The End of the Day Read online

  As she’s heading back to the airport in Lihue to pick up another weary family antsy for Kauai’s wild beaches and misty cliffs, her phone rings again, vibrating in the dashboard mount, Unknown Caller flashing from the screen for several seconds before it vanishes. She exhales when the call drops and only then realizes she’s been holding her breath.

  Traffic on Route 56 slows to a stop. Brake lights on cars and buses and vans blink a long, erratic line of agitated red ahead of her. A local girl without a helmet speeds past on a mini-bike, the ragged growl of her wrecked muffler for a moment the only sound; she shoots ahead in the narrow space between the traffic and the road’s shoulder, her long brown hair whipping behind. Lupita watches until she disappears over the first hill. The phone rings again. Distracted, she pushes the green “Accept” button on her phone screen.

  Hello?, the voice is timid, no trace of Mexico but why would there be. Is this Lupita Lopez? Harsh, crackling static suggesting a very long distance fills the van. Before she hears another word, Lupita stabs the phone with her finger and ends the call.

  Dana

  She’d planned to stay in the car for as long as it took. She had no strategy other than to wear Jackie down, as she had when they were kids—wait in the driveway, all day if necessary, until she opened the front door. But it was now after eleven o’clock and Dana hadn’t counted on needing to use the bathroom; nor had she considered that Philip, her driver, would need the same. This was just the sort of thing she tended to overlook, the kind of mistake that tripped her up more and more lately. Like leaving the briefcase in the house this morning. She’d put it down for just long enough to look in the small mirror that hangs in the elevator, pinch a rogue eyelash that had landed on her cheek between her fingers and blow it away. But reckoning with her reflection flatlined all other thoughts, so by the time the small elevator finished making its way down four floors of her townhouse and grumbled to a stop, she’d forgotten she had something important to carry to the car.

  It wasn’t until they were reaching the speed limit on the West Side Highway that she’d noticed the case missing, and when she did she balled her fist and punched the back of the passenger seat in front of her. After a few desperate seconds scouring her memory, lurching from Cristina to Marcella and even to Philip, hoping to hold anyone but herself accountable, she gave the directive to return home. Without asking why, Philip calmly exited on Thirty-Fourth Street and made his way back to Eleventh, where Marcella was waiting at the top of the stoop, briefcase pulled to her bosom.

  Marcella’s face, at precisely that moment of victory, reminded Dana of a very briefly employed nanny she’d had when she was young. She’d long forgotten her name but recalls clearly how the woman held a bowl with three dead goldfish spinning lifeless on the water’s surface, damning proof that she’d been correct when she’d warned Dana that not feeding the fish would result in their death. Dana remembers her perfume, which she would later recognize as gardenia and forever after despise.

  Once he’d stopped the car and flipped on the hazard lights, Philip fetched the case while Dana scanned Marcella’s features for signs of betrayal—a rolled eye, her head shaken in disgust, an eyebrow arched in mock surprise. Dana pressed her forehead into the car window as Philip climbed the stoop and with one hand grabbed the case’s handle, and without stopping descended back toward the car. She would consider anything more than apparent indifference between Marcella and Philip insubordination, and upon sighting would pounce to reassert her authority. Her heart sped at the prospect, thrilled by the opportunity to put Marcella in her place and impose order on the morning which was off to a sloppy start.

  But Marcella never lapsed, never crossed the line to expose what Dana knew was seething behind her creaseless and chubby face. Nor did Marcella ever register an opinion about any of the men and women Dana had been involved with, most of them not appropriate for anything longer than a fling. The married diplomat from Portugal, the forty-something cater waiter she met at a dinner party, the former helicopter pilot in early recovery from heroin addiction, the Pilates instructor who came twice a week until the month-long affair was over. Marcella referred to all of them as Dana’s friends—Will your friend be staying for dinner? Will your friend need anything washed or dry cleaned? Will we need to messenger your friend’s cuff links to his office or hotel? The last friend was the younger sister of a college acquaintance from Bryn Mawr who’d recognized Dana browsing the front table at Three Lives, the neighborhood bookstore. Dana hadn’t remembered her from the few weekends she’d spent at her college friend’s country house in Michigan, but was flattered to be remembered after so many years. Samantha was a successful chef and restaurant owner who had recently opened a small, very crowded pizza place a few blocks away. She was younger by eleven years, bossy, and drank more than anyone Dana knew. Every aspect of the relationship was foreign territory to Dana. Samantha’s boozy volatility, her possessiveness, her local celebrity which resulted in dozens of afternoon walks and dinners out in restaurants interrupted by admirers. But Samantha’s ardent pursuit, particularly given her status, was flattering and it had been a long time since Dana had been involved with a woman.

