 |  |
Monday, September 16th
It was seven a.m. on a Monday morning, and Charlotte showed up for work with an everything bagel and the big red mug of coffee despite the fact there was no work to show up for. The email inbox held more junk than missives from colleagues and friends, so she browsed through her various social media accounts to find out what everybody was up to.
The furor over the sudden loss of jobs when the magazines folded had died down only slightly, with many of her former colleagues still in shock or feeling outrage, some of it aimed at Charlotte herself under the assumption that she knew what was going to happen and didn’t warn anyone. A key few, however, seemed absent from the discussion entirely. Where were they? Some said that the absentees had found work elsewhere, or had life-raft work lined up before their own ship sank. Could it be so? For that matter, were there any jobs out there in such a shrinking field?
She thought of rival magazines and trade publications which would make a good fit for her, and checked their online editions and made various inquiries. With Olivia’s death, Charlotte felt it was likely the transcription and editing job would be canceled or delayed indefinitely, and if she needed to stay in the design field, she had best do so while she still had fresh credentials and contacts.
The jobs boards showed little that was current, unless she wanted to jump fields and edit publications for gun aficionados, which was highly unlikely. Out of curiosity, she went back through the listings for the past several weeks to see which design-related publications had posted jobs, then to the publications themselves. And there they were, the colleagues missing from the forum discussions, already holding masthead or department positions. Charlotte contacted three of them, and learned that they had, indeed, known the end of the publications was coming, and were surprised that she hadn’t also known and acted on it. Charlotte looked through the backlog of messages and emails from the weeks before Ellis went to Paris, spotting cryptic messages from these very people, carefully worded invitations to lunch or drinks or online chat rooms. She had been too busy and too emotionally distracted by the prospect of Ellis leaving home to read between the lines, to make the time to join in.
The realization that she had left herself professionally vulnerable and out of the loop manifested itself as heartburn before she could even put it into words in her mind, and as the words finally did form, it really was your own damned fault, her chest tightened and her heartbeat fluttered, the old signs of an incipient panic attack.
Breathe, she told herself. Shallow at first, then deeper and slower as the seconds and minutes ticked by. It’s too late now, the damage is done, and maybe—just maybe—it was something her subconscious mind actually wanted, a change in her own life as large as Ellis’? As the hands of her inner control freak loosened their strangulating grip on her windpipe and stopped pouring acid into her stomach, she even managed a little smile as she saw the three “For Sale” signs up and down the street from the window in front of her desk. In a way, she’d been as vulnerable to suggestion as her intended magazine audience.
It wasn’t as obvious as the words “For Sale” working on her mind in subliminal ways. Rather, it was the shift in what they meant. When this all started, she knew deep down that life wasn’t going to be the same without Ellis, nor were her relationships with her neighbors, and these things in turn changed the value of her house, the value of her lifestyle, and, by extension, the value of her job. Her line of work, the world of predicting, reporting on, and marketing design trends, meant constantly changing and updating the notion of what was desirable, and doing so in ways both obvious (the “new succulent plums” over last year’s “tired old teal”) and subliminal (an evocative photo of a chair draped with a soft, luxurious shawl in a deep purple cashmere).
Changing and updating the notion of what was desirable was also an essential part of marketing in a capitalist economy, inspiring consumers to purchase new fashions or new cars, tying in an ability to display what was desirable to own with one’s sense of self-worth. It wasn’t something Charlotte took seriously in the days before writing about it regularly and moving to Lake Parkerton, and in fact at first it was fun, like getting paid to shop and compare purchases with other shoppers. But then it changed, becoming more serious the more she was drawn into the world of design and marketing, the more responsibilities she had as she moved from staff writer to the editorial teams, where the financial clout of the advertisers determined policy. The better she got at her job, the more she bought into the values it promoted, without ever fully realizing it.
When the economy crumbled and people no longer spent money decorating their increasingly devalued homes, the advertisers in turn could no longer contribute their revenue to the magazines. The signs of the troubles to come, however, were in the neighborhoods and shops long before they were in the editorial offices. And she hadn’t been paying attention to those signs, either.
The meaning of things could be changed deliberately by marketing, but they could also be changed inadvertently by time, place, or circumstance. Either way, she thought, humans can perceive these changes and change their actions and their own value systems accordingly. As Charlotte considered the changes that occurred over the past few weeks, the desire to step outside of the deliberate, marketed side of things became stronger and clearer. Independence was now the most beautiful and desirable thing in the world, principally financial independence, but of a kind that turned commonly held values on their head.
