Charlie and Pearl

by Robinson, Tammy

  Other nights she came to my house and I cooked her and mum omelettes, with mushrooms and tomatoes and cheese. Or I went to her place and she cooked me a Thai red curry that was spicy but tasty so I ate every morsel even though my tongue and lips were on fire and I spent the night sweating most unattractively.

  I spent more time dreaming about her than I did anyone or anything else, and most of my time planning our next ‘date’.

  But still, at the end of every night we spent together, when I left because it was clear that it was time to go, I kissed her placidly on the cheek and went home and lay awake remembering every moment, every look. And I longed.

  PEARL

  Winter is not my favourite season. Not by a long shot. In fact, of the four of them, it’s right there on the bottom, under (in order of preference), Summer, Autumn, Spring.

  I’ve never really ‘done’ cold mornings well. Bed is far too cosy, sheets and blankets snuggled up around my neck or pulled over my head. Back home in my flat my electric blanket comes out of the cupboard late April, and stays on the bed for months.

  I dislike cold bathrooms, and the bathroom in the Beach house is the coldest one of all.

  Like most old Kiwi holiday homes, the building was built for temporary summer shelter, not to be a year round home. The aluminium roof, the weatherboard walls, they are sturdy, but not warm as such. Why would you need insulation at the beach?

  The new homes, the ones that are popping up at beaches settlements all over New Zealand, are worth millions. They are works of art; architectural masterpieces. I drive up and down coastal roads admiring them and thinking people have either been winning a whole lot of Lotto or else have jobs where they are paid huge amounts of money, unlike I am. Or was.

  I notice the seasonal change easily. The heavy dews on the lawn get heavier and one morning I wake up to find light dew on my duvet. I dragged the old oil column heater from the lounge into my room and that took care of that problem.

  Every year I forget exactly how cold winter can be. In the heat of summer it’s easy to gloss over the harder aspects; the crunchy frosts, having to run water over your car windows in the morning to defrost the glass when you’re already late for work and getting water all over your boots, getting home just after five and it’s already dark and trying to heat a freezing house. In the sweltering summer heat you dream of the cosy open fires, rich hot chocolate with marshmallows, wearing Ugg boots to the supermarket on a Saturday morning. Yes I know, very Bogan, but it’s ok because everyone else is wearing them too so no one even looks at your twice. I draw the line at wearing my pajama bottoms though; sadly, many girls don’t.

  The cold reality of winter is much harsher. Some people go to work in the dark and get home in the dark and spend the hours in between trapped in an office. No wonder people suffer from that Seasonal something or other disorder, the one where they have to stare at a blue light for 30 minutes.

  It started to get dark earlier. Charlie and I used to eat on the deck some nights but eventually we had to admit defeat and move into the warmth of the dining room. We compensated by eating with the curtains open and a single tea light candle in the corner, so we could kind of pretend we were still outside, but that had its dangers; I cut my tongue licking my knife thinking it was my fork.

  It hurt like the buggery, an expression of Gran’s that when I said Charlie found hilarious.

  Charlie.

  It was so obvious how he felt about me. There was no attempt at pretence on his part. His face and his eyes reflected exactly how he was feeling at any given time and sometimes the adoration that beamed my way was comforting, and sometimes it was a little bit annoying. Who was he to adore me so much when he hardly knew anything about me?

  Me, I was more confused. I told him I only wanted a friend and I meant it. But sometimes, I would watch him when he wasn’t looking, and I felt...maybe not quite as annoyed.

  Sometimes I realised I was trying deliberately to make him laugh just to see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  Sometimes when he was talking to me I would stare at his lips while they moved and remember how it felt to kiss him.

  Not too bad, not too bad at all.

  And then I would wonder what it would feel like to have those lips kissing other parts of my body; the hollow of my neck, the curve of my breasts.

  We went to a movie one night, called Revolutionary Road. God it was scary. Not in a horror sense but in a ‘that makes so much sense’, which is much, much worse. Kate and Leo, they played a married couple who promised they would never conform to stereotypes, but would instead live life to the fullest every day and never lose sight of their passion and adventurous spirits and it scared me because that was exactly the promises Adam and I used to breathe into each other’s mouths while we held on to each other too tightly. Kate and Leo, they got bogged down by mortgages and jobs and children and then she went all haywire and the both had affairs and it all seemed a bit too scarily accurate and then she died. Horribly. I cried.

  Afterwards we drove home and I felt like I’d been through an emotional wringer.

  The way those characters felt was that way I felt, and if all that real life stuff could happen to them and to their marriage then did that mean it happened to every person and every marriage? Is that what happened to everyone? It was the moment I realised that just because I thought I was the only one who had the thoughts I had, who felt the way I felt, didn’t mean I was.

  I couldn’t even look at Charlie because together we had just seen something that had been so raw and so apparently human and I was, irrationally perhaps, embarrassed.

  CHARLIE

  Pete died.

  PEARL

  All that stuff I was going on about...the drama and musings and soulful questioning and all that stuff...what the hell was I on about? It was all rubbishy bullshit.

