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Tuesday, September 17th
Donovan Targman unfolded himself from the armchair and rose to shake hands with Charlotte as Helene introduced them. He was thin and looked much taller than he actually was, in part because his sports jacket was slightly too big in the body and slightly too short in the sleeves, in part because of the shock of auburn hair that rose up nearly two inches before it draped over to the sides. He had the bony, long-fingered hands of a pianist, but they bore the scars and calluses of manual labor. He looked sadder than Charlotte had expected him to be, given Helene’s description of his relationship with his mother. Or perhaps he was simply tired or unwell; his glasses emphasized his eyes with black rectangular frames over slightly sunken cheeks. His manner was pleasant, if somewhat quiet; there were awkward silences during which he looked preoccupied and nervous, rubbing his hands, and he glanced frequently at a simple bronze urn on the coffee table. Charlotte did, too, as she had never seen it before, and then it dawned on her that it held Olivia’s ashes.
During one such awkward moment, Helene brought Charlotte up to speed.
“I was saying to Donovan that I was so sorry we couldn’t find him before Olivia passed away, but....”
“That’s okay, Aunt Helene, really,” said Donovan, as if he felt bad that she felt bad. “You know how hard it could be to do the normal family thing with my mother. And I did speak to her not too long ago.”
Charlotte found herself wanting to know more about this unusual-looking man. “Did you have far to travel, Donovan?”
He shook his head. “No, actually. Just down from South Bend.”
“Ah, that’s not so bad, then. Have you lived there long?”
“Just a few years, worked in Elkhart before that, Detroit before that, and, just, you know, where the work was.”
“What kind of work do you do? Oh, I’m so sorry,” Charlotte stopped herself. “I don’t mean to interrogate!”
He smiled a little and laughed. “It’s okay. At the moment, not much. Automotive type work, factory, repair shops. Economy’s shot, my health isn’t the best—not a lot of options out there. You could say I’m between gigs at the moment.”
Donovan was leaning forward in the chair, arms on knees and hands loosely clasped, making him look as if he was all limbs, and a bit lean and hungry.
Helene leaned forward and patted his hands. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing, because dealing with your mother’s house is going to be a job and a half.”
He rolled his eyes and nodded in agreement. “I was thinking of having an auction or something, just getting it dealt with, but maybe I should take my time and just put a few things on eBay. Don’t know, though, if I want to stay in the area. Was thinking of going down to Mexico or Costa Rica. The winters here are getting to me and the dollar goes a little further there.” He was rubbing his hands again as if they hurt, but Charlotte wondered if it was simply a nervous tic, he did it so often.
“Have you been to Mexico or Costa Rica before?” asked Helene.
“Mexico once, long time ago. But I’ve been to Arizona in the winters a few times and I think maybe it would be good to relocate altogether.”
“I sympathize about the economy,” said Charlotte. “I’ve taken a hit with my work, too, and have to rethink a few things.”
“Yeah? What’s your line?”
“I was a writer and editor for design publications. The two main magazines I wrote for have folded, and others are reorganizing, going online instead of in print.”
He nodded his understanding. “It’s not like it was for our parents’ generation, is it? No working at one place until you retire, and a little nest egg to live on until you die.”
“No—no, it’s not. So many of my neighbors have either lost their jobs, or they’re underwater on their mortgages, or have health problems with unimaginable medical bills, or even a combination of those things. A lot of credit card debt, too. Saw a Hummer being repossessed the other day.”
He grinned, one side of his mouth turning up more than the other. “Yeah, I’ve seen that, too, some nice cars, big trucks and fancy SUVs, there they go, bye-bye.”
Charlotte thought he was funny at first, and laughed, but then sensed there could be a tinge of his mother’s hard-done-by spiteful glee in others’ misfortunes. She glanced at Helene, who was smiling more politely than genuinely.
Helene hesitated for a moment, then gestured toward Charlotte. “Charlotte is here because she is not only a close friend of mine, she is a professional writer. Your mother had just hired her to find and transcribe her notebooks, and then to edit them into something that could be published.”
Donovan looked puzzled. “What notebooks?” There was complete silence while Helene and Charlotte took in the significance of his statement.
“Did you even know your mother was once a writer?” asked Charlotte.
“I knew that, yeah, but it wasn’t talked about like it was anything special. I thought maybe it was just a newspaper article or something like that.”
“Oh, my,” Helene sighed. “She had published several stories, books of poetry, and a couple of plays. She was commissioned to write a screenplay before she married your father. Then she stopped. Just stopped.”
