“Taxi!” she called to a Checker cab prowling toward her. She got in and gave the driver the address she had looked up in the library two days before. Frank's address. The cabbie was an old man, burrowed into a plaid cap, and hung from the rearview mirror was a huge green crucifix with a weeping Jesus entwined around it. “That road,” she told the cabdriver, but when he rounded the curve, the high school she and Jim had attended was gone. In its place was a brick apartment complex. “When did this happen?” Lee asked the cabdriver. “Wasn't there a high school here?”
“Nope,” the driver said, “Never.”
“But there was,” Lee insisted. “I ought to know, I went there long enough.”
“I'm telling you never,” the driver said, and rounded the comer again. “You think I just started driving a cab yesterday?”
“But I remember it,” Lee said. “You're wrong.”
“Lady,” he said, his voice an edge.
“Okay, fine, forget it,” she said, trying to keep her own voice calm. She made him drop her off at the end of the block. She felt seasick. Her legs kept buckling. Mosquitoes whined in the shimmery heat. At the far end of the block a small boy was riding a red tricycle around and around in dusty circles. When she passed, the boy looked up.
What was the worst that might happen? Frank could smash the door in her face. He could weep and embrace her. Or Janet could answer. Or another woman. That thought made her ridiculously hopeful.
There it was: 409. A large white colonial springing from the midst of a carefully manicured lawn. Hedges framed the yard, and there was a casual sprinkling of yellow and blue four-o'clocks. The flagstone was chipping a little.
Lee measured her steps up to the glass front door. Her reflection blurred back at her. Her hand hovered in midair, fairly floating on the air. And then she rang the door.
She could hear steps. “Hang on a sec,” a voice said, and then the door opened and there was Janet, looking exactly the same as the day Lee had left. Her hair was wet from the shower, dripping into points across her dress.
Lee stepped back. “It's Lee,” she said.
“Lee?” Janet said. She leaned forward, peering into Lee's face, starting to raise one hand before she lowered it again, dropping it against one hip. “Jesus,” she said, and then all the soft curves of Janet's face grew suddenly rigid, and she drew herself up.
“Well,” Janet said finally. She studied Lee. “You look like hell,” she said coldly.
“I've been traveling,” Lee said.
Janet shook her head. “That sounds about right,” she said. She looked out past Lee, toward the end of the block. “So what kept you?” she said quietly.
“Could I please see my father?” Lee said.
Janet snapped Lee back into her focus. “I ought to slam this door right in your little face,” Janet said.
“I can wait someplace else,” said Lee.
Janet lifted up one hand. “Wait all you want,” she said. “It won't do any good. If you had cared enough to keep in touch, you could have known. You could have saved yourself the trip.”
Lee stared at her. “Known what?” she said.
Janet rubbed at her forehead. “Frank died,” she said. “Last year.”
The sunlight was so bright, Lee could see individual blades of grass. She could see the diamond wedding band on Janet's finger, the lean line of shoulder poking up through the blue shirt.
“Did you hear what I said? Or do you still not care?”
Stunned, Lee blinked up at Janet. “I always cared,” Lee said, and burst into ragged tears.
Janet didn't move toward her, Instead she opened the door and stood back. “You come in,” she said. “If I keep this door open, it'll bring the flies and the neighbors both, and I can't say which is worse.”
She let Lee in, but she kept her body distanced. She led Lee into the living room, and right away Lee noticed that she didn't recognize one single thing in it. Every piece of furniture she had ever sat on or stumbled against or leaned upon was gone. The new pieces were sharp and angular, as like Frank and unlike Janet as she could imagine. There was a Chinese black enamel desk. A black leather sofa. A gray canvas chair and track lighting. On one side of the room was a large white porcelain poodle. On the mantel was a studio portrait of Frank and Janet, but as far as Lee could see that was the only picture in the house. Lee sank down against the leather. It cooled her bare legs.
Janet sat down opposite her on the canvas chair. “Heart attack,” she said. “Doctor gave him a clean bill of health and two days later he was showing a house andâwell, that was that.” She shut her eyes, stroking the bridge of her nose.
