The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (23 page)

Bea raises her eyebrows uncertainly.

“Walter and I are pregnant.”

As if a switch were flipped, Bea's eyes bulge and eyebrows fly
up, cartoonlike. She claps one hand over her mouth, and her eyes fill with tears. Charlotte is amazed at this ability to react in the moment, by instinct, as the situation calls for. Bea simply hears the word “pregnant,” and her eyes water, her hands move.

“Oh my God!” she says, rushing across the patio to wrap Emily and Walter in an awkward hug. “Oh my God! Congratulations! I'm so happy for you guys!”

When Bea steps back, her lipstick is smeared, her eyelashes wet. Charlotte wonders if Emily will take offense at the word “guys”—one of her biggest pet peeves in college—but she is beaming.

Bea wipes a finger under each eye, smearing her mascara. “You too, Charlotte,” she says. She steps forward as if to hug her too, then stops. “Congratulations. Really. That's such exciting news.”

“Well, it's not
my
news—”

“Sure it is.” Bea's arms flap about her ears. “You're going to be a Granny!”

Charlotte reels a bit. “I guess I am.”

“I'm not sure she's a Granny,” Emily muses.

Bea says quickly, “Oh you might be right.”

“A Nanny?” guesses Walter.

“Grandma?” from Bea.

“I was thinking Nana,” Charlotte says.

“Well I was thinking Grandmamamamamama,” Joe offers, tongue flapping. Then he shuts his mouth and grins like the cat that swallowed the mouse. “Personally, I'd like to be called Supergranddad.”

Bea laughs, but nervously.

“Joe,” Emily says. “This is Bea. She lives upstairs. Bea, this is my dad, Joe Warren.”

“Oh,” Bea says, stepping forward and extending a limp hand. “Pleasure.” Charlotte imagines it's the same word—and hand—Bea uses anytime she's introduced to new men. She highly doubts Bea uses the word “pleasure” when meeting women.

Joe takes the hand, still wearing that unreadable smile. “Pleasure's all mine,” he says, then adds, “Bea.” But he doesn't say it the way he said it earlier. This time he sounds almost flirtatious. “Why don't you sit down? Take a load off?”

“Oh, I don't know, I—”

“Sit,” Joe says. “And take this.” He hands her a napkin. “You're getting all choked up over there.”

“I'll get you a chair,” Walter offers.

“Don't bother.” Bea waves him off and lowers herself ungracefully to the ground. Up closer, Charlotte can see the red cursive
Friendly's
stitched on Bea's shirt. Her arms are strung with gold bangles. Bea shifts her knees awkwardly to one side, tugging her shirt down over the glimpse of bare belly. “I won't stay long,” she says, blowing her nose in the napkin. “I just wanted to say hi. I need to get out of this uniform and get a shower.”

Charlotte sees something cross Joe's face, and wonders if Bea's shower reference could have been deliberate. But Bea doesn't seem that calculating. Still, Charlotte knows what her nightlife sounds like. And knows that Joe, even Joe on six glasses of wine, doesn't let an opportunity for innuendo to pass him by.

“Bea, have some hummus,” he says, gesturing to the food. “It's good for you.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“Don't like hummus? Can't say I blame you. But we're in the minority here.” He winks vaguely in Emily's direction. “Surrounded by a bunch of health nuts.”

“No, I like it,” Bea says, with a quick look at Charlotte. She pokes the used napkin into the top of her purse, made of banana-shaped red leather. “It's just, I ate at work.”

“And where is work?”

“Friendly's.” She gestures to her shirt, where an Izod alligator might be.

Joe repeats the word with a broad, loose smile. “Friendly's.”

“The one in Newfield?” she adds helpfully. “Cherry and Devon?”

“Don't know it, I'm afraid.”

“Joe lives in Seattle,” Emily explains.

“Oh!” Bea sounds as impressed as if she'd said “Bangkok.” She seems to relax then, runs one hand through her hair. “I've always wanted to go to Seattle.”

“Not worth the hype,” Joe shrugs. “Rains every day. Organic this, tofu that. Not a Friendly's in sight, I'll tell you that.” He picks up a shrimp, the first thing he's eaten all night, and dunks it in cocktail sauce. It glistens when he lifts it to his mouth and wraps his lips around it, smiling. “If you're not going to eat, Bea,” he says, tossing the tail on the table, “at least have a drink.”

