Time and Trouble (16 page)

“
He isn
’
t a baby! We
’
re talking! So what did you tell her?
”

“
Nothing.
”

“
I saw you yakking! I saw you opening and shutting your mouth
—
what was that? Air coming out?
”

Wesley blinked. Sometimes Arthur was convinced the boy was honestly mutating into a rabbit. The resemblance was astounding.
“
I told her to arrest whoever took Penny away, and I hope she does! Can I go now?
”

Arthur felt the muscles of his arms clench. No, he wanted to say. No. You can
’
t. Because I say so. He couldn
’
t even think why he
’
d want to keep him here, his scrawny neck bowed, eyes on the floor
—
her goddamned floor
—
except that he couldn
’
t stand this fearful, cowardly creature scurrying away from him. Always away. He was hers, like the floors, the dining-room table. Everything. Nothing was his. No gratitude in this house.

“
Have a snack before you go upstairs,
”
Sophia said.
“
The apples are delicious, and there
’
s lots of
…”
But Wesley was long gone.

“
You could get him one,
”
Arthur said.
“
They
’
re so good and healthy for him, why don
’
t you behave like a mother? Maybe if you did, your daughter wouldn
’
t have run off.
”

“
I can
’
t walk right
…
. I
—”

“
The cane
’
s right there. You
’
re supposed to try it, aren
’
t you? You could make it into the kitchen, for God
’
s sake.
”

She sat where she was, a lump. He was beginning to think she was faking the injury. Only reason it
’
d taken him so long to figure it out was he couldn
’
t understand why she
’
d want to. And lie to
him,
too. She didn
’
t need money. He worked like a pig so that he could pay for everything. Just look at her list of possessions to prove that. Not like she had a real job with real working hours. She did the books for him, a few odd jobs, and the rest of her time was spent dusting and watching the tube. What more did she want?

Then it dawned on him. She wanted to avoid him. To do nothing for him. Wanted all the benefits he provided but no physical contact even if it meant sleeping on a roll-away. Which was increasingly fine with him. Let her be an invalid.

“
You
’
re wrong,
”
Sophia said.

Of course. He always was to her. Wrong in every way. Too mean to her baby boy. Too strict with her daughter, the girl he
’
d taken in and raised as his own. Too cheap with the household money. Too everything. Big news.

“
About her.
”

Her? Wrong about her? Who?
“
You mean that snotty kid detective you hired? I
’
m not wrong
—
she
’
s a waste of money. Get your ass out of that chair and you could ask the same questions she
’
s going to. You
’
re the one had to provide all the information as it is.
”

“
It isn
’
t my fault.
”

“
And when you decide to hire somebody, you use an article in the paper
—
a puff-piece
—
as a guide. And then, you didn
’
t even
get
the goddamned owner, the one the story
’
s about. You got a
kid.
You
’
re crazy, you know that?
”

“
We got them both. And that doesn
’
t change the fact that she knows.
”

“
The detective? Which one? Who are you talking about?
”
He looked at the room. The teacups and paraphernalia were still on the table, where they
’
d stay till the house collapsed if Sophia kept playing cripple. Until he left. Then she cleaned up, because she could not stand clutter or mess. As if he wouldn
’
t notice, put two and two together.
“
Who knows what?
”
He could have been questioning the ceiling, the cold tea the August woman had left.
“
What the hell are you talking about?
”

He swore
—
if she didn
’
t get her act together soon, start talking like a human being, acting like one, shape up that twerp son of hers, find her goddamned lying and dangerous slut of a daughter
—
he didn
’
t know what he
’
d do.

Sophia peered at her hands like she
’
d never noticed them before, like she was so involved with examining them she hadn
’
t heard him.

“
Who knows what?
”

Now she lifted her eyes, shocked that he
’
d raised his voice, then lowered them as she looked down at the arm of her easy chair. At the big rose flower print with the green leaves. It had taken her a whole year to find what she wanted, and when she had, it was as ordinary as mud, far as he could see.

She knew the silent treatment drove him up the wall. She used it like torturers used the rack. God knows she babbled if anybody else was around. Couldn
’
t stop talking, except when they were alone, which she made sure happened as little as possible.

“
Goddamn it,
”
he said,
“
I asked you a question. What
’
s wrong with you? Are you mute now, too?
”

“
She didn
’
t leave for the reasons you said. Not because I nagged. Not because I got hurt and made her work more here, didn
’
t have snacks in the house, like you said.
”
Sophia kept her head down, muttering her words to her armchair.

“
That
’
s what you
’
re making a federal case out of?
”
She sounded insane. He would have her committed after they found Penny, an even looser cannon.
“
Who cares about snacks?
It was something I said, that
’
s all
—
conversation.
”

She looked into middle space. Nowhere.