  I have been reminded about the hard lesson that is life.

  And death.

  I got a call from Charlie in the middle of the day. I didn’t know it was him at first because he didn’t speak and all I could hear was a kind of snuffling noise, like a hedgehog makes in the dark.

  “Hello?” I said, and then, “who is this?”

  “Pearl” he said, just before I was about to hang up on him.

  “Charlie?”

  “Pearl”

  My heart quickened. I knew something was wrong and I didn’t want to hear it in case it was something bad, which was stupid because I know how these calls work, I’ve had these kinds of calls before, and bad news was pretty much guaranteed.

  Gran is the last grandparent I have left. The other three have succumbed over the years, one to cancer, one to a heart condition and the other a broken heart. One I never knew, the other two I was reasonably close with. So I’m no stranger to ‘those’ kinds of calls.

  “Charlie what’s wrong?”

  “Can you come?” he asked.

  “Of course, where are you?”

  “Home”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  The whole drive there my mind was going crazy, was it his mum? Oh god, I wasn’t equipped to deal with that, no way. A grandparent? Better, selfishly for me, a known quantity, I could be comforting for that. I knew from experience what to say and more importantly, what not to say.

  But his boss never crossed my mind. I’d met Pete, several times in fact over the years. He was eccentric, an oddball. I didn’t get to know him. Why would I?

  But Charlie was devastated.

  His eyes made me want to cry, his normal spark was gone, they were wounded, hurt.

  “Oh Charlie,” I said, “I’m so sorry”

  And then I held him while he cried. While his shoulders shook and his tears soaked through my t-shirt and his sobs vibrated against my ribs. His vulnerability made me breathe deep.

  I’m well aware that death can make the living do rash things. I’ve heard that more babies are conceived after funerals than weddings. Being reminded of the ultimate fin
ality of life makes us panic, try to cram everything we possibly can in. Live all our dreams. For a brief time anyway, till the memory of the deceased becomes not as sharp, and days pass where you can think of them without crying, and the normality of life resumes.

  I liked that Charlie didn’t try to ‘man up’. He cried like a little boy cries, all heavy sobs and high pitched wails. I rubbed his back and made useless soothing noises.

  He didn’t put on a brave face, or pretend that he wasn’t heartbroken. He wore his grief on his face and in his voice and I found myself wondering if, one day, someone would grieve so openly and so honestly for me.

  CHARLIE

  Guilt sits on my head like a rain cloud.

  I feel so guilty.

  Not that the family is making me feel that way, because they’ve been nothing but nice. But still, I haven’t been paying as much attention to Pete as maybe I should have.

  I said this to Pearl and she, very reasonably, pointed out that even if I had been with Pete 100% of the time I couldn’t have foreseen the stroke coming that would kill him.

  He wouldn’t have known, the doctors said. It happened while he slept and he simply wouldn’t have woken up.

  But maybe there had been symptoms? Maybe he’d mentioned something, headaches or blurred vision or anything that might have been a clue and because I was such a stupid selfish self-obsessed son of a bitch I didn’t pick up on it?

  I guess I will never know.

  When he didn’t show up for work I knew something was wrong because no matter what year his mind was in, no matter what the weather was doing or how tired he was, Pete was at the bookshop at 7.30am every morning, with the morning paper and his packed lunch in a battered blue tin, and when I would arrive at 9.00am the shop would be warm, lit and ready for the day.

  So when I got there and the shop was dark and the door was locked I knew straight away that something was wrong but I was too scared shitless to go to his house by myself so I called his sister in Auckland and she called the police and when I finally got the guts to drive around to his house I was just in time to see the undertaker wheeling his body, cased in a blue bag, out on a trolley. So I didn’t have to see his face.

  But I can see it every time I close my eyes.

  I am filled to the brim with regret that I didn’t do enough. I wasn’t there enough for him. He was just an awesome old guy who really didn’t deserve to die alone.

  And I’m feeling guilty as hell that even while I’m feeling guilty and sad that’s Pete’s gone and I should have done more, all I can think about is Pearl, and how much I need to see her.

  How much of a bad person does that make me?

  Pretty bad I’m guessing.

  PEARL

  The funeral was today. I went along to support Charlie, even though it felt a little weird to be at the funeral of someone I barely knew, and I didn’t really have anything suitable to wear. In the end I settled for black jeans and a coral pink top. I’ve always preferred a splash of colour at funerals.

  Pete’s family comprised of two sisters and a handful of nieces and nephews and their extended families. It was an ok funeral, as far as funerals go. I’ve certainly been to better. I’ve always felt you can tell how much a person was loved by the kind of service their family throws them. I’d say Pete was loved enough, but not much more than that.

  Charlie’s surprise blew me away though. I knew he was planning something but he wouldn’t tell me what. We sat through the Hymns and the Lord’s Prayer and a eulogy that was thorough in its chronology, if not terribly emotive.

  Then we stood while the coffin was carried out and placed into the back of the hearse, ready for its journey to the crematorium, and just before they closed the doors Charlie stepped forward and held up a hand,

  “Wait” he said, and then beckoned to someone behind him.

