The Clock Winder by Anne Tyler Page A

invitations, I’m going to scream.”
    “All right.”
    “I didn’t want to mention this, Elizabeth, because it’s certainly none of my business, but lately I’ve worried that people might think there’s something
easy
about you. You can never be too careful of your reputation. Out at all hours, dressed any way, with any poor soul who happens along—and I can’t help noticing how Timothy always seems to have his hand at the back of your neck whenever he’s with you. That gives me such a
queasy
feeling. There’s something so—and now Matthew! Taking Matthew home to your parents! Are you thinking of marrying him?”
    “He never asked,” Elizabeth said.
    “Don’t tell me you accept all invitations to marry, too.”
    “No,” said Elizabeth. She wasn’t laughing any more. She drove with her hands low on the wheel, white at the knuckles.
    “Then why are you taking him home?”
    Elizabeth turned sharply into the garage, flinging Mrs. Emerson sideways.
    “Elizabeth?”
    “I
said
it had no
significance,”
Elizabeth said.
    Then she cut the motor and slammed out of the car. She didn’t open the door for Mrs. Emerson. She snatched her cap off her head and threw it in a high arc, landing it accidentally on the same rafter where she had found it. Was that how it got there in the first place? She stopped and stared up at the rafter, amused. Behind her Mrs. Emerson’s door opened and closed again, hesitantly, not quite latching.
    “Elizabeth?” Mrs. Emerson said.
    Elizabeth turned and went out the side door, with Mrs. Emerson close behind.
    “Elizabeth, in a way I think of you as another daughter.”
    “I’m already somebody’s daughter,” Elizabeth said. “Once is enough.”
    “Yes. I didn’t mean—I meant that I feel the same
concern
, you see. I only want you to be happy. I hate to see you wasting yourself. I mentioned what I did for your own good, don’t you know that?”
    Elizabeth didn’t answer. She was climbing the hill so fast that Mrs. Emerson had to run to keep up with her.
“Please
slow down,” Mrs. Emerson said. “This isn’t good for my chest. If you must play chauffeur, couldn’t you have dropped me at the front door?”
    “Oh, is that what they do?”
    “It’s just that you seem so—aimless. You don’t make any distinctions in your life. How do I know that you won’t go wandering off with someone tomorrow and leave me to cope on my own?”
    “You don’t,” said Elizabeth. But she had slowed down by now, and when they reached the back door she held it open for Mrs. Emerson before she entered herself.
    It was one of Alvareen’s sick-days, and she had left the kitchen a clutter of dirty dishes and garbage bags that they had to pick their way through gingerly. Then when they reached the front hall they heard someone upstairs. Slow footsteps crossed a room above them. Mrs. Emerson clutched Elizabeth’s arm and said, “Did you hear that?”
    “Someone upstairs,” Elizabeth said.
    “Well, do you—should we—could you find out who it is?”
    Elizabeth tilted her head back. “Who is it?” she shouted.
    “I could have done
that,”
Mrs. Emerson said.
    Then Timothy appeared in the upstairs hall, stuffing something into his suit pocket. “Hi there,” he said.
    “Timothy!” said his mother. “What are you doing here?”
    “I was in my room.”
    “We thought you were a burglar. Well, it’s fortunate you’ve come, I have a favor to ask you.”
    She climbed the stairs with both hands to her hat, removing it as levelly as if it were full of water. “Now, about this weekend—” she said.
    “I thought we’d been through all that.”
    “Will you let me finish? Come with me while I put my things up.”
    Mrs. Emerson crossed the hall and entered her bedroom, but Timothy stayed where he was. When Elizabeth reached the top of the stairs he opened his mouth, as if he were about to tell her something. Then his mother said, “Timothy?” He gave one helpless flap of his arms