Authors: Anne Tyler
“See there?” Driscoll demanded. “That’s exactly what I mean!”
“Look who’s talking!” Delia said. “Someone who had his wedding canceled and then showed up for it anyway! How’s that for glossing over?”
“At least
I
didn’t make believe I was nothing but a guest,” Driscoll told her. “Walking in at the very last minute like the bride was some passing acquaintance.”
“I would have come earlier! But nobody asked me!” she told him.
“See what I mean?” he said.
“What
do
you mean?”
A car drew up at the curb, a station wagon teeming with faces. A girl
got out with an armload of books. “Thanks!” she called, and the car honked and pulled away.
“Courtney?” Driscoll asked.
The girl paused on the sidewalk. Delia had known, somehow, that Courtney would be a blonde. She was tall and slim and golden-skinned, and her clothes were just the right degree of unstudied—her blazer expertly tailored but her knee socks falling down. “Yes?” she said.
“My name is Driscoll Avery,” Driscoll said, “and a couple of nights ago I believe I answered a phone call that was meant for you.”
Courtney tilted her head. Her pageboy swung prettily to one side.
“Some guy called, a wrong number,” Driscoll told her, “and now my fiancée is mad because I was, um, maybe a little bit rude. So I need to ask if you know who might have called you.”
Courtney looked over at Delia.
“I’m his fiancée’s mother,” Delia explained. The word “fiancée” brought to her mind someone in a pillbox hat, nothing at all like Susie. She felt herself assuming the flat-faced, wide-eyed expression of a liar. She said, “Driscoll’s telling the truth; I swear it. A boy phoned, asking for Courtney, and Driscoll said you didn’t want to talk to him.”
“You said
that?”
Courtney asked Driscoll. The smile was gone now. “What if it was someone I was dying to hear from?”
“Well, like who?” Driscoll said. “I mean,
was
there someone?”
“There’s Michael Garter.”
“Did you give Michael Garter your number?”
“No, but it’s in the book.”
“You think he’s the one who called you?”
“Well, maybe. He could have. Well, sure!” She seemed to be warming to the idea. “In a couple of weeks, there’s this dance?” she told Delia.
Delia said, “But you didn’t actually tell him your number.”
“Well, no.”
“We were thinking it might be someone you’d told.”
“No, but there’s this big homecoming dance? And Michael Garter’s this guy I know? He’s the second-strongest guy in his school.”
“But—” Delia began, at the same time that Driscoll said, “Well, great! Let’s get moving!”
“But
was
there someone you told?” Delia asked.
“Oh, gosh, guys are always wanting my number. You know? And I
give it to them, but, like, I just do it to be nice. I would never actually go out with them.”
“Would you give them the
wrong
number?” Delia persisted.
“Well, sure, if they’re, like, totally not of interest.”
“You’d just transpose a couple of digits, say.”
“I might.”
“Did you do that recently?”
“Well, maybe to this guy at my Christian fellowship group.”
“What’s his name?”
“But I think it’s more likely Michael Garter,” Courtney said.
“But the name of the boy at your fellowship group …”
“That’s Paul Cates. But he’s, like, a dork. You’d know what I meant if you saw him.”
“I bet anything it was Michael Garter,” Driscoll said soothingly.
Courtney sent him an appreciative look.
“Well, whoever,” Delia said, “you just tell Driscoll all the possibilities, and then he can track down which one it was.”
“And maybe I could come along,” Courtney said. “I could show you exactly where Michael Garter has football practice.”
Anybody with half a brain would look for Paul Cates first. Hoping to convey that, Delia screwed up her eyes at Driscoll. “Huh?” he asked her, and then, “Ah. Does, ah, Paul Cates play football too?”
“Are you serious?” Courtney asked. “Paul Cates? Play football?”
Delia collected herself to go, hitching her handbag strap onto her shoulder. “Good hunting,” she told Driscoll.
“What, you’re not coming with us?”
“You’ll do better by yourselves.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but Courtney said, “Nice meeting you!”
Delia waved and walked off.
She was glad to have some time alone. Had family life always been so cram-packed? she wondered. How had she kept her wits about her? But then she remembered she hadn’t, at least not in Sam’s opinion.
