Charley's Web (31 page)

“What can I do for you, Charlotte?”

Charley felt her breath escape her chest in a series of short, painful spasms. Her father’s voice betrayed not a hint of what he might be feeling, which didn’t surprise Charley, who’d often wondered whether he had any feelings at all. Still, it was almost midnight and she hadn’t spoken to him in almost two years. Did he have to sound so matter-of-fact? “How are you?” she ventured meekly.

“Fine.”

He obviously wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’m sorry to be calling so late. I remembered you rarely go to sleep before one.”

Silence. Then, “Is there a reason for this call, Charlotte?”

“Not really. I mean, there’s nothing wrong or anything like that. The kids are great. I’m not in any trouble. It was more an impulse kind of thing.”

“More an impulse kind of thing,” he repeated. Charley could almost see him wince as he dissected her grammar.

“I was just wondering how you are, what you’ve been doing….”

“I’m fine. I’m basically doing the same thing I’ve always done. Teaching, going to meetings, reading.”

“Have you seen much of Emily and Anne?”

“They keep in touch.”

“Anne’s book is doing really well.”

“So it would seem.”

“Have you read it? It’s pretty good, actually. I mean, it’s not high art or anything,” she found herself equivocating, sensing his disapproval, “but I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. I couldn’t put it down. That should count for something.”

“Should it?”

Charley could feel him glancing at the clock beside his bed. She took a deep breath. “I’ve actually just made a deal with a publisher to do a book. Nonfiction. About Jill Rohmer. She killed three little children she used to baby-sit….”

“Sounds like something you’d be interested in.”

Charley tried to ignore the dismissiveness in her father’s voice, but it pierced at her heart, like the sting of a wasp. “You always talked about writing a book,” she said. “Whatever happened to that?”

“Serious literature demands a great deal of time and thought. It’s not something one can toss off in one’s spare time. Something of which I have perilously little, I’m afraid.”

“Sometimes you just have to
make
time,” Charley said.

“I’ll bear that in mind. Anything else?”

“No.
Yes,”
Charley corrected, continuing on before she lost her nerve, the words pouring from her mouth like water from a tap. “You’re my father. We’re family. And we never see each other. We never speak. And it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you. I really am. I know I’m not the perfect daughter. Far from it. But you’ve disappointed me as well. There are all sorts of ways I wish you were different. But you’re not. You’re who you are, and I have to accept that. Just as I hope you can accept me for who I am. We’re human beings. We make choices, and we make mistakes. But that’s part of what being an adult is all about, isn’t it? Accepting responsibility for one’s choices, learning to accept the choices of others, and moving on, moving forward?”

“And the point of this little diatribe is…?”

“The point is that whether or not I choose to have a relationship with my mother shouldn’t affect my relationship with you. One doesn’t negate the other. My seeing her again doesn’t cancel out the things you did for me, or the education you provided me with, or the fact you were there when she wasn’t. But because she left us doesn’t mean she ceased to exist, just like her coming back doesn’t mean you’ve ceased to matter. She’s my mother. You’re my father. I shouldn’t have to choose between you.”

There was a pause. For the second time, Charley wondered whether her father had disconnected the line. “Are you finished?” he asked finally.

Charley nodded, then realized she needed to say the word out loud. “Yes.”

“Well, that was quite the speech. Aside from a few lapses in grammar, and an unfortunate tendency toward the trite, it was reasonably succinct and well-delivered. I have no doubt you’re as sincere as you are misguided.”

“Misguided?”

“Please allow me the same courtesy I allowed you, and let me speak without further interruption.”

“I’m sorry,” Charley mumbled. “Go on.”

“You talk about choices. Well, I made my choice twenty-two years ago when your mother walked out and sued for divorce. I made the decision to be angry and bitter and unforgiving for the rest of my life.”

“But that’s…”

“Crazy? Ridiculous? Maybe it is. But it’s still my choice,” he said loudly, biting off each word. “I have no interest in forgiving your mother, or in making things easier for you. This is the way things are for
me,
the way I have
chosen
to live my life. Your mother betrayed me. She betrayed all of us. And I consider your subsequent embrace of her to be a betrayal of me. So if you want to forgive her, then you’re right, that’s your choice, and I have to accept it. But I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to approve of it. And I certainly don’t have to welcome a traitor back into my midst.”

