Chapter Twenty

PAULA’S FIRST WEEK AT Martine’s had gone smoothly, aided by her resolution to shelve things. Shelve Tommy, whom she hadn’t properly mourned; shelve Charlie and the Plaza, an experience she couldn’t yet categorize as either magical or filthy; shelve her life’s digression back into her childhood bed. It was a skill she had, dumping everything in a barrel, hammering it shut, then rolling it down the hill and into the river, where it would bob with the current and maybe find her again one day. Then she’d pry it open, shocked that the contents were intact and dry. She’d resolved to get lost at Martine’s, make some drinks, make some money, have some fun, just be a girl in New Hope for a spell. During slow shifts, she’d read her magazines, read National Geographic. She finally got to the article about hummingbirds.

Tomorrow I’ll tell the lunch tourists about the hummingbirds. I can read it once and remember almost all of it, but put a school test in front of Paula Henderson? Her GPA was 2.0.

“So, it’s average,” her mother had once said. “Which means you’re doing what you’re supposed to. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Hummingbirds are the only birds who can fly backward,” she told two girlfriends from high school who stopped in for dinner. They’d both gotten engaged that summer and could only speak about weddings. They toted huge three-ring binders they called their workbooks, full of wish lists and magazine clippings. Paula told them if they ever had a big wedding, it should be at the Plaza Hotel in New York City.

“And be sure to stay on the twenty-seventh floor, where the Beatles once stayed, and be sure to go to Trader Vic’s for Scorpions. The bubble baths are wonderful, as is the room service.” She held out her hand, into which she wanted her emerald ring deposited. Over the last two hours, everyone had worn it but her.

Charlie had waited a full day after the Plaza to call her. She appreciated the self-control, but he’d called Martine’s every afternoon since, and she found it difficult to speak with him from the house phone by the beer taps.

Martine’s was home to so many banalities: Gonna snow before you know it. You see Gary’s new Honda? The Fall Happy Hour at Karla’s is gonna be three-for-two.

Charlie, however, wanted to speak with her about the Plaza Hotel on Labor Day morning, one of the most depressing mornings of his life. How it took all of his willpower not to fill the emptiness with vodka. How he filled it with more emptiness until the barren spaces became muscles. No Boodo Khan, no love notes, no bar car. How when he arrived at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, he pretended to march like the new soldier he’d become, but tripped over his own feet, landing on his face. He let his cheek rest against the station dust for an extra moment, so he could watch a Plaza Hotel pillow mint roll away from him and then roll back to him, settling like a coin in front of his bloody nose. Someone dropped several tissues, which fell about him like parachuted rations. He sat up and pressed them to his nose, unsure which midday commuter had made the donation. Probably an older lady like Angelina, fussing through her purse for Kleenex.

Angelina was always doing stuff like that. It was part of the Dignidad, helping strangers. “This is what people did,” she’d say, “when my island was an island, and not a slum. Horse and buggies, and old San Juan always clean. It was beautiful, my island, even if you are poor. Because if you are poor, people will help you, treat you with Dignidad. Some fruit, maybe a bed. And in return you will work their little garden or fish for them. But you will not overstay your welcome. Then, when you make some money, the first thing you do is go back to the people who helped you, bring them gifts of thanks. Dignidad.”

He told Paula how he’d scooted himself up against the base of the train station’s soaring statue, depicting an angel taking a mortally wounded soldier up to heaven. It was a famous memorial, and last spring, during pre-freshman orientation, the guy from the Admissions Department spoke about it, saying that one day you’d come back to Penn from a break, see the statue, and know you were home.

“I realize now that beds aren’t homes, girls aren’t homes, homes aren’t even homes,” he told Paula over the phone. “Missing you is my home. Loving you is my home.”

I should really go, was on the tip of her tongue, but nothing came out. She teased her hair around a finger. “I like your Dignidad,” she said, watching Gary lip a cigarette and scratch at a lottery ticket. “Tell me more.”

