All the Time in the World (13 page)

“Ha. Well, what are you making now?” Claudia asks, and I give her the weekly number.

“It used to be for about thirty-six hours, but recently it's been more like ninety,” I say. “They've been spending weekends in Connecticut with their aunt, and that's pretty much the only time I'm not with them.” I stop for a second to pull the zipper of my jacket up to my chin. It's colder outside than I think it should be in April. “I don't want to have to talk about this with him. He should realize on his own that it's not a sustainable situation.”

“I know you don't want to talk about it. You never do. Probably because you always start crying and never get to make the points you want to make.”

“You are the meanest girl I know.” I pause in front of the entrance to the NQR trains but decide to keep walking. I'm starting to regret initiating this conversation.

“It sounds really complex, and I don't blame you for being sensitive. I blame Mom and Dad, of course. We all have too many feelings. But you need to make an effort not to let the feelings hold you hostage the way they have your entire life.”

“I don't know what you mean by that.”

“Like, remember how you were with those ducks?”

“What ducks?”

“The ducks we would see, in the spring. A mom duck would come by with her babies, and you would count them to make sure they were all there. And if you saw one go by on its own, well, forget it,” says Claudia. “You'd stand out on the dock, holding a stick. Maybe you were going to poke anything that came by that looked threatening, get it away from the orphan duck.”

“Or maybe I was going to whack the duckling with the stick, put it out of its misery, but never worked up the nerve,” I say.

“Maybe you were,” says Claudia. “We never knew. You never wanted to talk about it. You just stood out there, determined to be the silent duck hero. For, like, hours and hours.”

“I'm not trying to be a hero,” I say, but I can't say anything else because maybe I am. Not in the way she means it, though, not in the way that earns glory or accolades. I don't know how to convince my sister of this, let alone anyone else, because an adequate explanation of what I
am
doing seems just out of reach. “Hey, speaking of ducks. You know where there are ducks? In the ponds of Central Park. You miss ducks, don't you? Of course you do. That's why you brought them up. You should move here.”

“You know where there are also ducks?” Claudia is clinking dishes around. I'm guessing all her mugs are dirty, and she has to take one out of the full dishwasher and wash it by hand in order to drink her coffee. “In the public garden, right here in Boston. There are millions of ducks. Sometimes we even see them in the street.”

“That's a myth perpetuated by a children's book. Don't be fooled. The man who wrote that book was living in New York City, studying ducklings he kept in his bathtub. You need to move to New York to see some real ducks.”

“I actually don't miss ducks at all.”

“Come on. You're pining for them.”

“See, now I can tell that you're keeping me on the line because you're bored with walking. How long before you get to the restaurant and I can go back to bed?”

“I'm still in Midtown. About to pass Saint Patrick's.”

“You should go in and light a candle. Make a wish.”

“I don't think that's how it works.” I look up at the massive building. It's been surrounded by scaffolding, under construction since I first moved to the city. There are no signs that they'll be finished with it anytime soon. The amount of time that they spend on renovations must somehow be worth it, proportional to how long they're hoping the building will stand.

“We're not Catholic,” says Claudia. “Maybe wishing will work, this one time. Maybe that's how they convert you. You're granted one wish from the candle-genie.”

“Maybe.” I climb the steps but turn around before I reach the doors, imagining the look on Scotty's face if I were to tell him I was late because I stopped into a church to light a candle on my way. “Everything feels so high stakes. What can I do, Claudia?”

“It feels that way because it
is
high stakes,” she says. “Why don't you let him tell you what he thinks is best? Make him name the first number. He's a businessman, right? He'll understand that.”

“He's a corporate attorney,” I say.

“So what? He's going to screw you with your pants on and leave you on a conference table?”

“CLAUDIA.”

“You're around little people too much,” she says. “You've lost your edge.
Screw
isn't even a dirty word.”