“A traitor? Dad, for God’s sake….”

“I thought I made it perfectly clear during our last conversation that I wouldn’t tolerate such treachery. Maybe you shouldn’t have to choose between your mother and your father, but you do. And you’ve made your choice. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind. In which case, things can return to the way they were before. Is that why you’ve called, Charlotte? To tell me you’ve changed your mind?”

There was a long pause. “I haven’t changed my mind,” Charley said.

This time the silence of the line going dead in her hands was unmistakable.

WEBB SITE

Families. You gotta love ’em. Right?

Take mine, for example. I have two glorious children, whom I adore. I also have a mother I’m just starting to get to know, a father who refuses to talk to me, two sisters I rarely see, and a brother who is usually too preoccupied to see anything.

Which brings me to last weekend.

For whatever reasons—and I’m sure at least one of them made sense at the time—I decided it was time to reunite my siblings with their mother. The past is past, I reasoned. It was time to live and let live. So I essentially blackmailed my sisters and bullied my brother into accepting my invitation for dinner, persuaded my mother to make her famous chicken, then bathed the kids, brushed the dog, and prayed we’d all find a way to get along. After all, we’re family. Right?

Tell that to my sisters, who canceled at the last minute, or my brother, who refused to look at his mother all night, no matter how many times—and how sincerely—she apologized for abandoning us as children. So much for forgiveness. So much for the past being past. No one, it seems, is ready to let go. We have too much invested in the way things were to try to change the way things are.

The sad truth is that the past is never really past. It’s always with us. Sometimes it’s strong and supportive, pushing us toward the future like a friendly wind at our backs. But more often than not, it’s wound tightly around our shoulders like a shroud, its weight dragging us down, tethering us to the ground, occasionally even burying us alive. The strange thing is that given the opportunity to rid ourselves of these deadly wraps, we often cling to them instead.

“You’re not two years old anymore,” my mother told my brother in exasperation at the conclusion of our meal. “Everything you say about me may be true, but you’re all grown up, and it’s your problem now.” I’m paraphrasing and condensing here, but the message is clear: You’re an adult. Shit happens. Deal with it.

It wasn’t just my brother, I realized in that moment. I’m an adult, too, with problems of my own. My father, for example, to whom I hadn’t spoken in far too long. He’d chosen to interpret my acceptance of my mother as a rejection of him. I needed to make peace, for my sake as much as his. So I picked up the phone and called him in New Haven. I apologized for the lateness of the hour and any hurt I might have caused him over the years and, burying my pride, all but begged him not to make me choose between my mother and him any longer. He turned me down cold. Word for word, this is what he said: “Twenty-two years ago I made the decision to be angry and bitter and unforgiving for the rest of my life.”

Huh?!

Why would anyone make the conscious choice to be angry and bitter and unforgiving for the rest of his life? To be deliberately, actively, and even aggressively unhappy? Does this make any sense at all? Apparently it does. At least to him. You’re either with me or against me, he is saying. Deal with it.

So, okay. I’m dealing with it, Dad. I’m saying that some people aren’t worth the pain it takes to love them, because love must be valued as well as earned, and that if this is how you choose to live your life, then you’ll have to live it without me. As a child, your rage and bitterness made me feel wretched and alone. You were callous in your words and careless in your deeds. You frightened me. You frighten me even more now. I have children of my own. They must be protected from people like you.

Which isn’t to say I’ve given up on my family altogether. I’m still hoping to get my brother and sisters over for dinner one night so that we can enjoy Mom’s famous chicken and, if not bury the past, at least put it in its proper place. As for now, I’m leaving the dog with a neighbor for the weekend, packing up my kids, my mother, and the new man in my life, and we’re heading off to Disney World to celebrate my birthday.

It seems I’ve finally come of age.

Charley stared at her computer screen, reading and then rereading the column she’d written for this Sunday’s paper. She’d probably have to cut out the word
shit,
but what the hell, she’d leave it in there for the time being, give Mitchell something to edit. Would her sisters see it? Bram? Her father? Probably not. “It doesn’t matter,” she said out loud, forwarding the article to Mitchell’s e-mail.