  The relationship lasted almost a year, longer than any that had preceded it, and was the first to end by someone else’s choice. One morning after they’d showered and dressed and were preparing to leave for a walk on the High Line, Samantha mentioned that she’d been asked to collaborate with a boutique hotel chain opening properties in England and it would require her to be in London often. When Dana offered to help look for a place to rent there, Samantha declined. This seems like a good moment to make a change, no? A natural break, she’d said, as if a break had been something they’d discussed and agreed on. Dana didn’t know if it was mortification at being blindsided or genuine heartbreak, but in the three years since, she’d avoided the possibility of either again. When Samantha stopped turning up after midnight, and no longer jammed the refrigerator with vegetables and herbs she’d carefully selected at the farmer’s market in Union Square, Marcella never said a word. It was Cristina whom Dana asked to gather the clothing, books and jewelry Samantha had left all over the house. As Cristina progressed from floor to floor, scouring coffee tables and closets and filling shopping bags, Marcella went about her business and withheld questions or comment. A week later, Dana found a pair of Samantha’s leather sandals in her closet and exploded at Cristina for being so careless and ordered her to get them out of the house right away. Even then, Marcella remained stone-faced.

  This morning was no different. She stood like a woman-sized trophy at the top of the stoop, arms crossed, motionless. After Philip had returned with the briefcase and the car began to inch west in traffic down the block, Dana watched her housekeeper get smaller and smaller until she was reduced to a smudge. It was only when Philip turned up Sixth Avenue and Marcella had completely disappeared from view that Dana settled back in her seat and exhaled. It wasn’t yet eight in the morning and she was already exhausted and resentful on a day she needed to be neither. She’d considered for a moment not going any further and telling Philip to take her home. But then when would she make this trip? The next day? The day after? Soon it would be too late. She looked warily at the briefcase in the seat next to her. She touched its surface with her pinky finger and dragged a slow, wide careful circle against the dry grain. She traced the same path again and again, round and round, in one direction and then the other, until she stopped, fingertip at a perfect ninety degrees with the flat surface, less than an inch from the handle edge of the case. She closed her eyes and held perfectly still for several seconds before gliding her hand away, folding it softly into the other and resting both in her lap. Philip accelerated on the Saw Mill River Parkway and Dana drifted to sleep, exactly as she’d done the last time she rode from the city in the back seat of a car with this briefcase beside her.

  * * *

  Miss Goss, I’m afraid I’ll need to find a restroom somewhere. Very sor
ry for the inconvenience.

  Philip, from the driver’s seat, is speaking softly and without turning around.

  Dana, her eyes on Jackie’s house, pretends not to hear.

  Ma’am?

  In addition to her own pressing bladder, it irritates her to imagine Jackie, bent at her window, smug and victorious, watching the car retreat from her driveway. Though she hasn’t seen it in a very long time, it’s a look Dana remembers. She saw it the first time they met, when they were both eight years old and Jackie came to see the horses at Edgeweather’s stables. Dana’s father had reported at supper the night before that on his afternoon walk he’d met a mother and daughter, neighbors, who had been unloading groceries from their car. No one in the Goss family had ever met them. He explained that he was charmed by the girl and thought she’d enjoy seeing the horses, so he’d invited them to come to the stables the next day for a visit. Dana remembers her mother being confused and distressed, which was how she remembered her in general, but on that night especially so. Why on earth would you do that? I can’t understand why you’d complicate things here, she worried from her seat. Her father didn’t usually pay much attention to her, but he slammed his hand against the table, once, and hard enough to rattle the glasses and silver. In the silence that followed no one spoke. Jackie and her father came the next morning.

  Dana remembers pointing to one of the stallions in the barn and insisting the animal was a pony named Cindy, which no one questioned until Jackie said, What’s wrong with you? Look at his privates.

  On her face and in her voice, Dana recognized in Jackie a kind of person she had not met before, certainly not her own age. Someone who was formidable, and blunt, but not mean. It was the first time anyone had openly challenged her. After a few playdates, and one long hike in the woods that resulted in them getting lost and calling Jackie’s mother from a small farm they’d stumbled upon to pick them up, Dana began calling Jackie her best friend. It would take more time for Jackie to agree, but by winter that year their dedication was mutual. Dana’s father called them Laurel and Hardy; her mother called Jackie the neighbor girl, and Jackie’s parents regarded the phenomenon of their friendship with doubt. Dana remembers Jackie saying that her mother had warned her not to become too attached to Dana or her family, and to tell her right away if anything strange happened at Edgeweather. Jackie repeated her mother’s stern cautions to Dana the day after she’d made them, both mocking her mother and letting her new friend know that she understood at least some part of what she’d said was true: Those people, Jackie mimicked her mother’s suspicious voice, they don’t treat people the way we do.