Donovan looked as surprised as if someone had told him his mother was a secret agent. “I had no idea Mom had so much going for her. What happened? What made her marry somebody like my dad and leave all that behind?”
Helene shrugged. “I don’t know. You have to realize that times were very different back then, women still had a difficult time professionally, even as writers, and many women were pressured to give up their careers if they married. Your father was a military man, very conservative and strict, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had something to do with it.”
Donovan’s eyes went dark and sharp and his jaw tensed. “I hated him. He would never let my mother do anything kind for me, saying I had to learn to be a man, be tough. Even before I got into high school. When he would stay on the base for a while, things would be a little better, but I would still be angry at Mom for letting him be so abusive to us both. She would be angry, too. Sometimes I didn’t know if she was angry at him for the abuse, or angry at me for existing. It drove me crazy. I’d sneak out at night to have fun with my friends or even just to do something I wasn’t supposed to do, and the older I got, the more I just did what I wanted to do, even when she’d whale on me. After getting knocked around by the old man, she was nothing. But then she’d be all sorry and wonderful and really interested in me, and I’d fall for it again and again. I loved her. I hated her. But him, I just plain hated.”
Charlotte listened in silence. This was not the time to reveal Olivia’s harsh account of Donovan’s dying father.
Helene seemed to age visibly as she took in this account of her sister’s and nephew’s life; the circles under her eyes darkened and her voice became less clear. “Oh, Donny, I had no idea it was that bad. I wish your mother would have said something. I should have realized her moodiness was from a terrible marriage. Your mother and I had not been in touch very often between the time you were born and a couple of years ago, even though we didn’t live far apart for the last twenty years. She didn’t really start opening up until after your father died, so I’m sure he was the biggest obstacle in all of this. When Paul and I would have dinner with you all during Christmas or Thanksgiving, it always seemed strange and tense.”
Donovan shrugged, resigned about the past. “It was rough. None of my friends lived like that. If their dads were abusive, it was usually from drinking. These days it’s harder to get away with that kind of thing, but back then nobody got between parents and kids unless it happened right out in public, which I don’t remember ever happened. It was always in the house, in private.” Donovan gazed out the doors to the veranda. “He wanted me to go into the army, my mother wanted me to go to college, and I didn’t want part of either one. I left home the day I graduated from high school, and went to work in the mill.”
Helene’s phone rang and she went into the kitchen to take the call. Donovan looked down at his hands and began rubbing them. Charlotte remained silent; she was at a loss for something to say, and couldn’t stop thinking about Olivia’s hatred for Ronson as he lay dying. No wonder she wrote what she did.
Helene came back in, looking distressed. She held the cordless phone out to Donovan. “It’s your mother’s lawyer. He wants to talk to you.”
Charlotte rose and offered to make tea, uncertain what to say or not to say in front of Donovan. Helene nodded, but didn’t take her eyes off Donovan as he spoke on the phone.
Something was clearly up, and Charlotte assembled the tea as quietly as she could in order to listen to whatever snippets of conversation came from the sitting room. The electric kettle began rattling as it heated the water, however, and drowned out everything until a sudden shouted “What?”
She went to the archway between the rooms to see Donovan, who was now standing and staring at Helene in a mixture of disbelief and outrage, his hand holding the phone dangling at his side.
“You have got to be kidding! What have you two old bats done?”
Charlotte could hear the lawyer’s voice coming through the phone and Helene went over to take it from Donovan, but he pulled it away and spoke into it himself.
“You have no idea what pile of troubles this has caused, and it will be challenged!” He then pointed the phone at Helene as if it was a gun. “And you will be, too!”
He was so furious that he threw the phone at the urn, knocking it over, and stormed out of the condo.
Helene was shaking, and Charlotte put her arms around her and led her back to the sofa.
“What happened, Helene?”
Helene took a deep breath and shook her head in disbelief. “It’s Olivia’s will. She’s evidently left me the contents of the house, and named me as executor. There’s some other things, too, but that’s the main thing. Donovan can’t sell the house or even take possession until after I deal with the contents.”
This was clearly unexpected, Charlotte thought. It was also a little unfair, given how much there was to deal with.
Helene’s own outrage grew the more she thought about it. “That dratted sister of mine! What was she thinking? What on earth am I going to do with a house crammed with all that junk? This is her way of getting back at the both of us, Donnie and me both! Paul was right about her—this is sheer spite!”