“Yes,” Charlotte manages. She feels like she's swimming in subtext. “What would you like? I have wine, I have beer—”

“A beer would be great.”

“One beer coming up,” from Joe.

Charlotte stands, and is about to ask if anyone else needs anything, but stops herself. She doesn't want to refill Joe's glass. Instead, she heads to the kitchen just as Joe is saying, “Bea, what's your cocktail of choice? Wait, let me guess.”

Inside, Charlotte leans against the refrigerator. She closes her eyes, listening to its comforting hum, feeling it thrum against her back. She feels the hard, raised script of the General Electric logo
pressing into her shoulder. From outside, she can hear Bea's laughter as Joe pries into her, asking questions. Charlotte's head is beginning to pound. She opens her eyes and watches the red numbers on the oven clock roll slowly forward; 6:51 to 6:52
P.M.
; 6:52 to 6:53. Soon, she thinks, it will be tomorrow. It will have to be.

She looks toward the window. Her eyes fall on the laptop, the book, the pink hippo soap. She misses her things. She misses her life alone among them. From the corner of her eye, she sees those three red drops of spilled wine on the table and lunges for the sink, wets a sponge, douses it with cleanser. She scrubs at the red spots until her wrist begins to burn. But when she pulls back and wipes away the suds, it's as she suspected: the spots are there for good. And to make matters worse, she's chipped one of her Shell Pink nails.

Charlotte hears a tinkle of laughter from outside. Reluctantly, she grabs a beer from the crisper and heads for the living room. She hears Bea's voice, and Emily's. Maybe Joe has stopped talking. Maybe the effort at socializing—or interrogating, or flirting, or whatever he was doing—has left him depleted.

“I've never been to New Hampshire either,” she hears Bea saying. “I bet it's beautiful, though. Are you going to have the baby up there?”

Charlotte stops, halfway across the room.

“Yeah,” Emily says. “That's our home. At least for now.”

“Are you going to get married?”

Charlotte sucks in her breath. Outside, it is silent. From her vantage point, steps from the doorway, she can see Bea's eyes widen again, hand moving to her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “I'm sorry—I'll stop talking now. I should just stop talking. Bill's right. He's always telling me to think before I speak.”

“It's okay—” Walter starts to say, when Joe cuts him off.

“It's more than okay!”

His voice is almost a shout. Charlotte steps tentatively to the doorsill.

“In fact, Beatrice—may I call you Beatrice?—it's much more than okay, Beatrice. It's encouraged. Let's
talk
about the real stuff. Go straight for the dirt! Rile them up! It's good for them.”

“It's fine, Bea,” Emily says tightly. “Really. And no, we're not.” She pauses. “Getting married, I mean.”

Charlotte stares out at the darkening sky. She isn't sure what she's feeling, exactly. Relieved that Emily isn't rushing into a big decision. Surprised, actually, since she's always rushed before. Sad that this baby will be born out of wedlock.

But Bea is shaking her head in admiration. “That's so modern of you guys.”

It's Charlotte's cue to move. She steps outside and hands Bea the beer.

“I mean—oh, thanks Charlotte—I wish I could be so calm about the future. With Bill and me, I mean. But I need the security. I can't help it, you know? I keep telling Bill, if he thinks I'm going to hang around forever with no ring, no kids, he's got another think coming.”

Emily gives her a sympathetic nod. Charlotte resumes her seat.

Bea twists the cap off, bracelets jangling. “But you two, you're still so young. You don't need to worry. You're smart, not rushing into it too fast.” She tilts the bottle back at the same moment the patio light snaps on, dousing the porch in pale yellow. She laughs and glances upward, choking on her swallow. “Looks like somebody upstairs agrees with me!”

Walter laughs with her.

“That's charming,” Joe says.

They stop laughing and look over at him. His red face is tinged with something soft, like nostalgia.

“That's lovely,” he says. “You never hear people say
somebody upstairs
anymore.”

Bea laughs again, but less confidently, as if unsure whether he's complimenting her or not. Charlotte knows the feeling.

Joe picks up a shrimp and starts bobbing it aimlessly in and out of cocktail sauce. “So who's this Bill guy anyway?” he says, eyes on the shrimp. “The one with the commitment issues.”

“Daddy,” Emily warns, lightly. “Easy.”

But Bea pipes up, “Bill's my boyfriend.”

