Daughter's Keeper (5 page)

Elaine pulled into the driveway of her bungalow and paused in the car for a minute, enjoying the sight of the bougainvillea spilling over the roof of the garage. She'd planted it when she'd first bought the house, and it had grown with satisfying quickness, spreading a blanket of purple and red over the plain white stucco. She'd added a jasmine bush a few years ago, and that too was growing well. She liked plants that climbed and covered and gave a house a look of permanence, of being a part of the topography of the neighborhood.

Elaine unlocked the front door and slipped out of her sandals, lining them up squarely under the bench in the hall, where they joined the others: two pairs of comfortable leather flats for work, a pair of sneakers, a man's loafers with worn heels, and snazzy teal Nikes with bright orange laces. There was also a pile of Lonely Planet and Insight guides tumbled on the bench. She flipped one over. Morocco and Northern Africa. She groaned.

Elaine went on vacation every year with Arthur Roth, the man with whom she had been living for the past five years. As with so many other aspects of their life together, they had a system. They took turns choosing the destination. Elaine's choices were generally lovely but unexciting: two weeks bicycling through Italy, a week at a cooking school in the Loire Valley, and a couple of weeks one summer speculating about the depths of the Norwegian fjords. Arthur had taken them trekking to the Annapurna base camp, through the remains of the Brazilian rain forest, island hopping in Thailand. It was his turn to decide this year, and he had been debating between another excursion to the Third World and a long camping trip through the English countryside. Elaine had so hoped that they would be going to the Cotswalds.

“Hi!” Elaine called. “You home?”

Arthur came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He was wearing running shorts and a Cal sweatshirt. His long skinny legs were covered in dark hair, except across the front of his thighs where the hair seemed to have rubbed off, leaving a smooth expanse of white skin. He had a bald head and a large nose, and, although he wasn't quite handsome, he was one of those men who photographed well. Whenever Arthur heard the click of a shutter, his face froze into a wide grin that made him appear more cheerful and easygoing than he was.

He crossed the hall and kissed her on the cheek. “Hey fiancée. How are you? I'm making Caprese salad. Want some?”

Elaine smiled. She still wasn't used to the idea that they were going to get married. Truth be told, they had been together so long without even considering marriage that she didn't really believe it would happen. “Are the tomatoes ripe already?” she asked.

“A few were. And I got some of that nice organic buffalo mozzarella from the Berkeley Bowl. You hungry?”

“I wish I were. Olivia schlepped me out to some godforsaken restaurant, in
Fruitvale
of all places. I ate something called
papooses
, I think. Fried tortillas stuffed with mystery meat. Pure lard and totally disgusting.” Elaine wasn't sure why she was lying. The pupusas had been delicious—she'd even considering bringing some home. It was just one of the things they did, she and Arthur—they complained about Olivia, rolled their eyes at her excesses and ­dramatics. Having been forced to drive out to the far end of town to eat a hideous meal made for a better story than the truth.

“Keep me company while I eat,” Arthur said over his shoulder as he walked back into the kitchen. The makings of the salad were spread across the tiled counter. After the first time that Elaine had cooked for him, the couple had once again worked out an arrangement. He cooked, and she cleaned. He took gourmet cooking classes at Sur La Table, the chi-chi kitchen store down on Fourth Street, and her skills were limited to boiling water and dumping jarred sauce into a pan.

Elaine put her purse in its place on the shelf next to the fridge and rolled up her sleeves. While Arthur sat at the kitchen table, sopping up olive oil with crusty bread, she rinsed off the cutting board, put the knife in the dishwasher, and put the basil in the fridge. She found a bright-colored Deruta bowl from their trip to Umbria and placed the remaining tomatoes in it, being careful not to bruise them. Finally, she wiped down the counters with 409 and a paper towel and sat down next to Arthur.

“How's Livvy?”

“Fine. Same as always. Now she's going to organize a union at the restaurant where she works.”

Arthur gave a short bark of laughter. “Leave it to Olivia. That's another job that won't last long.”

