Clock Winder - Anne Tyler [25]
“You just thought this up to irk your father,” Timothy told her.
“Well, maybe so,” she said cheerfully.
“And he wouldn’t have started a fight over a little thing like that.”
“Of course he would. Besides, he didn’t like this boy I was seeing.”
“Oh,” said Timothy. “What was wrong with him?”
“He just considers me a trial. Always has. You can’t really blame him.”
“No, I mean the boy.”
“Oh. Well, nothing, to the naked eye. He was just a State College student. Then he got arrested for robbing laundromats.”
Timothy swerved to avoid an abandoned car. “You certainly know some funny people,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Did he tell you what he was doing? Did you know?”
“Oh, no, just that he was working. I wondered what at.”
“You could have guessed, if he wouldn’t say. I could have guessed. You could have been a little more curious, and maybe stopped him.”
“I would never change someone else’s affairs around,” Elizabeth said.
That kept him silent for a full five minutes; he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He concentrated on driving, which was growing more difficult. The road felt like cotton beneath his wheels. The few cars he met were barely creeping along, shapeless white igloos eerily glowing beneath a white sky. “How can you see? I can’t,” Elizabeth said, and Timothy said, “I don’t understand you. Fighting with your father! And here I thought you were Miss Easy-Going. Miss Fix-It. I wondered how your family was managing without you to patch the plaster.”
“At home I break things more than fix them,” said Elizabeth.
Then she rolled the window down with a jerk, which was unnecessary. Their breaths seemed likely to freeze in front of their faces. A new wave of mist fogged Timothy’s vision and he hunched forward, peering for the turnoff. “Can’t see a thing,” he said, but he found it, anyway—an overhead sign swinging and whipping in the wind—and turned blindly.
“I thought they had snowplows up north,” Elizabeth said.
“Well, this burglar,” said Timothy. “Are you supposed to be visiting him or anything? Waiting until he gets out?”
“Waiting for what?”
“Well, to get married, maybe.”
“He wasn’t going to be in that long, it was only laundromats.”
“The reason I’m asking all this,” Timothy said carefully, “is that you and I seem to be going out together a lot. I wanted to know if you were committed in any way.”
“Committed?”
“Not tied to this burglar or someone.”
“Why do you keep calling him a burglar?” Elizabeth said. “He was a chemistry major. We hardly even knew each other.”
Timothy gave up. “Would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow?” he asked.
“I can’t. I’m going to see Matthew’s house.”
“Matthew?” He turned to stare at her. “How did he get into this?”
“Why not? I like him.”
So this was where all the uneasiness had been going: Matthew. “Break it, can’t you?” he said.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “I want to see his house. Besides, I never turn down an invitation.”
“Do you have to keep telling me that?”
Then he slammed into the Schmidts’ driveway and cut the engine and piled out. He didn’t open the door for Elizabeth. She followed on her own, calmly swinging her handbag and shuffling up the narrow groove of cleared sidewalk. Timothy waited on the front porch with his back turned, ignoring her. She didn’t seem to notice.
It was Ian Schmidt who opened the door—a classmate of Timothy’s. He said, “Oho! We thought you weren’t coming. This is Elizabeth, isn’t it? We met one night at a play.”
“That’s right,” Elizabeth said.
He showed them into a living room papered with travel posters. Guests sat around in clumps, not yet at ease, and a small, square baby was being passed from lap to lap. “That’s Christopher Edward. Our son,” Ian said. “Today’s his six-month birthday.” He was so proud of that that he kept them standing in the doorway, fully wrapped and shedding snow-flakes, while he scooped the baby up and brought him over. “Say hello, Christopher, say hello.” The baby stared, poker-faced, at Elizabeth. She stared back. “Hmm,” she said finally, and began tugging her boots off. Lisa Schmidt appeared