The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (33 page)

He reaches out and runs one palm along the top bar. His hand almost matches the wood. “Feel this,” he says, and he places her hand on the cradle. The wood feels smooth, cool, like new loose-leaf paper—but something more than that. The texture is not just physical. It feels like labor, like love.

Then the light swerves, dousing the crib in blackness, and a pocketful of stars explodes before her face. “Check this out,” Walter says. “This one's a Christmas gift.” The flashlight is now buttering another set of wooden rungs: a rocking chair.

“It's lovely.”

“Go ahead,” he says. “Give it a try.”

Charlotte grips both her elbows as she navigates her way across the barn floor, Walter training the flashlight on her feet.

“I made it for my mom,” he says, as her spine connects with the solid wooden rungs. “She loves to just sit. But don't think she's lazy. Her sitting's a serious business. She spends hours every day out there on the porch, just sitting, talking to people, taking it in.”

Charlotte attempts to picture this—Walter's mother, her porch, the passersby—and draws a blank. It occurs to her she knows almost nothing about Walter's background. She knows nothing of his family, not even where they live.

“Walter,” she says suddenly. “Where do you come from?”

He laughs. “City of Brotherly Love. Isn't it obvious?”

“Philadelphia?” She pauses, letting this sink in.

“West Philly. Born and raised.”

“And what about your family? Do you have siblings?”

Walter is wearing an amused smile. “Hold on,” he says, then pulls up what looks like a stepladder and hunkers down. “Okay. Here we go. I've got two parents. Ambrocia and Walt Senior. Born in Philly, married in Philly, have their plots picked out in Philly. I grew up in the same house my dad grew up in and his dad grew up in and his dad grew up in. My aunt lives around the corner, two uncles live up the street. And I've got two little sisters.”

This makes sense, somehow, Walter having sisters. “How old are they?”

“Not that little anymore, I guess. But I'll always think of them as little. Danita's sixteen, Tanisha's thirteen.”

“And your parents?” Charlotte finds this fascinating: both the details themselves and the fact that she's never heard them. Has Emily already met these people? Hung out with Walter's teenage sisters on a porch in West Philadelphia? She wonders if he's ever traipsed through the thumping heart in the Franklin Institute. She imagines that he has. “What do your parents do?”

“They're really involved with their church, first off. Sounds strange, but that's primarily how they define themselves, more than any job. But, professionally, my dad sells water purifiers. You know, those tanks of spring water. To offices mostly. My mom's a receptionist for State Farm.”

Charlotte tries to imagine this mother: Walter's mother. She pictures her strong, solid, with unabashedly wide swinging hips—then stops. Is that prejudiced? But she doesn't mean it in a bad way. It's a compliment. Unlike white women, who seem to contain their maternity to the bulges of their bellies, black women seem to carry their motherness in every part of themselves, every pore and limb.

Imagining this woman, Ambrocia Nelson, it dawns on Charlotte
that the two of them will soon be inextricably linked. They will be the grandmothers: Nana and Grandma, or Nana and Gran (will she have to clear “Nana” with Ambrocia first?). Charlotte will potentially know this woman for the rest of her life: christenings, birthdays, graduations, band concerts, school plays. Maybe they'll coordinate recipes, trade grandparenting stories on the phone.

“My parents,” Walter says suddenly, and his voice makes Charlotte pay attention. It's striking in its earnestness, as if speaking under oath. “Are two of the greatest people on this earth. I mean that. They're great parents, but they're also just great people. They've been an amazing example—of love, marriage, family. Everything.”

Charlotte wants to ask what Ambrocia and Walt, Sr., think about the new baby, but before she gets it out, Walter stands. “I have something else to show you,” he says, “but it's a secret. You have to promise not to tell.”

When he seems to wait, she confirms, “I promise.”

Then he disappears, and Charlotte hears the sounds of sliding, thumping, uncrumpling. A few moments later he is standing beside her. She can feel the warmth of his skin near her shoulder, hear his measured breaths. A pool of light appears before her eyes, in the middle of which floats a diamond ring that takes her breath away.

“You can't tell Em.”

She is speechless. The ring is suspended on a magic carpet of light.

“What do you think?”

