Anne Tyler - Ladder of Years

She was looking for a bank that kept Saturday hours. She wanted to cash Friday’s paycheck. The check was drawn on First Farmers’, just north of the square, but she found First Farmers’ closed, and so she walked on to Bay Borough Federal. It was a cool, breezy day, with dark clouds overhead that turned the air almost lilac; and this part of town, which she had not seen since the afternoon she arrived, now looked completely different to her. It looked out of date, somehow. The buildings were so faded they seemed not colored but hand tinted, like an antique photograph.

“Would you be able to cash this for me?” she asked the teller at Bay Borough Federal.

The teller-a woman in squinty rhinestoned glasses-barely glanced at the signature before nodding. “Zeke Pomfret? No problem,” she said.

So Delia signed over the first real paycheck of her life and received a few crisp bills in return. She was surprised at how much the taxes and whatnot could eat away from a salary.

Weber Street, East Street. Diagonally across the square. She carried her head high and set her feet down with precision. She might have been the heroine in some play or movie. And her intended audience, of course, was Sam.

It wasn’t that she looked forward to his visit, certainly. She dreaded having to explain herself; she knew how lame and contradictory all her reasons would sound to him. And yet as early as yesterday afternoon, some part of her mind had been making its devious calculations. Let’s say it’s two hours to Baltimore. Eliza could get home around, oh, say, four-thirty, so Sam could be here by six-thirty. Maybe seven. Or supposing he decided to finish up at the office first, supposing he had to buy gas… And then later that night: He must be waiting for the weekend. That would be much more sensible.

Imagine if he came upon her this minute, heading toward the library for Saturday’s book. Or pausing on the way home to rummage through a table of mugs in front of Katy’s Kitchenware. Or stepping out of the Pinchpenny with the navy knit dress in a bag. Imagine if he were watching from the boardinghouse porch as she rounded the corner of George Street. He would see her skimming along, wearing professional gray, entirely at ease in this town he had never laid eyes on before. He would think, Could that really be Delia?

Or imagine if she climbed the stairs and found him waiting at the door of her room. “Why, Sam,” she would say serenely, and she would draw her keys from her handbag-so official-looking, room key and office key on Mr. Pomfret’s chrome ring-and open the door and tilt her head, inviting him inside. Or he would be inside already, having persuaded Belle to admit him. He would be standing at one of the windows. He would turn and see her entering with her burdens-her library book and her tea mug and new dress-and, “Here, let me help you with those,” he would say, and she would say, “Thanks. I can manage.”

But he wasn’t there after all, and she set her things on the bed in total silence.

She went downstairs to pay her rent. Belle was home, she could tell. She heard sounds from behind the celery-colored door leading off the hall. She knocked and Belle called, “Come in!” meanwhile squeaking something, whirring something. It was a stationary bicycle, Delia discovered when she stepped inside. Belle was pedaling madly, flushed and overheated in a pink sweat suit strewn with tiny satin bows. “Whew!” she said when she saw Delia. Her living room, like the rest of the house, seemed furnished with pieces earlier tenants had discarded. A dingy plush sofa faced the TV; the coffee table bore a loopy design of ring-shaped water stains.

“I just wanted to pay my rent,” Delia told her.

“Oh, thanks,” Belle said, and without slowing her pedaling she stuffed the folded bills up one sleeve. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Great,” Belle said, and she leaned diligently over the handlebars as Delia closed the door again.

Delia planned to go next to the Gobble-Up for some lunch things, but just as she was leaving the house a young man in uniform arrived on the porch. She thought at first he was some kind of soldier; the uniform was a khaki color, and his hair was prickly short. “Miz Grinstead?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Chuck Akers, from the Polies.”

It took her a moment to translate that.

“Think I could have a word with you?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said. She turned to lead him inside and then realized she had nowhere to take him. Her bedroom was out of the question, and she couldn’t very well use Belle’s living room. So she turned back and asked, “What can I do for you?” and they ended up conducting their business right there on the porch.

“You are Miz Cordelia F. Grinstead,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I understand you came here of your own free will.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Nobody kidnapped you, coerced you…”

“Nobody else had anything to do with it.”

“Well, I surely wish you had thought to make that clear before you left.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Next time I will.”

Next time!

She wondered when on earth she supposed that would be.

Saturday, Sunday. The elaborate filling of empty white hours, the glad pounce upon the most inconsequential task. Saturday evening she ate at home, little cartons of Chinese takeout, and she read Daisy Miller late into the night. Sunday breakfast was tea and a grocery-store muffin in bed, but she made an event of lunch. She ate at the Bay Arms Restaurant, a stodgy, heavily draped and carpeted establishment, where all the other tables were occupied by families in church clothes. Her inclination was to get the meal over with as fast as possible, but she forced herself to order a soup course, a main course, and a dessert, and she worked her way through all this in a measured and leisurely fashion, fixing her gaze upon a point in the middle distance.

Once Susie had announced, during a particularly feminist stage in her life, that every woman ought to learn how to dine alone in a formal restaurant without a book. Delia wished Susie could see her now.

In fact, maybe Sam would bring the children with him when he came. Maybe they would walk right into the Bay Arms; it was not impossible that they would track her down. She was wearing her new navy dress from the Pinchpenny. It looked very becoming, she thought. She requested a second cup of coffee and sat on awhile.

Out of nowhere, she longed for a cigarette, although she had not smoked since tenth grade.

When she left the restaurant she headed north to the library, planning to choose that night’s reading. But the library door was locked tight and the venetian blinds were slanted shut. She should have realized the place would be closed on Sundays. Now she would have to buy a book-invest actual money.

In the pharmacy on George Street, she found one rack of paperbacks-mostly mysteries, a few romances. She chose a romance called Moon Above Wyndham Moor. A woman in a long cloak was swooning on the cover, precariously supported by a bearded man who encircled her waist with his left arm while he brandished a sword with his right. Delia hid the book in her purse after she had paid for it. Then she continued toward Belle’s, taking quick, firm steps so that anybody watching would think, That woman looks completely self-reliant.

But there was no one watching.

She remembered how, as a child, she used to arrange herself in the front yard whenever visitors were due. She remembered one time when her great-uncle Roscoe was expected, and she had placed her doll cradle on the grass and assumed a pretty pose next to it till Uncle Roscoe stepped out of his car. “Why, looky there!” he cried. “It’s little Lady Delia.” He smelled of cough drops, the bitter kind. She had thought she retained no mental picture of Uncle Roscoe, and she was startled to find him bobbing up like this, shifting his veiny leather gladstone bag to his other hand so he could clamp her shoulder as they proceeded toward the house. But what had the occasion been? Why had he come to visit, wearing his rusty black suit? She suspected she would rather not know the answer.