Breathing Lessons (1989 Pulitzer Prize) - Anne Tyler [125]
"You have?" "Only in passing," Fiona corrected her quickly.
"When was that?" Leroy looked at Fiona, who said, "We might have driven by here once or twice." Maggie said, "Is that so." In front of their own house, Ira parked. It was one of those bouses that appear to be mostly front porch, at least from the street-squat and low-browed, not at all impres- sive, as Maggie was the first to admit. She wished at least the lights were on. That would have made it seem more welcoming. But every window was dark. "Well!" she said, too heartily. She opened her door and got out of the car, clutching the groceries. "Come on in, everyone!" There was something befuddled about the way they milled around on the sidewalk. They had been traveling for too long. When Ira started up the steps, he accidentally banged Fiona's suitcase against the railing, and he fumbled awhile with the key before he got the door unlocked.
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,