Chapter Twenty-nine
CHARLIE HELPED FRANCIS AND the Lacrosse Girl move into their off-campus two-bedroom apartment, sophomore year. It meant a day off of work for Charlie, on an early September Tuesday.
“She’ll come back, Charlie,” said the Lacrosse Girl. “Eventually.”
“Should we separate the refrigerator into two zones?” asked Francis.
Francis had told Charlie about their agreement: she was allowed to date other boys while Francis would remain faithful only to her. There were ground rules, however: the Lacrosse Girl vowed never to bring a date back to their new apartment, and Francis got a weekly sleepover.
Charlie had no time for modern arrangements. “You two should live as one,” he said. “Create something beautiful and indivisible.”
“Maybe one day,” said the Lacrosse Girl.
“Maybe next semester,” said Francis.
“I wish I knew where she was,” said Charlie. “I’d leave tonight. But Mrs. Henderson might not even know where she is, and if she did, she probably wouldn’t tell me.”
“Some girls like to be rescued,” said the Lacrosse Girl, peeling away Francis’s dividing line of fridge tape. “But from everything you’ve said, Paula doesn’t seem that way. She has her own sense of timing. Perfect, like a wild animal. When the time is right, she’ll know what to do.”
John had a darker perspective. “Europe gobbles up American girls, and most can’t find their way out of the belly of the beast. They sleep with married men. Usually butchers, fishmongers, ugly men with big hands. They get lost in lives not their own, turn into an old, bent-over Frenchwoman some tourist will point out in five decades. ‘Look at that poor old thing.’”
Charlie tried not to despair. She’ll realize that she overreacted, he reassured himself. Get the Frommer’s out of her system. She’ll miss me and call the beeper in the middle of the night: I’ll be home for Christmas. But there wasn’t a peep from her, nor a beep. Just the clothes she left behind, which Charlie would check on every night, just in case they’d been moved or altered. Her pile of underwear. If only she’d come home while Charlie was at work and unfold one, maybe throw it on the bed. A clear symbol of her return. Forgiveness. Lovemaking to follow.
“Maybe you should go back to school,” said the Lacrosse Girl. “You could crash on our couch.”
“Yeah,” said Francis. “Might as well get a degree while you wait for her, but it’s not a sleeper sofa.”
He’d entertained it for all of two seconds, but what if word ever got to her that he’d also abandoned ship for college—Nicoletta’s college? In novels, word always reached one of the estranged lovers. Maybe word will get to me first, he thought. All is forgiven, but I live in Marseille with my husband, the oyster shucker.
“I need to stay put, in New Hope, and just wait for her,” said Charlie.
“That’s romantic,” said the Lacrosse Girl.
“For me, it’s a matter of survival.”
“Well,” said Francis, “I hope you’ll come and visit us. You shouldn’t be alone all the time.”
“I will visit, but you should know I’m not lonely. Missing someone is a way of being with them. A horrible way, but a way, nonetheless.”
*
Francis and the Lacrosse Girl walked Charlie out. Moving had made them hungry, and there was a Hoagie Heaven right beneath their apartment. There was also a Hoagie Heaven right next to the Oyster House, where Charlie hadn’t set foot since before the wedding. He planned on walking there today in search of any news from Paula. Maybe she’d sent Cactus and Neil a postcard or confided something in a letter. Or maybe just stepping into the first temple of their togetherness would inspire the gods, and the young couple would be allowed to pass into the future together.
Charlie hugged Francis and the Lacrosse Girl. They told him to stop by later and see their apartment in its finished state, and he said sure, but the hug felt like a terminal goodbye. He watched them through the store window, holding hands in line and looking at the menu board, each of them pointing at their desired hoagie. Charlie wished they would turn around and point at him, the pariah who should exit their world at once, for their hearts were still developing. Theirs were minor muscles, while Charlie’s was tested; it had become a world-class muscle. My heart has turned pro, he thought, and touched his chest.
I will always remember them like this. Next in line at Hoagie Heaven. They will forget me, as they should; I’ll be a footnote on graduation day.
“Whatever happened to that kid?”
Better yet, I’ll be a small part of Francis’s smile when he throws his cap high in the air. Oh my brawny heart.
*
There was, in fact, a postcard behind Neil’s left shoulder. The Colosseum. Italy, of course. It was pinned over the one he’d sent from Paris. And behind that, dozens more. He could make out a pastel drawing of the Everglades, and perhaps an ancient one of Mt. Rushmore. Mailmen must love postcards. Or maybe it breaks their hearts. Surely postcards are little cries for help. Rescue me.