“Let me bring you some tea, and then call the attorney back and maybe make an appointment?”
Helene just nodded and stared out the French doors and at the garden beyond. Charlotte worried that all the stress would hurt her friend’s health. She picked up the urn from the floor and set it back on the coffee table, grateful that the lid hadn’t popped off and spilled the ashes.
While Helene talked to the attorney—and she made no secret of her dismay—Charlotte considered this new side of things. As Diane said, the first thing to consider is who benefits by someone’s death, and the most obvious one was Donovan, or at least would have been Donovan in most circumstances. His outburst, while disturbing, was understandable, especially if he was counting on it to make a move to a warmer climate. Charlotte, however, couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection between Donovan’s reaction to the terms of the will and the violence surrounding his mother’s death. What if he was the one Olivia had hit with the bat? And if he was the one who pushed her? If Olivia hit him first, one could understand his reacting instinctively, and pushing her away in self-defense, even if the intent was not to hurt her or kill her. But he did not appear to have any injuries, or to move as if he’d been beaten with a baseball bat. And if her head injury wasn’t intended, wouldn’t he have called for an ambulance? Or would he?
Donovan had appeared tired, and somewhat ill at ease. He almost constantly rubbed his hands as if they hurt, and indeed the knuckles were knobby from arthritis. But hand-wringing could also mean nervousness, distress—and guilt. Charlotte wondered if he was always like that, no matter the situation, or if it would get worse, say, in Olivia’s house, the scene of the crime. Or maybe, she sighed to herself, he’s just upset and that’s the way he shows it. She didn’t have enough information to form an opinion, and certainly not to pass judgment.
Helene ended her call, having set an appointment for the following morning, but had nothing more to add to what they already knew. Since she had a student coming in the afternoon, she wanted to rest and reclaim her equilibrium with a nap, and Charlotte left when she was assured that Helene would be okay.
It was another marvelous early autumn day, which was fortunate since Charlotte had dropped the Jeep off at Elm Grove Auto and Body on the way to Helene’s and had to get around on foot. She walked down to Olivia’s house, to see if Donovan had gone there, worried that he would do some damage to his mother’s house in his fit of anger. All seemed quiet, however, as she passed the front of the house, and turned the corner to check the back door and garage. She continued on. The sounds of children playing in the schoolyard in the next block brought back memories of Ellis’ kindergarten days at the same school, of walking her there, of volunteering in the classroom. It was a good school. Charlotte sometimes wondered how things would have been different if Ellis had remained there, if she would have done as well in her piano studies living in this small town with its traditional public school and neighborhoods. But of course, Helene didn’t live here at the time, and Charlotte herself found life here untenable in the days during and immediately after the divorce, and then of course Jack lost no time in marrying Mrs. Jack—.
She walked up past the school, then turned toward Bellamy Street, which was pure Historical District, lined with turreted Queen Anne houses, columned Greek and Colonial Revival homes, Second Empire houses with high mansard roofs, and frothy Eastlake homes decked out with spindle work. It was rich with oaks, maples, ash, linden, and tulip trees that had been planted to replace the elms which gave the town its name a hundred and fifty years before.
None of the houses were larger or grander than the old brick Blumenthal mansion, built shortly before the crash of ‘29, which sported a “For Sale” sign. Charlotte wondered if the Blumenthal family was finally, ironically, falling on hard times, but she doubted it. They probably didn’t want the bother of keeping up a house designed for a much more formal lifestyle. What would become of it?
Charlotte continued to Cortland Street, to walk by her old Greek Revival-style house, and received another surprise. The original six over six windows that she had once spent excruciating weeks fixing and painting were in the process of being replaced by modern ones with vinyl snap-in grids to simulate the panes. Cortland Street was not limited by the strict Historical District regulations that governed Bellamy Street, but the homeowners were encouraged to preserve the original style as much as possible. Charlotte sighed, but walked on, making her way back downtown to Harvey Street. It wasn’t her problem anymore. She had enough of her own.
Jack had sold the house quickly six months ago, in anticipation of moving to Paris, where both he and Mrs. Jack were either teaching or doing research at an institute at the Sorbonne. Charlotte never did get it straight. She also wasn’t clear as to what role, if any, their relocation played in Ellis’ acceptance to the Conservatoire. But they were there, and now Ellis was there—and she herself wasn’t.
