Энн Тайлер - Searching for Caleb

“Oh, I believe Mr. Parkinson’s place is going to be just fine,” said Justine. “Besides, it’s near where Duncan’s going to work. This way he can come home for lunch.”

“Now where’s he going to work?” Red Emma asked.

“At the Blue Bottle Antique Shop.”

Oh, Lord. She should have known. That gilt-lettered place, run by a fat man nobody knew. Who needed antiques in Caro Mill? Only tourists, passing through on their way to the Eastern Shore, and most of them were in too much of a hurry to stop. But Red Emma still clung to a shred of hope (she liked to see people manage , somehow) and she said, “Well now, I suppose he could improve on what that Mr. — I don’t recall his name. I suppose if he knows about antiques, and so on—”

“Oh, Duncan knows about everything,” said Justine.

It didn’t sound good, not at all.

“He hasn’t worked with antiques before but he did build some furniture once, a few jobs back—”

Yes.

“The man who owns the Blue Bottle is Duncan’s mother’s sister’s brother-in-law. He wants to ease off a little, get somebody else to manage the store for him now that he’s getting older.”

“We’ve used up all my mother’s blood relations,” Duncan said cheerfully. He was correcting the pitch of one pyramid wall. The truth that was coming out did not appear to embarrass him. “The last job was with my uncle, he owns a health food store. But no one in the family has a fix-it shop, and fixing is what I really do. I can fix anything. Do you need some repair work here?”

“No indeed,” Red Emma told him firmly.

And she turned back to Justine, ready to offer her sympathy, but Justine was munching potato chips with a merry look in her eye. Her hat was a little crooked. Could she possibly be a drinker? Red Emma sighed and went to clean the grill. “Of course,” she said, “I don’t mean to say anything against Ned Parkinson’s house. Why, in lots of ways it’s just fine. I’m sure you’ll all be happy there.”

“I’m sure we will be,” Justine said.

“And certainly your husband can handle any plumbing and electrical problems that might arise,” Red Emma said, wickedly sweet, because she did not for a moment think he could.

But Duncan said, “Certainly,” and started plunking his sugar cubes one by one back into the bowl.

Red Emma wiped the grill with a sour dish rag. She felt tired and wished they would go. But then Justine said, “You want to hear something? This coming year will be the best our family’s ever had. It’s going to be exceptional.”

“Now, how do you know that?”

“It’s nineteen seventy-three, isn’t it? And three is our number! Look: both Duncan and I were born in nineteen thirty-three. We were married in nineteen fifty-three and Meg was born on the third day of the third month in nineteen fifty-five. Isn’t that something?”

“Oh, Mama,” Meg said, and ducked her head over her coffee.

“Meg’s afraid that people will think I’m eccentric,” said Justine. “But after all, it’s not as if I believed in numerology or anything. Just lucky numbers. What’s your lucky number, Red Emma?”

“Eight,” said Red Emma.

“Ah. See there? Eight is forceful and good at organizing. You would succeed at any business or career, just anything.”

“I would?”

Red Emma looked down at her billowing white nylon front, the flowered handkerchief prinked to her bosom with a cameo brooch.

“Now, Meg doesn’t have a lucky number. I’m worried that nothing will ever happen to her.”

“ Mama .”

“Meg was due to be born in May and I wondered how that could happen. Unless she arrived on the third, of course. But see? She was premature, she came in March after all.”

“I always ask for eight at the Basket of Cheer lottery,” said Red Emma. “And I’ve won it twice, too. Forty dollars’ worth of fine-quality liquor.”

“Of course. Now, who’s the fortune teller in this town?”

“Fortune teller?”

The grandfather rattled and crackled his paper.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have one,” said Justine.

“Not to my knowledge we don’t.”

“Well, you know where I’ll be living. Come when I’m settled and I’ll tell your fortune free.”

“You tell fortunes.”

“I do church fairs, bazaars, club meetings, teas — anybody’s, any time. People can knock on my door in the dead of night if they have some urgent problem and I will get up in my bathrobe to give them a reading. I don’t mind at all. I like it, in fact. I have insomnia.”

“But — you mean you tell fortunes seriously? ” Red Emma asked.

“How else would I tell them?”

Red Emma looked at Duncan. He looked back, unsmiling.

“Well, if we could have the keys, then,” said Justine.

Red Emma fetched them, sleepwalking — two flat, tinny keys on a shower curtain ring. “I really do need to have my fortune told,” she said. “I wouldn’t want this spread around but I’m considering a change in employment.”

“Oh, I could help out with that.”

“Don’t laugh, will you? I’d like to be a mailman. I even passed the tests. Could you really tell me whether that would be a lucky move or not?”

“Of course,” said Justine.

Red Emma rang up their bill, which Duncan paid with a BankAmericard so worn it would not emboss properly. Then they filed out, and she stood by the door to watch them go. When Justine passed, Red Emma touched her shoulder. “I’m just so anxious, you see.” she said. “I don’t sleep good at all. My mind swings back and forth between decisions. Oh, I know it’s nothing big. I mean, a mailman, what is that to the world? What’s it going to matter a hundred years from now? I don’t fool myself it’s anything important. Only day after day in this place, the grease causing my hair to flop halfway through the morning and the men all making smart remarks and me just feeding them and feeding them . . . though the pay is good and I really don’t know what Uncle Harry would say if I was to quit after all these years.”

“Change,” said Justine.

“Beg pardon?”

“Change. I don’t need cards for that. Take the change. Always change.”

“Well — is that my fortune?”

“Yes it is,” said Justine. “Goodbye, Red Emma! See you soon!”

And she was gone, leaving Red Emma to pleat her lower lip with her fingers and ponder beside the plate glass door.

Justine drove the Ford down Main Street with the cat racing back and forth across the rear window ledge, yowling like an old, angry baby while people on the sidewalks stopped and stared. Meg sat with her hands folded; by now she was used to the racket. The grandfather simply shut his hearing aid off and gazed from his bubble of silence at the little wooden Woolworth’s, the Texaco, the Amoco, the Arco, a moldering A&P, a neat brick post office with a flag in front. This time Duncan’s truck was ahead, and Justine followed him in a right-hand turn down a side street lined with one-story buildings. They passed a drugstore and an electric shop, and then they came to a row of small houses. Duncan parked in front of the first one. Justine pulled in behind him. “Here we are!” she said.

The house was white, worn down to gray. On the porch, square shingled columns rose waist-high and then stopped, giving the overhang a precarious, unreliable look. Although there was no second floor the dormer window of some attic or storage room bulged out of the roof like an eyelid. A snarl of wiry bushes guarded the crawlspace beneath the porch. “Oh, roses!” Justine cried. “Are those roses?” Her grandfather shifted in his seat.