“It was a dirty metaphor.” The mental picture makes me uncomfortable, but I'm afraid saying so will give Claudia the wrong idea. I'm already paranoid that people are getting the wrong idea, from Aunt Lila to Miss Leslie.

“I'm cranky,” Claudia says. “You won't let me go back to bed.”

“I should probably see what he's going to say before I ask for anything.”

“He has more money than God,” she says. “He won't agree to anything he can't handle. And he can't expect you not to have feelings, so just keep talking until he hears you, even if it's through tears. He won't know what you need unless you tell him.”

“You're right, you're right,” I say. “Thank you for talking to me. Go back to whatever man you left in your bed.”

“How'd you know?” She laughs.

“Grinding coffee beans before noon? Please,” I say.

“I'll have to tell Mom she raised a bunch of sluts,” Claudia says. “Good-bye, defender of mallards everywhere. Love you.”

“Love you.”

I hang up, feeling somewhat better. And I think about how lucky I am to be able to talk to my sisters whenever I want, and the feeling morphs into something strange and a little bit hollow.

A short while later, Scotty and I are on our way to lunch.

“Who's George playing with today?” Scotty asks.

“Sarai,” I say.

“Where does she live?”

“Sarai is a boy. They live further up on Park.”

We sit at a table in the back of an Indian restaurant that looks like it could have once been a cathedral. It's cavernous, and the walls are made of stone. I feel like I have to whisper so my voice doesn't catapult in a thousand different directions when I speak. I didn't even realize they had restaurants this big at this end of town, down below the numbers.

“Do you have any preferences?” he asks, looking at the menu.

“Um … chicken?” I say. There have been so many gluten-free fish sticks in my recent meal history that I've forgotten how to order Indian food.

The waiter comes, and Scotty orders a bunch of stuff that I've never heard of, plus a gin and tonic. For a minute I am worried, and then I dismiss the thought. Not my job.

“Perfect,” says the waiter. “A glass of wine for your wife?”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I'm not—” I'm not his wife? I'm his babysitter? There is nothing to be said that won't make it worse for Scotty. “I'm not drinking,” I finish lamely, and Scotty is amused, although I'm not sure how I know this since he doesn't laugh or really even smile.

“You sure?” he says.

“I'm good with water,” I say.

“Very good,” says the waiter. He leaves the wine list anyway and heads off to put in our order.

“I take it you got Matt to school,” Scotty says, and I'm surprised he realized that there was a minor battle going on this morning.

“Yeah,” I say. I don't tell him about the moment when Matthew literally dug his heels into the sidewalk outside North-Mad, and I had to pick him up, deposit him into the elevator, and then blockade the elevator door with my body in order to prevent his escape. George giggled the entire time, which I take to mean he'll be modeling his brother's antics sometime in the near future.

“Before I forget, Miss Leslie asked me for your cell phone number,” I say. “She left a message at work for you, but she didn't, ah, hear anything.”

“Did you give her yours?” Scotty asks, and I can tell he'd rather not discuss it.

“I did, for daytime stuff,” I say. “But I think she wants to talk about something specific, so I told her I would mention it to you.”

“Do you know what it is?” he asks.

“She didn't give me a lot of details,” I say.

“Is Matt acting out?”

“I guess so,” I say, and he knows I'm being careful, and I don't think he likes it.

“Is he belligerent with the teachers? Talking back? Punching kids on the playground?” The thought of Matt punching other kids, like some kind of tough guy, is relatively comical, but neither of us laughs.

“No punching,” I say. “She didn't mention punching. I think he's kind of … harassing one of the girls.”

“What, like mouthing off? Or trying to kiss her?”

“I really am not sure,” I say, and it's a flat-out lie, which is unfortunate, as I'm a terrible liar. “I think that's why Miss Leslie wants to talk to you, though.”

“Can she e-mail me? That would be easier,” Scotty says. “Give her my work e-mail.”

“Okay,” I say.