*

Two weeks into the semester, folding chairs had been placed outside Miss Pettibone’s office to facilitate the overflow of students. Still, Charlie chose the cold marble floor of College Hall. He’d been waiting for close to an hour; ahead of him was an already famous freshman girl who’d been on the cover of Seventeen this summer and had a pretty name, Nicoletta. Had she been less attractive, Charlie was certain people wouldn’t invest the four syllables; instead, they’d call her Nicki. He’d heard about her from the Lacrosse Girl and Francis.

“Nicoletta’s already dating a senior,” said Francis.

“But they broke up because he was too flashy for her,” said the Lacrosse Girl. “She’s actually really down to earth.”

She did have a cool name, Charlie thought, staring up at her from where he sat.

“You have Miss Pettibone, too?” asked Nicoletta.

She had different-colored eyes, one blue and one hazel. “Nicoletta, right? Interesting name. And interesting eyes.”

“It’s called heterochromia. David Bowie has it, too.”

They spoke easily for many minutes. He told her his new girlfriend, Paula, had a lovely case of homochromia, which seemed to put Nicoletta even more at ease. Charlie’s heart was elsewhere, despite her conflicting irises, lanky body, and long, lanky name.

“I’m thinking prelaw,” she said while they waited. “Do you have a major?”

“A major life doesn’t have a major, or a minor,” he said, and she laughed. “It was something my brother said, but of course he had a major, economics, and now he’s on Wall Street.”

“Yuppie?”

“Haircut.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a yuppie, but worse.”

He wished Paula had a more interesting name. Weird-eyed girls should have weird names. The rest of Nicoletta he was mostly immune to. There was a conventional friendliness to her, and she was quick to smile. Paula’s smiles were all earned. They were surprising. Once, Paula smiled just because a bird ducked its head into the Delaware River. Nicoletta’s wacky eyes would have surely missed the bird moment. And even if Nicoletta were more complex and unpredictable, he couldn’t imagine non-Paula skin against his own. Although, when she was done with her Miss Pettibone session, Nicoletta half-hugged him, and he could feel the great bones of her jaw.

“I’m so happy we met,” she said to Charlie. “Maybe we could have dinner or something, one of these nights?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m in the Quad.”

He hadn’t been there yet, but according to Francis it looked like Oxford or Cambridge, and the kids who lived there were generally more open than the Highrise South kids: barefoot hacky sack players, versus—well, Francis. Charlie wondered if he’d ever make it to the Quad or even see Nicoletta again. Today he was to ask Miss Pettibone about an open-ended sabbatical.

“Well,” said Miss Pettibone, opening a window in her office, “you made quite an impression on Nicoletta.”

“It’s easy to impress beautiful girls when you’re in love with someone else. I guess it’s the only thing that really impresses them, that you don’t love them.”

“She thought you were fascinating, and you’ll probably become more fascinating if you don’t miss so many of your classes.”

“I’m having a hard time concentrating. I’m usually with my girlfriend, and when I’m not with her I’d rather be alone and walk around Philly. By the way, I can’t thank you enough for sending me to the Oyster House. It’s where I met Paula. It’s where my life began.”

Shit, thought Miss Pettibone.

“I’d forgotten about your odyssey.”

“It turned into a real-life one, complete with monsters, one of which I battled and won. It happened right at the Oyster House. I’m banned from the place for six months but left with Paula. She got fired.”

Because of me, a poor girl lost her job, thought Miss Pettibone. She’d told her husband about her affair and he’d left to stay on a colleague’s couch. That Labor Day weekend was one long, wonderful exhale. She opened all the windows, baked a cake with her daughter, threw out old clothes, left old textbooks on the curb. Her husband had called her selfish and weak, a destroyer of worlds, and a slut. Perhaps he was right. She only directed Green Charlie to the bar as an act of rebellion against her own job, her own life, neither of which she’d had the courage to change, until now.

