6
This letter may never reach you, Daisy. If it doesn’t, I will know why...
Two days later, on Wednesday afternoon, Jim Harker arrived home for dinner an hour earlier than usual. Daisy’s car was missing from the garage, and the mail was still in the postbox. It meant that Daisy had been away since noon, when the mail arrived. The house seemed lifeless without her, in spite of the noise of Stella vacuuming the downstairs and singing bits of sad songs in a loud, cheerful voice.
He sorted the mail on the dining-room table, and was surprised to come across a bill from Adam Burnett for services rendered Mrs. James Harker, February 9, $2.50.
The bill was surprising in several ways: that Daisy had been to see Adam without telling him about it, that the fee was so small, less than minimal for a lawyer’s, and that the timing was unusual. It had been sent directly after Daisy’s visit instead of being postponed until the end of the month like ordinary bills for professional services. He concluded, after some thought, that sending the bill was Adam’s way of informing him about Daisy’s visit without actually breaking any code of ethics involving the confidences of a client.
It wasn’t quite five o’clock, so he called Adam at his office. “Mr. Burnett, please. Jim Harker speaking.”
“Just one second, Mr. Harker. Mr. Burnett’s on his way out, but I think I can catch him. Hold on.”
After a minute Adam said, “Hello, Jim.”
“I received your bill today.”
“Oh yes.” Adam sounded embarrassed. “I wasn’t going to send you any, but Daisy insisted.”
“I didn’t know until now that she’d been to see you.”
“Oh?”
“What did she have in mind?”
“Come now, Jim, that’s for Daisy to tell you, not me.”
“You addressed the bill to me, so I presume you wanted me to know she’d consulted you.”
“Well, yes. I thought it would be preferable if you were cognizant...”
“No lawyer talk, please,” Jim said in a sharp, tense voice. “Did she come to you about... about a divorce?”
“Good Lord, no. What gave you such a crazy idea?”
“That’s the usual reason women consult lawyers, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, no. Women make wills, sign contracts, fill out tax forms...”
“Stop beating around the bush.”
“All right,” Adam said cautiously. “I met Daisy by accident on the street early Monday afternoon. She seemed bewildered and anxious to talk. So we talked. I’d like to think that I gave her some good advice and that she took it.”
“Was it concerning a dream she had about a certain day four years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And she didn’t mention a divorce?”
“Why, no. Where did you get this worm in your wig about a divorce? There was absolutely nothing in Daisy’s attitude to indicate she was contemplating such a move. Besides, she couldn’t get one in California. She has no grounds.”
“You’re forgetting, Adam.”
“That was a long time ago,” Adam said quickly. “What’s the matter with you and Daisy anyway? A more lugubrious pair...”
“Nothing was the matter until she had this damned dream on Sunday night. Things have been going smoothly. We’ve been married eight years, and I honestly think this last year has been the best. Daisy has finally adjusted to the fact that she can’t have children — maybe not adjusted, but at least reconciled — and she’s looking forward eagerly to the one we’re going to adopt. At least she had been, until this dream business cropped up. She hasn’t mentioned our prospective child for three days now. You’ve had eight children, and you know how much preparation and talking and planning goes on ahead of time. I’m confused by her sudden lack of interest. Perhaps she doesn’t want a child after all. If she doesn’t, if she’s changed her mind, God knows it wouldn’t be fair for us to adopt one.”
“Nonsense. Of course she wants a child.” Adam spoke firmly, although he had no real convictions on the subject. Daisy, like most other women, had always puzzled him and always would. It seemed reasonable to suppose that she would want children, but she might have some deep, unspoken revulsion against adopting one. “The dream has confused her, Jim. Be patient. Play along with her.”
“That might do more harm than good.”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m convinced this deathday business of hers will come to a dead end.”
“How so?”
“There’s no place else for it to go. She’s attempting the impossible.”
“Why are you so certain it’s impossible?”
“Because I’ve been trying the same thing,” Adam said. “The idea intrigued me, picking a day at random out of the past and reconstructing it. If it had been simply a matter of recalling a business appointment, I would have consulted my desk diary. But this was purely personal. Anyway, on Monday night, after the kids were in bed, Fran and I tried it. To make sure our choice of date was absolute chance, we picked it, blindfolded, from a set of calendars in the almanac. Now, Fran not only has a memory like an elephant, she also keeps a pretty complete record of the kids: baby books, report cards, artwork, and so on. But we didn’t get to first base. I predict Daisy will have a similar experience. It’s the kind of thing that sounds easy but isn’t. After Daisy runs into a few blind alleys, she’ll lose interest and give up. So let her run. Or better still, run with her.”
“How?”
“Try remembering her day yourself, whatever day it was. I’ve forgotten.”
“If you didn’t get to first base, how do you expect me to?”
“I don’t expect you to. Just play along. Step up to the plate and swing.”
“I don’t think Daisy would be fooled,” Jim said dryly. “Perhaps it would be better if I distracted her attention, took her on a trip, something like that.”
“A trip might be fine.”
“I have to go up north this weekend anyway to look at a parcel of land in Marin County. I’ll take Daisy along. She’s always liked San Francisco.”
He spoke to Daisy about it that night after dinner, describing the trip, lunch at Cambria Pines, a stopover at Carmel, dinner at Amelio’s, a play at the Curran or the Alcazar, and afterwards a drink and floor show at the Hungry I. She looked at him as if he were proposing a trip to the moon in a rocket earned with Rice Krispies box tops.
Her refusal was sharp and direct, with no hint of her usual hesitance. “I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“I have something important to attend to.”
“Such as?”
“I’m doing — research.”
“Research?” He repeated the word as if it tasted foreign to his tongue. “I tried to phone you this afternoon three or four times. You were out again. You’ve been out every afternoon this week.”
“There have only been three afternoons in the week so far.”
“Even so.”
“Your meals are on time,” Daisy said. “Your house is well kept.”
Her slight but definite emphasis on the word your made it sound to Jim as though she were disclaiming any further share or interest in the house, as if she had, in some obscure sense, moved out. “It’s our house, Daisy.”
“Very well, our house. It’s well kept, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Then why should it bother you if I go out during the afternoon while you’re at work?”
“It doesn’t bother me. It concerns me. Not your going out, your attitude.”
“What’s the matter with my attitude?”
“A week ago you wouldn’t have asked that, especially not in that particular tone, as if you were challenging me to knock a chip off your shoulder... Daisy, what’s happening to us?”