Chapter Twenty-seven

“CHARLIE’S MOM WANTED YOU to have this envelope, honey,” Mrs. Henderson said to Paula while they waited for room service. They’d decided to remain in Paris for the final nights of the honeymoon. Paula and Mrs. Henderson were to share the king bed. Charlie would sleep on the couch.

“What is it?” asked Paula. It was Monday, dusk. Their flight home was on Wednesday morning. One precious day left, thought Charlie. One last chance to undo the trip’s deathly turn. But with Mrs. Henderson taking over cheerleader duties, Paris was reduced to its clichés.

“Well, open it and find out,” said Mrs. Henderson. “Can you believe I’m going to have frogs’ legs tonight after all these years? I was always curious what the fuss was. Go on, honey bunny, open it.”

Since the hospital, Paula mostly slept, and Charlie mostly drank. She’d wake up, tell him I love you, then fall back asleep.

He spent the last two afternoons reading their Frommer’s and writing letters to Francis and Miss Pettibone on hotel stationery. At first, he didn’t have the heart to ruin his perfect tale of autumn in Paris but couldn’t help but add the postscript: Paula lost the baby. We’re fine.

He sent a postcard to Neil, c/o the Sansom Street Oyster House: a photo of Hemingway at the Ritz Bar. The original Crumb, wrote Charlie. PS Paula lost the baby. We’re fine.

“You open it, Charlie,” said Paula.

“Well, someone should,” said Mrs. Henderson. “All Rose said was that it’s just a little something for Paula that can be all her own.”

His mother’s envelope smelled like her bedroom. Lilies of the valley. Overpowering. “It’s a note,” said Charlie. “And a check.”

Dearest Paula,

I wanted you to have something for a rainy day so you can treat yourself.

We love you and are so sorry about what happened.

Rose & Jee-Jee

“Wow,” said Charlie. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“What, that’s crazy,” Paula said from the bed.

“Oh my God,” said Mrs. Henderson. “We need to buy her something. Maybe a box of napoleons.”

“I can’t accept this,” said Paula.

“It would be rude to turn this down,” said Mrs. Henderson. “She’ll insist anyway, honey bunny.”

“Well, then I should call her,” said Paula. “Do you mind if I call her from the room? And I really don’t want to call her collect.”

“No, of course. Use the phone,” said Charlie. He wasn’t sure if he was proud of the ease with which his family could cut checks with all those zeros, or if he felt betrayed that his mother had, at least temporarily, made his wife the wealthier spouse.

*

On their final day, Paula felt well enough to go outside. Mrs. Henderson led the charge. Despite Charlie’s request that the day unfold easily and slowly, they were among the first tourists emptying out onto the Eiffel Tower’s observation deck.

“What a world,” said Mrs. Henderson from behind the coinoperated lookout binoculars, and Paula smiled for the first time in days.

“My mom’s not afraid to be happy,” she said.

It was precisely what the young couple needed to see, a survivor. Their last-day leader’s will to see it all and do it all was a shot in the arm for Charlie and Paula, who happily followed, happily listened to her tour book narrations about the City of Lights, until they came upon a group of college students on the Left Bank, laughing and flirting by a fountain. It was Paula who let go of Charlie’s hand, as if urging him to join his truest peers and reclaim his place as a freshman.

“Why’d we stop?” asked Mrs. Henderson. “I think I want crêpes for lunch.”

“Just give us a minute, Mom.”

“What is it?” asked Charlie.

“You know,” said Paula. “Those kids.”

They had, of course, caught his eye. Their vitality. White teeth and happy voices.

French Lacrosse Girls. French Francises. And a French Charlie in the mix as well.

“What about them?” asked Charlie.

“Maybe you should go back to college. I could live with Mom; you could visit me when you want. Lead a normal life. Now that the baby isn’t, well, here, there’s no rush to move in together.”

He envied the French students’ lightness, but he’d always envied the lightness of others. The kids who didn’t overthink every blasted thing. Who didn’t worry and want, but played, while Charlie sat with Angelina on a park bench, wondering when his life would start.

My life has started, thought Charlie. He grabbed his wife’s hand. “Crêpes it will be, Mrs. Henderson.”

“Charlie, look at me,” said Paula.

“No, you look at me. As soon as we get back, we’ll look for a place to rent in New Hope. I’m going to borrow money from John that I’ll pay back when I get my inheritance in the spring, plus I’m going to get a job.”

“We could use the money your mom gave me.”

“No. That’s yours.”

Paula held his face. “I’ve always wanted someone to grow up with. Really grow up with. Watch me become a woman, while I watch him become a man.”