“You would not believe how the girl is living. The restaurant was about half a notch above a taco truck. And she tells me Jorge is standing on street corners, begging for work.”

Arthur shook his head. “Well, maybe he'll get picked up and deported.”

“We can always dream,” Elaine said and then grimaced. “We're
so
bad.”

“Were you right? Did she want money?”

Elaine nodded and picked a dripping tomato off of Arthur's plate. “These are delicious,” she said, slurping up the tangy pulp.

He wiped the oil from her fingertips with his napkin. “Much better than last year's, I think. You didn't let her browbeat you, did you?”

“No. I told her if she wants to go back to school I'll pay for that, but otherwise I'm not willing to support her.” Elaine rested her head in her hands. “But now, of course, I'm feeling guilty. As usual.”

Arthur reached across the table and squeezed her arm. “Don't. Your instincts were absolutely right. You can help her more by forcing her to stand on her own two feet. She's got to confront the results of her own decisions.”

“You're right. I know you are. Anyway, I'm certainly not going to support
him
.”

“Absolutely not! Just because Olivia's letting him freeload off of her doesn't mean you should.”

One of the things Elaine liked most about Arthur was the way he made her feel that she wasn't as insufficient a mother as she sometimes feared. Whenever a conflict arose between mother and daughter, Arthur was squarely on her side. Without his support, she would never have developed the fortitude and resolve that Olivia's challenging adolescence had demanded.

“You've got those ‘spent the day with Olivia' blues, again,” Arthur said, sympathetically.

“I'm all right.”

“Don't beat yourself up, Elaine. It's not like you can even afford to give her any money right now, not if we plan on buying the condo this year.”

For the past four winters, Elaine and Arthur had rented a condominium in South Lake Tahoe. They'd gone up almost every weekend there was snow and had tried to take an entire week at least once during ski season. Arthur had introduced Elaine to the sport, and although she wasn't as fanatical as he was, she did enjoy it, particularly the quiet of an early morning on top of the mountain, right after a new snowfall. After over a year of saving, they finally had enough money to put a down payment on a place of their own.

“You're right. I know you're right,” Elaine said.

“I have an idea. Let's go for a bike ride. We could head up to Inspiration Point.”

“Okay.”

“And maybe catch a movie tonight?”

“Sounds great.” Elaine did her best to shake off the mood of lassitude and mild depression that usually followed time spent with Olivia. “Let me put on some sweats.”

While she was changing her clothes, Arthur came into the bedroom. He lay on the bed and watched her carefully fold her black slacks over a hanger. She hung up her white cotton sweater, ­sniffing the armpits before deciding that it was clean enough for another wearing.

“You make me so hot when you do that,” Arthur said.

Elaine laughed and pitched a pair of sweat socks at him. “Shut up.”

“Have you given any more thought to Morocco?”

She sat down on the bed. “Can I afford it? You just said that I need everything for my share of the down payment.”

“I wasn't including your travel costs; those are a separate line on the budget. I ran the numbers. You'll be fine.” Arthur was an accountant, a partner in a firm in downtown Oakland. Although he and Elaine kept their finances strictly segregated, he had taken over the management of her money. It was a huge relief to her not to have to think about how much to save each month and what she could and could not afford. Arthur uttered the magic words, and Elaine rested easy, knowing that the numbers had been run, even if she wasn't at all sure what that meant.

“I don't know, Arthur. I'm not sure I'm up to another bout of Giardia.”

“Hey, don't knock intestinal amoebas. You came home from Nepal sixteen pounds thinner than when you left!” He reached over and pinched her thigh. She slapped his hand away.

“Still,
Morocco
?”

“It's gorgeous, Elaine. Really beautiful. And it's hardly adventure travel. It's almost Spain. Anyway, you got sick on every one of our other trips, and you loved every minute of them.”

Elaine had not, in fact, enjoyed their excursions to wild, untrammeled locales, but she never would have admitted that to Arthur. To Arthur, she was his partner, his equal—like him, she would not cringe from the snapping jaws of a caiman in the Amazon or collapse under the weight of a heavy backpack in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. No one before him had ever thought Elaine courageous or adventuresome, and she reveled in his image of her. Olivia, Elaine knew, considered her an abject coward. Doubtless, she had forced Elaine to drive to that awful Oakland neighborhood just to scare her.

