What now?
Minnie’s evening heart attack—out of the blue, no heart trouble that Charlotte had known about, and Charlotte would have known, as Minnie shared her ailments perhaps a teensy bit too much—made it clear that Charlotte could be next. Who knew how much time she had left? And did she even want to be here, now that Minnie was gone? And if she didn’t want to spend her remaining time here, inside a gated community on the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia, where should she go? None of her children were sending Evites to come visit.
Oh. Charlotte’s children.
To her great sadness and bewilderment, Charlotte’s three adult children were lost to her, and perhaps to themselves. Learning how to navigate the world without a husband had been painful—finding a job, trying to spruce up their badly lit rental home with Laura Ashley wallpaper, fielding questions about what had happened to Winston—but sometimes Charlotte actually missed those days. They had all been together, crammed into a tiny colonial, sharing one bathroom with a leaky shower. Although she hadn’t realized it at the time, Charlotte now understood that proximity mattered.
It seemed impossible that they had traveled from that place, where they were together every night, aware of one another’s favorite morning repasts, to the present day. Charlotte had no idea what her children ate for breakfast now, or if they even ate breakfast at all. Cord had always appreciated a bowl of apples-and-cinnamon instant oatmeal sprinkled with sugar. Regan adored donuts so much that Charlotte would set her alarm clock for 5:45 A.M. so she could have time to run to Publix and deliver a fresh glazed donut to Regan, her sweet baby girl, before she headed to work at Lowcountry Realtors. (Regan in her L.L.Bean flannel nightgown, saying sleepily, “Oh, Mom! It’s still warm!” made every early rise worthwhile.) And Lee drank SlimFast milkshakes, which she made herself before school, leaving a trail of brownish powder and revolting cups half-full of sludge in her wake. Charlotte herself enjoyed a heavily buttered English muffin and three to four cups of black coffee.
Back at home, Charlotte changed out of her funereal dress and into snug white pants and a neon-pink-and-white-striped top and pink sandals. Father Thomas had once, five or so years ago, stopped by in the evening, and Charlotte wanted to be ready in case he did it again. She made dinner (Triscuits, wedge of cheddar, Chardonnay) and nibbled through a 20/20 about young people taking hallucinogenic drugs to find serenity, which seemed a bit much when Chardonnay was easily available, or Pinot Grigio if one preferred. She had dessert (one mint Milano, Chardonnay), then rinsed the dishes and settled in the living room to see what old movies caught her fancy. Her Siamese cat climbed into her lap.
Godiva purred and the wine lent the evening a buttery luxuriance. After her children left, every quiet evening had been painful, and Charlotte was proud that she had come to peace with being alone. But without Minnie—Minnie popping by for a drink; plans to meet Minnie for their sunrise walk around the lagoon; her phone ringing in the middle of 20/20, Minnie on the other end with opinions she just “had to share”—Charlotte was back in a sad place, the hours moving slowly toward bedtime. No one cared when she went to bed. No one—besides Father Thomas—was waiting to see her in the morning. Her Triscuit dinner was pathetic.
Charlotte was flipping toward the Turner Classic Movies network when the face of a handsome man appeared on the screen. “I am here tonight,” he said, “to tell you about the most amazing contest in the history of contests. But first, I’ve got a question. And here it is. Do you want to become a jetsetter?”
Charlotte paused, wineglass halfway to her lips.
“Is your story a love story?” asked the man. “An adventure story? Now is your chance to tell your story…and become a jetsetter!”
Charlotte had a story all right—the kind of story that deserved a prize. She sipped, cozy on her lemon-colored sofa, watching images of European hotspots scroll past: the Colosseum, the Acropolis, a sun-drenched beach lined with navy umbrellas.
The winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest would receive first-class tickets to Athens, Greece, followed by a nine-day cruise to Barcelona, Spain. Hmm. A first-class flight was hardly a jet, but then again, Charlotte had only flown economy. She hadn’t been abroad since she was sixteen, and not one of her children had ever left the country. Charlotte was somewhat embarrassed to admit—even to herself—that museum visits and sightseeing didn’t really appeal. But suddenly she wanted nothing more than to walk through a European city again—to feel that thrill of a foreign and more glamorous place—a place where she herself was foreign and glamorous.
Charlotte allowed herself to remember her sixteenth summer. The heat, the thrill of being chosen, being passionately kissed. Why not enter the contest? She could almost hear Minnie whispering from the Great Beyond, saying, “Go for it! Go type up the story of your first love!”
Telling herself she didn’t have to show the pages to anyone, Charlotte changed into her nightgown and robe, refilled her glass, and sat before her Dell desktop computer. Next to the monitor was her faded wedding photo. Winston, he’d been tall. But he had never made her feel cherished. Their lovemaking had been perfunctory at best and, at times, desperately sad. (Once in a while, Charlotte would walk by a man who smelled of the previous night’s whiskey and she would wince, remembering her nighttime encounters with Winston.)
Marrying out of desperation had probably been Charlotte’s biggest error. The aftermath of her erotic summer had left her lonely and bereft; according to her mother, she was “spoiled goods.” So when Winston happened back into her life, still saw her as a shining girl, she jumped at the chance to begin again. Maybe she was making amends. Maybe a part of her had really loved him, once. She hadn’t been able to imagine any other path forward, and that was the truth. If Winston rose from the grave right now and just told her what to do, she’d probably do it.
Charlotte logged on to the contest website. My, it was bright. The pictures kept moving and flipping around, but Charlotte placed her cursor in the window under the command “Win first-class flights to Europe and an all-expenses-paid Mediterranean cruise! Tell your story HERE.”
Charlotte clicked and wrote:
It may be hard to believe, but once upon a time, I was unpeeled like a banana, my rich fruit eaten raw.
She stared at the words in shock. A banana! Where had that image come from? She erased the revolting sentence and started again:
My first lover was as strong as a bull. He impaled me with his
Her face was hot, her mouth open. She deleted the statement, shaking. Whatever in the world! What if some late-night dog walker happened by? Charlotte gathered her bathrobe at her neck. She tried to look as if she were paying bills online, or checking weather.com for approaching thunderstorms.
She took a deep breath, then typed without stopping, letting the memories come, chronicling her sixteenth summer without censure or shame. She wrote it all down, every blistering detail.