried out to the hall, and Ira followed more slowly. Jesse stood just inside the door. He was looking toward the living room, where Leroy was poised like some startled small animal with her hands pressed together in front of her and one foot drawn up behind her. Jesse said, “Well, hi.”
“Hi,” Leroy said.
“How’re you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
He looked over at Maggie. Maggie said, “Hasn’t she grown?”
His long black eyes returned to Leroy.
Now Maggie moved toward him, willing him further into the house. (He always seemed on the verge of leaving.) She took his arm and said, “I’m frying up some chicken; it’ll be a few more minutes. You two can sit in here and get acquainted.”
But he had never been easily led. He was wearing a knitted jersey, and beneath the thin cloth she felt his resistance—the steely muscle above his elbow. His boots remained rooted to the floor. He was going to take his own sweet time at this.
“So what’re you listening to?” he asked Leroy.
“Oh, just some record.”
“You a Dead fan?”
“Dead? Um, sure.”
“You want some better album, then,” he said. “This one here is too popular with the masses.”
“Oh, yeah, well,” she said. “I was just thinking that myself.”
He glanced at Maggie again. He was holding h
is face in a way that caused his chin to lengthen, just as Ira always did when he was trying to keep back a smile.
“She’s athletic too,” Maggie told him. “Brought along her baseball glove.”
“That so?” he asked Leroy.
She nodded. The toe of her raised foot pointed daintily downward, ballet style.
Then something clattered upstairs and Fiona called, “Maggie, where—?”
She arrived on the landing. They all looked up at her.
“Oh,” she said.
And she began to descend the stairs very smoothly and quietly, with one hand trailing along the banister. The only sound was the slapping of her sandals against her bare heels.
Jesse said, “Good to see you, Fiona.”
She reached the hall and looked up at him. “It’s good to see you too,” she said.
“Done something new to your hair, haven’t you?”
She lifted a hand, with her eyes still on his face, and touched the ends of her hair. “Oh! Maybe so,” she told him.
Maggie said, “Well, I guess I’d better get back to—”
And Ira said, “Need help in the kitchen, Maggie?”
“Yes, please!” she sang out happily.
Fiona told Jesse, “I was just upstairs hunting my soapbox.”
Maggie hesitated.
“Soapbox?” Jesse asked.
“I tried your bureau drawer, but it’s empty. All I found was mothballs. Did you take my soapbox with you when you moved to your apartment?”
“What soapbox are you talking about?”