“Rome,” said Charlie.
“What about it?” asked Neil.
“The postcard.”
“Just got it yesterday. Didn’t think he was the postcard type.”
“He?”
“Tommy. Up and quit his job out of nowhere, the schmuck. Now he lives in fucking Italy.”
The tunnels beneath the Colosseum where the lions waited. The elaborate cages and tunnels that led to the arena. The lions teased into ferocity with cow bones and pig’s blood.
“What did he write?” asked Charlie. “Did he say anything about Paula?”
“I don’t really read those things. I just like the pictures.”
“Shit,” said Charlie. “He’s trying to pick up her scent. Could I have a martini, please?”
“Listen, kid. When I started working here as a busboy, there was a barmaid who looked like Liz Taylor. Took me a while, but we became a thing. Then a ritzy customer came in wearing a suit and tie. A sophisticate is what he was. Brought her flowers. Took her to see a show. He stole Sandra from right under me. Here’s your bowl of vodka.”
“I didn’t steal Paula from Tommy.”
“Sure you did, but that’s how things work. In fact, that’s one of the best reasons bars exist, so that sophisticates can steal the prettiest barmaids. Make them their own. Took me a while to realize that. But even to this day, I think she’ll walk back in here. Frankly, it’s the only reason I’ve stuck it out this long. Could have retired to AC a decade ago.”
“AC?”
“Atlantic City, asshole. It’s the Europe of Philly.”
“I just wish she would come back so I could explain.”
“What? You cheat on her?”
“Not exactly. I was kissed, and she—it doesn’t matter.”
“You really want her back?” asked Neil.
“Of course I do.”
“Cactus, watch the bar for me.”
Neil tossed his apron aside and made a beeline for the kitchen.
“Am I supposed to follow him?” Charlie asked Cactus.
“Yes,” said Cactus. “You’ll find him out back, in the trash alley.”
Neil was seated on a stack of wooden oyster crates branded KUMAMOTO, RASPBERRY POINT, NONESUCH. Why can’t life be as magical as the names of oysters? Charlie wondered while Neil smoked a cigarette with three fingers, as if the Pall Mall were a dart.
“So, Sandra, the love of my life gets snatched up by a sophisticate. So what does Neil do? He saves up every penny and buys the fucking joint. I put the business in Sandra’s name and mine so that if she comes back, she’ll know I’m in it for the long haul. That I mean business.”
“You bought the Oyster House? You own this?”
“Sandra and I own it, but don’t tell anyone. Only Cactus and a few other people know. Crumbs find out, they’ll stop tipping. Plus, I blame this make-believe owner schmuck for all sorts of shit.”
“But she hasn’t come back, right?”
“Not yet. I have a feeling the sophisticate one-upped me and bought her a boat. She loves to fish.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who knows,” said Neil. “Maybe she’ll get tired of island-hopping with the sophisticate and come through those doors during happy hour. Or maybe tomorrow afternoon, while the Crumbs are sucking down their scotch and sodas. You know, one of these days.”
“I hope Paula doesn’t meet a sophisticate.”
“Nah, she doesn’t care about boats and things like that.”
“You think Tommy went to Europe to find her? Should I go to Europe to find her?”
“What’s the name of the place you bartend at?”
“Martine’s.”
“Buy it.” Neil flicked his cigarette at a bucket of sand but missed. “Zilch for eleven this week. Got to get back to the bar, or the owner might get pissed.” Neil cackled, patted Charlie’s shoulder, and made his way past the oyster crates into the kitchen. “Que paso, banditos?” Charlie heard him yell.
He retrieved Neil’s errant cigarette and sat where he had sat. A flick of two fingers and it sailed right into the bucket. A bull’s-eye.
Kumamoto, Raspberry Point, Nonesuch.
Life is magic, he thought.
*
“I’m so sorry, Charlie, but the restaurant is not for sale,” Martine told Charlie.
“I think I could get close to two million dollars for my painting, maybe even more.”
“I don’t have any kids. I don’t have a husband. All I have is this place, and I love watching young people like you and Paula get your feet wet at Martine’s before moving on to do wonderful things.”
Martine was a tall woman with high cheekbones. There was something Native American about her. Paula had said that she was part Sioux. There was a serenity about her that Charlie hadn’t the heart to plead against.
“Well, would you mind if I put our honeymoon picture on the mirror, behind the bar?” he asked.