“What doesn’t matter?”

Charley spun around in her seat. “Glen!” She jumped up, her eyes absorbing the darkly handsome man in the white silk shirt and tailored black pants standing at the entrance to her cubicle. What was he doing here? “When did you get back to town? And why didn’t the receptionist page me?”

“I got in last night. And she didn’t page you because I told her I wanted to surprise you. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I just finished Sunday’s column.”

“So how’ve you been? You look wonderful, as always.”

“I feel pretty good.” Had he come to tell her he wanted Bandit back as soon as possible? “How was your visit with your son?”

“Fabulous. Best kid in the world.”

There was something about the tone in Glen’s voice that gave Charley pause. “Problems?”

“Not really. Can we talk about this at lunch?”

“Lunch?”

“I made a reservation at Renato’s.”

Charley felt the color drain from her face. “Oh, my God. Did we have a…?”

“A date? No. I’m just being my usual smug and presumptuous self. What do you say? Are you free?”

Charley checked her watch. It was almost noon, and she had her interview with Jill at two o’clock. “Well, normally I’m quite partial to smug and presumptuous, but I have to be in Pembroke Pines by two. How’s coffee…?”

“Coffee’s good.”

“There’s a cafeteria on the main floor.”

“Lead the way.”

“It’s not exactly Renato’s,” she apologized as they entered the large room minutes later. It smelled of tuna casseroles and gravy, and was already pretty crowded. All eyes shot immediately in her direction.

“Just like high school,” Glen remarked, following Charley through the rows of long tables toward the coffee machines at the back.

“Hi, Jeff…. Anita,” Charley greeted two of her coworkers. They looked vaguely stunned by her acknowledgment. “So, what’s the problem with your son?” she asked as she and Glen settled into two chairs at a small table near the back wall several minutes later, coffees in hand.

“There’s no problem with Eliot.” Glen looked toward the recessed ceiling. “It’s my ex-wife….”

“She’s giving you a hard time?”

“It’s not that.”

“You still love her?”

“God, no.”

“What then?”

“It’s her husband. I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid…”

“You’ll always be Eliot’s father, Glen,” Charley told him.

Glen took a sip of his coffee. “You always finish other people’s sentences for them?”

Charley smiled sheepishly. “Just being my usual smug and presumptuous self.”

He laughed. “There. See, I knew we were kindred spirits. So, how’s your book coming along?”

Charley told him about her book deal and her interviews with Jill. “Did you know that Ethan Rohmer used to deal drugs out of one of your clubs in Fort Lauderdale?”

“Really? Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

Glen looked annoyed as he took another sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t know. It didn’t happen on my watch.”

“You ever meet him?”

“Not that I remember. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“I don’t hang around with drug dealers, Charley.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No. Of course not. Hey, I let you take my son to Lion Country Safari, remember? I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think you were a decent guy.”

“You barely knew me,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, but my instincts told me I could trust you.”

He raised his cup to hers. “Let’s hear it for instincts.” He finished off the rest of his coffee. “So, how’s Bandit? He didn’t give you too much trouble, I hope.”

“No. No trouble at all.”

“Yeah, he’s a good little guy, isn’t he?”

“You can’t have him back,” Charley said, more forcefully than she’d intended. Several heads turned toward them.

“What?”

“I can’t do it. I just can’t do it,” Charley continued. “Talk about presumptuous, but I just can’t give him back. Remember when you first brought him over, and he put his head on my shoulder, and you said that meant he would bond with me for life….”

“Charley…”

“Well, what you forgot to mention was what would happen to
me
—that I would bond with him, too. And that’s what’s happened. I am so attached to that little dog, it would break my heart to lose him. And I know it’s not fair, that an old girlfriend gave him to you and everything, but I can tell you were never that crazy about her anyway, and you’re so busy, and I’ll take such good care of him. You can visit him whenever you want….”

“Charley….”

“Please don’t make me give him back.” Charley’s eyes filled with tears.

There was a moment’s pause. “I can visit him whenever I want?”

Charley flew from her chair into Glen’s arms. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

“How does Saturday night sound?” he asked as she quickly resumed her seat. “To visit Bandit, I mean. We can order pizza and…”

“I’m taking the kids to Disney World for the weekend.”

