 |  |
Tuesday, September 24th
It was six in the morning again, barely daylight, and Charlotte walked out on the deck overlooking the lake for the last time, red coffee mug in hand. This was it, she thought. Moving day. Everything changes. She was both excited and sad.
Stanton’s crew wouldn’t be there until eight, giving her a couple of hours of peace and quiet. She planned to make no more than three trips back and forth between Lake Parkerton and Elm Grove today, and then only one trip more on Friday, the day before the sale, to sign off on everything. Whatever needed moving had to be done today, because she needed to finish trying to find Olivia’s notebooks before Saturday. There was just enough gas in the Jeep for five trips. She had it all planned out, everything under control.
A flock of Canada geese took off from the water, their stately flight moving up and arcing around to the south. A pair of deer moved carefully down a hill, then jumped over the fence into a neighbor’s back yard for a breakfast of shrubbery. Squirrels ran back and forth to stockpile their winter hoard. A ground hog stopped at the edge of the street and looked both ways before scuttling across and disappearing under a storage shed. She was unlikely to see this from her apartment on busy Harvey Street.
Time to get going. Clothes and toiletries were already packed, so Charlotte loaded them first. She decided on using an air bed for the time being, as it was portable, and loaded that up with the boxes of things Ellis wanted to save. Next she packed towels and sheets, then kitchen things, which was easy because she had already sorted through them the night she cleaned the kitchen. That night felt like a month ago.
She poured another cup of coffee and began to pack up whatever was left to do in her office, and felt proud that all the essential paperwork and files had been scanned and saved digitally. The office chair would probably have brought a nice price at the sale, but Charlotte’s aching back and legs reminded her that a good chair was worth its weight in gold. It would come with, too, and she wheeled it down the hall, out the front door, and lugged it down the steps. When she reached the driveway, a battered green pickup truck pulled into the driveway behind the Jeep.
Her first instinctive thought was of Bosley Warren; the early morning sun glared off the windshield, preventing her from seeing the driver. Both truck doors opened, and she tensed, trying to remember where she set her cell phone.
“HELLOOOO!” Charlotte almost went limp with relief at hearing Diane’s big cheerful voice. The passenger waving at her was Simon, who was carrying a bag from The Coffee Grove.
“What on earth are you two doing here?” asked Charlotte.
“Helping you move,” said Diane, giving her a hug. “We brought carbs, too!” She grabbed the bag from Simon and held it out to Charlotte.
“Good morning,” said Simon, friendly, smiling, but not giving her a hug.
“How did you know? And don’t the two of you have to work?”
“I’m free this morning, as luck would have it,” said Simon.
“I just moved appointments around. Helene alerted the troops. Why didn’t you tell us the other day? You know we would have been glad to help and there’s no way you should be doing everything by yourself when you don’t have to—”
“Oh, but I couldn’t, you all are so busy and I’m only taking what I can handle by myself, and Simon, you just helped me yesterday, and—”
“Charlotte,” said Simon, “It’s okay. Really. Many hands make light work.”
Diane nodded fast in agreement.
Charlotte was almost speechless, but managed a few words. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Diane grinned. “Well, then, put on more coffee! Put us to work!”
There was no better way to turn the bittersweetness of leaving her house into a celebration of the future than to have friends help with the moving and what remained of the packing. In some ways, it took a little longer, partially because of stopping to converse, but also because the nature of the project shifted now that there were two trucks and three sets of hands. Diane and Simon repeatedly cautioned her against taking too little, especially since she wouldn’t have to worry about restricting herself to only what she could carry on her own.
“Oh, I understand what you’re trying to do,” argued Diane, when Charlotte explained her intent to live as frugally, independently, and minimally as possible, “and it’s admirable, and it’s part of why I think you’re going to rebound from this setback fairly quickly. But there’s a lot of things you’ll only end up having to buy again, and while that might be okay for things that will wear out, like a toaster oven or something, it’s not so much for the really good things like, well, chairs.”
“I suppose,” said Charlotte, knowing that her friend was probably right. “But it’s a really small apartment.”
By that time Martin Stanton had arrived with his crew, and Charlotte made introductions, but it turned out that Diane and Martin already knew one another.
“Charlotte’s moving into her apartment today, and we’ll help her get out of your hair in no time,” Diane said to him.
“That reminds me,” said Martin to Charlotte, “the crew is to give you a hand loading up whatever you want to take. If you like you can also use our van.”