“When you ran off with Jim, it did something to him,” Janet said. “He got so
angry
. So hurt he couldn't discuss it. Who did you think you were, a couple of wild kids running off like that? What the hell did you ever see in Jim anyway? He was like a big baked potato. No personality.”
“He had personality,” Lee whispered.
“Oh, really? Is that why you left him?” Janet flopped her hands into her lap. “Oh, hell. Frank would have come around, I think. But when you ran off again, you didn't run to him, did you. It was like losing you twice.”
“He never made me feel like he was losing me,” Lee said.
“He was so furious with you,” said Janet. “And he couldn't
stand
Jim. Thought Jim had ruined your life, and his right along with it. After a while he insisted he had washed his hands of you. Jim used to send us pictures of the baby, little locks of hair, booties. Frank would toss everything out into the trash, but then he'd go out later and dig it all out again.” She shook her head. “That little girl was so pretty. I would have liked to have a granddaughter running all around the house, but Frank didn't want any reminders. I think he was terrified your daughter would look just like you. It was the only thing we really argued about. Sometimes in secret I'd buy a little present, a little dress or a soft toy, and write a card with both our names scribbled in. The only reason I never sent it is I knew how furious Frank would be, and the truth was he mattered more to me than any granddaughter, so I ended up returning everything or giving it to Goodwill.” She looked at Lee. “That matter to you any, that you have a daughter?”
“He never answered the cards I sent him from Baltimore.”
Janet shook her head, exasperated. “You think he didn't love you, is that it?” She stood up and moved heavily to the Chinese enamel desk. She bent and pulled something out and then turned back to Lee. “You want the truth? I was the one who stopped loving you. But only after you left, only when I saw what it did to him. I loved you when you were around. And really, why I did is God's mystery to me. You were this spindly mean little girl, and every time I moved to so much as touch you, you pulled away as if I had suggested we eat the cat down the street. Then you got wild.” Janet sat down opposite Lee again. “We could have been pals,” she said. “We could have sat up nights having heart-to-hearts about boys and school and life in general. You know, I was dying to take you shopping. Dying to buy you outfits for school, for dating, for whatever you wanted. Dying to take you to the best hairdresser in town with me.”
“I didn't want a haircut,” Lee said.
“Maybe that was the problem.” Janet slapped a packet in her hand. She stopped talking. “Here,” she said. “Take this. Frank saved it for you.”
Lee took the packet. Inside was a bankbook. She looked up at Janet, “It's yours,” Janet said. Lee fingered the bankbook, then opened it tentatively. There was ten thousand dollars in it. Quietly she shut the book.
“No one could have touched that money while Frank was alive, but then he died and I could have used that ten thousand.” Janet said. “You were declared legally dead.” When she saw Lee start, Janet half smiled. “Surprise,” she said, “Anyway, God knows I had some bills, I could have used a trip to Europe after Frank died.”
Janet stood up. “I lied before. I did care about you once, but it was never really love. It was secondhand. I loved you because Frank wanted it that way. And I saved this goddamned bankbook because Frank would have,” she said. “So take it, then I don't have to have one single thing left to do with you. I don't have to even think about you.”
She moved to the desk. “I'll write down where he's buried. You can go there if you like.” She gave Lee a sharp look, then stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “Well, I have things to attend to,” she said. The light from the window suddenly caught and flickered in Janet's earrings, the same small diamonds Lee's father had courted her with. She wondered if Janet ever took them off, if all she had to do was touch them and feel Frank's Angers gently tracing her lobes. “You can use the phone to call yourself a cab,” Janet said.
“I want to walk some,” Lee said, and Janet nodded.
“I'll walk you to the door,” she said. She wrote something on a scrap of paper and handed it, folded, to Lee. Then she opened the door, blinking at the sun. She waited until Lee was at the end of the flagstone. “As far as I'm concerned, you're still gone,” she called out, her voice pulling. “To me, you never came back.”
“I did come back!” Lee cried.
Janet shut the door.
