Anne Tyler - Breathing Lessons

They entered the musty, close darkness of the front hallway. Ira flipped on the light. Maggie called, "Daisy?" without a hope that Daisy would answer. Clearly the house was deserted. She shifted the grocery bag to her left hip and picked up the notepad that lay on top of the bookcase.

Gone to say goodbye to Lavinia, .Daisy's precise italics read. "She's at Mrs. Perfect's," Maggie told Ira. "Well, she'll be back! How long can it take to say goodbye? She'll be back in no time!"

This was all for Leroy's benefit, to show that Daisy really existed-that there was more to this house than old people.

Leroy was circling the hallway, with her baseball glove tucked under one arm. She was squinting up at the photographs that covered the walls.

"Who's that?" she asked, pointing to one.

Ira as a young father stood in dappled sunlight, awkwardly holding a baby. "That's your grandpa, holding your daddy," Maggie told her.

Leroy said, "Oh," and moved on at once. Probably she had hoped it was Jesse holding Leroy. Maggie cast her eyes around the room to see if she could locate such a picture. You could hardly make out the wallpaper pattern for all the photos that hung here, each framed professionally by Ira and each mat and molding different, like a sample of something. There was Jesse as a toddler, as a little boy on a scooter, as a thumbtack-sized face among rows of other faces in fifth grade. But no picture of Jesse as a grownup, Maggie realized; not even as a teenager. And certainly not as a father. They had run out of wall space by then. Besides, Maggie's mother was always saying how trashy it was to display one's family photographs anywhere but a bedroom.

Fiona was pushing her suitcase toward the stairs, leaving two long thin scratches on the floorboards behind her. "Oh, don't bother with that,"

Maggie told her. "Ira will carry it up for you later."

How must Fiona feel, returning after so long-walking across the porch where she'd decided to keep her baby, passing through the front door that she had so often slammed out of in a huff? She looked drawn and dispirited. The sudden light had crumpled the skin around her eyes. She abandoned her suitcase and pointed to a photo high on the wall. "There

/happen to be," she told Leroy. "In case you're interested."

She meant her bridal photo. Maggie had forgotten that. A wedding present from Crystal, who had brought a camera to the ceremony, it showed a coltish young girl in a wrinkled dress. The frame was a black plastic diploma frame that must have come from Woolworth's. Leroy studied the photo without expression. Then she moved into the living room, where Ira was switching on lamps.

Maggie took the groceries out to the kitchen, with Fiona close behind.

"So where is he?" Fiona asked in a low voice.

"Well, he's probably ..." Maggie said. She flicked on the overhead light and glanced at the clock. "I told him we'd eat at six-thirty and it's barely that now and you know how he loses track of time, so don't worry-"

Fiona said, "I'm not worried! Who says I'm worried? I don't care if he comes or he doesn't."

"No, of course not," Maggie said soothingly.

"I just brought Leroy to visit you two. I don't care if he comes."

"Well, of course you don't."

Fiona sat down heavily in a kitchen chair and threw her purse on the table. Like the most formal of guests, she was carrying that purse with her from room to room; some things never changed. Maggie sighed and began unpacking the groceries. She put the ice cream in the freezer, and then she slit open both packs of chicken and dumped them into a bowl. "What kind of vegetables does Leroy like?" she asked.

Fiona said, "Hmm? Vegetables?" She didn't seem to have her mind on the question. She was gazing at the wall calendar, which still showed the month of August. Oh, this wasn't a very organized house, not that Fiona had any right to complain. The counters seemed to collect stray objects on their own. The cupboards were filled with dusty spice bottles and cereal boxes and mismatched dishes. Drawers sagged open, exposing a jumble of belongings. One drawer caught Maggie's eye, and she went over to riffle through the layers of papers stuffed inside. "Now, somewhere here," she said, "I could almost swear . . ."

She came across a PTA announcement. A torn-out recipe for something called Amazin' Raisin Pie. A packet of get-well cards that she'd been hunting since the day she bought them. And then, "Aha," she said, holding up a flier.

"What is it?"

"Picture of Jesse as a grownup. For Leroy."

She brought it over to Fiona: a darkly photocopied photo of the band.

Lorimer was sitting in front with his drums and Jesse stood behind, his arms draped loosely around the necks of the other two, Dave and what's-his-name. All wore black. Jesse had his eyebrows knitted in a deliberate scowl. SPIN THE CAT was printed in furry, tiger-striped letters beneath their picture, and a blank space at the bottom allowed for a specific time and place to be written in by hand.

"Of course it doesn't do him justice," Maggie said. "These rock groups always try to look so, I don't know, so surly; have you noticed? Maybe I should just show her the snapshot I carry in my wallet. He isn't smiling there, either, but at least he's not frowning."

Fiona took the flier to study it more closely. "How funny," she said.

"Everyone's just the same."

"Same?"

"I mean they were always going to be going somewhere; didn't you always think so? They had such high-and-mighty plans. And they used to keep changing so, changing their views of music. Why, one time Leroy asked me just what kind of songs her daddy played, new wave or punk or heavy metal or what, exactly-I think she wanted to impress her friends-and I said, 'Lordy, by now it could be anything; I wouldn't have the foggiest notion.' But just look at them."

"Well? So?" Maggie said. "What's to look at?"

"Lorimer's still got his hair fixed in that silly shag haircut with the tail down the back of his neck that I was always dying to chop off,"

Fiona said. "They're still wearing the same style of clothes, even. Same old-fashioned Hell's Angels style of clothing."

"Old-fashioned?" Maggie asked.

"You could picture how they'll get to be forty and still playing together on weekends when their wives will let them, playing for Rotary Club get-togethers and such."

It bothered Maggie to hear this, but she didn't let on. She turned back to her bowl of chicken.

Fiona said, "Who was it he brought to dinner?"

"Pardon?"

"You said he brought this woman to dinner one time."

Maggie glanced over at her. Fiona was still holding the photo, gazing at it with a bemused expression. "Nobody important," Maggie said.

"Well, who?"

"Just some woman he'd met someplace; we've been through a lot of those.

Nobody long-term."

Fiona set the photo down on the table, but she went on looking at it.

Out in the living room, ragged music started thrumming forth from the hi-fi. Evidently Leroy had found one of Jesse's castoffs. Maggie heard Hey hey and Every day and a familiar twanging of strings, although she couldn't say who was playing. She took a carton of buttermilk from the refrigerator and poured it over the chicken. A headache was tightening the skin of her forehead. Now that she thought of it, she realized it had been nagging at her for some time.

"I'm going to call Jesse," she told Fiona suddenly.

She went over to the wall telephone and lifted the receiver. There wasn't any dial tone. Instead she heard a ringing at the other end. "Ira must be using the extension," she said, and she hung up again. "Well, so anyhow.

Vegetables. Which vegetables will Leroy eat?"

"She likes tossed salad," Fiona said.

"Oh, dear, I should've bought lettuce."