“Oh, Martin,” said Charlotte, “that’s very kind of you, but I’m sure I wo—”
“That’s great!” Diane interrupted. “So we can take anything we want?”
Martin laughed and shook his head as he placed a calm hand on Diane’s shoulder. “The advert has already gone out, so I discourage taking anything that’s listed on it.” He showed Charlotte a copy of the brochure that went out to advertise her sale. There, on the front, was Hannah’s painting, its bright colors glowing on the shiny paper.
“It’s beautiful, Martin.”
Diane and Simon leaned over to look, and Diane gasped. “Ohmygod, Charlotte, you’re selling the painting?”
Charlotte nodded. “It might bring enough to live on for a year, or replace the Jeep, and I’ll be able to fly to Paris to see Ellis, too. I love it so much, but I can’t justify keeping it.”
They went to look at the painting itself. Diane put her arm around Charlotte in sympathy. “That’s a brave thing to do. I only hope it’s worth the heartbreak of giving it up.”
Charlotte summed it up. “If I can deal with an empty nest, I can deal with selling the painting.”
“Well that’s that, then. All the more reason to take a few things for creature comfort, especially now that you have us to help you lug it around.”
Simon’s expression was neutral, but he was clearly taking in the painting, the surroundings, and the view over the lake. “This is a beautiful house. Impressive. What about the rest of the artwork? Not taking anything with?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Some day I’ll start a new collection.”
Charlotte and her friends conferred and debated which pieces of furniture not listed on the advertisement would fit the apartment without crowding it. She described the sofa and library table already in the apartment, and how much space they took up. In the end she decided on a set of folding chairs that could be used for dining and extra seating but kept in the closet or under the stairs when not needed, the big kilim rug (which Charlotte had told Martin she was taking, so it was never listed), wicker storage cubes that could double as a coffee table, a shelving unit with more cubes that could serve as a dresser, a couple of floor lamps, a table and reading lamp, and a pair of folding screens to divide the sleeping area from the living area. Charlotte wanted to take the overstuffed armchair and ottoman set that were in the guest room, thinking it would look good with the sofa, but it was listed. She’d use the office chair as extra seating instead. Simon went to tie the rug to the top of the Jeep.
“So,” said Diane. “Which bed are you taking?”
“I’ve packed an air mattress already. It’ll do for now, or I can sleep on the sofa.”
Diane thought about it for a few seconds, then began shaking her head. “No. No no no no no. Won’t do, Charlotte. You need a bed. If you don’t take one of the ones here now, you’ll only end up with doctor bills and shelling out big bucks for a new mattress. And what if you get a boyfriend? Gonna use the floor? I don’t think so!”
“I think my dating days have passed, Diane.”
“Nobody’s dating days pass if they don’t want them to. If I can get a date, you can. Let’s go.” Diane grabbed Charlotte by the arm and marched her up the stairs.
Charlotte’s own bed was part of a suite listed on the advertisement, so it was out. Ellis’ bed was a twin-size trundle, but extremely heavy. Then they went to the guest room, which had a double mattress atop a platform with storage drawers and a bookcase-type headboard. It also wasn’t listed specifically, as apart from Charlotte’s suite, the advertisement only said “other bedroom furnishings.”
“This would be perfect!” said Diane, testing it out. “No wasted space, either!”
“We could get the crew to help us load it up, but wouldn’t it be awfully heavy and awkward to get up the apartment stairs?”
“Let’s find out,” said Diane. She went to the door and yelled, “Siiiiiimon! C’mere!”
Charlotte hoped she wasn’t blushing, remembering her night in Simon’s bed. He came in, taking in Diane’s chatter and giving Charlotte an amused glance.
“These are usually assembled components, smaller units attached together.” He moved the mattress to check the frame and structure. “Shouldn’t be a problem with one other person to help me carry them, and there’s no big box spring to worry about getting around corners.” He moved the mattress back in place, then laid down on it with his hands behind his head. “Comfy, too. I must say I rather like it.”
Diane jabbed her in the ribs. “See? He likes it.”
“Fine. Fine,” snarled Charlotte, trying to hide her reaction to seeing Simon stretched out on the bed. “I’ll find some tools.” She descended the stairs quickly, but was smiling to herself by the time she reached the bottom.
The Stanton crew helped them take down and load up the bed. Josh was supervising again, and he reaffirmed the offer to help Charlotte move out anything she was taking.
