Anne Tyler - Searching for Caleb

Eat," he told her. Though he could see that it wasn't possible. He could tell from the way she chewed; her mouth was too dry, or too small, or something. Never mind, she would eat when she got to Baltimore. Aunts would take her in hand. He thought of the aunts for the first time with gratitude, imagining how they would relieve him of Justine's dull white face and her limpness. Then he caught himself and looked away from her eyes, which were fixed on him too steadily.

He could always leave her, of course. He could settle her in Baltimore and then go off again on his own. But he knew that he wouldn't. If he didn't have Justine he wouldn't even know how to see things, what to look at; nothing would exist for him if he couldn't tell Justine about it. The first flat-brimmed hat in a department store window would break him. He would be unable to last the night without her rustling, burning wakefulness guarding his sleep. So he put away all thoughts of leaving, and he wrote the letter to Peck & Sons asking for work. But when the answer came, he didn't want to open it. He stuffed it in his pocket, angry already at the phrases he knew it would contain. Finally Justine found it, and opened it for him. "Well? What does it say?" he asked.

"Oh . . . they'll get you something."

"But what does it say?" Are they glad I'm finally listening to reason? Do they say they always knew we would end up coming home?"

"No, they don't mention it," Justine said.

He snatched the letter away from her-his Uncle Mark's signature beneath a secretary's crisp black typing. Probably, his uncle said, there would be some employment for him although it was hard to say what, on such short notice. And no, the firm had no need of a fix-it man, what kind of a question was that? And of course it was true that Great-Grandma's house was legally Justine's, although really the family had been the ones to see to its maintenance all these years and Esther and the twins were so accustomed to living there . . .

All in all, Duncan thought the letter sounded disconcerted. As if secretly the family had enjoyed having the two of them ricocheting around somewhere. He had not expected that. Nor had he expected to feel so offended, once he found it out.

But the wheels were set in motion, anyway, and now they gave notice to the landlord and made arrangements with the movers. ("I'm not hiring a U-Haul," Duncan said. "I don't have Grandfather." But really he was just indulging in his new policy of floating to places. He pictured the Mayflower men hauling out the living room rug by its corners while he remained seated on it, steadily playing forty thieves.) They notified the electric company and the water department, breaking off ties, unplugging all their cords to Caro Mill and reeling them in. They wrote a letter to Meg giving their new address. ("Although," Justine said, "there is no way we can ever let Caleb know . . .") Nowadays when Duncan passed the Blue Bottle he saw an unfamiliar young man established behind the counter, picking his fingernails and gazing idly out the reglazed window with its display of gilded china teacups.

At Thanksgiving they stayed home, since they would be going to Baltimore anyway in another few days. They ate dinner on the living room floor: a combination pizza that Duncan had bought from a takeout place. "Really you shouldn't have," Justine said. She meant because of the cost; their money was nearly gone. They were living on Bank-Americard. "But it wasn't expensive," said Duncan, "and I thought you liked combination pizzas. I told them to put extra anchovies on. Why aren't you eating?"

She took a bite. She didn't seem to be tasting it.

"Isn't it good?"

"If Caleb were here we'd be taking him to the family today," she said.

"If he were here, yes."

"And they wouldn't have liked him."

He leaned forward and tapped her plate. "Eat," he told her.

The morning after Thanksgiving Dorcas came to have her cards read. She was considering marrying a movie house owner named Willis Ralph McGee.

"How do you like the name Dorcas McGee?" she asked Duncan.

Behind her, Ann-Campbell said, "It stinks."

"Who asked you?"

Now that it was cold Dorcas wore a car coat heaped with blond fake fur, but her feet were still in spike-heeled sandals. Blood-red toenails glinted beneath nylon, overrun the next moment by the last of Duncan's forty cards. She moved her toes a fraction of an inch away. "You said I would meet somebody soon, Justine, and so I did," she said. "Now I want to know what kind of husband he would make."

"Lousy," said Ann-Campbell.

"Will you hush that?"

"My daddy, Joe Pete Britt, is not ever going to stand for this," said Ann-Campbell. "Here, Justine, I brung in your mail. There's a bill from Howard pharmacy, a Korvette ad-"

"Just give it to her, Ann-Campbell."

Justine set down a roll of binder's twine and took the letters. "Well, here is something from Mayflower," she said. "I just hope they're not putting off the moving date."

"I hope they do!" said Dorcas. "Just years and years."

"Here's something from-who do we know in Wyoming?"

Justine tore the envelope open. Duncan laid down a nine of clubs, which Dorcas immediately stepped on. "Now I don't want to hurry you or anything," Dorcas said, "but me and Ann-Campbell are going out to Woolworth's for a hot fudge sundae and we were just stopping by briefly to get my fortune told."

"You prick a balloon," Ann-Campbell told Duncan, "and see what number is wrote on it. That's the price of your hot fudge sundae. Could be a nickel. Could be a penny."

"Is that so," said Duncan. "Would you move your foot a little, Dorcas?"

"Could be forty-nine cents," said Dorcas. "It always has been."

"Well!" said Justine.

They all looked up at her, but it seemed she was reading a letter. She would read for a moment and then look up, then start reading it all over again. "What is it?" Duncan asked her.

"Well, it's a-"

He waited, but she went back to the letter.

"Reason I'm in a hurry is that tonight we have this special date," Dorcas said. "I have a feeling he's going to propose. Now I don't want to answer without knowing what the cards say, do I?"

"Certainly not," said Duncan.

"Justine? If you don't want to do it all you have to do is tell me."

"Look at this, Duncan," Justine said.

He took the letter, a cream-colored sheet crumpled and gray around the edges.

November 20, 1973 Dear Justine, I want to apologize for taking so long to write, but circumstances prevented me up until now.

It was very kind of you to invite me to stay with you. The frankfurters you cooked were delicious, and I shall remember my visit with a great deal of pleasure for a long time to come.

Love, Caleb Peck

Duncan laughed-a single, sharp sound. He handed the letter back.

"It's a thank you note," said Justine.

"That's right."

"A bread-and-butter note."

"That's what they call them."

"I just want to ask you one thing," Dorcas said. "And I want an honest answer. Hear? Now Justine, you have been putting me off all morning and it's not the first time. Other people have noticed too. Nowadays you just drift the cards down like your heart's not in it. Anything anybody asks you definite, should they do it or should they not, you don't want to reply. You just shuck it off, like. Well, what I want to know is, do you not really care to read the future any more? Are you trying to phase it out? Because all you got to do is say the word, Justine. Not to keep on going with your mind on something else the way you have been lately."

"What?" said Justine.

Dorcas looked over at Duncan.

"Oh, your fortune," Justine said.

"That's right."

"Well, let me find my . . ."

She fetched the straw carry-all, unwrapped the cards from their square of silk.