Our food comes, and it's mostly red, yellow, and brown. I cut into something that looks like a pastry and find peas inside. I'm not a huge fan of peas, but I'm committed now, so I eat it. It's not horrible.

“So, Charlotte,” Scotty says, and I have a terrible knot in my stomach, made of secret concerts and lives away from Park Avenue and sad little boys. “I haven't been thinking much about … much of anything besides getting through our day-to-day things.”

“Of course,” I say. “Me too, I guess.”

“But Mae has been calling me every day since she left. I think she's really concerned about what's happening with the kids,” he says. I'm not sure what he's getting at. “She wants us to move to Chicago.” I can't help it; I raise my eyebrows.

“I know,” he says. “That's how I feel. She thinks the firm could transfer me, and we could move close to her and Simon. She thinks that would be … good for them, for all of us, I guess.”

“Okay,” I say. “Are you thinking about that?”

“Lila thinks it's a terrible idea. She thinks we should move to Connecticut, and then I can commute into the city for work.” Scotty passes me a basket of naan and spoons something in a red curry sauce onto my plate. Curry can mean nothing but trouble for the feeling in my gut, so I spend some time cutting the unknown meat into tiny pieces and pushing it around on my plate, hoping this will pass for eating, even though I'm never fooled when the boys engage in similar activities.

“Wow,” I say. “I guess, well, I guess that's an option.”

“Another option involves the boys going to stay with Mae and Simon for a while and me staying based in New York until I can get my act together.”

“Did she actually say that to you, that you need to get your act together?” I ask, not sure whether that would be impressive or abominable or both.

“No, she's very understanding,” Scotty says. “I'm the one who's thinking in terms of getting my act together. Mae always says things like ‘weathering the aftershocks' and ‘working through the grief' and ‘testing the limits of my humanity.'”

“That's dramatic,” I say. “I guess it's appropriate, though.”

“Sure,” he says. “Maybe. I haven't had the energy. I should probably see a therapist or throw some furniture around.”

“Well, that
would
be energetic,” I say. My sister Jane would yell at me right now for giving in to my instinct to deflect when things get serious.

“I want to be with them,” he says. He picks up the wine list. I can't see his face behind it. “I don't want them to go anywhere. But.” He swallows. “They look just like her. So. It's been hard.” He lowers the menu, blinking a little, and if this is the first time he's going to cry, I'm not prepared. He doesn't, though; instead, he goes on. “Mae and I have been discussing options. But I'm not ready to send them away.”

“Okay,” I say. I don't know what my opinion is, but I'm surprised to hear that Scotty doesn't want to be rid of them for the time being. His recent actions suggest he barely notices that they're around. “Do you have ideas about what you might want to do?”

“I do,” says Scotty, looking right at me. “I know you've been working crazy hours for me. Jesus, I probably owe you money.”

“Don't worry about it,” I say, but he's waving one hand and writing a note to himself in his phone with the other. I take a few bites of my lunch while he does so. It's super spicy.

“Charlotte, if you don't give me a ballpark, you know I'm just going to make one up,” he says, and something flutters a little in my chest, half resentment and half excitement. I don't understand people who can talk that casually about money.

“I haven't been counting the hours that they're both in school,” I tell him, and I pick up my water glass and hold it to my face. The spice has caught up with me. I know that Scotty must be muddling through questions in his brain, like where have all the groceries come from? and who picks up my dry cleaning?

“When I add it up, I think it should be about twice what I've paid you so far. Is that right, or close to right?”

“But most of that time Gramma Mae was here.” I stop talking when I see him rub a tired hand over his eyes. Matt makes that same gesture when he's feeling impatient with me. “That will be fine, more than fine. Thank you,” I say, and I briefly wonder how I'm going to report my taxes this year.

“If you have time to come back to the office with me, Eliza can take care of this,” Scotty says. “But I want to make sure we get some things decided before you have to leave and get George.”