Naturally, Charlie

by S. L. Scott

  Jim is down on one knee, the ring in hand. He’s all smiles and happy tears. But all of my good memories of him are tainted now, absorbed into the pain he caused just months later. Tears of anguish cover his face as I glance over my shoulder. He doesn’t chase me. He can’t.

  I return my mind to the present. Coffee, letter, morning. Yes, the here and now. After looking at the date on the announcement, I glance across the room to the calendar that hangs in the kitchen. Wednesday. The funeral is this coming Wednesday.

  I recall off the top of my head what I have going on with work this week. There is a large auction featuring the East Hampton estate of two prominent Manhattan lawyers on the verge of bankruptcy on that same afternoon. Although I don’t want to miss it, the funeral is more important. I know I can get out of the auction. I did assist our department head on landing the property, but Rachel could cover my tasks. She’s familiar with the client.

  I start my usual weekend routine of reading in the park, buying groceries for the upcoming week, and scrolling through the list of new movies for download later in the evening. Maybe uneventful to some, but it keeps me well within the comfort zone I’ve created. Today is a little different, though. Sitting in the park and feeling the warmth this afternoon has started to crack the hard shell, revealing a small piece of my old self. I can feel change coming, sense it. I feel it in my soul, and I welcome it.

  Monday is a time for catch-up. The weekend has brought many voice mails, e-mails, and letters to trudge through before I start contacting my call list of potential clients.

  Rachel pops her head up a few minutes after my arrival. “Good morning,” she singsongs.

  “Well, well, well, do tell,” I say. Since I’m in the middle of typing an e-mail, I haven’t seen her, but the silence between us causes me to turn and look upward. She’s impatiently waiting for my full attention. I fold my hands over each other and relax back into my chair, giving her the audience she needs to tell her story. “Go ahead. I know you’re dying to.”

  A delirious, happy smile crosses her face, and she starts her tale. “You remember Charlie from the other night? Well, of course you do, since his name is Charlie, like you.”

  I don’t think I want to hear this. A small ache forms in my chest at the mere mention of him.

  She shakes her hands in the air and closes her eyes as if she just remembered I was there. “Anyway, we stayed there for another drink and then went for an early breakfast, or is it a late-night meal? I don’t know, but it was around one in the morning.” She tends to drag stories out that could be summarized into one or two sentences, but I don’t want to burst her bubble. I’m fascinated by how her mind works, and she’s always fun to listen to, even if it’s about guys I wish I could have gotten to know better. “We just had the best time. He’s cute, funny, and so sweet. Wasn’t he cute?” I nod, and she continues talking without even noticing me. “He paid for the drinks and the meal. I love a gentleman.”

  “And?” I insert my appropriately interested question to move it along. I do have a lot of work to do today, especially with the pending funeral on Wednesday.

  “And what?”

  I don’t want to ask, but I’m a glutton for punishment, so I do. “Did you . . .” I leave it at that, hoping she gets it. She doesn’t seem to be following my line of questioning, which is a first for her when it comes to gossip or sex talk.

  The lightbulb finally goes off. “Oh! Oh, no. They have to wait until the third date.”

  “The third? I thought it was the second?”

  “Oh my, no! That was so one month ago. I tried the fourth date after that, but I lost their interest and they would all move on. So, I deducted through my research that the third date is the magic number. Four’s too long, and two dates is too soon to be a serious contender for marriage.”

  I smile at her logic and can appreciate the effort involved to get to this point. “Great! That sounds like a good plan.”

  I like her persistence, even though her assumption that all men think the same is a little off base. She hasn’t factored that into her calculations. I’m also relieved they didn’t sleep together Friday night, though I feel guilty for thinking it.

  “Yeah, I think so, too. So, as I was saying, I had a great night. Thanks for going.”

  “Do you think you’ll see him again?”

  “Think? I know! I secured the second date for tonight.” She leans forward on the top of the dividing wall.

  “Wow. That’s fast. He must not be from the city.”

  “He’s not. He’s from Kansas.” She laughs as she sits back down on her side of the cubicle, absent from my view.