There are days like this, she thought, when it seems the entire world has gone contrary to expectations. It put her in an impatient mood, wanting to get as many things out of gray areas as possible. She wanted things to be settled—to be living in one place, to have one town, one life, and not this in-between shuttling back and forth between one place and another, with neither feeling like home base, if not home. She wanted friends to stay friends, families to stay families, homes to stay homes, neighbors to stay neighborly, employers to remain employers. But they didn’t. It was the worst feeling in the world for a nester like Charlotte, and it seemed like the upheaval would never come to an end.
She called Elm Grove Auto Repair to see if the Jeep was ready, but they said not for another couple of hours yet, they ran into “a little problem.” She sighed as she disconnected, after asking them to let her know if it was going to cost much more before proceeding with the work. By this time she had reached Harvey Street, where many people were taking advantage of the summery day, sitting at umbrellaed tables on the sidewalks in front of various restaurants and looking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Inspired, she called Diane.
“Can you come out to play?”
Diane chuckled. “Actually, I can. Where are you at?”
“In front of Ramona’s Resale, but I was thinking more along the lines of a drink.”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“Um, no—”
“I haven’t either, and I’ve got a craving for a ribeye sandwich. Cole’s Pub, five minutes?”
Diane ordered martinis for them both. “I insist—my treat. You look like you could use a treat right about now.”
“That is so nice of you. I’m very grateful, and enjoying this immensely,” said Charlotte, as she slid further back into the booth. Cole’s Pub was a restaurant/watering hole favored by lawyers and deal-makers. It was old and dark but comfortable; faint music played over the speakers, the kitchen sounds were faint, the murmurs of conversations were faint, the baseball game on the television above the bar was faint, and together they made a pleasant white noise that fit Charlotte’s mood better than the pretty, ladies-luncheon al fresco option they could have had at another restaurant. The martinis arrived and she knew that they would soon make the ambiance even more pleasant.
“It’s really hitting home just how little I’ve relaxed lately. I’m getting too irritated at things which are beyond my control.” She took her first sip. The gin made her nose twitch, but it was not unpleasant. She pulled an olive off its plastic spear and savored it. Wonderful.
“It’s understandable, but don’t worry about it,” said Diane, patting Charlotte’s hand. “This is only temporary. In fact, everything you’re doing now almost guarantees that you will bounce back and have financial security within a year or two.”
“Actually, there’s some question in my mind what form that will take.” She brought Diane up to date about Lola, the estate liquidation, the apartment, and her realization that she didn’t want to find new work in the same field.
“Holy horses. You haven’t lost any time, and actually you’ve moved on this a lot faster than I expected.”
Charlotte nodded. “I think I’ve been making decisions almost subconsciously, if that is possible. On the other hand, I admit I like being in control—”
“Most single moms do,” interrupted Diane. “Go ahead.”
“—and now, without Ellis to support and protect, I can scale nearly everything way back, making it easier to stay in control, and stay independent.”
“Money and a room of your own,” Diane concurred.
“Exactly. But Helene also said something that stuck in my head, that the people who survive are the ones who are willing to travel light.”
Diane nodded, rolling the words over in her head. “It’s certainly true financially.”
“I’m thinking it works with everything, money, stuff, maybe even relationships.”
At this point the waitress arrived with Diane’s ribeye sandwich and Charlotte’s grilled shrimp salad. After several meals of whatever was left in her refrigerator, the crisp texture of the salad, the smokiness of the shrimp, the sweet tang of balsamic vinegar, and the unaccustomed midday gin buzz combined to lift Charlotte’s mood. She and Diane looked at each other and giggled.
“I feel like I’m playing hookey,” said Diane, trying to talk and chew at the same time. “This is fun.”
Charlotte nodded. “And in a week or so I’ll be living just down the block.”
“It was meant to be, I mean it has the feeling of it was meant to be, not that I believe in that kind of stuff, but sometimes things really do have a way of working out well in the long run.” Diane’s tendency to run on was enhanced by the martini, but it didn’t stop her from ordering another when the waitress came to see if they needed anything.
Charlotte said no to the second drink. “I gotta pick up the Jeep in a little while and get things done at home. I’ll need every bit of time I can get to go through my stuff before Stanton gets there on Friday.” She forked a jumbo shrimp and took a bite. “But there’s no doubt this lunch is making me feel better.”
“You have always had that independent streak, and it’s admirable. But just because you can be a lone wolf and do everything on your own doesn’t mean you should.”
