The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (11 page)

Charlotte crosses her feet at the ankle. She can't imagine any of this is actually interesting to Walter, knows he is just being polite. Still, she has to admit it is nice to be asked. “Anne Tyler?”

He nods.

She takes another sip. “
Dinner at the—
”

“Hold up.” Walter tilts his chair forward and reaches across the table, taking Charlotte by the wrist. “The coffee.”

She looks at him blankly, pulse fluttering in her throat.

“It's good, right?”

She swallows, laughs a little. “It
is
good.”

“Told you,” he says, taking his hand away. He tilts his chair back again and picks up his mug, grinning triumphantly. “You were saying. Dinner.”

“Right.” Charlotte looks at the table for a moment, trying to resume her train of thought. She can still feel the pressure of Walter's hand on her wrist. “It's a book called
Dinner at the
Homesick Restaurant.
”

“Cool title.” He takes a deep swallow of coffee and leans his chair back, balancing on the back legs. “So what happened? Did they go for it?”

“They did, eventually. To be honest, I don't think most of them really care, they just like the debating. Some weeks picking the books takes just as long as talking about them.”

Walter rolls his eyes and expels a deep sigh. “Women.”

There's such sincere commiseration in the word, such world
weariness, that Charlotte can't help but laugh. “Yes. Well.” She looks down at her mug, touches the handle. “There are some strong personalities in the group, that's for sure.”

“Like who?” He leans forward again, bringing the chair legs clattering to the tile, and hunches over the table as if poring over a battle plan. “Give me names.”

She pauses. “Well, there's Rita, I guess.”

“Last name?”

“Curran.”

“Damn that Rita Curran. What's her problem?”

“There's no
problem,
exactly. She's a nice woman—”

“Charlotte?” Walter raises an eyebrow. “Don't hold out on me.”

Charlotte smiles in spite of herself. “In that case, I guess she can be very know-it-all sometimes—one of those people who thinks she sees symbolism in everything, you know? I mean, I know most books have symbolism in them, but sometimes Rita takes it a little far.”

Walter is nodding, listening intently. It appears as if Fascinating Walter actually finds
her
fascinating. Fascinating Charlotte.

“Like last month, we were discussing a dinner scene, and the woman in the scene was holding a fork. Rita thought the fork represented a pitchfork, which meant that the character was Satan.”

“Was she?”

“Was she what?”

“Satan?”

“I don't think so. I think she was just cutting her filet mignon.”

Charlotte laughs then, a real laugh, and Walter laughs too.

From the living room, Emily calls, “Hey, what's so funny in there?”

Charlotte stops laughing, but Walter bellows back: “Why don't you get up and find out!”

“It's so
ear
ly …”

Charlotte glances at her watch.

“Hey, kid,” Walter says. “I'm wide awake and I was in a cab six hours ago. Get your tired butt in here.”

Charlotte looks into her coffee. She's never heard anyone speak to Emily this way: challenging her, teasing her, refusing to indulge her. Emily's has always been such a strong, stormy personality that, historically, people have simply stepped aside to make room for it. This was true of Joe, of Valerie, of an endless string of friends and roommates and boyfriends. And most of all, of Charlotte.

She hears Emily sigh dramatically, then pad across the living room rug. In the kitchen doorway she appears with bare feet, wearing a men's white V-neck undershirt and baggy plaid pants.

“You guys are nuts.”

“Hey, lazy,” Walter replies.

“Hi.”

Emily sits down next to him. He kisses her cheek.

Charlotte stands. “Coffee, honey?”

“Yes, please.”

“Walter made it.”

“Of course he did.” Emily yawns, stretching her arms toward the ceiling, T-shirt rising to expose her belly ring. She deepens her voice and says, “Woodworking and coffeemaking. Not a bad package, huh?”

Walter tickles her armpit. Emily yelps, clutching her arms to her sides. “No, Wal, get off me! Get off!”

“Come on,” he teases her. “You want a piece of this?”

“It's too early!”

“Fine.” He raises his hands in surrender, then whispers loudly near her ear. “Punk.”