“Oh—” is all she can manage. “It's beautiful.”

“I made this part,” he says, running his thumb along the outer edge of the box. “But the diamond, that's God's work.”
His breathing is heavier than usual, as if winded by his reverence. “Think she'll like it?”

Charlotte nods, imperceptibly. She can't bring herself to look at his face.

Walter snaps the box shut, gently, and retracts the flashlight. The space the ring occupied is swallowed by blackness, like a rock flung in a pond. As he returns the box to its hiding place, Charlotte feels an ache inside her, a combination of sweetness and sorrow so sharp it's almost too much to bear. She remembers the afternoon Walter first confided in her about the baby—it seems like years ago—how she'd thought he was asking her permission to propose. How fearful she had been, how opposed to the idea. Never for a second had she wondered what Emily's answer would be.

“Listen.” Walter has returned to his makeshift seat. He holds the flashlight under his chin, like a child by a campfire. “I know this all probably worries you a little. You're probably thinking we're too young, and we
are
young, I know it. But I don't want this kid born to parents who aren't married. Or at least not planning on getting married. There's no reason we shouldn't.”

Charlotte looks into his face, splintered with light and shadow. His expression is hard to find. It's broken into shards, and each looks like it contains a different emotion: a worried slice of left eyebrow, a hopeful right eye, a slash of upper lip that looks firm, resolute.

“I know we have our problems, just like everybody. You probably sensed some stuff this weekend. I know you pick up on things. But we'll deal with it, you know? We argue, yeah, but it all comes from love. It comes from the right place.” The shadowed slice of mouth curves into a smile. “Em's headstrong, and some days she just about kills me, but I wouldn't love her any other way.”

“Yes.” Charlotte smiles back. She thinks of the young man she always predicted Emily would end up with: steady, traditional, a rational match for her daughter's tough will. She had thought, meeting Walter, that he was completely wrong for her. But listening to him now, she realizes the opposite is true: the physical details aren't what she imagined, but Walter is everything she expected, and wanted, Emily's husband to be.

“I know you know what I mean,” he says, then the flashlight beam is wriggling on the ground. Walter aims it at her face. “Charlotte?”

She squints. “Yes?”

“You know what's going on.”

“I do?”

“You pick up more than you let on. I can tell.” He lowers the flashlight, shines it on the wall. “But sometimes you sell yourself short, and I hate to see it happen. Like today, talking about Em being tougher having a baby—” The beam slides to the floor, as if exhausted. “I bet you were plenty tough.”

“I really wasn't.”

“I can't see you complaining, though.”

“Well, that's true,” she admits. “I didn't complain.”

Walter's gaze drifts toward the wall, following the flashlight, which wanders lazily, touching on a sack of mulch, a stack of wood, a glassless window, then comes to rest where it began: the cradle.

“It's a damn fine crib,” Walter pronounces, “if I do say so myself.” He laughs, then instantly sobers. “I love this kid so much already.”

“Me too.”

They are silent then, and the silence is loud with many things: night creatures and whispering leaves and fear and memory and promise.

“A good night's sleep—” Walter starts, then stops. “You just can't underestimate the importance of that, you know?”

“Yes.” She nods. He is just about breaking her heart. “I do.”

Two-twenty-seven
A.M.
and the ceiling is too close. The outdoors is too loud, the bed too cold. All the warmth this house contained during the day feels as though it's been sucked out by the nightfall, replaced by an uneasy chill. The tapestries on the ceiling droop too close to Charlotte's face; the patchwork blanket is rough to the touch. Her fingertips and nose are freezing, the only heat in the place coming from the wood stove still burning in the living room—a fire hazard for sure—its thin heat rising through haphazard ceiling vents. All the flaws of the house feel more pronounced in the dark: the spiral staircase, dirty litter box, weak water pressure, dribbling heat. It's not a place fit for adults, much less a new baby.

Charlotte turns on her side, pressing her face to the pillow. But it isn't physical discomfort that's keeping her awake. It's something internal. Invisible. Her skin itches, as if struggling to contain what's inside. At precisely 2:30, she swings her feet to the floor and slides into her slippers. With eyes averted, she creeps into the hallway, past Walter and Emily's beaded bedroom door, past the Love Butter, down the winding staircase, and into the living room—where she sidesteps a coffee mug, a crumby pie plate, the still-untouched Scrabble board—then grabs her coat, unlocks the door, and steps outside.