“How about a TV?” asked Simon, pointing to the one on the kitchen wall. “This one would make a nice monitor, too.”
“Go ahead and take it,” said Josh. “That particular one is not listed. Most electronics depreciate so quickly, that you wouldn’t get much for it.”
Diane helped Simon dismantle it and the wall bracket that held it.
Charlotte appreciated what they were trying to do, but thought it was pointless. “It might be a long time before I get cable again, you know.”
“You can get a lot of movies and shows on the Internet now, either free or cheap,” said Simon, lifting the television off of the bracket.
“Oh, I know that, but it might be a while before I get an Internet connection again, too.”
Diane turned to look at her, and actually didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she smiled. “I’ve been thinking about your decision to sell the painting. It changes your budget situation a little bit. There’s no reason you can’t at least have a decent Internet connection at your new place.”
It was as if a light bulb went on in Charlotte’s head. “You know, I hadn’t even thought of that! I’m going to call the cable company right now and see what I can do.”
As she waited to talk to a live representative, Charlotte realized that her sudden happiness at being able to get online again was an indication that she was a lot less enthusiastic about downsizing than she tried to convince herself to be. But just having this one thing back, being able to get online for work, for entertainment, for staying connected to Ellis, meant she could keep an important way of doing things intact, no matter the surroundings, no matter how much she cut back on everything else.
This time she talked with a representative who connected her to a supervisor. He looked over her account and seemed willing to help her get it straightened out and write up an order for a new connection at the apartment. The down side was that it would take a week. He softened the blow (and apologized for the early shut-off without actually admitting culpability) by giving her the six-month introductory rate usually given to new customers, making the cable TV almost free.
“Well?” asked Diane, when Charlotte got off the phone. Simon, who was about to carry the television out to the Jeep, paused to learn what happened, as well.
“All set. It won’t kick in for a week, but I get free TV for six months. Thanks so much for pointing it out to me, Diane. This really cheers me up more than I can say, and it’s going to make life so much easier.”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s what friends are for!” cheered Diane, giving Charlotte a big hug. Then she rummaged in her pocket for her phone. “I gotta make a phone call, though. ‘Scuse me.” She walked out to the deck.
Simon smiled and picked up the television again. “You’ll feel at home in no time flat.”
“I think you’re right,” Charlotte agreed. “I really think you’re right.”
They were finished by eleven.
“I thought this would take longer, to be honest,” said Simon. “You’re really not taking much at all, and most of it is pretty easy to move.”
“Yeah,” said Diane, looking over the tables of stuff that were already set up for the sale. “Imagine if she wasn’t having a sale and we had to pack and move all this crap!”
“Exactly my point in selling it!” exclaimed Charlotte in defense. “I’m embarrassed you guys are seeing all of it, to be honest.”
“After Olivia’s house, this is nothing,” said Simon.
“Ah, but I gotta say something,” said Diane. “If you think this is bad, just come by my parents’ place out at the farm. It’s got fifty years of their stuff, plus most of the stuff from my grandparent’s house. Easily ten times what you have here, and most of it’s useless. I really shouldn’t be poking fun at you, Charlotte.”
“No, no, I’m not upset. But I think I’m ready to leave now. I’ll be back on Friday to sign off for the sale, so if there’s anything else I need from here, I’ll get it then.”
“Yay! Let’s go!”
Once they arrived back in Elm Grove, Jimmy joined them with two young staffers, evidently by prior arrangement with Simon and Helene. Charlotte’s legs were grateful, and she stayed up in the apartment to direct where she wanted everything to go. Diane went to check on things at the office.
One advantage of a small place, thought Charlotte, was not only could it not hold a lot of furniture, there were only so many ways the furniture could be arranged: table over here, bed over there, rug and sofa in the middle. Simon picked up a large pizza from the joint across the street. Diane came back with a bottle of bubbly she’d been saving in her office, which she now poured out into plastic cups.
“Here’s to Charlotte’s new life!” she cheered, and they all clicked glasses.
They chatted a while about the merits of the apartment, then Simon and Jimmy decided to tackle setting up the TV
Charlotte didn’t think it was worth bothering with—she had neither cable nor Internet service, yet.
Simon just smiled. “Trust me.”
Charlotte just shrugged, and she and Diane unpacked kitchen things and linens, then started reassembling the bed frame.
