Chapter Seventeen

HE THOUGHT IF HE didn’t move, he could erase what had happened, or downgrade it to a nightmare. But it had happened. There was evidence: the unopened condom, and that thing, useless, glued to his body.

It took all of Charlie’s will to get out of bed, clean himself off, put on his boxers. He picked out a TV Week, one from 1984 with the cast of Fantasy Island on the cover. When the show got canceled, Angelina blamed the yuppies for accumulating enough money to be able to afford their own real-life fantasies. “Señor Roarke had so much more to give,” she’d said. “The yuppies with their cufflinks, they ruined it.”

Haircuts probably lasted twenty minutes in bed, he thought. They went about their business mechanically, secretly using the act to strengthen whatever muscles give buttocks dimples. He remembered reading about an author who’d had a problem with endurance but convinced his wife that it was virile to cut to the chase, that true men explode when they explode. The rest of it, the before stuff and all the pumping, was for Haircuts doused in Polo cologne. But the world was dominated by Haircuts and Tommys, who grabbed the girls they wanted, then lasted the length of an entire rodeo. They said goodnight to their women like they owned the moon and said good morning to them like they owned the sun. While Charlie practiced saying Night to a grasshopper bride, Paula knocked on the door and asked to come in.

“No one’s good their first time,” she said, sitting by him in bed. “I wasn’t. God, I wasn’t.”

“I just didn’t think I would be that quick.”

“Sometimes quick is good. We’ll work on it.” She patted his chest and kissed his forehead goodnight. That’s what the quick ones get, thought Charlie, a motherly kiss on the head.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To bed.”

“You should stay up here with me.”

“Guys like to be left alone after sex.”

He didn’t want to be left, not by her, not ever, but he was a guy, who had indeed had sex, so he found the TV Week in the sheets, shrugged, and read. Paula paused at the door, tightened her robe, and wondered if there were enough moonlight in the room for him to read. She felt no regret about what they’d done, not yet. It could come in the morning and then she’d need him to go back to school so she could clean the slate before starting work again. Go through her things and sort out her life. Maybe I’ll paint my bedroom, she thought, looking blankly at the curly hair on his legs. She’d painted her room red after high school.

“Maybe you could help me paint my room tomorrow?” she asked.

“That would be great.” Charlie sat up in bed.

“What color, you think?”

“Maybe red?”

“But that’s what it already is.” She thought of Sunday at CVS, spending the last of her cash on beauty supplies. She’d be sure to look great for Tuesday night at Martine’s. The tips would come. Next thing I know, I’ll be in Europe, she thought. Next summer. Next summer is so far away.

A whole year in a red room, her mom complaining about Mr. Asshole while the kitchen reeked of Chicken Paprikash. She bum-rushed the bed, jumped in, pushed him back down, and lobbed a leg over his chest.

“Let’s go to New York,” said Paula. “I don’t want to be at CVS tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Screw CVS, I’m going to use the last of my money to buy something in New York City,” she harrumphed, her leg advancing across Charlie’s torso.

Exquisite bodies must weigh more, he thought. They must be made of denser material than regular bodies. He reminded himself to ask John about it. John would have an opinion. He thought about when they were seven and thirteen and lived together at home, watching Spanish soaps with Angelina, flipping baseball cards. My childhood is over.

“So, what exactly did the doctor say about your tubes?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.”

Charlie wanted to rise out of bed and pace the room, but her leg locked him in place. He had to urinate as well, but knew he had to stay put, maybe deep into the night. There was nothing between himself and this other person. His naked chest wore her limb. That was all there was. He missed home. Mariella’s and Angelina. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

“I’m not sure about New York,” he said.

“K,” she said, her leg finding even more of his chest. She is living on me, thought Charlie. I’m her home. Why can’t she be mine? So he removed her leg and turned her so they were chest-to-robe. Is this what love is? Two people needing each other at the same moment? It felt more like math than love, but the feeling permitted him to smell her hair, run his hand along her thigh, lift her downy arm, and show the moon its staticky blonde hair.

“Actually, maybe we should go to New York,” said Charlie.

She placed herself directly on top of him. All 122 pounds of her. Cheek to cheek, sealed with sweat.

“Good,” she said.

I’ve never been closer to another human being, he thought, the word good still tickling his cheek. She probably wanted more, so he lifted her robe and held the places where the spine becomes sex.

“I wonder what I’ll wear tomorrow,” she vibrated into Charlie’s jaw.

*

Sunday morning in the Henderson household: hairdryer sounds, Mrs. Henderson and her muffin tins, flashes of Paula wearing a pink towel. Charlie and Paula, going to the big city.

“Now, don’t forget my bagels, you two. And it’s better to get them just before you leave rather than when you first get there, so they stay nice and warm. Now, it might rain later, so just keep that in mind. New York City,” said Mrs. Henderson, shaking her head.

The happy drowning sounds of the Hendersons’ coffeemaker made Charlie feel sleepy and in need of a mug. In the Green household, there was only espresso. This would be his first regular cup of coffee. His mug read LOVE.

“You want coffee, Paula?” hollered Mrs. Henderson.

Through a toothbrush she yelled back that she did.

“Make her a cup, will you, Charlie? Watch, she’ll brush again after breakfast. Why not do it only once? I’ve been telling her this for years. She likes a little more milk in hers. You can go bring it to her in the bathroom.”

Paula was leaning into the bathroom mirror, casting spells on her face with tiny brushes. A single blue vein ran up her leg and disappeared under the pink towel.