Charlotte has never seen so many stars. They are so clear, and so many—it feels like she's in a planetarium. She wanders into the driveway and tilts her head back. It must be hard to lose perspective, living in a place like this. The size of the world is unavoidable, it's everywhere. It's impossible to escape your own
smallness. As she drinks in the enormity of the sky, she has a flash of herself at age ten, riding in the back of Becky Freeman's car after that fateful day at the movies. How for the first time she realized her own insignificance. Back then, it was alarming; now it feels like a relief.

Charlotte starts to cross the yard. The air is freezing, the coldest she's ever felt November. The wind is so crisp, it feels as if it could give you paper cuts. Dry leaves swirl around her ankles, the nightgown hugs her legs. When she reaches the rainbow beach chairs, she sits in one and stretches her legs out, long grass tickling the bare backs of her shins. She closes her eyes and listens to the silence. Here in the woods, sounds are impossible to distinguish. It's as if the place has its own pulse: fleshy, primal, thrumming with the energy of a million unseen wings.

Charlotte looks at the house in the distance, a paper cutout against the night sky. She imagines Emily and Walter tucked somewhere inside it, skin pressed against skin, breathing in the starry darkness. No wonder Emily got pregnant within weeks of living here: you can practically taste the sexual energy in the air. A hint of danger, too—but the danger doesn't feel sexual. It comes from the immediacy of the place, from everything being so close to the surface: all the things that you fear, that you know, that you want to feel and avoid feeling. There's an ominous quality here that doesn't come from the crowded trees or the saturated sky. It comes from within: the threat of your own truth, the knowledge that you couldn't avoid yourself if you tried.

Charlotte feels a pang in her gut, like the kick of a baby. And suddenly she feels deeply, desperately, alone. She's not unaccustomed to aloneness—she's spent most of her adult life that way—but it's never really bothered her. In fact, it's distinctly
not
bothered her. After her divorce, when people sympathized that she was single, Charlotte would tell them she didn't mind, she was fine, and she meant it. Losing Joe, though initially hard (and slightly humiliating), was more than anything a kind of long exhale. Deep down, she felt she knew a secret the rest of the world didn't: that you don't
need
a partner to be happy. That without one, you could actually be happier: free of tumult and tension and the threat of being left.

And since then, she's never really seen that “other half “ as something she wanted—certainly not needed. She's resisted the importance of not being alone. But sitting here, feeling the pulse of the woods, the restless wind, something is stirring inside her. It's not overtly sexual, but simply
alive.
She's aware of human closeness in a way that's unfamiliar, and a little unsettling; the awareness smacks of need. That kick she felt, it wasn't homesickness for Dunleavy Street, or her condo, or New Jersey. Charlotte isn't just alone. She is lonely.

Charlotte lets her eyes fall shut. She presses her fingers to her eyelids. The reflex is automatic, though she hasn't done it in many years; it was a game she used to play as a child. She'd press on her lids, wait until the darkness settled, then watch the patterns start emerging. It was like a secret slideshow, a magic inner life of swirling colors, spinning squares, exploding stars that merged and folded like a helix tumbling in space. When she opened her eyes it would take several moments to readjust, sparks appearing here and there like a firework's dull final pops. She would wonder if all eyelids had hidden kaleidoscopes inside, and if so, why weren't people raving about them? She decided most people probably had them, just hadn't taken the time to figure it out.

Now, though, Charlotte can't access the kaleidoscope. She
presses harder, but her inner life will not oblige. Opening her eyes, she feels suddenly aware of her body. She recalls the way Emily pressed her face into Joe's neck. The way Walter kissed Emily's shoulder. The way Joe's voice softened on the phone the afternoon she stood alone in her kitchen, telling him about Emily:
Don't worry,
he said,
this will all be okay.
What would life feel like with such things to lean into? The pressure of lips on her arm, whisper of comfort in her ear, warm hollow between another person's chin and shoulder? What kind of difference would that make?