  “Seriously? Kansas? I wouldn’t have guessed that at all.”

  “I know. Don’t you just love it?” I can tell she’s smiling.

  I glance back at my monitor as an instant message pops up. I laugh, because it’s from Rachel: I think I’m in love!

  I type back: SLOW DOWN! I think you’re in lust. Please remember to take one date at a time.

  Rachel: Don’t worry, Mom, I’m keeping that in mind.

  Her sarcasm is not appreciated. Me: Topic change. Will you sub for me on Weds? I have a funeral to attend.

  Rachel: Is it his?

  Me: Yes.

  Rachel: You want me to assist at the O’Malley/ Hurst auction?

  Me: Yes.

  Rachel: Of course, I’ll do it.

  Me: Thank you. I owe you one.

  Rachel: In that case, can you cover for me tonight so I can go out with Charlie? It’s a small auction downstairs, handling a few phone bids.

  I sigh, knowing how boring that auction will be, but I’ll do it for her.

  Me: Yes, no problem.

  Rachel: Thank you, thank you, thank you! Charlie, you’re the best!

  Me: You too, Rach.

  I spend the rest of the day familiarizing myself with the important items going on the block. I return five calls and twenty-eight e-mails then finish the paperwork requested by our department head.

  Coffee fills my stomach instead of food for dinner, and the caffeine keeps my energy level higher than usual. This auction is straightforward from the beginning, and it ends as expected.

  Afterward, I spend my evening rebelling against the winter routine I’d fallen into and walk home. It’s dark out, but the day feels too nice to let it slip into mindless, forgotten oblivion. The blooming flowers and leafing trees deserve the utmost respect as nature takes its springtime course. And I, too, deserve the same opportunity to start over, leaving winter’s bleakness behind. Spring has always been my favorite season. What’s not to love? New life is emerging all around, while the sun warms our days.

  In summer, life is in full swing, but it gets too hot to always enjoy. In fall, everything is starting to die. Winter is the worst of all, though. Everything is dead. The irony is that Jim died in April, just as life is reborn all around us.

  I keep walking, but pick up my pace. I thought I was over this. I’m not over this! This is new! I was starting to come out of the darkness after the breakup. I was starting to move on, and I was making a good go of it. Just as my chest was starting to feel whole, his death ripped my heart apart again—this time cutting deeper. Why did he have to die? The pain is magnified more than should be allowed. He’s not a saint because he’s dead. He hurt me. A pathetic whimper from deep within my chest slips from between my lips. Hold it together. You’re almost home.

  I slam the door behind me, leaning against it for safety, for security. My hands press against the solid wood until it hurts. Blinking away the weak tears that have formed in the corners of my eyes, I take a deep breath. Memories can hurt, but I’m determined that those memories are not going to hurt me anymore. I can’t let them. It’s not worth it. I can’t change what happened. I can’t change the past. I need to focus forward, not behind.

  A hot bath is in order. I fill the tub and slip into the burning water, knowing it will alleviate my thoughts of the burden of this moment as it w
arms me from the outside in. I sip a glass of wine and use my toes to play with the faucet. My brow and mind relax as I watch my skin turn pink where the water engulfs me. Within minutes, I find this was a much earned reward. I start to sweat about the time I see my fingers pruning. I don’t like to linger and see my skin like that. I always get out at this point, not wanting the reminder of growing old.

  It’s easy to go about my night. I’ve developed a knack for shutting off unwanted thoughts. When the alarm buzzes in the morning, I’m surprised at how the time flew. I feel positive. Today is a good day. Tomorrow is Jim’s funeral, but today is a good day. Today, I will sign a new client. I can’t be stopped, not today.

  I arrive at the office earlier than usual, skipping my daily coffee-shop stop. Rachel arrives, singing her usual chipper greeting, then gets to work. I want to ask about her date. I really do, but something stops me. I think it’s the realization that I don’t think I can handle her talking about a happily ever after with a guy I felt a connection with.