“I’m so sorry she got fired. I must say I feel responsible.”

“She already has another job, in New Hope, this amazing town by the river.”

“Well, that makes me feel better. But let’s get back to your classes.”

“I’ve been writing my short stories. Lots of things to write about in New Hope. Paula reads every one of them. She’s an avid reader.”

“Have you been once to your creative writing course?”

“Being with a girl like Paula, a real girl who lives in a real place like New Hope, is incredibly educational. Classes couldn’t possibly teach me all I’ve learned.”

“Balancing a social life with classwork is tricky at first.”

“Life is a war. Philly taught me that. So did Paula. About strength.”

“College is such a wonderful—”

“I guess it was really what Angelina was speaking about all those years: the strength to do things. The strength not to do things.”

“Very philosophical. Think how much more insight you might have should you decide to major in—”

“Only Paula makes me happy. I’m dedicating my life to chasing that feeling. To do something like that, you have to be all in. Devoted, as if your life depended on it.”

“Why don’t we give it a week, so you can think things over? One week of classes.”

“All I’d do is stare out the window. Have you ever been able to be with someone who’s not present, just by staring out a window?”

“No,” said Miss Pettibone.

She’d spoken just yesterday with her lover about a trip. Key West, they’d decided, where she would drink tequila under the sun and walk the old streets barefoot, dancing to Jimmy Buffett and wearing shells around her neck. She wanted to tell Charlie the only real happiness is the one derived from freedom; that being happy during a marriage is like a caged gorilla’s playtime with its rubber tire. But he’d probably say that for him and his Oyster House waitress it would be different, that what they had now would never wear off. That’s the right attitude, she thought. Ride it for as long as you can, ride it even when the wheels have come off and the track has disappeared into the underbrush. Ride it until you need to feel twenty-one again, in Margaritaville.

“We can, perhaps, freeze your enrollment—”

“Freeze away.” He had to stop himself from blowing Miss Pettibone a congratulatory kiss for possessing the power to benumb time.

“But I want you to talk things over with your parents.”

“I don’t know,” said Charlie. “When they were my age, they pretty much froze their lives, too.”

Miss Pettibone was prepared for a back-and-forth. She was prepared to argue all the reasonable arguments, but instead leaned back in her chair.

“Okay. What’s she like?”

“She has all this long, curly hair, honey blonde, but sometimes even darker, and in some places lighter! And full lips that I swear are pink without any makeup. That’s the Swedish part of her, that mouth. Oh, and a face that grows scarlet when she’s flustered. Or excited. And these eyes. These weird eyes that are like the color of a Tiffany’s box, but maybe even lighter. You know that Tiffany blue?”

Of course I know that color. All girls know that color, and I’m still a girl. My lover is only nine years older than you, Green Charlie.

“But the best things about her are indescribable. Little things she does. Little things she doesn’t do. Silences. Ever meet someone like that?”

No, she thought. Maybe in high school, but it was unrequited, and life goes on.

“How do you think your parents will feel?” asked Miss Pettibone.

“About her? My mom already met her and loves her.”

“No, Charlie, about leaving school.”

“It depends on my mom’s wine mood. Jee-Jee won’t like it, but he’ll side with what my mom wants. Plus, the Frenchman in him will appreciate the things I’ll learn about New Hope life: fishing, chopping wood. Those things matter as well.”

So true. She thought about her husband and about the thousands of young men she’d met in this very office. How soft and impractical most of them were. They’d never go to war, or work on a farm, or chop wood. A bicep-less race. Useless.

“You’re paid through the end of the year, so I’m not sure if we could refund your room and board. I could have someone from the registrar’s office visit with us. Let’s see if she’s available. She’s just down the hall.”

