Anne Tyler - Searching for Caleb

"I did the ham too," he said. "She tell you that?"

"Yes, she did."

"Also the potatoes. I baked them first, you see, then scooped them out .

. . found it in Fannie Farmer. Some people call them potato boats."

Two looked at his watch.

"The cake is what is known as a war cake," said the grandfather. "It makes do with considerably less butter and eggs than we would normally use, you see. After all, we're living in reduced circumstances."

He seemed to savor the last two words: reduced circumstances. Lucy thought they sounded smugly technical, like devaluated currency or municipal bonds. For a very brief moment she wondered if he didn't almost enjoy this life-these dismal houses, weird friends, separations from the family, this moving about and fortune telling. If he weren't almost proud of the queer situations he found himself in. But then Sarah said, "Remember Grandma's orange peel cake?" and his face became suddenly thin and lost.

"Oh. Oh yes," he said.

"She used to mix it secretly in the pantry. Remember? She said she would give the recipe to Sulie but Sulie says she never did. Although of course we can't be too sure of that."

"I wonder what was in it," Justine said dreamily, and she paused so long with her knife in mid-air that Two grew impatient.

"Come on," he said. He looked at his watch again. "It's one thirty-two.

Do you always have dinner so late?"

"Mostly we don't have dinner at all," Justine said.

"I ask because last year we ate around noon. Dessert was served shortly before one."

"Was it?"

"The year before that, we ate even earlier."

"Did we?"

"Is this a new hobby of yours?" Duncan asked Two. "Are you planning to graph us?"

"To-no. No, it's just a little matter of timing, you understand. I thought the presents would be opened by one o'clock. Maybe we could do them before dessert."

"But I had counted on enjoying my cake," the grandfather said.

He and Two stared at each other, a pair of old, cross men. "This is a matter of timing, Father," Two told him.

"Of what?"

"Timing!"

"Speak up."

Two groaned.

"The worst of it is," Lucy whispered to Justine, "now Two is growing a teensy bit deaf himself."

"I most certainly am not," Two said.

"Sorry, dear."

Two picked up a small flat package. "From Sarah," he said. "Happy birthday."

Two's father took the package and turned it over. How many times had Lucy watched him painfully untie a bow, peel off the Scotch tape, remove the paper and fold it carefully for future use before he would look to see what he had been given? Year after year he received this cascade of shirts and socks and monogrammed handkerchiefs, all in glossy white boxes and handsome paper, tied with loopy satin bows. To each gift he said, "Why, thank you. Thank you very much," after which he replaced it in its box. Probably none of these things would ever be used. Except, of course, Justine's: a crumpled white sack of horehound drops that honestly seemed to delight him, although that had been her gift for as long as anyone could remember. "Can you figure it out?" he said. "Stuff's practically impossible to find any more but every year she manages. Expensive, too.

Justine makes do with Luden's cough drops but I fail to see the resemblance myself." He popped a lozenge in his mouth and passed the sack around. Only Justine took one. Nobody else could stand them. "Last chance till next year," he told Lucy, flooding her with his pharmaceutical breath. Lucy shook her head.

Duncan of course gave nothing at all, and would never allow Justine to pencil his name beside hers on the sack of horehound drops. He didn't believe in celebrating birthdays. He would give presents any time, to anyone, sudden surprising touching presents, but not when the rules said he was supposed to. And this year there was no gift from Meg either. Lucy was watching. Not so much as a tie clasp or a bureau top organizer. She felt a brief surge of wicked joy: now Duncan himself knew the pain of having an ungrateful child. Perhaps he had thought, when Meg eloped, So this is what it feels like! This is what my parents have had to put up with all my life! But then she was ashamed of herself, and she felt truly sorry that her granddaughter had somehow forgotten such an important occasion.

Next to last came Laura May's gift: needlework, as usual. This year a family tree, embroidered on natural linen with a wooden frame. "Why, thank you," said her father. "Thank you very much." But instead of setting it back down, he held it in both hands and looked at it for a long, silent moment. A diamond shape, that was what it was. Lucy had never noticed before. Justin alone began it and Meg alone ended it. In between there was a sudden glorious spread of children, but what had they come to? Nothing. Claude, Esther, the twins, and Richard stood alone, unmarried, without descendants. (Laura May had tactfully left off all record of Sally's divorce and Richard's annulment.) Only Duncan on the far left, son of the oldest child, and Justine on the far right, daughter of the youngest child, were connected by a V-shaped line that spilled out their single offspring at the bottom of the diamond.

There was no room for anyone below Meg's name. Lucy shook her head.

"But," said Justine, "maybe Meg will have six children and things will start all over again!"

Maybe so. Lucy pictured the diamond shape endlessly repeated, like the design on the border of a blanket. But the thought failed to cheer her up.

Then came the last gift, the largest, a gigantic cube two feet square.

The card was the largest too. It had to be. Birthday greetings and many happy returns from your sons Justin II, Daniel Jr., and Marcus.

'"Well now," said Grandfather Peck.

Two began chuckling. The wrapping was a joke.

First the striped paper, then a large white box. A slightly smaller box inside, then fleur-de-lis paper covering another box, then another, another . . .

Grandfather Peck grew bewildered. Mountains of ribbon and tissue rose around him. "What's all this?" he kept asking. "What's ... I don't understand."

"Keep going," Two said.

He and his brothers had spent an entire evening working on the wrapping.

Ordinarily they were not humorous men, but while fitting cartons inside cartons on Lucy's dining room table they had chortled like schoolboys, and Lucy had had to smile. She smiled now, seeing Two's face all squeezed together to keep the laughter in. "Go on, go on," he kept saying.

A hatbox, containing a shoebox, containing a stationery box, containing a playing card box, containing a matchbox. And finally the gift itself, wrapped in white paper. Two was laughing so hard that the corners of his eyes were damp. "It's a joke," he explained to Duncan. "See?"

"Typical," said Duncan.

"No, see? They did it at this office party, when Dan's secretary got married. They wrapped a little tiny present in a great big box, funniest thing you ever saw."

"It would be funnier if they had wrapped a great big present in a little tiny box," said Duncan.

"No, see-"

Grandfather Peck removed the Scotch tape from the minute rectangle of paper. He opened the paper carefully, but for once did not fold it and set it aside. Perhaps because it was too small. Perhaps because he was too shocked: his present was a single calling card.

" 'Worth and Everjohn, Inc.,' " he read out. " 'Your Local Domestic Investigating Agency. 19 Main Street, Caro Mill, Maryland. Why Stay in Doubt? Call Us and Find Out. All Reports in Strictest . . .'" He looked up at Two. "I don't quite understand," he said.

But instead of answering Two rose and left the room. They heard him open the front screen door. "All right now!" he shouted.

The man he brought back with him looked like Abe Lincoln, even to the narrow border of beard along his jawline. He wore a black suit, a very starched white shirt, and a string tie. Probably he was in his thirties, but his weary, hungry expression made him seem older. Runlets of sweat streaked his temples. There was a pulse in the hollow of one cheek.