Anne Tyler - Celestial Navigation

I didn’t tell the children until Miss Vinton had had her breakfast and left for work. I knew they would have passed it on to her; they can’t keep secrets. Miss Vinton took an endless time buckling her mackintosh, smoothing the lapels down, checking on a little stain near the hem. I thought I was going to start screaming and shaking her, but instead I went on smiling. I looked steadily downward so she wouldn’t notice any difference in my face. “Have a good day, Miss Vinton,” I said. Then just as I was closing the front door after her I saw how straight she held her back, that rigid board of a spine marching off to deal with the world, those enormous Mary Janes flapping along, and I wished I had told her after all and given her a hug for goodbye.

Mr. Somerset sometimes slept till noon and Olivia even longer. She had a job now at a sort of leather shop. I never had figured out her hours, but I was fairly sure that she would sleep through our going. (The night before, making supper, setting out a tray for Jeremy, I started crying right in front of her. “Oh,” I said, “I just can’t go on with these everlasting trays of his,” so she took over. She gave him part of her casserole — something organic, I believe. Later I was so ashamed. Haven’t I been trying all this time to instill some sort of stability in her? This morning I didn’t want to say anything to her at all. I couldn’t face her. I wouldn’t know how to explain.) I stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, listening for any sounds from her room or Mr. Somerset’s. Then I said, “Children?” They were still dawdling over breakfast. They thought they were going to school that day. I went out to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. “Guess what, children,” I said. “We’re taking a little trip.”

They wanted to know where — all but Darcy. Darcy just got very still. She was feeding Rachel her Pablum, and she stopped the spoon in mid-air and didn’t even notice when Rachel started shouting and grabbing for it.

“We’re going to spend a few days at Mr. O’Donnell’s cabin near the boatyard,” I said. “Remember last summer, when he took you all to see his boat? We’ll leave after breakfast; Mr. O’Donnell has kindly offered to drive us there.”

“Something’s gone wrong,” Darcy said.

“Of course not, honey.”

“But it’s a school day. I have a math test.”

“You can always make it up.”

“It’s going to count for half my grade.”

“You can make it up, Darcy.”

“Are we leaving Jeremy or something?”

Well, of course she would guess that. I suppose she remembers leaving Guy, although she has never said so or asked me a single thing about it. I said, “No, Darcy, don’t be silly. We’re giving him a little peace and quiet, is all.” Then I said, “Mr. O’Donnell is just providing the transportation.”

Which I might not have needed to add, but I couldn’t be sure. You never can tell what is going through that head of hers.

At nine o’clock Brian was supposed to be picking us up. (There was a city bus, but it didn’t go the entire way and I was just as glad we weren’t relying on it.) I gave each child a coat and a load to carry. “Hurry now,” I said, “out to the vestibule. Not outdoors, just in the vestibule.” I didn’t want Jeremy to see us leaving. I was afraid that one of the children would suddenly decide to run up and kiss him goodbye, but nobody thought of it. Then too he might come down on his own. Why hadn’t I taken him breakfast, so that he would have no reason to leave his studio? The fact is that if he did come, if he said a single word to keep me with him, I would gladly stay forever. I didn’t want to go. Yet I kept feeling this pressure to get out of the house before he discovered it. I kept saying, “Move, Edward, we’re in a hurry,” and when Hannah wanted to run upstairs for her bear I said, “No! Stay down!” I scared her. She went immediately to the vestibule and stood sucking her thumb and staring up at me. I was like a burglar trying to escape without a sign, leaving behind me those gleaming countertops washed clean of every fingerprint. I made them all whisper. “Olivia’s asleep, hush!” I said, and they stared. Hush for Olivia? She could sleep through nuclear warfare. We stood packed solid in that little cube of a vestibule, steaming up the front windows and keeping utterly silent. Yet if Jeremy would only come! If he would come and say, “What’s going on, Mary?” and blink at me and put out one of his warm, pale hands to touch mine! Then I would herd everyone back in and lock all the doors and draw all the curtains, and Brian could wait outside our house forever.

His car was a powder-blue Mercedes. Well, I suppose he is quite rich. He drew up soundlessly and peered toward the house, and I pushed the children out before he could honk and attract Jeremy’s attention. “Hurry, now,” I said. “Give me the baby, Darcy. Don’t forget that basket. Where’s my purse?” I was preceded by a parade of belongings, like some pampered movie star. Children, grocery bags, stuffed animals — I was padded with belongings. I felt I should apologize to Brian for having so many children, but during the first few minutes he was out loading things into the trunk and I was passing around Dramamine tablets. I had forgotten who was prone to car sickness; we so rarely drove. I gave Abbie a tablet by accident and then made her spit it out again. “Oh look,” I told her, “you ought to know if you get sick or not—” All of which helped me get over being embarrassed in front of Brian. I knew that he must be shocked at me. I have a very clear picture of how I appear to others: I am so big and slow and unexcitable, and women like that don’t act on impulse. They never leave people, certainly. Now when he was back in the car and maneuvering the rush hour traffic he kept throwing me sideways glances, maybe worrying that I would burst into tears or list all my grievances or spill some dark secret that he didn’t want to hear. I didn’t, of course. I kept the tears away by refusing to look behind me all the while that our house was in sight — that narrow, funny, lovable house with its potty bay window and the children’s old tattered construction paper Valentines glued to the upstairs panes and the dead Christmas tree on its side in front, dripping tinsel, waiting all these months to be collected — and who knows, maybe Jeremy drawing back a frayed lace curtain high on the third floor and peering out, dim and cloudlike, trying to understand what I had done to him.

What was my purpose, sailing away in this ridiculous baby-blue car?

We headed out through stretches of Baltimore that I had only seen once or twice before in my life, rowhouses layered over with ugly new formstone, dead-looking saplings scattered along a divided street so wide and gray that looking at it seemed to bleach my eyes. Meanwhile the children said nothing. I had never known them to keep so quiet for so long. They sat in a row in back, each of them framed by stuffed-in bits and pieces that couldn’t fit into the trunk. They gazed dreamily out the windows. Maybe they were in a state of shock, suffering through an experience I would never be able to erase. Maybe they were just admiring the view. Who knows? Children live in such a mist. I believe that most of what happens comes as a total surprise to them even when you think you’ve explained it. I said, “Abbie? Are you comfortable? Pippi?” They looked at me blankly, then looked away again. Hannah wet her finger and drew an H on the windowpane.

“In a week or so it will be spring,” Brian told me. “Then would be a good time for you to be out there.”

“It’s a good time now,” I said. “It’s spring now.”