Skimming south on Roland Avenue, she passed Travel Arrangements, the Mercantile Bank, Eddie’s Supermarket. She was careful not to look toward the other pedestrians, in case they were people she knew. Suppose they asked where she’d been all these months and what she planned to do next. Or suppose—here was a thought—she met Adrian Bly-Brice.
The funny thing was that she couldn’t picture Adrian’s face anymore, although she tried.
“Delia,” Linda whispered at the front door, “you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
“I do?”
Delia felt herself flush, but Linda said, “An
older
gentleman. Name of Nat?”
“Oh,” Delia said.
She followed Linda through the dining room and into the kitchen. Nat was sitting at the table with Susie and the twins, but he rose to his feet when Delia entered. “There she is!” he said.
Away from Senior City, he seemed older. His hair was so white that it glittered, and he was leaning very heavily on his cane. This must be one of his flashback days. She said, “Nat? Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “quite all right. Hello, my dear.” He gave her a courtly kiss on the cheek, prickling her with his beard. “I just happened to be tootling around in the car,” he said. “Thought I’d offer you a lift back.”
“Tootling around … Baltimore?”
“Yes, well, hither and yon.”
This was puzzling, but she didn’t pursue it. “That’s nice of you,” she said, “but I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be leaving.” She glanced toward Susie, who was watching her over her coffee mug. “Driscoll is still working on that telephone matter,” Delia told her.
The twins nudged each other. Nat said, “Oh, I know all about that! Your sister here has filled me in. So how is it progressing? Have we located the hapless young man?”
“Well, we’ve narrowed the field some,” Delia said. “Nat, is anything wrong at home?”
“Wrong! Why do you keep asking that?” he said. “Can’t a man take a little drive on his own these days?”
Linda placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of him, and he lowered himself back onto his chair with a thud. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. He set his cane aside. It stood on its four little legs in a perky, independent manner.
“Cream?” Linda asked him. “Sugar?”
“Just black, thanks.” He told Delia, “You never mentioned you had a sister. And such a charming daughter! And two gorgeous nieces!”
There was something feverish about his enthusiasm, but none of the others seemed to notice. “She doesn’t only got a daughter,” Marie-Claire told him. “She’s got two boys besides.”
“Two boys!” Nat marveled. “Where does she keep them hidden?”
“Well, Carroll’s hiding upstairs, on account of this fight with his dad. And Ramsay lives with his tacky girlfriend at a place we don’t know the address of.”
Nat shot Delia a questioning look. “Yes,” she said with a laugh. “You’ll have to excuse us, I’m afraid. Nobody here is on speaking terms.”
“They seem to
me
to be speaking,” he said reasonably.
“Oh, speaking, yes. But …”
She gave up and went to pour herself some coffee. Nat resumed quizzing the twins. “And do all of you live in this one big house? All except Ramsay, that is, and his tacky girlfriend?”
“Oh, no, none of us live here! Just only Uncle Sam.”
“Uncle Sam! This is government property?”
The twins chortled. Thérèse said, “Silly! Uncle Sam is Aunt Delia’s husband.”
Delia sensed Nat’s glance in her direction, but she didn’t turn around, and the twins moved on to the topic of Eliza. “She burns weeds in little bowls,” Marie-Claire told him. “She has a bottle called Forbearance, to smell from when she’s feeling fed up.”
“Where would one buy that, I wonder,” Nat said wistfully.
Delia went to the silverware drawer for a spoon and found Susie all at once lounging in front of it, waiting for her, one sneakered foot cocked across the other. Her nonchalant expression didn’t fool Delia for a second. “So,” Susie said. “Driscoll did get hold of Courtney, sounds like.”
“Yes.”
“And narrowed down who the boy was, you said.”
“Well, Courtney gave him a couple of possibilities.”
“So I guess now he’s gone to talk to them.”
“He’s working on it,” Delia told her.
She reached toward the drawer, and Susie slid infinitesimally to one side. “Looks to me like you would have gone with him,” Susie said.
“Well, you can see I’m right here,” Delia snapped.
She supposed that Susie must care for Driscoll; and in that case, well,
all right, they should probably get married. How simple-minded Delia had been, to take their breakup seriously! And how sage and mature and practical Susie seemed in comparison! Delia flashed her a radiant smile. Susie examined her warily.
People always talked about a mother’s uncanny ability to read her children, but that was nothing compared to how children could read their mothers.