She narrows her eyes at him, a smile squirming on her lips. “Goody-goody.”

Walter lifts her shirt and tickles her. Emily lets out another squeal. Charlotte turns to the counter just as she hears the squelch of a kiss.

“I was going to make muffins,” she says, fixing her attention on pouring coffee into
YOU CAN' T BE COOL.
“Or pancakes. Would you two like pancakes?”

“Don't go to any trouble, Charlotte.”

“She doesn't mind,” Emily says, slightly out of breath.

Charlotte turns and sets the coffee on the table. She can see the dark outline of Emily's nipples through her shirt.

“She loves doing for others,” Emily says, sliding Walter's silver ring up and down his knuckle. “It's the thing that makes her happiest in the world. Aren't I right, Mom?”

It's one of those moments, like so many moments, that treads the line between harmless conversation and subtle criticism. Before Charlotte can shrug and laugh and respond that it's not a big deal, it's no bother—it's just a few
pancakes
—Walter hops out of his chair, saying, “Wait! I almost forgot.”

He lopes from the kitchen, his running pants making a quick, swishing sound. From the living room, Charlotte can hear the sound of a duffel bag being unzipped. When she glances at Emily, she appears preoccupied, blowing ripples across the surface of her coffee.

“Here.” Walter reappears, presenting Charlotte with what looks like a box of candy, slightly smushed. “Brought you something.”

“Oh.”
Needhams,
says the curling script on top. “Walter, you shouldn't have.”

“They're Needhams.”

“I see.”

“It's a candy. Not exactly breakfast food, but—”

“Oh no, it's perfect. It's very thoughtful of you.”

As Walter resumes his seat, Charlotte skims the ingredients: mashed potatoes, coconut, chocolate. Mashed potatoes and chocolate? How strange. Maybe it's a black food. Oh, what an awful thing to think. But—is it? An awful thing? Had it been an Irish boy bringing soda bread, or a German boy bringing sauerkraut, it would have been perfectly fine to think that—

“They're a local thing,” Walter explains, as if in answer to her thoughts. “New England tradition.”

“Oh. Well, they look very interesting.” She turns to retrieve a dish. “Thank you very much.”

From behind her, Charlotte hears Emily whisper, “Kiss-ass.” Charlotte stiffens, wishing she hadn't said it. It denigrates the gesture somehow, makes it something less genuine than it seemed.

“I bet it's better than what you brought,” Walter teases back.

Charlotte opens the box and arranges eight dark square chocolates, equidistant from one another, around the perimeter of the plate.

“I bet you didn't bring anything for your mom.”

“I did too!”

“Yeah? What?”

Charlotte turns and places the dish on the table. Walter gives her a knowing wink. “Some kind of vegetable, right, Charlotte?”

“It was arugula!” Emily interjects. “From our garden! Don't you go knocking the arugula, Wal! You like it!”

“I know I like it. Hell, I planted it. I also like giving you a hard time.”

He grins and puts his hand on her knee. Emily knocks it away, but a smile twitches on her lips. Charlotte finds it hard to believe this trip all started because these two were having problems. If they are, she can't detect a trace. Maybe they're just hiding it well. No, that can't be it—Emily is no good at hiding anything, even when a situation calls for it. Hiding things offends her basic moral code.

Maybe it's just that affection is more casual, less meaningful, for them than it is for Charlotte. Clearly, Walter is a naturally affectionate person. Maybe he was simply raised in that kind of environment. Charlotte pictures gospel churches, potluck suppers, affectionate aunts and mothers and grandmothers. Could it be a cultural difference, his ease with older women?

“You know what we should do?” Emily says.

She looks up. Emily is fully awake now, her face flushed, eyes sparkling.

“Take the train up to New York and see a play.”

Charlotte feels a lump rise in her throat. She smiles faintly and lifts her mug, hoping this plan, like many of Emily's plans, is forgotten quickly in the interest of something else.

“We are
so
culture-starved up in New Hampshire,” Emily laments, appealing to Walter. “And I haven't been to the city for
ever.
”

“Fine with me,” he says.