*

They rented an old farm keeper’s cottage, restored as a one-bedroom duplex, with a backyard that sloped down to the river. A mere half-mile from Martine’s, where Charlie had started working as a waiter. He’d trail the Smiths bartender some nights, in the hope of one day becoming the head barman. Paula worked part-time at Grand Designs, selling scented candles and wispy scarves to her mother’s friends, and in her free time she was the homemaker. She wanted to impress Charlie with her young womanhood, her wife skills. If I can’t give him a baby, I’ll give him a home, she thought. Anything to keep him near and happy.

But it didn’t come naturally to her. Her mom was a pro. Mrs. Henderson didn’t need five rolls of paper towels to clean the tub, or need an hour to sew a button on Charlie’s shirt. And when she’d fail, she’d curl up in bed and pray to God that Charlie would forgive her, not leave her because of an under-seasoned meat loaf or another sexless week. Since the miscarriage, lovemaking was physically painful and just plain sad. All she wanted at night was her head on his chest, the banality of TV, a clean goodnight kiss.

“It’s fine,” he’d said. “We have our whole lives to sleep together.”

But her mother had warned her that when things go cold under the sheets, the party’s over.

Charlie wasn’t at all frustrated. He was fully invested in his Martine’s job, making practice drinks at home, his red Mr. Boston’s cocktail book always at his side. At work he’d all but befriended Gary, no longer wary of any man who’d inhabited Paula’s past. It was clear: Charlie and only Charlie was married to the most coveted girl in town, and it came with privileges. If they were late returning a video, no late fee. The manager of Blockbuster had a crush.

“How’s that wife of yours?” the guy at the wine store asked, throwing in a free corkscrew.

The weeks were deeply patterned. Movie night. Mrs. Henderson night. Groceries on Saturday and yard work on Sunday. Contentment sped up time. No sex, but no fights, either. And little on the horizon except for the late April day, Charlie’s birthday, and the delivery of a John Singer Sargent portrait of four daughters playing in the shadows. As per his grandmother’s wishes, it had a present value of just over two million dollars. When it came, they decided not to immediately sell it; they replaced Paula’s Frucor ad above their bed. It was a dim painting. A nineteenth-century doll lay lifeless at one of the girl’s feet.

“I could ask my mom for a different one,” Charlie had said to Paula, but she’d become attached to the little dolly.

“I love it. It reminds me of the strength you need to leave the dolls of childhood behind.”

She saw a therapist every other week and was on a drug called Prozac, which dulled her a little, a film of translucent bubble gum between her and the world. A subtle difference, but Charlie noticed. Or perhaps it wasn’t the drugs, but the serene marriage, the hand-me-down silverware that didn’t match? He found it all quaint and interesting. Collecting coupons and raking leaves.

“Weird existence for a nineteen-year-old millionaire,” John had said during a visit to Martine’s. “A Blockbuster drop-off box shouldn’t make you so happy.”

“But it does, participating in the Dignidad.”

“Angelina meant sacrifice; she didn’t mean talking to a bar customer about the durability of Weber grills while overthinking a Harvey Wallbanger.”

“It was a White Russian. You and I are different, John.”

“Look, Paula’s a sweetheart. And yes, she’s not bad-looking, but in ten years, when your friend Francis is fresh off his honeymoon and expecting a kid and making somewhere around—”

“Paula probably can’t have kids.”

“I just want you to know there are many fish in the sea who can.”

“Paula’s not a fish.”

“Listen, I have something for you.” Lying in both his palms was a black square with a belt clip.

“What is it?” asked Charlie, paranoid it was some sort of recording device. John could be merciless with Charlie’s intimate details.

“Are you serious? It’s my beeper.”

“I didn’t know you had a beeper.”

“Of course I had a fucking beeper. Everyone on Wall Street has one, but now I have a car phone, runs me $750 a month, but your beeper? Paid through for life.”

“Why do I need a beeper?”

“Look, that wife of yours should always be able to reach you. Mom and Dad agreed with me. When she—I mean if she gets in trouble—all she has to do is dial the number on the back, and it’ll beep, and show you where she’s calling from.”

John demonstrated, but instead of a beep, there were the low-techno notes to a song, a Christmas song.

“‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’?”

“It came preprogrammed that way. One day you’ll thank me.”

“I don’t want your creepy Haircut pals calling me.”

“No, idiot, it’s a new number; it’s written on the back. My old number is attached to the bomb. That’s what sweet six-figure Shannon Chang calls my car phone.”

“Thanks, John,” said Charlie, clipping the device to his belt, certain he’d wear it every day of his life.

*

In August, the Smiths bartender left Martine’s for nursing school and Charlie was given all of his shifts. He made his commute along the towpath, which he could join from his front door. The perfect icebreaker for tourists.

