Penzler, Otto Ed v2

  Herb was undone. He developed psoriasis, a cranky colon, and a powerful thirst. In short order, he found himself addicted to cortisone creams, anti-inflammatory pills, Jell-O brand pudding pops, and Jack Daniel’s. Several months ago, he’d hit bottom and enrolled in a twelve-step program.

  “It’s difficult for me to believe that more than a year has passed since I buried my beautiful Giselle,” Herb wrote. “I find myself mired in grief, unable to see past the dark clouds that engulf me. Still, my twelve-step sponsor insists that Giselle and little Herb would have wanted me to carry on, which I suppose is true.

  “In that spirit, I’ve decided to invite a few special friends for a contemplative, healing retreat this coming Labour Day weekend. I’m asking everyone to bring one special thing to share. It could be a memory, a private thought, a poem—something from the heart.

  “Please say you’ll join us, Carlotta. Grant me this priceless opportunity to express my true feelings for you.

  “Yours as ever, Chervil (Herb) Lattimore”

  Carlotta’s thoughts raced like a gerbil on a wheel. Why should she do anything for Herb Lattimore after all he’d put her through? How could she not after all he’d been through himself? Yes, no? Stay, go? She placed an emergency call to Dr. Hume at the Institute, but the psychiatrist was out of town for the weekend, and could not be reached. Dr. Romanowitz was covering, the receptionist said, but Carlotta declined to speak with him. It would take months to bring a new shrink up to speed.

  Carlotta struggled to evict the matter from her mind, but she was unable to focus on anything else, including her studies. Lately, her practice test scores had been ranging in the high eighties to low nineties, but today, she managed a dismal forty-six on the dreaded Auditing section. The exercises she’d learned from Dr. Hume failed to silence the chorus of self-doubts singing in her head. You shall not overcome, Carlotta. You are plain and dumb, Carlotta. Your time hasn’t come—no wa-a-a-a-ay!

  The only brief distraction Carlotta found was with her plants. After dinner, she misted, swiped for mealybug, sprayed for white-fly, brushed off scale and mite, and sang her leafy charges’ favourite tunes. The cacti were partial to ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ For the bromeliads, she crooned ‘Aloe, Dolly.’

  After her parents died, Carlotta had purchased a couple of plants to ease the gloom. To her delight, she found she had a natural flair for growing things. As her interest bloomed, she subscribed to gardening journals and joined horticultural societies. Soon, the house was awash with greenery and her mailbox brimmed with catalogues and correspondence from plant pals around the globe.

  Even rare, exotic foliage flourished in Carlotta’s care. Her reputation grew, and collectors began entrusting her with valuable seeds and hybrids. Her approach was simple. Plants, like people, thrived on consideration and respect. Carlotta took pains to learn each specimen’s proper name and personal preferences. Every one was treated as a dear friend and honoured guest in her home.

  “Good afternoon, my darling Phalaenopsis” she crooned. “Tsk, tsk. Look at those overcrowded roots. Time to move to larger quarters, isn’t it, my sweet little Eupatorium rugosutri’.”

  Carlotta’s plants could count on thoughtful, consistent care. No gimmicks; no games. From firsthand experience, she knew how damaging games could be and how they tended to grow out of hand. Herb had begun by joking about his name, and people were amused. Somehow, he’d concluded it was fine to make fun of others, to pervert their good names, impugn their characters, subject them to soul-numbing, gut-wrenching, life-altering humiliations.

  Carlotta flushed hot, recalling her first day as a second grader at the Wilson School. She was the new kid in Rockville Centre, having moved at midyear from the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. When a little boy approached her during morning recess, Carlotta was overjoyed. His name was Basil, he said, and he wanted to be her friend. First, he needed to use the lavatory. Then, he would save a seat for Carlotta in the lunchroom.

  Standing on the cafeteria line, Carlotta could barely contain her excitement. She was going to be accepted in this terrifying new place. She would make lots of friends, perhaps achieve the holy grail of popularity. All was well.

  After heaping her tray with macaroni and cheese and ambrosia salad and khaki-coloured green beans and subsidised milk, Carlotta spotted Basil at a table in the rear. As promised, the seat beside him was empty. Carlotta hastened across the room, deposited her tray on the table, and sat.