Joe smiles again, that ambiguous nostalgic semi-smile. “
Boyfriend.
That's charming too. And how long have we been with Bill the boyfriend?”

“Three years. A little over three, actually.” Charlotte can't tell if Bea isn't picking up on Joe's condescension, or just doesn't care. If it's the latter, she might just be Charlotte's new hero. “Thirty-eight months, to be exact. We just had our anniversary.”

“Congratulations,” says Walter, loyal as a clock.

“Your thirty-eight-month anniversary?” Joe says. “Do they make cards for that?”

“Our three-year anniversary.” Bea shakes her head wonderingly. “Three years! Doesn't that sound like such a long time?”

Emily nods.

“And you're in love, I assume?” Joe says.

Charlotte cringes, even though the question wasn't directed at her. But Bea looks him squarely in the eye. “Yes.” There's a note of defiance in her reply. “We are.”

Walter raises his beer.

“And he lives with you?” Joe moves on, unfazed. “Upstairs?”

“No. I mean, more or less, but he still has his own place.
Technically. I told him, no moving in unless we're married. I don't want to be splitting bills and signing leases with someone who's not in it for the long haul, you know?”

“Smart girl,” Joe nods. He looks toward his glass, sitting empty on the table, but leaves it there. “And where is Bill the boyfriend this evening?”

“He'll be here soon. He gets off work at seven.”

“And what is Bill the boyfriend's line of work?”

“He runs a gas station. On Humphrey.”

Joe's smile cracks. He turns to Bea, and his gaze is wistful, sentimental, as if she is a relic preserved from a forgotten world. “A waitress and a gas station attendant,” he says. “It warms the heart. It does. Someone should write a goddamn country-western song about the two of you.”

“Back off, Joe,” Walter says.

“Daddy.” Emily's voice is kinder. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice!”

Bea drops her eyes, unzips her purse, and starts fishing for her cigarettes.

“Wait!” Joe sits forward, lurching toward her. “Bea! Wait.

Don't take me the wrong way, Bea. If you think I'm making fun of you, you're wrong. I am one hundred percent serious.
One hundred percent.
”

She pushes a cigarette in her mouth, snaps her lighter.

“Bea,” Joe says, speaking intently. “Bea. Look at me.”

She hesitates, then looks up.

“You warm my heart, Bea. You and your Friendly's and your boyfriend and your ‘somebody upstairs.' I love you. I am fuck-ing
in love
with you. Both of you. I want to take you home and put you in a fucking test tube.”

“Jesus, Joe,” Walter says.

Bea gets the cigarette lit and quickly inhales.

“You're the real thing,” Joe pushes on, sloppily, passionately. “You are the
real
people. Living in America, smoking butts—what are those, Marlboro Reds? Please tell me you smoke Marlboro Reds.”

“Lights.”

“Fine. Yes. Same thing. You live in America and smoke Marlboro Lights. You make minimum wage and collect tips and live in a small town waiting for a gas station attendant to propose to you. It's fucking beautiful.”

“You know,” Bea says, zipping her purse. “I should probably get going.”

“Are you sure?” Emily says, but weakly.

“Yeah.” Bea flashes them an apologetic smile. “Bill's going to be here soon.”

She starts to stand, but Joe is no longer paying attention. His head is bowed, muttering to his lap. “I'd trade it all in a minute,” he says. “I'd trade it all for the life you've got. All of it. A fucking minute.”

Bea hugs Emily and Walter. “Congratulations again, you guys.”

“Don't let him get to you, Bea,” Walter replies, kissing her cheek. “He's drunk. He doesn't know what he's saying.”

“I am
not
drunk!” Joe shouts, rearing his head. He overenunciates to prove his point. “And I
do
know what I'm saying. I'm
complimenting
this woman.” He looks at Bea, and his voice goes soft. “I'm sorry if I scared you, honey. I just get passionate about things. Especially people. I'm a sociologist.”

“Oh,” Bea says. There's a note of relief in her voice, as if this information makes his behavior more legitimate somehow. “A sociologist?”

“This is what I
do,
“ Joe continues. “I examine people's
lives.
Try to figure out what makes them tick. How the hell they do it. How they avoid getting jaded. Like you did. You don't have a jaded bone in your body, do you, Bea?” He squints at her, as if through a thick fog. “In fact, I think you might actually
like
life.
”