“This is such a great place, Charlotte,” said Diane. “It’s small, but those big windows and the high ceiling make such a difference.”
Simon had finished attaching the television to the wall bracket and was taking photos with a small digital camera. “The light is pleasant, but it presents certain challenges for a photographer.”
“Oh, Simon, stop being a professor for five minutes!” Diane teased. He started a rapid set of photos of her; she responded with silly faces.
“Ready?” said Jimmy, into his own cell phone. He looked around the room. “Where’s the remote?” Simon tossed it to him, and he aimed it at the TV.
The next thing Charlotte knew, it was on. She wandered over, unbelieving. “How did you do that?”
Jimmy spoke into the phone again. “Working great. Yeah.” He disconnected and smiled at Charlotte. “You’ve got cable.” He pointed to a small box on the floor. “And wireless Internet.”
“I do?” She looked from Jimmy to Simon, who looked very pleased with himself.
“Your friend Diane,” said Simon, pointing at the culprit, “called Mr. Connections here,” he then pointed to Jimmy, “who made it happen today instead of next week.”
“I’m going to miss seeing you at the coffee shop when you do your work, but—” said Jimmy, shrugging in mock resignation.
“But I only ordered it a couple of hours ago. How did you do that?”
She didn’t find out because there was the sound of someone knocking on the front door, opening the door, then calling out, “Hello?”
“Hey, Helene,” Jimmy answered, and went down to help her up the stairs, carrying the gift basket she brought.
Everyone was glad to see Helene, who looked equally glad to have made it up the long flight of stairs to see Charlotte’s new home. She loved the view from the bank of windows, and particularly admired the sofa and library table.
Charlotte of course thanked Helene profusely for the basket of gourmet goodies, which included, she noted, a precious box of Russian Caravan tea. They caught one another’s eye and smiled in understanding.
Charlotte got Jimmy aside and thanked him, as well, but he just shrugged and said “he had a good friend” at the cable company. Once again she was reminded how it just took the right person talking to another right person for things to happen. And they weren’t always bad things.
Yet also once again, Charlotte experienced a momentary twinge of panic at things being out of her direct control. Snap out of it, she told herself. You’ve won the lottery! These happy, friendly people meant well, every one of them, and did what they could to help her reverse her string of bad luck. After years of working alone and independently, having control over choices that affected herself and her daughter, and money to throw at problems she couldn’t directly fix herself, Charlotte found it strange to be on the receiving end of others’ largesse.
It wouldn’t do to let them see her mixed emotions. She got out her laptop, and Jimmy helped her connect to the wireless network. The technical activity was neutral and calming. But it was more than neutral to be online again, as a wave of completeness washed over her when she saw the word “Connected” on the computer screen.
Maybe that was her real home now, she thought. All those years of telecommuting and developing professional relationships online had shifted her sense of community to short bits of text and information from regular, virtual sources. On top of it, it was the only way of having Ellis around anymore. Interactions with real people in real spaces around her was still not quite as real, as if she couldn’t believe that this kind of real-life good fortune could happen to her. Yet there it was, right in front of her: her new family.
Ellis had sent her a link to a video clip with the name, “A New Moon,” and she pressed the forward arrow to play it.
“Hi Mom! Hi Helene! Happy moving day, Mom! I wrote a piece to commemorate the occasion as part of an assignment. It’s a little bit classical, a little bit electronic, new and old, just something I was having fun with.”
The performance was in a digital media studio class. Charlotte could see the other students sitting in an arc behind Ellis, who was at an electronic keyboard surrounded by what looked a small version of a space ship control panel in a science fiction movie. The piece began with the opening bars of Debussy’s Claire de Lune, then the opening bars of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata came up under it, picking up speed, both themes reshaped and shimmered by the electronic sound effects into something altogether different and fascinating, then released into a slow, poignant glissando. It was short, about four minutes; her classmates were enthusiastic.
“Oh, my,” whispered Helene, who had come to stand behind her. “It’s a new world, isn’t it?”
It was, indeed.
Later, long after everyone left and she had finished unpacking and making up the bed, Charlotte stood at the windows overlooking Harvey Street, sipping tea from the big red mug. The traffic grew lighter as dusk grew. It was certainly a different view than the one from her deck and living room at the house, but it had its own charm. Sunset was sunset, after all; the mood was in the changing light of day, and not necessarily the view. The street lights had come on. They were ornamental replicas of ones that had graced the street a century ago, nicer and warmer than the cold, utilitarian ones that lit the street when she lived in Elm Grove before. The town was making an effort to thrive, and she felt much farther away from economic troubles in this modest apartment than she did amid the luxury of Lake Parkerton.