“I missed you this morning,” he told her. He’d woken to an empty bed, a little after sunrise. They’d forgotten to lower the shade, but even if they hadn’t, the papery barrier would have turned translucent by seven.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“Last night was pretty magical. I mean, after the initial bad part. The quick part. Things like last night don’t happen to me every day. I’ve never spent a whole night with anyone but myself.”

“Lots of firsts,” she said, sticking out her hand for the mug.

“Although it felt like we’ve been bedmates forever.”

“Ha!”

“What?”

“Just, Ha!”

The bathroom was still steamy from her shower, nebulas of wonderful girl smells in the air. Charlie couldn’t help but kiss away a drop of shower water from her shoulder blade. Nothing smelled better than a freshly showered girl, he thought, and wished to God she’d remove the towel and turn around to face him in the bathroom light.

“We have to get bagels for Mom,” said Paula.

“I know, she told me. Get them later rather than before.”

“But we’ll go shopping first, okay?

“Sure.”

“Are we meeting your parents?”

“Parents? No. I hadn’t planned on that at all.”

“Why? Are you ashamed of me?”

“Of course not. We can meet them if you want. I just thought it should be just us.”

“I like meeting parents. Lots of girls don’t, but I do. It tells you a lot about the guy.”

“My parents won’t tell you anything about me,” said Charlie, seated on the toilet’s fuzzy pink lid.

“Um, let’s see: your mom’s rich from stolen paintings and drinks a lot, and your dad’s a European guy who doesn’t have to work. I think that tells me something about you. Now shoo, so I can finish putting on my face.”

*

Mrs. Henderson had set up breakfast outside, three chairs in front of the hummingbird feeder. It had the feel of a photo op, or an interview: Mrs. Henderson overdressed for muffins and coffee, wearing a large, floppy hat and sunglasses, every sentence starting the same. “So, Charlie, tell me . . .”

He told her about the town house and its wonderful proximity to Adam’s Rib and Central Park.

“Is Bonwit’s close to you?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure, but said it wasn’t too far away.

“I used to collect shopping bags from Bonwit’s,” said Mrs. Henderson. “I loved their shopping bags with the purple violets, but I sold them all at my yard sale, and for two bucks, who would’ve thought? But you know, Charlie, you get divorced and you just have to move on. Just look at that hummingbird! Don’t you just want to hold on to its little tail and fly away?”

The hummingbird’s next stop was almost certainly the future, where Charlie would have a good read on his new love, what made her cheeks go red, what made them turn white, and why her curly hair and turquoise eyes were alive with primordial energy. In the future, everything and everyone would be as comfortable as Mrs. Henderson, spreading margarine on a steaming muffin.

“I have a feeling,” said Mrs. Henderson, “that one day we’ll look back on this weekend as the first time we met Charlie Green. Just a feeling I have.”

“I hope so.”

“It’s not easy being young, I know. You hang in there, Charlie.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

By the time Paula was ready, breakfast had ended. Mrs. Henderson rose to applaud her barefooted daughter, who was holding her sandals and twirling in her sundress, a string of clunky pearls ruining the simplicity of her neckline.

“The pearls are just perfect,” said Mrs. Henderson. “You want a muffin, honey bunny?”

“I don’t think we have time. Could you pack it in my lunchbox? Can Charlie have your lunchbox?”

“Of course he can,” said Mrs. Henderson.

“No, really, that’s okay. I actually thought we could have lunch out.”

“The lunchboxes are for the train ride, Charlie,” said Mrs. Henderson. “You know, in case you get hungry.”

“Well,” said Charlie. “Amtrak does have a really amazing little snack car.”

Charlie loved Amtrak. The faintly Indian red and white seat covers. Screwdrivers and M&Ms from the amazing little snack car, placed on the amazing little foldout tray by the window, little houses whirring by. There was a real place in his heart for home after home, where, he imagined, young lovers separated by mowed lawns used their flashlights to say goodnight.

“I love Amtrak,” said Charlie.

“Their bathrooms are sort of gross,” said Paula. “Mom, are you sure the pearls aren’t too much?”

“Pearls too much. Just listen to you. I’m going to pack two lunchboxes just in case,” said Mrs. Henderson, carrying the breakfast tray back into the kitchen with just one hand. Tray dexterity must be inherited, thought Charlie, imagining their own daughter practicing with dollhouse beer steins.

“You look great,” said Charlie.

“Really? Thanks. Figure, why not get dressed up. It’ll be jeans and T-shirts for God knows how long.”

“We can talk about the future on Amtrak. The train rhythm and a screwdriver go a long way toward problem solving.”

“Oh, I don’t drink on Sundays. At least not till later.”

“My parents drink champagne for breakfast every Sunday, but that’s just because they’re French.”

“I guess if I were French, I might, too, but as you can see, I’m just a Pennsy girl in her mother’s pearls.”

“You’re more than that. Absolutely zero reason for you to feel insecure.”

“Insecure?” She took a step back so he could take all of her in. So he’d be reminded of all the men, and boys, including Charlie Green, who got their lifelines in a tangle just to hold her hand. “I don’t feel insecure. Do I look insecure?”

She’d somehow made her curls especially tight, her teeth especially white from the Hendersons’ commercial-strength Gleem. She was right: what insecure person had turquoise eyes? Charlie did want to tell her about the comical irrelevance of mascara near those eyes, but John had decreed: you don’t say a damn thing after the makeup’s on.