Chapter Thirteen

WHEN THE PHONE ON Francis’s desk rang, his alarm clock glowed an icy blue 7:38 a.m. “It’s for you,” said Francis. “It’s a girl.”

Paula was downstairs, on a pay phone in the lobby of High Rise South. She’d sat in the lounge near the security desk, pretending to be a Penn kid, reading a flyer about used textbooks. Because of the early hour, only a few kids had passed by. To Paula’s eyes, they all looked young, untested. These boys didn’t manage to look at her, and it worried her that her magnitude was diminished in an Ivy League lobby. Usually, even on an early morning, Paula could attract boys. But these Penn kids, breaking in their book bags. “Smart boys are smart enough to avoid the stallions, Paula,” her mother had said.

Paula worried that she’d see Charlie exit the elevator with a non-stallion—one he didn’t have to fight for, one who had spent the night. Perhaps asking him to leave had been wrong. He’d left so quietly. No kisses, just the click of the door, and when she woke at six, after ten hours of the deepest sleep, she missed him. His big sympathetic brown eyes and still hands. So patient for a kid. She would have been happy had he sneaked into bed. She needed a hug upon waking. Hugging boys can be better than hugging men, she thought, watching two boys with backpacks on their way to breakfast. Men hug tight.

Tight and fast. Boys still hugged like little boys. Tommy hugged her in a mock squeezing-the-life-out-of-you way that did nothing for her.

“Hi,” said Paula.

“Hi.”

“I’m downstairs.”

“At your apartment?”

“No, silly. At your dorm. Is this a bad time?”

“No. I mean—I just woke up.”

“Want to have a breakfast picnic?”

“You’re downstairs?”

“Yes. I’m feeling so much better. Bring a blanket for the picnic. I’ll wait for you outside. This lobby is creepy.”

There was a quilt on Francis’s already made bed. A family quilt organized by squares, each square occupied by an arcane farm tool.

“Mind if I borrow your quilt for the day?”

“Feldman was asking about you,” said Francis.

“What did you say?”

“I said you were at the library studying.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the quilt?”

“I don’t know,” said Francis.

“Otherwise it’ll just sit on your bed. Quilts like this need stories to tell.”

“It’s sort of a family heirloom.”

“I understand,” said Charlie. “My family sells all of its family heirlooms to strangers. If I had one, I’d be protective as well. I just want to bring it to a picnic.”

“Is the picnic with that waitress?”

“Yes, with Paula. Ex-waitress, in fact. She’s downstairs.”

“Can I meet her? I like meeting the actual people after I hear stories about them.”

“Sure, you can meet her. I’m not sure if I did her justice last night.”

Charlie had needed last night’s retreat to college life. He’d needed sleep and the soundlessness of Francis’s hygienic slumber. College had proven to be a decent home base. Certainly not a home; home was her four-poster bed. Still, he’d been happy to de-girl himself, regroup in High Rise South, and tell Francis the story, but now he dressed nervously, hesitantly. She was in the building. Saturday 7:45 a-fucking-m. A time too attached to yesterday’s battle, too close to last night’s bed-hovering, and he felt incapable of humanity as he and Francis rode the elevator down to the lobby.

“What the hell do people say to girls so early in the morning?” he asked Francis, who had draped the quilt over his shoulders and looked like an absurd, folksy superhero.

“I don’t know. I guess I would talk about breakfast, but after that, I’m not really sure. Maybe something about the sunrise.”

“She was just on this phone,” said Charlie as they passed the lobby pay phone. Francis gulped. “Maybe I should just give you the quilt and leave you two alone.”

“No. I need you out there. Why would any reasonable person engage in a morning date? I mean what could possibly be the point?”

“I like breakfast,” said Francis. “I like bacon.”

Paula was sitting in the grass, in a triangular micropark bordered by the backs of three benches. Charlie had picnics with Angelina when he was little but couldn’t get along with all of the bagged sandwiches and plastic containers. Invariably, something chocolate melted and systemic sloppiness ensued: a brownie-stained frisbee, brownie-stained lips, a dusty Saturday afternoon.

“This is my roommate, Francis.”

“The quilt’s a keepsake,” said Francis.

“It’s beautiful,” said Paula.

“Thank you,” said Francis and presented her with the quilt. “Well, bye, then.”

“Wait,” said Paula. “You can join us, if you want.”

Charlie whipped his head around for his roommate’s response. The ice had been broken; the quilt delivered. Francis was more than welcome to leave.

“No,” said Francis. “I have to work at nine.”

“Rats,” said Paula. “Maybe next time.”

“Well, have a good picnic. Nice sunrise.” With that, he did a military about-face and walked back to High Rise South.

“He’s so sweet,” said Paula.

“He’s good-natured.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“No, but he likes this girl on our floor, I think. Hard to get too much out of him.”