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t be afraid to reach out to your friends, Charlotte. Reach out to me, to Helene, Jimmy Frobisher, even new friends like Simon and Lola. Even if it’s just for a cuppa coffee or a beer. Line us up to help you when you’re ready to move, too.”
Charlotte just smiled, and thanked Diane. And ordered a cup of coffee.
––––––––
SHE PLUNGED INTO HOUSEWORK once she was back home after picking up the Jeep, which ended up costing half again as much as originally quoted. She redirected her annoyance by taking out the trash and sweeping the first autumn leaves off the deck. It calmed her down enough to make a large mug of herb tea, switch on the kitchen TV, and sit down with her To Do list. It was Tuesday; Stanton would be arriving Friday to begin setting up for the sale the following weekend. This left her today, Wednesday, and Thursday to finish going through closets, drawers—and the endless stuff in her basement. She was half-tempted to just let them find what they find, and pick out what she wanted to keep a day or two before the sale. Martin did say, after all, that they usually set aside things like photographs and letters and obviously personal things.
Sunday was the day she set aside to clean and paint the apartment, with the intention of moving in on Monday. So that meant she would be living and sleeping here for less than a week. She wrote the different items down on the list, then made a clean list with everything in the order it needed to be done. Seeing everything organized and in writing made her feel a little better, a little less scattered. One week was not really a lot of time to pick through a lifetime of possessions and select only enough to fit in a studio apartment, though. Or was it?
Charlotte’s attention was drawn to a local news bulletin showing the front of Warren Brothers Pawn and Payday, with an overlaid caption that said, “Local Pawn Broker Found Dead.” She turned up the volume with the remote. Did something happen to Bosley? She remembered the phone call he received that clearly upset him when he came to her house. The reporter Judy Sargent was once again on the scene, but this time her demeanor was serious.
“Early this morning, police discovered the body of local pawn broker Wesley Warren, who has not been seen since last Thursday afternoon. He was found in his car, which was submerged in a large pond alongside the road leading toward his residence north of Elm Grove. Police are withholding further comment pending an autopsy and toxicolo—.”
The picture suddenly went black. Charlotte worked the remote, but nothing came up except the words, “No Signal.”
No cable? Confused, she thought about it for a moment and remembered that she had scheduled its cancellation, but her understanding was that the service was paid through the end of the month. If it was canceled, that meant her cable Internet connection might be canceled, too. She opened her laptop and tried to get online. Dead. She wanted to know what happened to Bosley Warren’s brother, and wondered if the things she had pawned would still be accessible if the business should close. The atmosphere in the shop was tense and strange the day she was there, which would be no wonder if Wesley was missing and Bosley was out looking for him.
Cursing, she called the cable company on her cell phone and went through Press One for This, Press Two for That, layer after layer of menus until, after several tries, she got someone to check her account, who claimed that billing applied on the fifteenth of every month, and since no further payment was made, her service was canceled as per her request. It could be reinstated at an additional fee of—
Charlotte hung up. She was going to be out of here in a week, anyway; it simply wasn’t worth the hassle to straighten it out. Maybe she screwed up, maybe they did. Whatever. She thought about calling Helene or Diane, but decided she was peopled out and could find out whatever she needed to know soon enough the next day. In her irritable mood, it was better to stay put and sort through boxes. At least the electric was still on.
Charlotte looked around her large basement, at the stacks of boxes, shelves of old toys, tools, sacks of decorating items, an assortment of furniture that was in need of repair or refinishing, and a ping-pong table that she and Ellis had never seemed to use. Instead, its surface provided more storage space, covered as it was with an assortment of items acquired from assignments at the magazines: knockoff Noguchi-style lamps (the real ones were in the living room), small tables of unusual design, rustic and cottage-style items that never looked right in her sleek house, little-girl decorative items that Ellis grew out of as fast as they came in, large and small baskets in every conceivable material and color, and stacks of rug samples. Boxes of baby clothes and Ellis’ dolls, plus a few boxes from Charlotte’s own childhood were stacked against one wall. She hadn’t looked in them in years. The washer and dryer area was surrounded by baskets and bags of clothes that Ellis had either grown out of or didn’t want to take with to Paris, plus laundry Charlotte hadn’t gotten around to dealing with. There was nothing for it but to tackle it, go through every box and, well, just deal with it, even if it took all night. After all, this place, this stuff, would be gone once and for all in a matter of days.
Charlotte woke in the dark, thinking the furnace was on full blast. But it was just another hot flash; she sat up and threw the covers off, took a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand. The digita