“That would be just fine.” Martine smiled sympathetically and patted Charlie’s shoulder.
Why does everyone pat my shoulder these days?
*
Six weeks to the day after he was kissed by the Very-Brown-Eyed Counselor, there appeared in Charlie’s mailbox a beautifully wispy Par Avion envelope. How it crinkled in his trembling hands. The postmark: Aix-en-Provence.
Dear Charlie,
First, I owe you an apology. I had a breakdown on the flight over and if it wasn’t for this girl I sat next to, I don’t know how I would have made it through that flight, through customs, through everything. So, I should have called you, or been in touch, and I’m sorry I didn’t, but I didn’t have the power to do much of anything until recently.
I have had lots of time to think. The girl I sat next to, she took me in. She and her family live in Aix, and I help them around the house and work at the local café.
I do not think I left you and New Hope because I saw you kissing some girl. That put me over the top for sure. (Who was she by the way? Are you still with her?) Until now, my life has been distant from me. Boys, boys, bars, bars, Tommy, you, shotgun wedding, miscarriage, all before 21. I haven’t lived. I feel as if life has lived me.
Things feel different and better here in France. Maybe it’s the new language? Maybe it’s the distance from anything and anyone I know? I don’t know, but I feel at peace. Maybe a little wiser. And grateful. That’s the word. I feel grateful for so many little things each day.
I’m not sure what the future will bring. I’m taking this new life day by day. I have to ask you not to come and try to bring me back home. I know that’s what you’ll want to do, and I’m trusting you with my address in case you want to write me back, but please let me be. I don’t think I’ve digested all that happened to me and us, perhaps one day when I’m sitting in my favorite lavender field (you should see it, so beautiful, Charlie) it will all come rushing back, and I’ll miss you. For now, I’m like Pink Floyd said, comfortably numb.
xo, p
*
“I scoured our memories for Pink Floyd and just couldn’t find anything,” Charlie said to John.
“I bet it’s the French girl from the plane. The French have the shittiest taste in music. Even when they like a great song, it’s for the wrong reasons. I bet she planted her headphones on Paula while she was having her meltdown, and on came ‘Comfortably Numb.’”
Charlie was halfway through a bottle of chardonnay, the letter ironed flat from the continual passing of his hand.
“She always signed our letters ‘xo, p,’ so that’s good.”
“Look, she wouldn’t have told you her address unless she actually wanted you to rescue her. What you need to do is call the travel agent, book a one-way, first-class ticket on Swiss Air—which is superior to Air France and their shitty Folger’s coffee, by the way—then you’ll want to spend a night or two in Paris to acclimate, then take the Eurorail to Aix. Book a room there for three nights in their best hotel. If it’s available, choose the honeymoon suite. Show up at her farm, or wherever the hell she is, at dusk, not the morning. Bring wine. And a single flower. Bring the letter and wave it at her.”
“She said not to go, John.” Charlie poured the second half of the bottle into a goblet. “Just made myself a Mom drink.”
“Listen: Shannon Chang is here—”
“Who?”
“Shannon Chang? Six-figure Shannon Chang, by far the hottest girl at work? Anyway, she’s a girl and she agrees with me, that you should go to her.”
“Even if I decided to, I don’t have the money for a trip like that.”
“I’ll loan you the dough. Just pay me when you get back. Sell your John Singer Sargent when the price is right.”
“I sort of wanted to be the only one in the family not to sell Grandma’s paintings.”
“Don’t be so self-righteous. Look, I’ll wire you ten K. Now go retrieve Paula.”
Paula. On anyone else, the name would sound so short and common, thought Charlie, but on her it was an ode to soft vowels. Paula. He closed his eyes and felt the peach of her navel against his lips.
“What time do you think the travel agent works until?”
*
John called the family agent, made all of the arrangements, and told Charlie to consider it a twentieth and twenty-first birthday gift.
“Buy a new outfit,” John had said. “White. White Levi’s and a white shirt, make it a button-down shirt, and tuck it in. She’ll know you mean business.”
He asked Martine for a week off and told her why.
“Of course. Good luck, Charlie,” she said, her Sioux cheekbones consulting with her tribe’s ancient American gods for a positive outcome overseas.