“Be nice to him.”

“I am,” said Charlie sounding like a twelve-year-old shopping with his Angelina. He prayed it didn’t make her miss Tommy’s brogue.

“Help me up,” said Paula.

They were face-to-face. She closed her eyes; she wanted to be kissed. Charlie’s racing heart understood, but Charlie did not. On came her sunglasses.

“Wait,” said Charlie, “was I just supposed to—”

“It’s okay. Come on. Let’s go to the bus stop.”

“Guess I’m still a little groggy,” said Charlie.

“Not a problem.” She fished two tokens from her change purse and dropped one in his palm.

“I like your sunglasses,” said Charlie.

To date it was perhaps the only truly boring thing he’d said to her. She rewarded the banality with a false smile.

*

Breakfast was a takeout order of coffee and rolls from a tiny aluminum food cart that marked the entrance to Fairmount Park.

“It’s a bit of a walk,” said Paula.

“So where are we going?”

“Just this little place. It’s actually sort of famous because there’s a palm tree. People like to pretend they’re in Florida, or something, but it won’t be crowded this early in the day.”

That there was enough of the South in the Philly sun to support a palm tree excited Charlie. He could speak to her about Palm Beach, where he’d gone as a child when his grandmother was still alive, and about the sound of toy poodles on her marble floor.

“We used to go to Florida every winter,” said Charlie. “Yet another amazing 1980s tradition. I love this decade. I hope it never ends.”

“I don’t know. It’ll be refreshing when Reagan steps down.”

Charlie actually dreaded that day. Reagan was safe ground. Who knew what lunatic would come after?

“I’ll miss him. Changes aren’t easy for me.”

Charlie was happy he had the cardboard tray to carry, otherwise there would be handholding urgencies.

“I don’t think changes are easy for anyone,” said Paula. “My mom is still adjusting to the divorce, and it’s been, like, nine years. I don’t know why she can’t just move on. My dad totally cheated on her, and he still lies about it. I used to see him every Thanksgiving, but now it’s just a weekly phone call. Sundays.”

“I hate Sundays,” said Charlie.

“Me too. They’re such heavy days. Long afternoons. My mom’s spooky grandfather clock. Not to mention that Tommy was always so hungover. Ugh.”

“I’ve had my share of Sunday hangovers, too.”

“I shut down on Sundays, just so you know. I like all my friends to know, so they don’t take it personally.”

“Friends?” asked Charlie.

She took him by the shoulders and backed him up against a tree. “We’re just having a picnic, you know?”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking.

*

They lay the quilt in a bowl-shaped meadow and sat a mile from where the bus had deposited them. Only during the last few minutes of their trek had the highway noises receded. Dandelions grew next to crushed beer cans; patches of weedy grass gave way to bald spots of glittery dust. In Central Park, the city ended, but here the city was hard to shake. She’d said that five or ten miles further afield it was completely rural.

“I even think there are farms,” she said. “Do you see the palm tree?”

It was a dwarf, barely taller than Paula. In order to grow here, it looked like it had sacrificed its identity.

“It’s really small and stubby,” he said.

“Well, it’s been on TV, mister big shot.”

She buttered his roll for him, then buttered her own, licked the plastic knife, and laughed. “My mom hates it when I lick knives. She thinks I’ll cut my tongue.” A warm wind picked up, and a Hawaiian Punch can trundled by.

“What would you do if I cut my tongue?” she asked.

“How badly?”

“Just a little cut.”

“Well, let’s see now.”

“What comes to mind?” she asked.

“I would—”

“Listen, this picnic is going to suck unless you kiss me.”

With Monica Miller, he’d offer himself ongoing coverage of the kiss, and predictions about when it would end and who would end it. An accounting of tooth collisions. This kiss, however, cleared his mind. He didn’t have a mind, just a body. With Monica Miller, he only felt the kiss in his mouth. Now he felt it everywhere and forgot his species. Or that humans also used their mouths for speech.

“Mm,” said Paula. “Now there won’t be any weird we haven’t kissed stuff.”

“I should have kissed you before.”

“Yep.”

“So, we’re more than friends?”

“I don’t know. We are what we are.”

“You sound like Monica Miller,” said Charlie.

“Who’s that?”

“My ex.”

“I forgot that you had one. I guess everyone has one. The world is full of exes. No wonder people need happy hours. I have to start looking for a job,” she said, yawning. “But I don’t want to think about that right now. Lie down and fall asleep with me.”

“I still have most of my allowance. Maybe we can figure something out? Maybe I can get a job? I can work really hard, for us.”

“Sh.”

Charlie didn’t think he could sleep, but soon enough they were both out. A deer walked right by their picnic, stopping to bless the young couple with a sniff of its rubbery nose.