“
Making conversation, you know what that is? God knows, you don
’
t try, you act like a stone statue. You could get off your ass and feed your son, is all I meant. And what do you know, anyway? You don
’
t know shit
—
not even about your own daughter. Not like a normal mother should. I heard you
—
couldn
’
t remember her friends
’
goddamned names, like you were senile or something!
”

Except he knew she was right. Penny knew. Said she
’
d
seen
him, said she knew about the houseboat, then wouldn
’
t say any more, but that was enough, like being lobbed with a grenade was enough. He just hadn
’
t known that Sophia knew about Penny
’
s knowing. That was the only reason he let Sophia hire that detective. Because Penny knew, not because he thought she
’
d been kidnapped. She knew and ran away with the knowledge, taking it God-knows-where.

“
That
’
s why she left.
”
Sophia sucked everything but the words out of her madwoman
’
s voice. She wasn
’
t there for him. Except to be the voice of doom, his judge while the walls moved closer in like in a horror story and the ceiling lowered onto his head.
“
Why do you really want to find her? To hurt her? To shut her up? What do you want with her?
”

And the flowers under Sophia
’
s arm and behind her neck spread and filled the lenses of his eyes until he couldn
’
t see anything except the blob that was his wife and the bed of roses around her and his sweat that had gotten it, and red
—
just red.

“
Don
’
t stand over me,
”
she said.
“
Leave me alone. It
’
s your fault.
”

He swung his hand across her face and back. Across and back.

She screamed. No more flat voice. No more faraway. She was there, right there, and she screamed.

And he swung his hand again. Make her do something. Anything.

And back. Until
—
he couldn
’
t believe it
—
the twerp, screaming,
“
Stop!
”
all the way down from his room.
“
Stop that!
”
And throwing something hard from the doorway
—
an apple, for God
’
s sake, his snack his weapon
—
then tackling him. Spindle-legs and flimsy arms grabbing, kicking, pulling him away from Sophia, who stood up, forgetting she was crippled.

And Wesley, beating still, fists against his leg, his hip, kick-boxing as much as he could.

Arthur released him. Stood back and studied his son. And laughed.
“
Chip off the old block,
”
he said.
“
You got balls, after all. I like that.
”

Ten

“
What do you want me to say? She was my baby-sitter. I really never wanted to know much about her.
”
Diana Golden continued to fold laundry while she spoke to Billie.
“
She was hard to get. Nice with the kids, trustworthy, didn
’
t have boys over. She sat for a lot of people. And that
’
s about it. I mean, I appreciate what you
’
re trying to do, and how her parents must feel and all, and I wish I knew things about her
—
anything, really, but I don
’
t. Here, have more coffee. Help yourself.
…
You really don
’
t have to do that.
”

Billie smiled and folded a diaper.
“
It
’
s second nature,
”
she said.
“
It
’
s even making me nostalgic.
”

“
Oh, well, have another kid. That
’
ll cure you.
”
Diana Golden gestured toward the pot and cup, then smoothed a diaper.
“
I cannot help destroy the universe for the sake of convenience,
”
she
’
d said when Billie commented on the cloth diapers.

Diana Golden seemed well-meaning with a vengeance. Her house was earthy. Real, she
’
d probably have said. A mess, but a well-meaning one, with magazines devoted to worthy causes facedown and open on the natural-fiber furniture, and everywhere else, dishes on the floor for several animals, and toys of the higher sort
—
easels and paints, major-but-abandoned construction projects, kiddie art papering the kitchen walls, a large bowl of flour
—
the bag said it was organically grown stone-ground whole wheat
—
and a bowl with yeast proofing on the counter next to a pile of flyers urging people to attend a zoning hearing. Diana folded diapers quickly, while the younger child slept and the elder was at playschool.

Billie
’
s attempt to form a kinship with the woman wasn
’
t working as well as she
’
d hoped. Diaper-folding was fine, but the woman was interested in issues of global survival, not those of a part-time sitter.
“
Did you ever have a chance to talk with her? About her plans, or her social life?
”

Diana shook her head.
“
To tell the truth, when she
’
d get here, the last thing I wanted to do was sit around and chat. I know she was good about feeding the boys and cleaning up afterward. And she didn
’
t eat me out of house and home, or smoke
—
but I don
’
t suppose that
’
s the sort of thing that
’
s particularly helpful to you.
”

“
Was she always available, say, on Saturday nights? Or did you get the feeling she had her own social life?
”

Diana stopped folding diapers and frowned.
“
We only used her Thursdays, and only for about two hours. We never called her for a weekend night. If we go out, we take the boys. It
’
s important at this stage of their life to feel safe, connected.
”

Then why Thursday for two hours? What was sufficiently off-limits to risk letting the kidlets feel unsafe, unconnected? Couples therapy. Bingo.

“
Look, I wish I
’
d paid more attention
—
but honestly, do you? I mean to a sitter?
”

Billie thought of Ivan, the nanny, whose myriad adjustment problems to the U.S., to English, to American girls, to his classes, were over-familiar. Perhaps it was his Slavic drama that made him share so much. Or her own nosiness. Or simple proximity
—
he lived in her house, after all, and she
’
d much rather sit over a cup of coffee and let the talk flow than hand out flyers.
“
One last thing,
”
she said.
“
Did you drive her home at night? Or was she picked up by someone?
”