Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [20]
His first concern was that the noise would disturb Daphne. That was how thoroughly he’d been sidetracked. Then he realized he was free to go, and he headed out to tell Lucy what he thought of her.
But it wasn’t Lucy; it was Danny, standing just inside the living room door and screwing up his face against the light. Ian could tell he’d had a couple of beers. He wore a loose, goofy smile that was familiar from past occasions. “Ian, fellow!” he said. “What’re you doing here?”
“I’m going out of my mind,” Ian told him.
“Ah.”
“Your wife was due back ages ago, and anyhow I didn’t want to come in the first place.”
“Thomas!” Danny said fervently, peering toward the couch. “And Agatha!” He seemed surprised to see them, too. He told Ian, “You sure did miss a great party. Good old Bucky Hargrove!”
“Look,” Ian said. “I am running late as hell and I need you to give me a lift to Cicely’s house.”
“Huh? Oh. Why, sure,” Danny said. “Sure, Ian. Except—” He pondered. “Except how about the kids?” he asked finally.
“How about them?”
“We can’t just leave them.”
“Take them along, then,” Ian said, exasperated. “Let’s just go.”
“Take Daphne, too? Where’s Daphne?”
Ian gritted his teeth. The Kent cigarette song sailed out from the TV, mindless and jaunty. He turned to Agatha and said, “Agatha, you and Thomas will have to stay here and baby-sit.”
She stared at him.
“Seven minutes, tops,” Ian said. “Don’t open the front door no matter who knocks, and don’t answer the phone. Understand?”
She nodded. Thomas’s eyes were ringed like a raccoon’s.
“Let’s go,” Ian told Danny.
Danny was swaying slightly on his feet and watching Ian with mild, detached interest. “Well …” he said.
“Come on, Danny!”
Ian snatched up his jacket and gave Danny a push in the right direction. As they walked out he felt a weight slipping blessedly from his shoulders. He wondered how people endured children on a long-term basis—the monotony and irritation and confinement of them.
Outside it was much colder than before, and wonderfully quiet.
Danny bumped his head getting into the car, and he had some trouble determining which key to use. After that, though, he started the engine easily, checked sensibly for traffic, and pulled into the street. “So!” he said. “Cicely lives on Lang Avenue, right?”
“Right,” Ian said. “Stop by home first, though.”
“Stop by home first,” Danny repeated meekly.
Ian tapped a foot against the floorboards. He felt commanding and energetic, charged up by righteous anger.
Dimly lit houses slid past them, and a dog chased the car a block or so before giving up. Danny started whistling a tune, something sort of jazzy and hootchy-kootchy. Probably they’d had a stripper at Bucky Hargrove’s party, and waitresses in fishnet stockings and girls popping out of cakes and such. And Ian, meanwhile, had been warming baby bottles. He swung toward Danny sharply and said, “I might as well inform you right now that you have lost your favorite sitter for all eternity.”
“Huh? What say?” Danny asked.
“I had a huge, important engagement at eight-thirty. I’m talking crucial. Lucy knew that. She swore on a stack of Bibles she’d be back in time.”
“Where is she, anyhow?” Danny asked, flicking his turn signal.
“Drinking with a girlfriend. So she says.”
“I didn’t even know she was planning to go out.”
“Her waitress friend, Dot. Is what she claims.”
“Dot from the Fill ’Er Up Café,” Danny agreed.
“Goddamnit, Danny, are you blind?” Ian shouted.
Danny’s eyes widened and he looked frantically in all directions. “Blind?” he asked. “What?”
“She’s out more often than she’s in! Don’t you ever wonder who she’s with?”
“Why, no, I …”
“And how about that baby?”
“Baby?”
“Premature baby? Get serious. Premature baby with dimples?”
Danny opened his mouth.
“Two months early and breathing on her own, no incubator, no problems?”
“She was—”
“She was somebody else’s,” Ian said.
“Come again?”
“I just want to know how long you intend to be a fall guy,” Ian said.
Danny turned onto Waverly and drew up in front of the