It did not matter, she thought, if one was wealthy or not: the less you felt compelled to spend, the more less income sufficed. Diane suggested that downsizing and selling everything was a temporary move until Charlotte rebuilt her career and income, but the more she thought about it, the less she wanted to work in a field that depended on convincing people like herself to buy what they really didn’t need, to make them think that there was something better than what they already had. She logged out of the chat rooms and closed the tabs for the magazine websites.
Every Monday for the past several years, Charlotte sat down in her office and wrote her editorials and blog posts for the magazines. It was a simple and gentle way to begin the work week, a routine that helped her to stay on track, often a problem for telecommuters. Once a post was written, the other routines seemed to fall into place. The sudden reality of not having a post to write, let alone two or three, made her restless. A writer, after all, has to write, just like a cat needs to stretch and sharpen its claws. She needed to write, just to be writing, to organize stray thoughts into coherent ones, to express herself, to feel a little more real now that there was no longer a readership to provide feedback.
Should I start a personal blog? She wondered if she should, to keep her byline, C. K. Anthony, out there and alive—and findable on the Internet. What would she blog about? What was fit for public consumption? Clearly, she couldn’t write publicly about what happened to Olivia. She also couldn’t write about the transcription project, assuming it would even continue with Olivia’s death. And she didn’t really know what to say about her own circumstances that wouldn’t make her look pathetic to her former co-workers and employers, or to prospective ones. As she thought about this, a pickup truck with the Bysell Realty logo pulled up in the front of her house. The muscular young driver pulled out a sturdy timber For Sale sign from the back and began to set it into the ground.
She could write for herself for the time being, keep a journal of sorts. She kept one while going through the divorce and getting settled here, and on and off through the years, but nothing regular. There was a journal template in her writing software, so she opened it and set up something simple, a plain screen with a blank white rectangle page on which there was only a blinking cursor at the top left. A fresh start. She began to type.
Every Monday for the past several years, I’ve sat down at this computer to write editorials and blog posts, and I signed them “C. K. Anthony.” But today, there is no C. K. Anthony. There’s only me, Charlotte, a woman in limbo, and on this particular Monday I’m watching a young man install a For Sale sign in my front yard. I feel both loss and anticipation, of being neither here nor there....
Charlotte and Helene sat in the quietest corner of The Coffee Grove. The proprietor, a lanky man in a gray ponytail and round wire-rimmed glasses named Jimmy Frobisher, brought over a tray with lattes in big white cups and plates with croissants. “Ladies,” he said in a soft easy tenor. “Fresh from la boulangerie, and a square of chocolate to round it out.” Jimmy was very fond of Helene. Charlotte noted that just about all men (and here she thought of Simon) were fond of Helene. She also remembered Jimmy before his hair went gray.
“And welcome back, Charlotte,” said Jimmy. “It’s been a long time.” He gave Helene a hug and his condolences before returning to the counter.
Charlotte smiled with anticipation as she opened her napkin. “You know, I always used to think that the French had croissants for breakfast every day, and a lot of other rich things, too.”
“Oh my goodness, no! Not unless you want to get very fat. They’re really a treat, or for company, or for eating out when they’re ‘fresh from the boulangerie,’” She pulled a tiny bite off the end of her croissant and ate it slowly. “Of course,” she smiled after a sip of latte, “there are frequent reasons to celebrate and have a treat or eat out, too.”
“The French paradox.” Charlotte dipped the end of her own croissant in the latte, and relished the blend of coffee and pastry, a treat that was now no longer in her budget, but she was here at Helene’s invitation. “Jack and I used to eat these like mad for years, and filled with all kinds of things, and also with extra butter and jams and such. Wow.” She shook her head at the memory of youthful metabolism. “We bought the mass-produced ones, of course, some already filled with ham and cheese, and we’d just pop them in the toaster oven. They don’t compare with these.”
“I should hope not, but I’ve had that kind, too. Evidently more and more in France are mass-produced, as well. Very sad.”
Helene looked out the window at the people and cars going by, her expression neutral, but Charlotte knew her sadness about Olivia was very close to the surface.
“Do you miss France? Or Monte Carlo?”
Helene turned back, and managed a smile. “I don’t know if I would call it missing, because that was then and this is now. Even if I could go back to Monte Carlo, what made it what it was for me is no longer there. We left, after all, in 1941. I was just barely nine years old.”