  A man stepped forward and lifted something to his lips and I realised it was a trumpet about the same time as he blew the first clear notes of the Last Post and I had to stifle a giggle because I knew that Pete had never actually been a soldier but this was exactly the kind of send off he would have liked.

  After the crematorium we went to the RSA and had drinks and nibbles consisting of club sandwiches with the crusts cut off and mini quiches and meat pies and squares of lamingtons, chocolate and strawberry. Charlie did rounds of the room and made small talk with the people there while I hung at the back and felt out of place.

  And after that we went back to Charlie’s house, to his single bed with its navy blue sheets and cream duvet, and we made love.

  CHARLIE

  Pete would have approved, I know he would have.

  Not that I gave him much thought during the, you know, happenings.

  Human nature is a weird thing isn’t it. Death makes us think of life. There is nothing like a funeral to get the blood pumping through your veins, to make every sense stand up tingling and take stock.

  When Pearl came back to my house after the funeral I was questioning everything. My life, what I’d done so far, what I hadn’t done, what I should have done. I’m not old but I’ve noticed that the older I get the faster time seems to pass. Pete was gone and who was going to miss him? I would, obviously, and his sisters. But they were old woman too and who knows how much longer they would live? Would I still mourn Pete in ten years time? What was the point of Pete’s life?

  Questions like this could drive you crazy if you let them. Back at my house I sat on the couch while Pearl found a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey in the cupboard and poured us a shot each. My mother was still at the service, would probably stay for hours yet with the other old biddies from around town, the ones that only caught up at funerals and weddings.

  I had the shot she gave me, then another. And then I started telling Pearl about the first time I met Pete, when I walked in off the street when I was thirteen and asked him for a job and he had looked me up and down and asked me who won the battle of Stalingrad, and of course I said I had absolutely no idea because really, who does?, and he told me to get the hell out of his shop. So I went back a week later having read up all about it on the internet but this time he wanted me to list the top 10 strategic moves of World War 1 and said then and only then would he hire me but of course I couldn’t so he told me to get lost again. It went on like that for the next three weeks until finally, he told me he admired my determination, although not my knowledge of history, and gave me the job.

  While I told Pearl this story I started crying, I know, attractive in a guy right, and she started rubbing my back and I leaned into her shoulder and I could smell that coconut smell again and entirely without any control I started to feel aroused so I started to move away from her but then she, and I still can’t believe this bit, she climbed onto my lap until she was straddling me, and she started kissing my tears away. Her breath was hot on my face and my hands were on her hips and she was straining against me.

  I can’t tell you what happened next without losing all control of forming sentences and general grammar.

  So I won’t, because I can’t, and also because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

  But I will say this. If I didn’t know before today why I was put here on this earth I do now.

  PEARL

  Who’d have thought it? Not I, that’s for sure.

  With Adam there was this insane kind of passion between us, this thirst for each other and life and making every minute count for something. With time and hindsight I can admit it was maybe a little bit forced, like we were trying to make something be what we thought it was supposed to be.

  I said I wasn’t predisposed to the dramatic. But every boring Nellie wishes for a little more excitement don’t they? And that’s what I think it was with Adam. I loved him like I thought I was supposed to love him. I put him a pedestal because of his ridiculous good looks and I lapped up the envy and admiration we got from other people who saw us as ‘the perfect couple’.

  I may be wrong but I don’t think l
ove is supposed to require so much thought and effort into keeping up appearances.

  I think it’s just supposed to be.

  Maybe what I needed all along was a normal decent kiwi guy with blond curly hair and baby blue eyes. Too bad it took me so long to realise it.

  Watching Charlie speak about Pete with such obvious affection, I had this whole body recognition that here was a guy who would never let me down. Here was a guy that, when he loved someone, he loved them truly and deeply and loyally.

  So I climbed on top of him and I started kissing his face and then we were in his bed and I was nervous, but I looked into eyes and remembered that this was Charlie, who had never given me cause for concern but instead spent every minute we were together worrying about me. And I forgot every single body hang up I ever had, every imperfection suddenly didn’t matter and I wanted him to know me, to see me, to feel me, but at the same time I couldn’t wait a second longer to have him inside me so I guided him into me and then, well, then I had the most intense experience of my life and I honestly thought I might cry from the beauty of it. I watched him in wonder while he moved inside me, his eyes locked into my eyes, except for when he climaxed; then they rolled back into his head and his mouth formed a neat O and a drop of sweat from his forehead dripped onto mine which, normally, I would be disgusted by but because it was Charlie’s I wasn’t at all grossed out so I took it as a sign that my body was accepting his and I clenched myself even tighter around him.

  After our breathing got back to normal he snuggled in beside me and pulled me in tight against him, tucked under his arm. I liked that he automatically moved me to the wall side of the bed. Protected. He nuzzled his face into my hair, inhaling me. His tummy pressed into my back. Under a roof painted with glow in the dark stars, in the bedroom of a boy I’d known for a short time but who was already more familiar to me than myself, for the first time in a long time I feel asleep easily.