  She would never forget what happened next. She was steeped like a tea bag in warm, fetid slop. Carlotta shrieked and jumped from the chair, drawing all eyes. The mess ran down her legs, soaked her socks, and puddled in her shoes. The teacher in charge, loudmouth Mrs. Fargnioli, rushed over to investigate. “This little girl peed in her pants,” she bellowed at the top of her pipe-organ lungs. “Call her parents. Call the office. Get a mop!”

  Everyone pointed and laughed as Carlotta was led from the room. Her new skirt was plastered to her backside like a giant badge of shame. Her wet Mary Janes squeaked like frightened rodents. She was exiled to the nurse’s office, where she waited until her mother arrived. Rose, red and sputtering, took her soggy daughter home. “Look what you’ve done to me, Carlotta. How am I going to hold my head up at canasta after this?”

  Despite Carlotta’s protestations of innocence, she was branded with the horrid nickname: Betsy Wetsy. No one believed her assertion that a boy named Basil had planted the offending substance on her chair. There was no Basil registered at the school. Herb Lattimore, whom she identified as the guilty party, was a model student with an unblemished good citizenship record. He, of all children, would never do such a thing. The principal had questioned Carlotta’s grip on reality. Rose and Sam were advised to curtail their daughter’s television viewing and restrict her to non-fiction books.

  “Lord, no!” Carlotta shrieked. Absorbed in reverie, she had over-watered her prized helmet flower. Now, she hastened to empty the brimming saucer and aerate the sodden soil. “I’m so sorry, my darling Aconitum napellus. There, now, are you all right? Have I hurt you horribly? Can you ever forgive me?”

  Suddenly, Carlotta saw the light. Forgiveness was the only proper course. Herb’s transgressions were ancient history. As Dr. Hume so often advised, she needed to be rid of her anger toward that man. Carlotta had to put the past behind her, where it belonged. Accepting Herb’s invitation would be a step toward that worthy end.

  Carlotta had hoped the decision would bring her peace, but she was up all night, tossing and churning. She kept thinking of all the agony poor Herb had suffered. She was haunted by an image of little Herb, a towheaded angel floating facedown beside his purple dinosaur in the pool. She ached for the lovely Giselle, marked for eternity by tread marks from the White Plains express bus to Fifty-ninth Street.

  Preparing for Herb’s retreat loomed as a monumental task. Carlotta needed to lose five pounds and buy several new outfits. A change of hairdo was definitely in order, not to mention makeup consultation, colour analysis, and perhaps an eye job. She had to arrange extra time off from work next Labour Day weekend, make travel plans, have her palm read, and hire a plant sitter. All night, she jotted notes to herself on the bedside pad she used to record her dreams for Dr. Hume. By morning, she had compiled a six-page list.

  At the top was her most critical task: passing the CPA exam. Carlotta intended to face Herb and the others on equal footing, as an accountant. But the moment she opened the test booklet that morning, her hopes plummeted. She had trouble interpreting the questions. Basic facts eluded her. She kept checking to be sure she was in the proper room.

  Back home, Carlotta groped with demons of despair. She wallowed for a while, weeping and moaning, until her leafy friends clamoured for their evening care. She misted the plants with her special mixture of Evian, lime juice, and a bit of Smirnoff vodka. “There, there, my darling Ficus benjamina. Here you are, sweet Dracaena marginatu, that should perk you right up.”

  Carlotta
drank some of the mix and perked up a bit herself. Perhaps she had not done as poorly as she imagined on the exam. In any case, the official results would not be in for months. Why worry now about failing? She could jump off that bridge when she came to it.

  Instead, she resolved to focus on the plans for her trip to Herb’s retreat. Rockville Centre only had one hotel. Couldn’t hurt to call now and reserve a room.

  That impulse proved most fortunate. The reservations clerk informed Carlotta that the place was nearly booked for the holiday weekend. “We have two weddings and a family reunion scheduled. But I still have one nice single available with a fabulous view of the Toys R Us.”

  “Great. I’ll take it,” Carlotta said.

  “Fine. Let me get a bit of information. Name?”

  “Carlotta Little.”

  “Not the Carlotta Little who went to Southside High?”