“Olivia would have remembered Paris, though, right?”
Helene nodded. “Olivia was born in 1921, and I came along in ‘32, the year we moved to Monte Carlo.”
“That must have been a beautiful place to live, very glamorous, and seeing all the famous people and the race cars.”
“Oh, it was! And we lived in one of the grandest villas, too.”
“So your family was wealthy?”
Helene burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Oh, heavens, Charlotte, no! We were just plain lucky. Our father was a sous-chef in Paris in the twenties, at one of the more exclusive restaurants. Eventually he was noticed by Beaufort Lamont, a wealthy American with a place in Monte Carlo. Mr. Lamont was a widower with two children. He entertained lavishly, as the wealthy did in Monte Carlo, and he asked Papa to come and be his chef. It was a no-brainer for our father: good money, regular money, and a chance to shine professionally. Best of all, in my mother’s opinion, we would have our own apartment in the villa, as Mr. Lamont had more room than he knew what to do with. We moved there shortly after I was born, so I only know Paris from occasional visits and when Paul and I lived there for a year.
“Olivia, however, loved Paris, and adored Papa’s sister Anastasia, who had a bookshop on the Left Bank and knew all sorts of writers and artists. When she was a teenager, Olivia drove our mother crazy until she promised to let her stay in Paris for a few weeks with Aunt Sasha. Then she would make regular visits, sometimes staying for a month or two at a time. Olivia wanted to be a writer, and thrived by being around writers. To me she seemed so glamorous and independent, and I was sure she was going to be a famous writer, just like Collette.
“The last time she stayed with Aunt Sasha, it had to be 1939, because France had just declared war on Germany, and my parents were out of their minds with worry that Olivia would be stuck in Paris, which the Germans would be more likely to either bomb or occupy, while we were relatively safe in Monte Carlo. Mr. Lamont sent Papa in a car with a chauffeur to go and get her. We were getting nervous, too, because Mother was Jewish, and we were hearing of all sorts of atrocities. Olivia was so upset that Aunt Sasha chose to stay in Paris, but then Paris was declared an Open City in the spring or summer of 1940, so we kept our fingers crossed that our aunt would be okay.”
“Your mother was Jewish, but your father wasn’t?”
Helene nodded. “My mother was from Scotland. There was a sizable community of Jewish scholars there. My grandparents took her on a European Tour, and happened to stay at my French grandmother’s lodgings in Paris, and that’s how she met my father and a long-distance courtship ensued. My grandfather was evidently not too happy that mother was marrying “a cook,” but when he saw how well-educated Aunt Sasha was, he realized it was a family after his own heart, and gave his consent.”
“That’s a great story!” said Charlotte. “So if your mother was from Scotland, you must have learned English from her?”
“That’s right. Mother was a whiz at languages, and made certain we were as fluent in English as in French, with passable German and Italian, as well. Mr. Lamont asked her to translate on quite a few occasions.”
“Your mother sounds like an amazing person. I take it that your family didn’t stay during the war, though?”
“No, thank heavens, but it wasn’t easy to get away. Mr. Lamont realized it was time to go back to the States, to his flat in Manhattan, and he wanted to bring the entire household along, chauffeur, chef, butler, housekeeper, the whole kit and kaboodle, even the piano teacher, but to his great surprise he couldn’t get visas. It was simple enough in the past, but all of a sudden the United States got very fussy about issuing visas. Later we realized it was because they didn’t want an influx of German spies posing as Jewish refugees.” Helene paused, as if she still thought it was preposterous that her family could ever be suspected of being German spies.
“I can’t imagine how worried your family must have been, not knowing if they could get away,” said Charlotte.
Helene nodded. “Money eventually talked, or at least Mr. Lamont did a lot of talking to one of the American ambassadors in Marseilles. Months of talking, actually. The ambassador was secretly trying to get as many Jews out of France as he could, but could only do it by issuing forged visas. I think we got out at nearly the last possible minute!
“I fell in love with our new home, the incredible view of the city and Central Park, the sense of being safe because my parents and Mr. Lamont weren’t so worried anymore. I got full run of the music room, because by this time Mr. Lamont’s children had all grown up, and I continued my studies at Juilliard. There were so many wonderful teachers there, a lot of Russians who came here because of the Revolution or the First World War, and then like us, the Nazis and another war. For a few months I even studied with Siloti, who was one of Franz Liszt’s most renowned students; his cousin was Rachmaninoff, who we got to hear perform several times. So many wonderful artists and teachers.” Helene’s expression was wistful.