“I just don't know, Arthur. Can we talk about it later?” Elaine said, pulling a sweatshirt over her head and tugging some thick socks onto her tiny feet.

***

Arthur hoisted Elaine's bike down from the rack attached to the back of his lovingly maintained1989 Saab convertible. He checked the air pressure in the tires, made sure the seat was securely locked, and tested the brakes a few times. Only then did he hand the bike to Elaine. She mounted, and he tugged at her helmet. She always clipped it too loosely, and he tightened the strap just a bit. She stuck her tongue out and gagged ­dramatically.

“Very funny. It won't do you any good if it falls off.”

“I know,” she said. “I was just kidding.” She raised her face to him, and he buzzed her on the lips.

“I'll bet there's good biking in Morocco,” he said, only half in jest.

She smiled, but it seemed a bit stiff, and he wondered if he'd pushed it too far. She set off up the hill. He watched her go for a moment, then turned back to the rack and unloaded his own bike. Arthur rode much more quickly than Elaine, and they liked for her to get a bit of a head start. While he ran his standard equipment check, he debated whether or not to apologize once he caught up to her. He was sure they'd end up going to Morocco. It was, after all, his year, and his turn to decide. Still, it didn't make sense to force the issue. She would come around soon enough. She always did.

Arthur and Elaine had met when he filled a prescription at the College Avenue drugstore. He had never shopped there before. While he wasn't a man who minded spending money on certain unique and particular luxuries, it made no sense at all to him to pay more for the same product just for the experience of buying it in a boutique rather than in a chain store. He purchased his books at Barnes & Noble, his toilet paper at Costco, and his medicine at Payless. On that day, however, the pain of a migraine had caused his vision to double, and he didn't think it was a good idea to get behind the wheel of his car. He walked from his duplex apartment off Ashby Avenue to the local pharmacy, covering his eyes against the agonizing glare of the sun. He pushed his prescription for Maxalt across the counter at Elaine, and she looked him up and down appraisingly. After a moment, she came out from behind the counter and led him to a stool at the soda fountain.

An hour later, the pills she'd pressed into his palm had taken effect, his eyes had cleared, the pain in his head had abated, and he was enjoying his first egg cream in thirty years. He went back to the counter to buy some Lactaid and to thank Elaine. In what he later realized was decidedly uncharacteristic fashion, she ignored the pile of prescriptions waiting to be filled and directed her assistant to handle the incoming phone calls and waiting customers. Arthur and Elaine talked for almost half an hour. He gave her advice on the tax consequences of her recent purchase of the drugstore. She suggested a beta blocker for his headaches. By the time he left, he had her home phone number in his pocket.

Their relationship, now in its eighth year, was every bit as satisfying as Arthur could have hoped it would be. When they had met, he was only just beginning to be interested in finding a serious girlfriend, having finally shaken off the effects of the disastrous end of his marriage. Arthur's wife had been a free spirit, a woman who called herself a poet although she never wrote, who contrasted her own artistic sensibilities with his more prosaic ones. Their marriage collapsed when their two children were still very young, but she had already managed to engender in them something akin to her own disdain for their father. Putting three thousand miles between the three of them and himself had seemed a good first step in recovering his equilibrium. Ten years of casual relationships and devotion to his career had done the rest.

Elaine couldn't have been more different than his ex-wife. Like Arthur, Elaine was cautious and deliberate, thoughtful and ­circumspect. She took care with everything—her work, her home, the words she used and the tone in which she spoke them. He found her consideration of him tremendously erotic, and her comfortable, stable life enormously attractive. He felt lucky to have found someone so compatible on every level—practically, intellectually, and especially sexually. They were even now, so many years after they'd first begun the exploration of one another's bodies, still discovering uncharted territory. They traveled together beautifully and had combined their lives effortlessly.