Charlotte had the sense, again, of being watched. She scanned the windows of the buildings across the way, but saw nothing, nor saw any indication of anyone watching from the street, the sidewalks, or the parking lot. She turned away, and nearly dropped the mug.
There was a large, black and white tuxedo cat sitting on the newel of the staircase rail, just staring at her.
Charlotte’s first thoughts ran along the lines of how did you get in here? The next thoughts were, Friend or Foe? This was The Good Stuff’s shop cat. The chances, were, then, that it was a people-friendly cat. Of course, that did not necessarily mean it was Charlotte-friendly, as she sometimes evoked violent responses from cats whose owners swore “we’ve never seen him do that before!” then glared at her as if she was abusing the poor feline when they weren’t watching. Thus, she approached slowly and cautiously.
The cat adjusted its position from sitting upright on its bottom to down on its belly, tucking its front paws in, looking thoroughly contented. Charlotte could hear it purr, and as she got closer, she could have sworn it was smiling, but also swore she would never tell anyone this.
“Hello, cat. What brings you here?”
The cat just kept purring, and blinked at her in a sleepy way.
She reached out to let it catch her scent, but it skipped that cagey preamble and rubbed its head and ear against her knuckles.
Friendly. So far.
When Charlotte got very close, the cat sat upright again, then raised itself up by the hind legs, placed one of its front paws on her chest, and stretched up to look at her nose to nose. She remained still, and after a moment the cat went back down on all four paws, looking at her with its head tilted to one side, as if wondering why she wasn’t being affectionate. So she started petting it, and then it wanted cuddling, and then, with what felt like twenty pounds of cat in her arms, she realized that its white markings were beautifully symmetrical. She also confirmed it was a he.
The cat decided it had enough of the cuddling and twisted out of her arms, leapt onto the desk, then down to the floor, around the newel post, and down the stairs. She followed, pulling the chain of the stairwell light on, only to see the cat disappear into the shadows around the door at the end of the foyer. There was a soft slapping sound, then nothing.
Charlotte moved cautiously into the shadows, closer to the door, and tried the knob. Locked. Good. Then her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she saw a small flapped pet door at the bottom. Maybe not so good. She considered calling Larry or going around to his apartment, but decided it wasn’t an emergency. It was a rather nice cat, after all, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have the occasional visit.
Instead, she went back upstairs and switched on the TV to catch the local news, still amazed at having the luxury to do so, and the luxury of her own Internet connection again. She listened to the news and weather reports (rain was moving in overnight) while writing Ellis an email to thank her for the music video. Then she heard the name “Seamus O’Dair,” and looked up to see a picture of Donovan on the screen. Only it wasn’t Donovan, she quickly realized, but O’Dair, and wondered at the uncanny resemblance. Could it be—?
The program was a university-sponsored talk show called Courtney at Corton, that covered the arts and current events. Tonight’s installment was an overview of Seamus O’Dair’s life and work, in light of his book recently being in the news. The expert being interviewed was a professor at Corton University, one that Charlotte assumed came in after she and Jack divorced, as she had no recollection of meeting him. Most of what was discussed was commonly known, but Charlotte listened patiently on the off chance that something would be relevant to Olivia’s notebooks. Or to Donovan. The picture of O’Dair was not the usual old man of letters on book jackets, but a candid one of when he was younger, wearing glasses and holding a cigarette between his long, bony fingers. The program host commented on this, and the professor explained that it was a photo taken around the time O’Dair wrote Least Objects, in 1959, when he was forty-eight years old and coming into his writing prime.
Donovan was in his early fifties. When was he born? And just how well did Olivia know O’Dair?
The professor went on to describe O’Dair’s involvement in the French Resistance during World War II, and how he and fellow artists and writers in the Resistance gathered in Paris and worked to restore a theater which they themselves had sabotaged and set on fire while it was being used by the Nazis. O’Dair was Irish by birth, but lived in France, and wrote nearly all of his early and middle-period books in French; the author said on more than one occasion that English was too full of words and phrases that were beside the point. He never translated his French work into English, nor the English into French, claiming “it was not philosophically possible.”
Courtne