The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (45 page)

As Charlotte puts the kettle on, Emily appears in the kitchen doorway. Her hair is mussed, belly round under a XL men's T-shirt that says
LIVE FREE OR DIE.

“My God,” she says, squinting. “Is today really happening?”

“It sure is,” Charlotte sings. “Sit. Eat.”

As Emily shuffles toward the table, Charlotte grabs her vitamins from the cabinet (the folic acid Dr. Joyce recommended) and pours a glass of water (tap, Emily informed her, because Brita can filter the minerals out). Even though Emily is just here for the weekend, Charlotte's kitchen has become a veritable pregnant woman's grocery store: seeds, nuts, calcium, iron, essential fats, whole grains. She abolished every egg from the refrigerator, even tossed her mayonnaise.

“Just promise me,” Emily says, lowering herself to a chair. “No frills. The minute your book group starts oohing and aahing you have to make it stop.”

“I promise.”

Emily pops the vitamin in her mouth. “Thank God this thing is coed,” she says. “What time's Joe getting here?”

“Soon.” Charlotte plucks the whistling teapot from the burner. “About an hour and a half. At nine Bea's stopping by with desserts and extra chairs from upstairs. Ruth's giving us some chairs too.” She sets a steaming teacup on the table. “And Howard's stopping by at nine-thirty with a card table, and Meg loaned him an extra serving tray. I'm so excited for you to meet Meg. I think you'll really like her.” She pauses, overwhelmed at the thought of all these people converging in the same house.
This
house.

“Mom,” Emily says. “Chill. It's going to be great.” She raises her cup in a toast and they clink, coffee to decaffeinated organic raspberry-leaf tea.

Bea arrives at 9:00 on the dot. “I have ice cream cakes!” she announces, hefting four Friendly's boxes from a shopping bag. “Vanilla, chocolate, and two tiramisus. Where do you want these, Char?”

“I made room in the—”

“Bea!” Emily calls, making her way in from the couch.

“Hey you!” Bea squeals, swiveling around to hug her. “You look great!”

“I'm a cow,” Emily says. “See? This is why people shouldn't eat cows. Because they might turn into one someday.”

“Oh please.” Bea brushes her off with one French-tipped hand. She's been taking extra care with her nails ever since Bill popped the question. “You look gorgeous. How are you doing? How are you feeling? Is this all so exciting?”

“Um, hold everything,” Emily says, grabbing at her finger. “Check out this
rock.
”

Bea grins, more than happy for Emily to examine her engagement ring. Bill proposed on Valentine's Day, hiding the ring in a box of chocolates. (“Predictable,” she said, “but what can you expect?”)

“I can't take any credit for it,” she explains now to Emily. “He picked it out all on his own.”

As if on cue Bill trudges into the foyer, thick forearms draped with folding chairs. “Again with the ring, Bea?”

“But she hasn't seen it yet! I was just telling her how you picked it out all by yourself.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “She makes it sound like I can't tie my own
shoes,” he says, as Bea plants a kiss on his cheek. “Where to, Charlotte?”

“Living room's fine,” she says. As Bill crosses the kitchen, she notices what looks like a giant pink inner tube propped by the front door. “What's that?”

Bea glances over her shoulder. “Oh, isn't that cool? It's our bubble chair.” Charlotte realizes it is indeed shaped like a miniature armchair, but made of inflatable pink plastic. “I know it's not your style, but the kids might like it.”

Charlotte winces as all her tasteful intentions go flying out the window. She glances at Emily, remembering the ban on pinkness, but she gives a firm nod. “Very cool,” Emily confirms. “It stays.”

When Joe's taxi pulls up, he and Charlotte hug.

“Well,” he grins, taking a step back. He's wearing black sunglasses, tiny square ones like celebrities wear on the red carpet. “If it isn't Charlotte Rainer-Warren.”

Charlotte flushes. He's referring to the return address on the invitations, where she'd neatly written
C. Rainer-Warren
above the address. “I just thought—I don't know. It seemed like the right time.”

“Hell,” he says, pushing the glasses to the top of his head. “I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to be associated with me either.”

