Энн Тайлер - Searching for Caleb

When they were above ground again — Justine taking gulps of the ashy, foreign air, the old man limp with relief — they walked a block and a half west and entered a gray building with a revolving door. “Look,” her grandfather said. “Wood for the door and polished handles. Marble floor. I like old buildings. I like places like this.” And he nodded to a lady just stepping out of the elevator — the first person in all New York whose existence he had recognized. He was disappointed, however, that the elevator was self-service “ Once upon a time they would have had a boy to do this,” he said, watching Justine jab a button. The elevator toiled upward, creaking and sighing. Its walls were fine oak but on one panel there was a concentration of four-letter words that the old man covered immediately, stepping square in front of them without appearing to notice and then staring upward. Justine smiled at him. He pursed his lips and studied an inspection certificate.

On the eighth floor, at the end of a long dark hall, they pressed another button. Bolts slithered and locks rattled, as if connected somehow to the button. The door opened three inches and a roughed, seamed face peered out from behind a police chain. “Yes?” she asked.

“Mrs. Tabor?” said Justine.

Puffy eyes took her in from top to toe, her streaky ribbons of hair and her brown coat with the uneven hemline. “What is this,” Mrs. Tabor said, “are you selling something? I don’t need a thing and I already have religion.”

So the grandfather had to step up and take over. There was no mistaking the elegance of his bow, or the way he raised one hand to his head even though he wore no hat. He presented her with his card. Not his business card, oh no, but his calling card, cream-colored, aged yellow around the edges. He slipped it beneath the police chain into her jeweled hand. “Daniel Peck,” he said, as if she could not read, and she looked up into his face while one finger tested the engraving. “Peck,” she said.

“I knew your husband. Paul? Back in Baltimore.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, and she unhooked the chain and stood back to let them in. They entered a room that Justine might have grown up in, all wine-colored and velvety, giving off a scent of dust although every piece of furniture gleamed. Mrs. Tabor’s white hair was precisely finger-waved, webby with beauty parlor hairspray. She wore black wool and ropes and ropes of pearls. Her focus was on the old man and she barely looked at Justine even when he remembered to introduce her. “Of course you do know about his passing, Mr. Peck,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ll have to speak up,” said Justine. “He left his hearing aid at home.”

“You know he passed , Mr. Peck.”

“Oh. Passed. Oh yes. Yes, naturally, I read it in the paper. You see we hadn’t heard of Paul for many many years, we—” He followed, absently, to the couch where she led him. He sat down beside Justine, pinching the creases in his trousers. “We had no idea where he might be until that death notice, Mrs. Tabor. Why, I’ve made several trips to New York in my life and never even knew he was here! Never guessed! We could have talked over old times together.”

“Oh, it’s sad how people lose track,” said Mrs. Tabor.

“Well, I wanted to offer my condolences. Our family thought highly of Paul and my brother Caleb in particular was very close to him.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Peck. It was painless, I’m happy to say, sudden and painless, just the way he would have wished it. All the more shock to me , therefore, but—”

“What was that?”

“ Thank you.”

“My brother’s name was Caleb Peck.”

“What a fine old-fashioned name,” said Mrs. Tabor.

The old man looked at her for a minute, perhaps wondering whether it was worthwhile asking her to repeat herself. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I don’t suppose you knew him, did you?” he said.

“Why, not that I remember, no. I don’t believe so. Because of Paul’s work we moved about so, you see. It was difficult to—”

“What? What?”

“ No , Grandfather,” Justine said, and laid one hand on top of his. He looked at her dimly for a moment, as if he didn’t recognize her.

“I assumed he might have kept in touch with Paul,” he told Mrs. Tabor. “Written, or sent Christmas cards. Or visited, even. You know they were very close. Perhaps he stopped to see you on his way to someplace else.”

“We never had many visitors, Mr. Peck.”

“Pardon?”

He looked at Justine. Justine shook her head.

“Or possibly Paul just mentioned his name on some occasion,” he said.

“Possibly, yes, but—”

“Yes?”

He snatched his hand from Justine’s and sat forward. “When would that have been?” he asked.

“But — no, Mr. Peck, I can’t say I remember it. I’m sorry.”

“Look here,” he said. He searched a pocket and came up with something — a small brown photograph framed in gold. He leaned over to jab it in her face. “Don’t you know him? Doesn’t he look familiar in any way? Take your time. Don’t be in a hurry to say no.”

Mrs. Tabor seemed a little startled by the picture, but it took her only a second to make up her mind. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then she looked at Justine. “I don’t understand. Is this important in some way?”

“Well—” said Justine.

“We’ve lost track of Caleb too, you see,” her grandfather said. He shoved the photograph back in his pocket. He turned down the corners of his mouth in a bitter smile. “You must think we’re very careless people.”

Mrs. Tabor did not smile back.

“However it was no more our fault in this case than in Paul’s; he left us.”

“Oh, what a pity,” Mrs. Tabor said.

“Our family is very close knit, a fine family, we have always stuck together, but I don’t know, periodically some . . . explorer sets out on his own.” He scowled suddenly at Justine. “The last time I saw Caleb was in nineteen twelve. I have never heard of him since.”

“Nineteen twelve!” Mrs. Tabor said. She sank back in her chair. Wheels seemed to be clicking in her head. When she spoke next her voice had become softer and sadder. “Mr. Peck, I’m so very sorry that I can’t help you. I wish I could. Might I offer you some tea?”

“How’s that?” he said.

“ Tea , Grandfather.”

“Tea. Oh. Well . . . ”

This time when he looked at Justine he was handing the rest of the visit to her, and she straightened and clutched her carry-all. “Thank you, but I don’t think so,” she said. Phrases her mother had taught her thirty years ago came wisping back to her. “It’s kind of you to . . . but we really must be . . . however, I wonder if my grandfather might freshen up first? He just got off the train and he . . . ”

“Surely,” said Mrs. Tabor. “Mr. Peck, may I show you the way?”

She beckoned to him and he rose without question, either guessing at where she was leading him or no longer caring. He followed her through a polished door that swept open with a hushing sound across the carpet. He went down a short hall with his hands by his sides, like a child being sent to his room. When she pointed him toward another door he stepped through it and vanished, not looking around. Mrs. Tabor returned to the living room with careful, outward-turned steps.

“That poor, poor man,” she said.

Justine would not answer.

“And will you be in New York long?”

“Just till we find a train home again.”

Mrs. Tabor stopped patting her pearls. “You mean you only came for this?”