Clock Winder - Anne Tyler [74]
“Hello, Elizabeth.”
Then, when she didn’t open the door, he said, “It’s August. Here I am.”
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Is it all right if I come in?”
“I guess so.”
He opened the screen door, but she led him no farther inside the house. If he had tried to kiss her she would have dodged him, but when he didn’t there was another awkwardness—how to stand, what to do with her hands, how to pretend that there was nothing new about the cold, blank space between them. “Did you have any trouble finding me?” she asked.
“Your mother gave me directions.”
“How’d you find her?”
“Asked in town.”
He shifted his weight and put his hands in his pockets. “None of it was easy,” he said. “Not even locating Ellington. I was wondering if you hoped I would just get lost and never make it.”
“I wrote you not to come.”
“Only the once. You didn’t say why. I can’t leave things up in the air like this, Elizabeth.”
“Well,” said Elizabeth. “How’s your family?
“Fine. How’s yours.”
“Oh, fine.”
“Is there somewhere we could sit and talk?” Matthew asked.
She scratched her head. Then Mr. Cunningham rescued her. Her name creaked down the stairs: “Elizabeth? Elizabeth?”
“I have to go,” she said. “He worries if I’m not there.”
“Could I come with you?”
“Maybe you could just meet me somewhere after work.”
“I’d rather stay,” Matthew said. “I took a summer and seven hours getting here, I’m not going to lose track of you again.”
“Well, for goodness sake. Do you think I would just run off?”
Apparently he did. He only waited, blank-faced, until she said, “Oh, all right,” and turned to lead him up the stairs.
Mr. Cunningham lay motionless in his bed. He was nothing but shades of white—white hair and white pajamas, pale skin, white sheets—so pure and stark that Elizabeth felt happy to see him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cunningham,” she said.
“I called and called.”
“Here I am. Come in, Matthew. This is Mr. Cunningham.”
“How do, Mr. Cunningham,” the old man said.
“No, this is Matthew Emerson. You’re Mr. Cunningham.”
“Well, I knew that.” He raised his chin, sharply. “I thought you were pointing out another Cunningham. The name’s not all that singular.”
“You’re right,” Elizabeth said.
“I’m glad to meet you,” Matthew said.
Mr. Cunningham frowned at him. “Are you any kin?”
“Kin? To whom? No.”
“To me.”
“No.”
“Do I look like a man that would forget his own name?”
“No, you don’t,” said Matthew.
“I keep in pretty good touch, for my age. I’ll be eighty-seven in November.”
“That’s amazing.”
Mr. Cunningham turned his face away, irritably, as if something in Matthew’s reply had disappointed him. “I’d like more water,” he told Elizabeth.
“All right.”
“Believe you salted that egg too much.”
She poured the water and helped him raise his head to drink it. When he was finished she wiped a dribble off his chin. “I’ll just raise the shade now,” she told him.
“What’s it down for?”
“You were asleep.”
“You thought I was asleep.”
She rolled the shade up. Sunlight poured into the room. When she turned back, Matthew had settled himself on the cane chair at the foot of the bed and was watching her. She had forgotten how open his face looked when he was staring at something steadily. Other people, returning from the past, could make her wonder what she had seen in them; with Matthew, she knew what she had seen. It was still there, even if it didn’t reach out to her any more. He studied her gently, from a distance, puzzling over something in his mind but not troubling her with questions. All he said was, “I never expected to see you in this kind of job.”
“This here is a very good nurse,” Mr. Cunningham said.
“Yes, but—”
“When I’m well we’re going on a trip together.