“Hey Joe,” Emily says, appearing in the foyer behind them. She's changed into her party dress, soft blue cotton batik. Her hair is clipped back loosely in a silver barrette, eyelids coated in pale shimmery shadow. Long beaded earrings swing from her ears.

“Well if it isn't the radiant mother-to-be,” Joe says, lifting her
off the ground. “Eight months pregnant and still light as a feather.”

“Yeah right,” Emily says, but she is smiling as her feet touch down. She's wearing what look like ballet slippers. “Thanks for coming.”

“Are you kidding? It's my first baby shower. I wouldn't miss it for the world.” He slides his leather duffel off his shoulder and it slumps on the floor. “Val wishes she could be here. She was really bummed.”

Valerie was originally scheduled to come, then Joe sent Charlotte an e-mail in late March saying it would be him only. “A work thing,” he typed, in his slapdash lowercase, but Charlotte had wondered if there was more to the story, if the trouble he alluded to back in October had gotten worse.

“A work thing,” he says now to Emily, flashing her a smile. But it's overly bright, unconvincing. He offers his elbow, as if in consolation, and Emily takes it. As they head toward the kitchen, she pats his arm. Charlotte wonders who's consoling who.

“So,” Joe says, as Charlotte quickly shoves his duffel bag in the hall closet. “Who else is coming to this shindig? Tell me I'm not the only guy.”

“Not that kind of shower,” Emily assures him, as he deposits her in a kitchen chair. “It's untraditional. Men included.”

“Like?” Joe pulls open the refrigerator, scanning the contents. Charlotte starts to offer something, a drink at least, then thinks better of it.

“My old roommate,” Emily says. “Anthony. And his girlfriend Mara. They're the ones Walter lives with.” She fingers one long earring, pulling it away from her face. “And Walter, of course.”

Joe closes the refrigerator and gives her a long look. “Things peaceful between you two?”

“Relatively.” She twirls the earring like a lock of hair. “I mean, it still feels sad, and I still wonder sometimes if I did the right thing, but—my apartment's only about twenty minutes from him, so he'll be around a lot. And Mom's coming up for part of the summer.” She drops the earring. “We're doing the best we can.”

Joe presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”

“The Nelsons are coming too.”

“Which Nelsons?” Joe says, peering into the freezer. “Bad metal band? Long-haired twin brothers?”

“No.” Emily rolls her eyes. “Walter's family.”

“Walter's family's coming where? To New Hampshire?”

She giggles. “To the shower. Plus you get to meet Howard. Mom's boyfriend.”

“So I've heard.” Joe shuts the freezer and raises his eyebrows at Charlotte. “Boyfriend, huh?”

“Kind of,” Charlotte says, taking a seat across from Emily.
Boyfriend.
It's such a silly word. “If that's what you call it.”

“It
is
what you call it,” Emily says emphatically.

“In that case,” Charlotte says, then blurts—“yes.” The thrill of affirmation is accompanied by a twinge of awkwardness. But why should she feel awkward? They've been divorced for fifteen years, for God's sake!

“Howard,” Joe muses, leaning against the counter. “That's a solid name. What's this Howard do?”

Charlotte pauses, flashing to the night Joe grilled Bea on the patio. She doesn't want to subject Howard to that kind of scrutiny.

“Oh come on,” he says. “It's been fifteen years and my own
life's annoying the hell out of me. Throw me a little some-thing.” “Well,” Charlotte says, hesitating. “He's a sales representative.

For a pharmaceutical company.”

“Divorced? Widowed? Career bachelor?”

“Divorced. He has two children, a son and a daughter.”

“And he adores her,” Emily adds.

“As he should,” says Joe.

Charlotte listens for a smirk in his voice, but there isn't one. Joe isn't teasing her; he means it. She feels her cheeks grow warm under their two pairs of eyes, and hurries to change the subject. “His daughter's coming today too,” she says. “And a few neighbors.”

“None of them male, I take it?”

“One male cat,” offers Emily. “He talks, too. He's a medical miracle.”

Suddenly Bea bursts through the door shouting: “Ribbon! We need ribbon! Char, do you have any—” When she sees Joe, she pauses. She's changed into her party outfit: black leather skirt, bright blue blouse, black boots, and a silver linked belt that jingles when she cocks her hip to one side. “Oh. Hello.”