“Did Olivia take to life in America?”
Helene shrugged. “Not so much. Olivia went to Columbia University soon after our arrival. She had always had a single-minded intensity about her writing, but she changed a lot during her time in university, developed a wild streak. She seemed more brittle, and always angry, impatient with America for not getting involved in the war soon enough. She went back to Paris as soon as she could after it was over.”
By this time they’d long finished their lattes, and Jimmy brought them regular coffees to nurse while Helene continued her reminisces.
“Olivia went to live and work at Aunt Sasha’s bookstore, it was called “Sibylline,” and like some others they had their own little literary magazine or journal, too, but by this time Aunt Sasha was dead—something to do with the war—and her partner Henriette was running it. Olivia published her poetry and stories in Sibylline and in a couple of the other literary magazines over there, and also back here in the States. In time she took over Henriette’s editing duties. But Henriette was ill, and the bookstore was struggling—she eventually had to sell it to pay her bills. After she died, Olivia came back and lived in Greenwich Village for a while. I saw her every now and again, because the music students at Juilliard would go down to the Village or up to Harlem, and Olivia and her crowd loved jazz. I’d sometimes meet up with her when she was on her way to some club or other. But we traveled in different circles. She loved to dance, jazz dancing in particular. That reminds me, I found a picture of her from those days, and brought it to show you—.”
Helene rummaged through her purse and pulled out a black-and-white photograph of a classic Beatnik girl in tight black capris, striped French boatneck sailor top, and black ballet flats. Her dark hair was pulled back into a pony tail. It was the eyes that Charlotte recognized, dark and daring, looking right into the camera. Olivia Bernadin had once been a strikingly beautiful woman, but the eyes said that her beauty was irrelevant to her.
“I’m so glad you showed me this. I can just tell she was unconventional, as well as beautiful.”
“Oh, that she was, much more than I was, certainly. It wasn’t long after that photo was taken that I got a postcard from France—Olivia was in love with a writer, living in Paris, and writing some plays. After that, I heard almost nothing from her, nor did our parents, for two or three years. One day out of the blue she shows up with an American army officer for a husband—and a baby boy. I don’t know for certain where she met Ronson, but I think at the time he was stationed at the American base in Orleans. Maybe they met at a nightclub. He was a rigid, traditional sort of man, the perfect soldier. We all wondered what in the world he saw in her. Maybe opposites attract? They moved here when he was given a new duty station, because it is halfway between Camp Atterbury and Fort Custer. Not quite sure what he did, but he was gone a lot, mostly to one base or the other, and especially during the Vietnam War.
“Then, as you know, Olivia evidently stopped writing. She never did do anything more with her education and talent, just stayed home, a wife and mother and homemaker. In fact, she went from completely wild and independent to quite stodgy and even critical of my life as a pianist and the wife of an architect. I just assumed it was because we traveled so much and never had children. Paul always said that she was jealous and disappointed, but I didn’t want to believe it of her.
“Ronson seemed to not care if she was happy or not. He did provide for her and Donovan, but he wasn’t engaged, if you know what I mean. I know she went on various antidepressants through the years. You could tell when she wasn’t—she’d fly off the handle at stupid stuff, slap Donovan if he didn’t hand out Christmas presents fast enough, snap at us all. Even through those fits Ronson seemed unconcerned, just ignored it and went through all the motions of doing what was needed—everything except a hug, it seems.
“But after he died, about five years ago, I would hear from her a little more often. After a time, I could say that we had something of a restored relationship, if not close, but there we were, both widows, and her own child so absent that she might as well be as childless as I am. Perhaps old age is a bit of an equalizer. Or maybe she just felt freer to say and do what she wanted once Ronson was gone. At any rate, it seemed reasonable to move here, and closer to her, when the house at Lake Parkerton was just too much and too far from things I needed.
“Sometimes she’d open up a bit and tell me more about her time in Paris, both before and after the war. She’d met Hemingway, Jean-Paul Sartre, James Baldwin, and so many others. And she’d talk about Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs, she knew them when they were still in New York, and there were several others in that circle. She never did say which one she was in love with. Once she married Ronson, though, I don’t think she ever went to either New York or Paris again.”