  The clerk identified herself as Toby Cornet, a redheaded pufball who had grunted beside Carlotta in remedial physical education.

  “My, it has been an age,” said Toby. “What brings you back to town after all these years?”

  Knowing that Toby had not likely been invited, Carlotta hesitated to mention Herb Lattimore’s retreat. Instead, she muttered something about a visit to console Herb after all the poor man’s travail.

  Toby whooped. “Drowned kid? Dead wife? Business on the skids? Who fed you such a bunch of horse plop?”

  “It’s not true?”

  “No way. Herb Lattimore’s never been married. He comes to the hotel two, three times a week for dinner, always with a different bimbo on his arm. They’re all about twelve years old with huge gabongas and brains the size of chickpeas.”

  Carlotta bristled with disbelief. There was no baby son. No suicide. No house fire. No business reverses of any sort. The “healing” retreat was a phoney. Herb was setting her up for another of his monstrous games.

  “That guy is some practical joker.” Toby chuckled. “Last Easter, he had two thousand baby chicks delivered to the hotel as a gag. But we showed him. Next day, we had two thousand painted eggs delivered to him. You’ve simply got to take a bullshitter like Herb by the horns. Beat him at his own game.”

  “Yes, Toby. I believe you’re right.”

  “So, I guess you won’t be needing that room after all.”

  “I most certainly will. Put it on my AmEx. Mark the room guaranteed.”

  Seething, Carlotta recalled every one of Herb Lattimore’s slights and insults. She would never forget standing on the sidelines at the sixth-grade prom, aching in desolation as the others frugged to ‘At the Hop.’ Why didn’t anyone want her? Wasn’t there some way she could stand or smile or cock her head just so to attract one of the boys? Dear Lord, send me someone. Anyone. Please!

  As if in answer, Herb had sauntered across the gym floor. “Hey, Carlotta. Want to dance?”

  Flustered with delight, Carlotta took several moments to find her tongue. “Why, yes,” she said at last. “That would be lovely.”

  Then, as she approached, Herb cringed and backed away. “You want to dance? Go find yourself a partner.”

  For years after that, Carlotta had avoided him. Then, when they were seniors in high school, Herb started calling the house. He’d charmed her parents as he did all adults. Rose and Sam could not understand Carlotta’s refusal to go out with him. “Every night, you sit around like a bump on a log,” Sam observed. “It’s not like you’re such a raving beauty, Carlotta. It’s not like the boys are beating down your door.”

  “I’m not interested, Daddy. Okay?”

  “But he seems like such a nice young man,” Rose cajoled. “What do you have to lose?”

  Eventually, they wore her down. Carlotta was pleasantly surprised on their first movie date, when Herb acted the perfect gentleman. The following month passed in a haze of romantic bliss: bowling, Skee Ball, Nathan’s hot dogs, miniature golf. Perfection.

  One magical night, they were alone in the Lattimores’ rec room. The lights were dim, and Johnny Mathis’s honeyed voice oozed from the hi fi: ‘Chances are...’

  Herb asked Carlotta to wear his ring around her neck. He kissed her and confessed his undying love. When Carlotta admitted she felt the same, Herb implored her to express her affection in a physical way. He explained that he might suffer grave medical consequences if she did not. This would be their secret, he assured. A sacred trust.

  Carlotta had believed him without reservation. For weeks, she hadn’t the vaguest idea why people at school kept snickering and whispering as she passed. Then, after lunch one day, she went to the girls’ room. Inside the door to the third stall, someone had scrawled the entire sordid story. Herb had pursued her on a ten-dollar bet. When Carlotta submitted to his advances, Herb’s best friend, Googie Nathanson, had been hiding in the closet with a tape recorder. By now, virtually every student at Southside High had heard Carlotta in the throes of passion, shouting, “Hoooo, baby. Yes!”

  The incident brought Carlotta to her emotional knees. She was unable to show her face at the high school. She missed several weeks of classes and nearly failed to graduate. Hiding at home, she became bitter and reclusive and terribly depressed. She found herself unable to trust men or much of anything. From then on, aside from her plants and the occasional Sara Lee chocolate swirl poundcake, Carlotta’s life held precious little pleasure.