He was to fly out of JFK, via the TWA terminal that was shaped like the massive wings of a soaring phoenix, invoking his parents’ golden age of travel, the 1960s. He got to the airport hours early, nervous, wanting to cultivate a golden age of travel pre-flight buzz. He’d watched a couple say their goodbyes: the teary girl going Charlie’s way, and her boyfriend also blubbering, repeatedly bringing a keepsake to his lips. The girl had been gifted flowers. I hope they make it alive all the way to wherever she’s going. He’d sit next to the girl later at Flute’s, the terminal’s champagne bar, part of his mother’s lore. Always two glasses at Flute’s for good luck. The girl was on her second. She seemed so carefree, now. No more tears. No more flowers. He needed to know they weren’t discarded. He needed to know that her tears were as real as her boyfriend’s, that international airport terminal bars can’t just go and turn heartsick blood into bubbly.
“I saw you earlier,” said Charlie.
“Huh?”
“When you were saying goodbye.”
“Goodbyes suck,” she said. “Where are you flying to?”
“Paris. You?”
“Same!” Her second flute was half-full, but she ordered a third. “I’m not such a good flier. Need to be just a little tipsy. I’m Mallory, by the way.”
“Charlie.”
“Are you on the 8:55?”
“Yep.” John had booked him in first class. The odds they’d be seatmates were minimal. Charlie intended to use the flight to practice a new religion—one of deep thoughts of Paula. The Boodo Khan was loaded, both sides of the tape, beginning to end, “Comfortably Numb.” Mallory wore a hippie vest, lots of beads. She’d already moved her barstool closer to Charlie and had slid her Zippo and Marlboro Lights into his drinking territory.
“Listen,” she said. “I know this sounds weird, but we have, like, another two hours before we board. Do you want to hang out together? I get really nervous before these long flights.”
“What happened to those flowers?” asked Charlie.
“Huh?”
“The flowers your boyfriend gave you.”
“Oh, those? I left them in the ladies’ room. He means well, but it’s my junior year abroad. I’ve been with him since, like, freshman year, and—I don’t know, I just left them on the baby-changing table in the bathroom.” She waved her hand at the nuisance of flowers and lit a cigarette. “So, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing much. Listen, I’m traveling first class, and think I might go to the TWA lounge, so—”
“Oh, I’m traveling first, too. My boyfriend saved up and surprised me. Let’s finish these, then we can go to the lounge together.”
Fuck.
“What’s your seat number?” she asked.
“2G.”
“Shit. I’m 7B. Maybe we can switch?”
The boyfriend would be mortified, thought Charlie. He probably worked all summer to afford that seat.
“I’m actually going to the souvenir shop for my French relatives,” said Charlie. “So maybe I’ll just meet you at the Constellation Club.”
“Say what?”
“That’s the name of the lounge.”
“Oh, I could totally go shopping with you. It’s a specialty of mine.” She laughed heartily, turning Charlie’s stomach.
“Souvenir shopping for my French relatives is sort of sacred to me,” said Charlie. “So, I think I should do it alone.”
“I totally get it. Well, I’ll see you in the Star Club. Happy shopping!”
Charlie waited till she was out of sight, then raced to a dim Houlihan’s, lit like a New York subway platform. The demonic fluorescence will forbid her, he thought. And he never saw Mallory again—not in the airport, not when boarding, and not on the flight. It was possible she slipped by, though Charlie liked to believe the boyfriend came for her, proposing marriage in the Constellation Club. Or maybe she was struck by a rogue wave of guilt about the flowers and altered her life course.
Worse: perhaps while waiting for Charlie at the Constellation Club she fell asleep. Poor Mallory in her beaded vest, loopy from champagne. Ah, well, he thought, donning his headphones on the plane, I will not drink on this flight. Nope—nor will I eat, until that first a.m. croissant.
“Could you please wake me for breakfast?” he asked the stewardess.
After two champagnes and seven Houlihan’s double screwdrivers he was drunk. Drunk drunk. Paula used to say “You can get drunk, but never get drunk drunk, at least not in front of me. It scares me.”
Charlie began his loop of “Comfortably Numb.”
“Any dinner for you tonight?” asked the stewardess.
“No, thank you,” he slurred.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” said the stewardess.
“Numb,” he mumbled. “No pain.”
“I’m sorry, did you say you wanted champagne before takeoff?”
“Is there a girl in a beaded vest behind me, in the seventh row? 7B, I think?”
“7B’s actually our only empty seat.”
“Sure, I’ll have some champagne. She would have wanted me to.”
I shouldn’t have left her alone.
“No one should be alone, right?” he asked the stewardess. “Not even me?”
He fell asleep before the champagne reached his seat. The stewardess wrapped him in a blanket, turned off his seat light, and buckled him in, making certain no one was watching as she dabbed away his still-streaming tears.