“You know that path that mirrors the river?” Charlie would say. “Well, mules used to tow barges all the way to Philadelphia. Barges full of supplies that helped us win the Revolutionary War.”

The towpath’s canal was usually filled with water, but this summer it had been sapped by the sun and barely on the fragrant side of putrid. The sunflowers that exceeded Charlie, the scraps of metal that glimmered as he walked by; the towpath is helping me win my evolutionary war, he thought. He’d gained muscle over the months, doing yard work, and didn’t want the summer to end. Behind the bar, he felt competent, in charge; the same was true at home, despite their infrequent lovemaking. The man of the house had grown some scruff on his face and was supporting them in every way. He’d all but stepped into manhood, in work boots, at the age of nineteen, his penny loafers on the furthest closet shelf. The Boodo Khan? Dead batteries for half a year, now.

*

Topless, Gary skulked in on a slow Saturday afternoon. “Look at that little beard you’re trying to sprout,” he said, rubbing Charlie’s chin.

“Don’t touch the bartender. Never touch the bartender.”

“You and all your rules.”

“You’re lucky I don’t make you wear a shirt, Crumb.”

“I’m not a Crumb, dude.”

In walked a girl in a short summer dress wearing glasses, strands of her brown hair dyed technicolor. She stopped before the bar, placed her hands on her hips, and rolled her tongue against her cheek.

“Bet you don’t recognize me,” she said to Charlie.

“I remember customers by their drinks. White wine spritzer? No, that’s someone else.”

Monica Miller was the only real brunette he knew, and this girl shared little. Shorter and bustier, and her navel, exposed by a knotted T-shirt, was tight, athletic. Monica Miller’s navel was buttressed by a mound of baby fat that Charlie had once found quintessentially feminine, and Paula had neither fat nor an athlete’s muscle, just soft white skin.

“The last time you saw me, I was a chubby little Madonna freak, sobbing because you didn’t like girls with brown eyes.”

“The barkeep, here,” said Gary, “has made quite a splash in our little town.”

“I looked for you at Penn, and your roommate said you left for here. What happened?”

“It’s a long story. And a good one,” said Charlie. “Brown eyes. Oh my God, you’re the Very-Brown-Eyed Counselor!”

“It’s Lucia, Charlie. Remember? Rhymes with fuchsia?”

“Right, of course. Wow, you look different.”

“I joined Stanford crew. We’re Division I, by the way. No rowboats, like at camp.”

“Lucia. God, what a great name.”

“It’s all I know, and slightly less demeaning than the Very-Brown-Eyed Counselor.”

“Charlie here likes names,” said Gary. “Names and eyes. What did he say about Paula? ‘Colors like places in the Caribbean where God kicked over the inkwells.’ Can’t he just say blue?”

“I know, I know, light eyes,” said Lucia. “You know, you really got under my skin with that whole eye obsession. I got colored contact lenses and they scratched the shit out of my retinas, and now I’m stuck with glasses forever, but a lot of guys at Stanford like a girl in glasses.”

“I’m so sorry, Lucia.” What a tight little tummy, thought Charlie. Good for her. “So, what brings you to New Hope?”

“Eventually,” said Gary, “everyone stops here, and then they get the hell out. Well, most of them. Cheers, Lucia.”

“So, what happened at school?” asked Lucia

“I’m on an open-ended life break.”

“Jeez.”

“At first, we all thought he was playing townie with the town princess,” said Gary, standing to stretch and show the bespectacled girl the tangle of his armpits, “but he hasn’t missed a day of work.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” she asked.

“Ah, a fine question—”

“Actually, whatever, I don’t really care. It’s just sort of gross.”

“It’s really good to see you. I miss that summer.”

“You mean last summer?”

“So much can happen, freshman year,” said Charlie, wiping down a brass beer tap for effect.

“Can I have a beer or something?” asked Lucia.

“I should probably ask for ID, but we’re old friends, so—”

“He carded me on his first day,” said Gary, “and I’m ancient. My name’s Gary, by the way.”

“Lucia, well, by now you know. Rhymes with—”

“That really is a beautiful name,” said Charlie. He wished he’d known it better last summer. Everything could have been different. Rowing crew, he thought. Of course. Something like crew was all she needed. And her eyes, more honey brown than mud brown, sparkling behind those big lenses.

“Well, Charlie, I was always a fan of your colorful surname.”

“We should hang out,” said Charlie. “My shift’s almost over.”

“Sure,” she said. “I didn’t come all the way here to see Mr. Smelly Pits.”

“Deodorant is for phonies,” said Gary.

“Is Charlie a phony?”

“Charlie? Nah. He’s a romantic.”

“Reformed romantic,” said Charlie.

“Bullshit,” said Gary.