  But that was about to end. At long last, she knew how to beat Herb Lattimore at his own game.

  Irwin Draper noticed the change immediately. When Carlotta strode into the bookkeeping office the following morning, dumpy Irwin popped his thumb from his nose like a champagne cork and frowned. “What’s up, Carlotta? You look different.”

  “Why, nothing at all.”

  “Oh, yes, there is. You’ve changed. I can see it. You look—I don’t know—taller somehow.”

  “Is that so, Irwin? Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ve grown.” Irwin had certainly not grown, she noted smugly. The man was positively potbound.

  “She can’t grow, you big ninny.” Martha Siwicki guffawed. “She’s a middle-aged spinster, for Chrissakes.”

  Carlotta squinted at the brown spots on Martha’s ham-sized hands. Definite sign of root rot. “Forgive me for being blunt, Martha, but you could benefit from less moisture and a hoe.”

  At their next session, Dr. Hume probed for the reasons behind her improved frame of mind. “Frankly, Carlotta, I’m surprised you’re not upset about this latest development with Herb.”

  “I’ve told you, Dr. Hume. I can handle this.”

  “And I’ve told you, the only way to handle it is to be rid of the Herb issue, once and for all. You need to get done with him, Carlotta. You should have been rid of this long ago.”

  “I hear you, Dr. Hume, and I could not agree more.”

  “Why go to this so-called retreat, then? What can you possibly hope to gain?”

  Carlotta smiled. “I think the better question is, ‘What do I have to lose?’”

  The next months passed with striking calm. Nothing fazed Carlotta, not even the letter from the state board stating that she would have scored several points higher on the CPA exam had she decided to stay at home.

  No biggie wiggy.

  Her travel arrangements proceeded apace. She lost five pounds and bought three striking new ensembles. She indulged in a complete makeover at Peoria’s Salon des Dames Frumpees. A teenager down the block agreed to plant-sit during her absence.

  Carlotta was a trifle nonplussed by Mr. Detuzzi’s response to her request for extra time off around the Labour Day weekend. “Funny you should ask, Carlotta. Actually, I was going to suggest you take a nice long rest from your duties here at Carswell. You’ve got unemployment coming, plus you’ll qualify for a nice pension in just a few short years. Ms. McGinness in outplacement will be happy to explain everything.”

  Fiddle de dee.

  She had far more important issues to address. Uppermost in her mind was the special offering H
erb had asked her to bring along to share. Something from the heart, he’d said. Carlotta’s heart was full of things she’d love to share with Herbert Alton Lattimore IV. But one particular idea crept in and germinated. Carlotta compiled the necessary details from medical, horticultural, and culinary specialists. She consulted with the top criminal attorney in all of greater metropolitan Peoria. Everything she learned confirmed her belief that she’d hit on the perfect contribution.

  Soon, Labour Day weekend was upon her. Carlotta primped and packed and bid adieu to her precious housemates. “Have a lovely weekend, my sweet Cypripedium calceolus,” she said. “Don’t cry for me, Artemisia.”

  A liveried chauffeur awaited Carlotta at the arrival gate at JFK. “Greetings, Ms. Little. I’m Hathaway. Mr. Lattimore asked me to drive you to the retreat.”

  He held forth a nosegay of sweetheart roses and baby’s breath. “These are for you, ma’am. Compliments of Mr. Lattimore.”

  Carlotta recoiled in horror. “Murdered in their infancy, no less. Is there no depth to which that creature will not sink?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “I most certainly will not,” Carlotta huffed.

  Herb’s house was an imposing Tudor in the ultra-rich Old Canterbury section of town. Years ago, Carlotta would have been humbled by the opulent surroundings, but now she stood apart from such frivolities. Above them.

  The Southside High School class of seventy-two elite was assembled among the priceless antiques in the living room. Julia and Apulia Venable, the cheerleading twins, looked terminally perky as ever. Wendy Whitley, prom queen emeritus, stood beside bull-necked Chip Savage, football captain turned shopping mall mogul. Googie Nathanson, sporting two extra chins and a mail-sack belly, stood puffing a fat Cuban cigar. There was pretty Pinky Goldhaven, willowy Raquel Morgenstern, pompous Myron Peltz, and—