Sylvie Blaustein was Miss Pettibone’s only work friend. They weren’t social outside of College Hall but shared the same arch water-cooler disposition about the student body. They were about the same age, owned the same blouses and dangly earrings, and moved about their days holding mugs of flavored room-temperature coffee that looked almost as white as milk.

“Hey, Sylvie, thanks for popping in.”

“Hey, Vic. Who do we have here?”

“Here is Charlie Green.”

“Hello, Charlie Green.”

The two women leaned their rears against either desk corner, winking at each other and sipping coffee, loudly, then licking away the residue from their upper lips.

“Charlie wants to defer enrollment,” said Miss Pettibone.

“I see. What’s the story, Charlie?”

“I met someone.”

“Charlie’s a very bright and certain young man,” said Miss Petti-bone.

“I can see that. Listen, Charlie, have you talked this through with your folks?”

“I think he’s deliberating on that, Syl.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” said Syl, staring deeply into Miss Pettibone’s dark eyes. After she got what she needed, she turned to Charlie.

“Looks like you want out.”

“Looks that way,” said Charlie, angry that the sanctity of his Miss Pettibone time had been ruined by this coffee slurper.

“Then I suppose the next step is the paperwork,” said Sylvie, rolling up her sleeves. “We do need a signoff by the parents, Charlie.”

“I’m eighteen, they can’t force me to stay in school.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” said Sylvie. “I see where you’re coming from. Can we have a moment, Charlie? Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the P.

“You can leave your bag in here, Charlie,” said Miss Pettibone. “I’m sure we’ll be just a minute.”

There were a few kids in chairs, and Charlie was happy to sit below them on the marble floor, cross-legged and hunched over, rocking like an old Jew while his fate got decided. He considered donning the New Order yarmulke to complete the picture, but the other kids were deep inside course guides and wouldn’t even notice.

The typewriter sounds made eavesdropping impossible. What was there to talk about, anyway? He hoped the second lady wouldn’t extinguish Miss Pettibone’s youthful inner light. He could see it in her eyes when they spoke. Adults look nothing short of adorable when they slip out of their adult lives. Thank God it was Miss Pettibone and not the second lady who invited Charlie back in.

“We think we’ve found a compromise that might suit all parties,” she told him.

“You’re lucky Victoria believes in you, Mr. Green,” said Sylvie. “There’s an awful lot of students who are on a waiting list to join your freshman class.”

“We think you should enroll part-time, take two courses,” said Miss Pettibone. “Just two, then ease your way into things. Stay active in the community. That way, there’s no chance your enrollment will be revoked.”

“Suppose I say no?”

“At least continue with one course, Charlie,” said Miss Pettibone.

She was being sweet, and he could see the light in her eyes. She’s in love, too; we’re in the same club, age be damned.

“I’ll do the museum one.” That place had marble floors as well.

“Mr. Green, you’re not doing us any favors,” said Sylvie. Both women sipped from their mugs. Charlie hoped Miss Pettibone didn’t have bad breath, but was certain this other woman did, and that the tepid, treacly coffee, which was supposed to disguise the stink, actually caused it.

“It meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” said Miss Pettibone.

“That’s a rather short workweek, Mr. Green,” said Sylvie. “Okay, Vic, looks like we’re going out on a limb with this one. I’ll get the paperwork rolling.”

“Yes,” said Charlie, batting his long lashes at her until she saw in his face the preeminence of youth.

“Good luck Mr. Green.”

He was going to tell her that he didn’t need luck, but instead slipped her a wink, just like Jee-Jee did every day, everywhere, to men and women alike. He was great at it, and Charlie had inherited the skill.

“Oh, boy,” said Sylvie, and left.

“Today’s a busy day for me, Charlie, so I’m going to have to end our meeting, okay?”

Miss Pettibone’s next student was in an automated wheelchair that she operated with her toes, because her hands were malformed and stumpy.

“If you’re seeing Miss Pettibone, you’re with the best,” Charlie told her.