Lee couldn't remember how long she walked. She wasn't sure of the direction, but when she got to a street she hailed a cab back to the airport. She'd never come back here. She crumpled the piece of paper. She didn't need to see his grave to remember him. All she'd have to do was shut her eyes and she'd see him. All she'd have to do was think his name.
Lee spent the rest of her week in a Philadelphia hotel, and the whole time all she did was cry. She wouldn't allow the maids in to clean her room or give her fresh towels. She kept going over and over in her mind what she might have said to Frank, how he might have looked, how it might have felt to hold him. He might have forgiven her everything the moment he saw her. If only she had made this trip just a year ago, or two years ago, or any time other than right now, when all that was left her was some strange hotel room and her grief.
At night she dreamed of her father. She was standing with him in the middle of a house, a shell really, just one huge empty room with a door at the end. There was no furniture in it except a big oak clock, ticking so loudly she could hardly hear Frank. He was older, in a soft blue suit, and he was holding up blueprints for her to see, pointing things out to her, smiling. “And this will always be your room,” he told her, showing her the biggest square on the paper. “Blue, your favorite color,” he told her. “When do you want to move in?” he said.
She looked around her anxiously. The ticking boomed in her ears, and she put her hands over them. “Today,” she said. “I can move in today.”
He grinned, “That's my girl,” he said.
She leaned forward to hear him over the ticking. “Come on, pussycat,” he said, “I'll show you.” He took her elbow and led her to the door at the far end. “Ta-da!” He beamed as he opened the door. The room was filled with thousands and thousands of broken clocks.
“Frank!” she cried, but when she turned to him the room was empty again. The clocks were gone. And then she bolted up out of bed, turning on the TV, swinging open the cheap fiberglass curtains, switching on every single light in the room. She was drenched with sweat. She stood against the wall, panting, drowning in panic. And then she grabbed at the phone.
She remembered the number by heart. She punched down the keys, and then it rang, once, twice, and a recording stuttered on. “I'm sorry,” a male computer voice said noncommittally, “but the number you dialed has been disconnected.”
Lee's bones filled with ice. She was pressing the receiver so deeply into her cheek, she'd later have a bruise there. Her hand shook. It was the right number. She knew it. She had dialed it enough times. People didn't just pack up in the night and leave without a forwarding numberânot unless they were her. Not unless something so terrible had happened, you might want to disappear. Joanna, she thought, and then she forced her hands to unclench. She forced herself to dial the O with her thumb, tensed for the operator. “There's some problem on the line. Will you dial it for me?” she said.
The operator sighed, but she dialed it, and Lee leaned forward into each ring. Please, she thought. Oh, please. The line rang and rang, seven times. It was late. People were sleeping. And then suddenly it caught. “Yes?” Jim said in a low, sleepy voice.
Lee started to cry with relief. She cupped one hand over the receiver. “Who is this?”
Jim
said, and then Lee gently hung up the phone. She lay across the hotel bed and closed her eyes and cried some more. She thought about that voice, and thought about Joanna, and fleeting across her mind, too, she saw Karen, running across a newly tarred road toward her. And then she got up and steadily began to pack.
She left the hotel the next day, arriving in Baltimore while it was still morning. She tried to imagine what her daughter looked like, but all that kept coming into her mind was Karenâand then herself, seven years old, in second grade, wearing a yellow quilted jumper over a purple blouse, her wild hair unraveling from careful braids.
As soon as she saw the house, she felt catapulted back in time. She was seventeen again, her life wrapped about her like a tight itchy sweater she couldn't remove. She was angry at Jim again, angry at Janet and at her own stubborn self.
The front yard was empty when she got to it. It confused her. She quietly made her way to the backyard. A bright red swing set was planted in the damp grass. Marigolds and four-o'clocks bloomed by the side of the house. On the back walk was a large red ball festooned with white stars. She didn't touch it.
She came back around front. She couldn't just climb the stairs and jauntily ring the bell. She couldn't rap on the window or toss small stones the way she used to when she was dating Jim. Jesus. Jim. She couldn't imagine anything stranger than seeing him. She felt dizzy with fear. She stood sideways on the flagstone, paralyzed.