Charlotte feels herself grow warm. The mere thought of New York City calls up images of speeding taxis, dark alleys, shootings, crushing crowds.

“Sound good to you, Charlotte?” he says. “You catch a lot of plays?”

“I really don't,” she admits. “I should, I know—”

“Mom doesn't get out much.”

“Emily,” she says quickly. “That's not true.”

“Fine. You go out. But you don't go into the city to see theater.” She turns to Walter. “Last night she tried Thai food for the first time.”

Charlotte looks at the table. Trying Thai food now seems like a walk in the park compared to the prospect of venturing into “the city” to see “theater.” Much as it pains her to give up any of her time with Emily, she lifts her mug and says: “You two should go without me.”

“No way.” Emily's voice is firm. “We're all going. We'll catch a train, grab some Vietnamese, and see
The Vagina Monologues.
I've been absolutely
dying
to see that. It's supposed to be amazing.”

Before Charlotte can launch several more protests, involving Vietnamese food and vaginas, Walter interjects: “Here's an idea, Em. How about you don't speak for all three of us?”

Charlotte freezes, mug held in midair. She stares at Walter, part in gratitude, part in awe, part in fear for what Emily will do next.

Emily flops backward in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. Her tongue ring clicks once, twice. “Fine.”

“Oh, come on.” Walter extracts one of her limp hands. She pulls it away. “It's a good idea, let's just make sure we're all on the same page. How about after breakfast I jump online and see what tickets are still out there, what's playing where—”

“My mom doesn't have Internet.”

Charlotte apologizes. “I'm a little behind the times.”

“No big deal,” Walter says. “My parents don't have it either. I'll make a few calls and check it out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Charlotte answers, feeling helpless.

“Okay, you?” He pushes Emily's hair behind her ear and kisses her cheek. She frowns. Then, in one motion, Walter
the of reaches across the table, grabs a Needham and pops it in his mouth.

“Oh, I can't believe you just ate that!” Emily says, springing forward. “That will stick in your intestines for, literally, the rest of your life, Walter.”

“Yeah?” He picks one up and holds it to her lips. “Open up.”

“No!” Emily squeals.

“Open!”

Emily presses her lips together, tossing her head from side to side, kicking her bare feet as if paddling with a kickboard. When one foot knocks against the table, coffee sloshes over the lip of Emily's mug. Neither of them notices. Walter is busy pinching Emily's nose to force open her mouth, and she is giggling and gasping.

Charlotte watches the spilled coffee inch toward the edge of the table. She's beginning to feel uncomfortable, as if Walter and Emily are in the midst of some kind of foreplay that she's not only intruding on but encouraging somehow, her presence making it more taboo. Only when the coffee starts drizzling onto the floor do they jump apart.

“Damn!” Walter says, grabbing a handful of napkins. Emily pulls her feet out of the way. He leans over her lap to wipe the floor, then sops up the coffee on the table.

“What a good guest,” Emily says, patting his head.

“Got some chocolate on your face,” he replies.

Emily smiles to herself as she watches Walter cross the room to throw away the napkins. Distractedly, she runs the tip of her studded tongue along the corners of her mouth, missing the smudge of chocolate just under her nose.

“So, Mommy,” she says, but her eyes are on Walter. “What are you doing today?”

To Charlotte, the subtext could not be more obvious:
When are you leaving the house so we can have sex?

“Well,” Charlotte says, as Walter picks up his mug to refill it, “I have the book group this afternoon.”

Emily pauses, retracts her tongue, looks at Charlotte. “I thought you weren't going to that?”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

Charlotte doesn't answer. She is through clarifying things. Through explaining, through apologizing, through spelling things out. She looks at her daughter for a long moment, and when she does, a look of real sadness and, finally, understanding, crosses Emily's face.

“Mom, no,” Emily says, sitting up straight. “Stay. Hang out with us.”

“I don't think so.”

“Come on. Please.”

“You never know, Emily.” Charlotte brushes an invisible crumb from the table. “The book group may need me.”