Anne Tyler - Saint Maybe

At 8:35, the phone rang. He sprang for it, already preparing his response. ( No , you can’t stay out longer.) “Ian?” Cicely asked. “When you come, could you bring some gravy mix?”

“Gravy mix.”

“I just can’t understand where I went wrong.”

Ian said, “Did Stevie get to bed all right?”

“I’m going to see to that in a minute, but first this gravy! I pick up the spoon and everything in the pan comes with it, all in a clump.”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” Ian told her. “I’ll bring the mix. Meanwhile, you get Stevie into bed.”

“Well …” Cicely said, trailing off.

“Dad’s old rocker dull and gray?” two girls sang on TV. “Stain it, wax it, the Wood-Witch way!”

After he’d hung up, Ian turned to the children and asked, “Did your mother say where she was going?”

“No,” Agatha said.

“Was it someplace she could walk to?”

“I don’t know.”

He rose and went to the front window. Beyond the gauzy curtains he saw street lamps glinting faintly and squares of soft yellow light from the neighboring houses.

There was a wet, uncorking sound behind him — Thomas’s thumb popping out of his mouth. “She went in a car,” Thomas said distinctly.

Ian turned.

“She went in a car with Dot,” Thomas told him. “Dot lives down the block a ways and Mama went over to her house and got herself a ride.” He replaced his thumb.

A wail floated from the children’s room. Ian glanced at Agatha. A second wail, more assured.

“You didn’t burp her,” Agatha said serenely.

Thomas merely sent him the drugged, veiled gaze of a dedicated thumb-sucker.

From 8:40 to 9:15 Ian walked Daphne around and around the living room. Thomas and Agatha quarreled over the afghan. Thomas kicked Agatha in the shin and she started crying — unconvincingly, it seemed to Ian. She rolled her knee sock down to her thick white ankle and pointed out, “See? See there what he did?”

Ian patted the baby more rapidly and revised his plans. He would not go home first after all; they would do without the wine and butter and whatever. He would simply explain to Cicely when he got there. “I don’t care about dinner,” he would say, drawing her into his arms. “I care about you. ” And they would climb the stairs together, tiptoeing past her brother’s door and into—

Oh-oh.

The one thing he could not do without — the three things, in their linked foil packets — lay in the toe of his left gym shoe at the very back of his closet. There was no way he could avoid going by his house.

The phone rang again and Ian picked up the receiver and barked, “What!”

Cicely said, “Ian, where are you?”

“This goddamn Lucy,” he said, not caring if the children heard. “I’ve a good mind to just walk on out of here.”

Agatha looked up from her shin and said, “You wouldn’t!”

“Everything’s stone cold,” Cicely said.

“Well, don’t worry. The dinner’s not important—”

“Not important! I’ve been slaving all day over this dinner! We’re having flank steak stuffed with mushrooms, and baked potatoes stuffed with cheese, and green peppers stuffed with—”

“But how about Stevie? Did Stevie get to bed all right?”

“He got to bed hours ago.” Ian groaned.

“Is that all you care about?” Cicely asked. “Don’t you care about my cooking?”

“Oh! Yes! Your cooking,” Ian said. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

“No, don’t say that! I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“Cicely,” Ian said. “Listen. I’ll be over soon no matter what. Just wait for me.”

He hung up to find Thomas and Agatha eyeing him reproachfully. “What’re you going to do? Leave us on our own?” Thomas asked.

“You’re not babies anymore,” Ian said. “You can take care of yourselves.”

“ Mama never lets us. She worries we’d get into the matches.”

“Well, would you?” Ian asked him.

Thomas considered awhile. Finally he said, “We might.”

Ian sighed and went back to walking Daphne.

For the next half hour or so, they played I Spy. That was the most Ian could manage with Daphne fretting in his arms. Agatha said, “I spy, with my little eye …” and her gaze roamed the room. Ian was conscious all at once of the mess that had grown up around them — the playing cards, the twisted afghan, the strewn Parcheesi pieces.

“… with my little eye, as clear as the sky …” Agatha said, drawing it out.

“Will you just for God’s sake get on with it?” Ian snapped.

“Well, I’m trying, Ian, if you wouldn’t keep interrupting.”

Then she had to start over again. “I spy, with my little eye …”

Ian thought of Lucy’s gray eyes and her perfect, lipsticked mouth. The red of her lipstick was a bitter red, with something burnt in it. She had had things her own way every minute of her life, he suspected. Women who looked like that never needed to consider other people.

Daphne finally unknotted and fell asleep, and Ian carried her to the children’s room. He lowered her into the crib by inches and then waited, holding his breath. At that moment he heard the front door open.

His first concern was that the noise would disturb Daphne. That was how thoroughly he’d been sidetracked. Then he realized he was free to go, and he headed out to tell Lucy what he thought of her.

But it wasn’t Lucy; it was Danny, standing just inside the living room door and screwing up his face against the light. Ian could tell he’d had a couple of beers. He wore a loose, goofy smile that was familiar from past occasions. “Ian, fellow!” he said. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m going out of my mind,” Ian told him.

“Ah.”

“Your wife was due back ages ago, and anyhow I didn’t want to come in the first place.”

“Thomas!” Danny said fervently, peering toward the couch. “And Agatha!” He seemed surprised to see them, too. He told Ian, “You sure did miss a great party. Good old Bucky Hargrove!”

“Look,” Ian said. “I am running late as hell and I need you to give me a lift to Cicely’s house.”

“Huh? Oh. Why, sure,” Danny said. “Sure, Ian. Except—” He pondered. “Except how about the kids?” he asked finally.

“How about them?”

“We can’t just leave them.”

“Take them along, then,” Ian said, exasperated. “Let’s just go .”

“Take Daphne, too? Where’s Daphne?”

Ian gritted his teeth. The Kent cigarette song sailed out from the TV, mindless and jaunty. He turned to Agatha and said, “Agatha, you and Thomas will have to stay here and baby-sit.”

She stared at him.

“Seven minutes, tops,” Ian said. “Don’t open the front door no matter who knocks, and don’t answer the phone. Understand?”

She nodded. Thomas’s eyes were ringed like a raccoon’s.

“Let’s go,” Ian told Danny.

Danny was swaying slightly on his feet and watching Ian with mild, detached interest. “Well …” he said.

“Come on , Danny!”

Ian snatched up his jacket and gave Danny a push in the right direction. As they walked out he felt a weight slipping blessedly from his shoulders. He wondered how people endured children on a long-term basis — the monotony and irritation and confinement of them.

Outside it was much colder than before, and wonderfully quiet.

Danny bumped his head getting into the car, and he had some trouble determining which key to use. After that, though, he started the engine easily, checked sensibly for traffic, and pulled into the street. “So!” he said. “Cicely lives on Lang Avenue, right?”