Anne Tyler - Saint Maybe

His father met him at the terminal. Neither of them knew yet how they were supposed to greet each other after long separations. Hug? Shake hands? His father settled for clapping him on the arm. “How was the trip?” he asked.

“Pretty good.”

Ian hoisted his knapsack higher on his shoulder and they walked through the crowd, dodging people who seemed to have set up housekeeping there. They threaded between stuffed laundry bags and take-out food cartons; they stepped over the legs of a soldier asleep on the floor. Outside, Howard Street looked very bustling and citified after Sumner.

“So,” his father said, once they were seated in the car. “I guess you heard the news.”

“Right.”

“Terrible thing. Terrible.”

“How’re the kids?” Ian asked him.

“Oh, they’re okay. Kind of quiet, though.”

They entered the stream of traffic and drove north. The evening was still warm enough for car windows to be open, and scraps of songs sailed past—“Monday, Monday” and “Winchester Cathedral” and “Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On.” Ian’s father said, “Your mom put me to work this afternoon hunting Lucy’s relatives. I don’t know if she told you.”

“She told me you tried calling Cheyenne.”

“Yes, well. No luck. And I stopped by the Fill ’Er Up Café—remember the Fill ’Er Up? Where Lucy used to work? I was hoping to find those two waitresses from the wedding. But the owner said one had walked out on him and the other moved south a couple of months ago. So then I went through Lucy’s drawers, thinking there’d be, oh, an address book, say, or some letters. Didn’t find a thing. Hard to figure, isn’t it? This is what we’ve come to, now that people phone instead of writing.”

“Maybe there just aren’t any relatives,” Ian told him.

“Well, in that case, what’ll we do with the children?”

“Children.”

“The older two have their father, of course. Soon as we track him down. But I suppose it’s expecting too much that he would raise the little one as well.”

“Well, naturally,” Ian said. “She isn’t even kin!”

“No, I guess not,” his father said. He sighed.

“He doesn’t even keep in touch with the two that are!”

“No.”

“Couldn’t you and Mom, maybe …”

“We’re too old,” his father said. He turned up Charles Street.

“You’re not old!”

“We’ve just reached that time in our lives, Ian, when I think we deserve a rest. And your mother’s not getting around so good lately; I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Doc Plumm says this thing in her knees is arthritis. Can’t exactly picture her chasing after a toddler.”

“Yes, but—”

“Never mind, I’m sure we’ll come up with someone or other,” his father said, “once we find that ex-husband.”

Then he went back to deploring how no one wrote letters these days. Pretty soon, he said, this country’s mail service would be canceled for lack of interest. Turn all the post offices into planters, he said, and his lips twisted into one of his wry smiles before he recollected himself and grew serious again.

At home, Beastie nosed Ian’s palm joyfully and lumbered after him into the living room, where his mother was walking Daphne up and down. She kissed him hello and then handed him the baby, who was too near sleep to do more than murmur. “Oh, my legs!” Bee said, sinking onto the couch. “That child has kept me on my feet all evening.”

Thomas sat at the other end of the couch with his doll clutched to his chest, her yellow wig flaring beneath his chin like a bedraggled sunflower. Agatha sat in an armchair. She surveyed Ian levelly and then returned to her picture book. Both of them wore pajamas. They had the moist, pale, chastened look of children fresh from their baths.

“Have you eaten yet?” Ian’s mother asked him. “I fed the children early because I didn’t know.”

“I can find something.”

“Oh. Well, all right.”

Daphne had gained weight, or maybe it was her sleepiness that made her feel so heavy. She drooped over Ian’s shoulder, giving off a strong smell of apple juice.

“Your father’s been through … various drawers,” his mother said. She glanced toward Agatha. Evidently Lucy’s name was not supposed to be spoken. “He didn’t find a thing.”

“Yes, he told me.”

Agatha turned a page of her book. Ian’s father crossed to the barometer on the wall and tapped the glass.

“Ian, dear,” his mother said, “would you mind very much if I toddled off to bed?”

“No, go ahead,” Ian said, although he did feel a bit hurt. After all, this was his first visit home.

“It’s been such a long day, I’m just beat. The older two are sleeping in Danny’s room, and I’ve set up the Port-a-Crib in your room. I hope Daphne won’t disturb you.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“He looks downright domestic, in fact,” his father said, and he gave a snort of laughter. Doug belonged to an era when the sight of a man holding a baby was considered humorous. He liked to say he’d changed a diaper only once in all his life, back when Bee had the flu and Claudia was an infant. The experience had made him throw up. Everyone always chuckled when he told this story, but now Ian wondered why. He felt irked to see his father drift behind Bee toward the stairs, although his knees were not arthritic and he might easily have stayed to help. “Night, son,” he said, lifting an arm.

“Good night,” Ian said shortly.

He sat on the couch next to Thomas. Daphne instantly made a chipped sound of protest, and he stood up and started walking again.

“Ian,” Agatha said, “will you read us a story?”

“I can’t right now. Daphne won’t let me sit down.”

“She will if you sit in a rocking chair,” Agatha said.

He tried it. Daphne stirred, but as soon as he began rocking she went limp again. He wondered why his mother hadn’t thought of this — or why Agatha hadn’t informed her.

Agatha was pulling up a footstool so she could sit next to him. Her eyes were lowered and her plain white disk of a face seemed complete in itself, ungiving. “Get a chair, Thomas,” she ordered. Thomas slid off the couch and dragged over the miniature rocker from the hearth. It took him awhile because he never let go of Dulcimer.

The book Agatha placed on Ian’s lap dated from his childhood. The Sad Little Bunny , it was called. It told about a rabbit who got lost on a picnic and couldn’t find his mother. Ian wondered about reading this story under these particular circumstances, but both children listened stolidly — Thomas sucking his thumb, Agatha turning the pages without comment. First the rabbit went home with a friendly robin and tried to live in a tree, but he got dizzy. Then he went home with a beaver and tried to live in a dam, but he got wet. Ian had never realized what a repetitive book this was. He swallowed a yawn. Tears of boredom filled his eyes. The effort of reading while rocking made him slightly motion-sick.

On the last page, the little rabbit said, “Oh, Mama, I’m so glad to be back in my own home!” The picture showed him in a cozy, chintz-lined burrow, hugging an aproned mother rabbit. Reading out the words, Ian noticed how loud they sounded — like something tactless dropped into a shocked silence. But Agatha said, “Again.”

“It’s bedtime.”

“No, it’s not! What time is it?”

“Tell you what,” he said. “You get into your beds, and then I’ll read it once more.”

“Twice,” Agatha said.

“Once.”

What did this remind him of? The boredom, the yawns … It was the evening of Danny’s death, revisited. He felt he was traveling a treadmill, stuck with these querulous children night after night after night.