“Disney World. I like Disney World. Feel like company?”

“I’m also taking my mother.”

“I like mothers.”

“And my boyfriend,” Charley added.

“Not so fond of boyfriends,” Glen said with a sad smile. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were seeing anybody.”

“It’s pretty new.”

“And pretty serious?”

“I’m not sure. I think it could be.”

“Well, that sucks,” Glen said, and laughed.

“Can I still keep Bandit?” Charley asked, only half-jokingly.

“He’s all yours.” Glen pushed himself to his feet. “I think it’s time for me to get out of your hair.”

“You don’t have to go yet.”

“Yeah, I do.” He reached over, cupped her chin in his hand. “Take care of yourself, Charley.”

“You, too.”

Charley sat very still in her chair, the imprint of Glen’s fingers lingering on her skin, as Glen walked out the door without looking back.

“You’re very quiet today.” Jill leaned back in her chair and smiled across the table at Charley.

“I’m supposed to be listening,” Charley reminded her. Jill had been talking for the better part of two hours, mostly mundane recollections of her high school years. As a result, Charley’s thoughts kept drifting back to Glen, and the surprisingly gentle touch of his fingers on her skin.

Jill glanced at the tape recorder in the middle of the table. “How many hours of tape have you got so far?”

I think it’s time for me to get out of your hair,
she heard Glen say. “Sorry. What?”

“I asked how many hours of tape you have.”

“I’m not sure. A lot.”

“Have you listened to any of them yet?”

“No.”

“How come?”

Because I can’t bear to, Charley thought. What she said was: “I thought I’d get all my research done first. Then I’ll start putting everything together.”

“That’ll be fun,” Jill remarked, the dreamy quality in her voice matching the faraway look in her eyes. “You’ll get to relive it all again.”

Charley felt her stomach turn over. “Like you did with the tapes they found under your bed?” She tried to make the question as casual and offhand as possible. She looked away, brushed some invisible lint from her gray pants.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Jill said.

“Do what?”

“Look at the floor, pretend to be uninterested. It’s a dead giveaway.”

“A giveaway?”

“In cards, they call it a ‘tell.’”

“I’m not following.”

Jill released a deep sigh, as if her star pupil was being insufferably obtuse. “You ever play poker?”

“No.”

“Okay. Let me see if I can explain it. A ‘tell’ is like, every time you get a good hand, you touch your nose, or every time you’re bluffing, you scratch your neck. You don’t even know you’re doing it. But anybody watching you can figure it out pretty quick.”

“You’re saying I do this?”

“All the time. Whenever you don’t want to look too interested in something I’ve said, you look at the floor or study your nails. And you’re forever dusting off your clothes.” Jill laughed. “You’re as easy to read as one of your sister’s books.”

Charley bristled, although she tried to disguise her annoyance with a smile.

“Now you’re angry. You get this tight little smile on your face whenever you don’t want me to know how you really feel.”

“You think you understand me pretty well,” Charley said.

You think you know me.

“Am I wrong?”

“Why would I pretend to be uninterested in anything you’ve said?”

“You’re probably afraid I’ll clam up if you sound too eager. Like before, when we were talking about the tapes, and I said ‘you’ll get to relive it all again.’ We both know that’s a pretty provocative thing to say. It promises all sorts of juicy revelations. So you pretend to be all nonchalant, thinking stupid me doesn’t have a clue, and will just keep blabbing away, spilling my guts out, trying to impress you.”

“Is that what you’re doing—trying to impress me?”

Jill shrugged, rolled her head along the top of her spine from one shoulder to the other. “I have a bit of a crick in my neck. Must have slept on it funny.”

“Why did you keep those tapes under your bed?” Charley was growing impatient with being psychoanalyzed by a psychopath. Was she really as easy to read as one of her sister’s books?

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Jill asked.

“Apparently not.”

Jill rubbed the base of her neck. “I didn’t want anybody to find them.”

“Did you ever listen to them?”

“Why would I do that?”

“To relive them,” Charley said, echoing Jill’s words.

“Why would I want to relive them?”

“Why make them in the first place?”

“That was Jack’s idea.”

“And yet you’re the one who kept them.”

Jill shrugged, raised her eyebrows in a silent dare.