“Thank you for the endorsement, Charlie,” Miss Pettibone said as the wheelchair whirred past them into the office.

He wondered if she could have sex, the wheelchair girl. He felt bad for her and wished he could clone himself and instruct his clone to fall in love with her the way he loved Paula. Wait, am I a narcissist? He examined his soul for goodness, found some, then willed the wheelchair girl a life of real and surprising happiness even if it meant he’d die young or have to sacrifice something important. Just not Paula. Not Paula.

*

Charlie visited New Hope on Sundays, her day off. He slept in the room above the garage with the wedding grasshoppers, the TV Week collection, and the magical late-night visitations from his Plaza-robed lover. These were sixteen-hour dates, long enough to make parting painful for them both. Charlie would return to college, to his wide-open week and another countdown until the next date; and Paula to Martine’s, where she’d slowly twist her emerald ring around and around while she watched the beer tap fill mug after mug. They made a rule not to speak on the phone more than once during the week, and then only to plan the logistics of their next meeting. And there were letters. Long letters from her that smelled like her hair, written from her bedroom or from Martine’s, describing her day, her heart. She wasn’t accustomed to having a long-distance boyfriend; they’d all been in her face. Even though she was lonely during the workweek, she liked how Charlie called their segregation “literal lovemaking.” He’d mail her his short stories, about how Francis cleaned the frozen yogurt machine in Dining Commons, or about the sound Miss Pettibone’s heels made in the hallway outside her office. He’d written one about Nicoletta but did not send it. Mrs. Henderson had just about convinced her daughter that there were too many temptations at an Ivy League school such as Penn, and that Charlie wouldn’t be able to help himself. He’d leave her for “an intellectual.”

“You’d tell me if you ever had a change of heart about us, right?” she had asked Charlie.

“Impossible.”

“What is?”

“Impossible that my heart will change.”

“You could just say ‘yes,’ that you would tell me.”

“Impossible.”

In the middle of October, Charlie asked to cancel their date, because he and Francis had been invited to a wildly popular fraternity party. He did not want to be hungover in front of her the next day, an assured side effect of Sigma Alpha Mu’s “Sammy Fest.”

“Then don’t drink that much at the party,” said Paula.

“They make freshmen do shots in order to enter.”

“Doesn’t sound like your type of party.”

It wasn’t, but Francis, a Sammy pledge, had to work at Dining Commons late into that Saturday night, doing inventory, and had asked Charlie to escort the Lacrosse Girl, now his girlfriend.

“It’s the only thing he’s ever asked me to do,” said Charlie. “And I’ve asked him to do so many things. Most have been in the name of you.”

Paula understood, but when she woke up that Saturday morning, her stomach was knotted.

“You shouldn’t let him go to the party, Paula,” said Mrs. Henderson, stuffing her fanny pack for her weekly group walk along the river. “You might never hear from him again. Boys get a taste of those parties and get hooked on the action. Have you seen my Gator Gum?”

Paula’s knotted stomach wasn’t reassured by her pre-dinner-shift phone call to Charlie.

“Have fun tonight,” she said, “but be careful, you know?”

“Frat Haircuts don’t scare me. Not even Tommy scared me. Remember him?”

She did remember him, especially after a difficult phone call with Charlie. Tommy was so much simpler than Charlie. Irish drinks, Irish jokes. Somehow, Tommy’s infidelities were easier to deal with. They were simple. The thought of Charlie cheating—

“Just be good, okay?” she told Charlie. “I trust you.”

The knots were gone by the time her dinner shift was in full swing, but something else, something worse, was in their place. With Tommy, there was a limit to the pain he could make her feel. There was something superficial about it. She wore it on the outside of her body and brushed it off before the next date. Tonight’s discomfort was deep inside. If it got any worse, she’d need to lie down, but it lingered just below that threshold. Weapons-grade jealousy? True love? She wasn’t sure. But it felt like a new organ that hated its new home.