Joe clasps his hands together, repentant. “Bea.” He drops his chin to his chest, the black sunglasses still clinging tenuously to the top of his head. “I owe you a very sincere—and very overdue—apology.”

She shifts to the other foot, rattling faintly. “Don't worry about it.”

“No. Please. Usually I don't have the opportunity to say I'm sorry—” The sunglasses fall and go skidding across the tile. Joe keeps his head bent. No one makes a move to pick them up. “But I am. Really.”

“Okay,” Bea says, then runs her left hand deliberately through her hair.

Knowing Joe may not notice, Charlotte helps out. “Joe, I don't think you heard,” she says, as he dips down for the glasses. “Bea got engaged.”

“Is that right!” he says, swiping the glasses up and righting himself in one motion, like a sloppy matador. “That's fantastic,” he says, a touch overzealous. “Congratulations. I would hug you but your fiancé might clock me in the jaw.” As if in defense, he pops the sunglasses not on his head but on his face. “Where's the lucky guy? Is he coming?”

“He's right behind me,” Bea says, “tracking down more chairs. Come to think of it—” She hands Joe a bag of limp balloons. “You can get to work too.”

In the basement storage area, Emily treads carefully behind Charlotte. She insisted on coming, even though Charlotte explained the staircase was steep, the basement poorly lit. This only piqued Emily's interest. “It's good for the baby,” she insisted. “It'll give her a thirst for adventure.”

Now, as they navigate the maze of wooden crates, Emily is even more excited. “Look at this stuff! It's like the Smithsonian down here. Check that out—it's an old-fashioned beauty salon chair. And look, that guy has like fifty shoehorns. This stuff is fascinating.”

Charlotte stops before the door to L1, extracting her key.

“What are we looking for again?”

“Ribbon,” Charlotte says. “I'm sure I saw some down here last time.”

“It wasn't pink, was it?”

“I think it was red, white, and blue.”

“Perfect,” Emily groans. “Let's at least spread the colors out. Try to keep the patriotism at a minimum.”

Charlotte swings the slatted door open. “Careful,” she says, glancing at the ballet slippers. “Watch your step.”

As Charlotte crouches down beside
DECOR,
Emily scans the stacks of boxes. “I can't believe you kept all this stuff,” she says, peering into the top of
SCHOOL.
“Oh my God. Check this out.” She pulls out an old three-ring binder, its cover almost entirely graffitied in dark blue ink. “This was my notebook in eighth grade. Look—
EW plus RG.
Ross Gratner. Remember Ross Gratner? I was obsessed with him. We dated for like two weeks before he became a pothead.”

Charlotte pauses, holding a box of plastic Easter eggs. “Ross Gratner? The one who wore the—”

“Sunglasses all the time. Exactly. They were those ugly silver ones too. They looked like rearview mirrors.” Emily rests the binder on her belly, leafing through it as Charlotte returns to digging. “Algebra. Seriously, did algebra ever serve me in the real world?”

“Here they are,” Charlotte says, surfacing with three rolls of patriotic crepe paper.

Emily wrinkles her nose. “What did we even have those for?”

“Fourth of July. At the house on Dunleavy Street. Remember you wanted to decorate your purple bike? You put crepe paper in the wheels, and you made stars for the spokes—”

Charlotte could go on and on. She remembers every detail. But Emily is watching her with a funny look, mouth twisted in a smile.

“I know, I know,” Charlotte says, pushing off the ground. “I remember the littlest things.”

Emily shakes her head. “That's not it.”

“What is it then?”

“It's just—” She slides the blue binder back into its box and knots her hands loosely on her belly, like a podium. “Why do you always call it ‘the house on Dunleavy Street'?”

Charlotte brushes off her knees. “What do you mean?”

“Ever since you moved, you call it that.”

“Well, what am I supposed to call it?”

“Just call it, I don't know, ‘the house.' ‘The old house.' Everyone knows which one you mean. The House on Dunleavy Street—it makes it sound like some magical cottage from a fairytale or something. Like it was this idyllic place where nothing bad ever happened.”

Charlotte straightens up. “Well,” she says, “what bad
did
happen?”

“Um, I don't know … Joe leaving?”

“Well—sure. But it was still a happy house.”