The twins were describing their bridesmaid dresses. “Big floppy bows—”
“Puffy shoulders—”
“Exact same color as Crest fluoride toothpaste.”
“They must be stunning,” Nat told them. “And when do you plan on wearing them?”
“Maybe tonight,” Marie-Claire said, while Susie, overlapping, said, “Tomorrow.”
Everyone looked at her. She met Delia’s gaze defiantly. “Well, if Driscoll brings me that boy, I mean.”
“But he could do that in the next five minutes!” Linda told her. “You could get married this evening, if he hurries.”
“Yes, but Dr. Soames can’t fit us in till ten a.m. tomorrow.”
“He told you that?” Delia asked. “You talked to him? When?”
“Oh, um, just a little while ago.”
“But if our flight home is tomorrow at noon,” Linda said, “and the drive to the airport takes, let’s see …”
Nat told Delia, “Sounds as if you won’t be riding back with me tonight.”
He spoke cheerfully enough, but Delia hadn’t lost her suspicion that something was troubling him. She glanced toward the others, who were still discussing schedules, and then she said, “Nat, what brought you here? Really.”
“Nothing, I tell you!”
“You just drove two hours for no reason.”
“Two and a half, actually,” he said. “Little backup on the bridge.”
She scrutinized him. “How’s the baby?” she asked.
“He’s thriving.”
“And Binky?”
“Healthy as a brood mare.”
“Does she know you’re in Baltimore?”
“I called her a few minutes ago. Your sister let me use your phone.”
“And Noah has a cold, I hear,” she said, still ferreting.
“The merest sniffle,” Nat assured her. “I looked in on him this morning while I was driving around. Found him playing Tetris. Hardly on his deathbed, I’d say.”
“It’s true he didn’t sound very sick,” Delia said. “Maybe he just needed a day off.”
“Yes,” Nat said. “We could all do with a day off, from time to time.”
Something bumped against the back door, and then Sam walked in bearing two bags of groceries. A long stick of French bread poked forth from one of them. “I found the ginger,” he told Linda, “but they were fresh out of shallots.”
“Well, never mind; we’ll make do with green onions,” Linda told him, taking the bags. “Is that okay, Delia?”
“Is what okay?”
“Can you make your Chinese dish using green onions?”
“I always use green onions anyhow,” Delia said. “But—”
“Oh, good. Because we’re going to be so many, you know, I thought you could fix your … Oh, Sam, you haven’t met Nat, have you. Nat Moffat, this is Sam Grinstead. I certainly hope you plan to stay for supper, Nat. Delia’s Chinese dish feeds an army, believe me.”
“I would love to stay for supper,” Nat said, to Delia’s surprise. He had risen during the introductions, and now he stood holding on to the back of his chair. Sam, who must have had no idea where Nat had materialized from, wore a pleasant, slightly blank expression as they shook hands. “Good to meet you,” he said.
“Good to meet
you
,” Nat told him. And then he added, darting a mischievous glance at Delia, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
This was lost on Sam, of course. He just smiled politely and asked Linda, “Have I got time for a house call before supper?”
“Ask Delia; she’s the cook,” Linda said.
Sam turned to Delia. “I promised Mr. Knowles I’d check on him,” he said.
“You have plenty of time,” she told him.
They spoke without letting their eyes meet, like people in a play, whose words are meant for the audience.
No one had to tell Delia which boy had turned out to be Courtney’s caller. She knew it was Paul Cates as soon as she saw him—sweet-faced
and naive, with a tousle of rust-colored curls. His jeans were a little too short for him, his sneakers too thin-soled and childish, his plaid wool jacket the kind boys wear in elementary school. He followed Driscoll over to Susie, who was perched on a stool chopping water chestnuts for Delia’s Chinese dish. Behind him came Courtney, of all people. She took her place close behind Driscoll and Paul, tucking her hands into the pockets of her blazer and regarding Susie with undisguised curiosity. Susie, who had turned from the counter at their approach, looked only at Driscoll.
“Susie,” Driscoll said, “this is Paul Cates.” Then he faced Paul Cates and said, “Paul, I’d like to apologize. When you phoned here by accident the other night, I let you think you’d reached Courtney’s house, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong.”
Paul was beaming. “That’s okay,” he said.