  The warning came in response to the news that Dana had convinced her parents to allow the girls to turn one of the rooms on the third floor of Edgeweather into a bedroom where they could sleep on the weekends when Dana was up from the city. Dana was given permission from her parents to pick out two beds, curtains, wallpaper, blankets, rugs, and even matching desks and chairs. Her mother would get them catalogs to browse and from these they could ask for fabric samples to be mailed. Nothing at Edgeweather seemed to appeal more to Jackie than this bedroom. In the few times Dana visited Jackie’s house she was surprised that her room there looked like one that an adult would sleep in. Gray blankets on a dark wood bed, navy curtains, and a round forest-green-and-beige braided rug on the floor. When Dana asked why she didn’t have any kid stuff Jackie said her parents thought it was impractical to buy things like pink curtains and bedspreads with flowers and stars which would inevitably need to be replaced, when she got older. Even as she defended her parents’ theory, it was obvious to Dana that Jackie hated her bedroom. It meant that she had strong opinions about how the room at Edgeweather should look, which Dana mostly disagreed with, though she was careful never to veto anything for fear Jackie would lose interest. It was Dana’s idea to have all the fabric samples sent to Jackie’s house. They ordered many more than they needed in part because it became clear that Jackie loved receiving the brown parcels and having them to herself during the week. It took most of the fall of 1959 and the entire winter, spring, and summer of 1960 to transform a dreary, unused storage room on the third floor into a bright, mid-century bedroom for two girls. After narrowing down countless options, they settled on white four-poster beds, without canopies, periwinkle quilts and curtains, and a thick, bright white wall-to-wall carpet. If Jackie was leaning toward a choice that Dana felt strongly against, that choice would mysteriously be out of stock, or discontinued. This was the case with the green damask curtains and bedspreads, the mustard and burgundy carpet, and lampshades with gold tassles. In the end, they were both happy and Jackie was under the impression that most of the decisions had been hers.

  Jackie was always the one who checked her watch, the one who made sure they were home on time for meals and before parent-imposed curfews. If they were exploring along the river or in the woods she kept her eye on the weather and where the sun sat in the sky so they didn’t get stuck in the dark or caught in a downpour. Dana, in response, was willfully careless, would resist turning home even as thunder rumbled in the distance or rain began to sprinkle. Where Jackie insisted on the truth, Dana shaped more exciting possibilities from what was available, or refused to budge from the faulty ones she was used to or preferred. Earth to Dana, Jackie would say. Come in, Dana Reality is calling. Hello! It still stuns Dana to remember how completely those roles would reverse, how impossible it would be for her to shout those same words to Jackie when she should have.

  * * *

  Ma’am, are you ok? Philip again, his distress palpable. I’m afraid, I’m going to need to…

  Give me a piece of paper, she snaps. Without rushing, he opens the glove compartment. It is empty save for a flashlight which he holds up and pivots one way and then another between the front seats so Dana can get a full view. He puts it back, pats the tops of his pants, and then runs his hand along the driver’s side door pocket. He leans across the gear shift to check the pocket on the passenger’s side door and after a few seconds returns to an upright, seated position with both hands held up, open and empty, as if to say, There is none.

  Dana pauses before she speaks.

  That’s quite a show, Philip, how about checking the trunk?

  His look, in response, a mix of agony from needing to pee and genuine surprise, momentarily disarms Dana.

  Wait a minute, she says with exaggerated delicacy, raising her hand—palm out, gloved fingers spread wide—as if commanding a squadron of hummingbirds to stall midair. I might have something. She clicks the briefcase open and begins shuffling paper, rearranging its contents. Through the rearview mirror Philip sees only Dana’s head and shoulders angled intently toward whatever the case held. After a long, slow tearing sound, she briefly holds up a rectangle of yellowed paper. Philip can see on one side there is small black type and on the other a few larger words, again in black type, but in a more involved, thicker font. The only word he can make out in the rearview mirror is MORAVIAN, which means nothing to him. Seconds later, when he recognizes what he sees, he shouts, It’s the title page of a book! Dana looks up momentarily, as if a pebble has hit the car window. She closes the case and snaps the latches shut before holding up the page again.

  Here.

  She thrusts the page between the seats. Reluctant to turn around, and still looking at Dana in the rearview mirror, Philip first studies her face and then what he can see of the torn page for any clue that will explain what she is asking of him. And then he just says it: I don’t know what you want.

  Dana revs with fury, the brief reprieve from the day’s agitations she’d felt from hatching a plan vanishes, and swift, sharp words begin to shape a blade on her tongue; but before she wields it she remembers that it was she who needed something to write on, not Philip. And though she can remember that she needed the paper, she can’t remember why. She begins to feel the dreaded, but more and more familiar, sensation that she’s lost the thread—of conversation, of thought, o
f purpose and place. She’s described it to her doctor who referred her to a neurologist but for the last year she refused to make an appointment, just as she refused to answer honestly when he asked if there was a history of dementia in her family. Her mother’s forgetfulness and erratic agitations began in her early fifties, but in less than a decade had progressed to a violent and total mental decline. Despite the doctors who’d insisted at the time that early onset Alzheimer’s was genetic and blameless, Dana still assumed it was the unsurprising consequences of decades of reckless pill taking, and in more than one frustrating moment with her mother before she was hospitalized, she’d told her so. That Dana would now inherit some version of what had so brutally dismantled her mother felt like both a rebuke and a punishment from the grave.

  She yanks her hand back and looks out the window to avoid Philip’s bewildered gaze and as she does sees the blind in Jackie’s living room slowly, almost imperceptibly, lower. The blind is metal and white, the sort Dana imagines one would find in public schools or police stations. She flinches and blinks as the late morning sun glints off the institutional scales. As if awakening from a deep sleep, she quickly scans her surroundings: the interior of the car, Philip, the briefcase, the driveway, the pitiful house, and soon she remembers where she is and why, and precisely what she wants the paper for.