  She tends to go overboard with the guys she dates, a common reaction from a woman who puts all of her eggs in one basket. Beyond wanting her dates to work out, to turn into something more meaningful, she needs them to. At twenty-seven, soon to be twenty-eight, Rachel Russo’s desperation is starting to show in her once-cheerful expression. Her biggest problem is herself. She has a teenager’s mentality regarding men and chooses the wrong guy for the wrong reasons. She doesn’t give them the credit they deserve. It’s still a game to her, even though she doesn’t want to play it any longer. I feel for her, although she’s quite inspiring in her quest to find her future husband.

  These thoughts make me feel like such a bad friend that I remain quiet, losing myself in the appraisal in front of me.

  A few hours after my poor psychoanalysis of the modern woman, Rachel jumps up and makes an announcement. “I just got a potential new client.”

  “Congratulations!” I smile and stand to stretch my body, which feels stiff from melding into the grey office chair all morning. ”What is it?”

  “The Bennett estate here in Manhattan.”

  I gulp as the pain of the knife in my back is turned and jabbed just a little deeper. “Bennett? As in James Bennett Jr.?” My throat is dry, and I struggle to form words, much less say them.

  “Yes, but don’t tell me you’ve been working with them. I just received an e-mail, but if you’ve been working—”

  I’m quick to correct her to take away any guilt she might be developing. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I haven’t been working with them on the estate. What’s in the appraisal? Is there room in the spring schedule for the auction? ”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m thinking it will more likely be midsummer.” She sits back down, confused by my strange reaction. “We’re meeting with the executor at the end of the week for the initial inventory and appraisal. The deceased died recently.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “He had a skiing accident, and he was young. That’s so horrible. I’m sure it’s a difficult time for the family right now.”

  I grab my temples, closing my eyes. As the tears well up, the pain gains strength and my heart feels as if it might shatter all over again.

  “Are you okay?” Rachel asks. My eyes bolt open, and I make instant eye contact with her. “You’re shaking. What’s going on?”

  My body stops rocking in the chair before I realize I’m even doing it. My eyes soften, and I can breathe again as my irregular heartbeats realign to their natural rhythm. “I’ll be fine.” To end her speculation, I lie. “I have the worst headache. I think it’s a migraine.”

  She’s suspicious, but doesn’t push. “I have migraine pills if you want one.”

  “I’m going to wait it out a bit longer. Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

  She sits back down, and I hear her typing resume at her regular hunt-and-peck pace.

  I take another deep breath in through my nose, holding it before releasing it out my mouth. Calm. I’m calm now.

  I try to rationalize that Smith & Allen doesn’t allow us to handle friends and family members’ estate auctions. That makes sense, but a part of me wants to see what is being consigned by his estate.

  I don’t care about the money or his family heirlooms. I care about the book that we waited six hours in the cold two winters ago so he could have his favorite author sign it. And the shirt I had monogrammed with his initials for his internship interview our senior year. Did he still own that obnoxious alarm clock that played that annoying rap song from the nineties or the picture frame that once held our engagement photo? Those things probably won’t be listed, but I’m still curious. They are the things that made up the Jim I knew, and he wasn’t the Rolex-wearing James Bennett Jr. who worked on Wall Street, or the one who cared more about which restaurant to be seen at than he did about his friends.

  I’m curious, but I’d probably be disappointed to discover what his life became after we broke up—what his life was becoming toward the end of us. I sweep these thoughts away, remembering that this is about business, not about him or us, and not about expectations I once held.

  Rachel leaves on time, and I let her. I’ve been disappearing into my own mind most of the day. She lets me be when I’m like this.

  I can’t bear to spend another evening at home with all my depressed thoughts again, so I resign myself to the auction room and gallery on the first floor. I double-check that every piece in the next auction has the proper lot number to the catalogue and that the estimate is listed correctly. It’s not my job, but I need the busywork to keep my mind occupied. The specialists have already done a thorough job, but I find the room comforting, quiet, and anything is a welcome escape from thinking about the past right now. I don’t think about dinner or even remember that I miss the meal. I stay until I’m about to collapse. That’s good for me, since I fall asleep without the aid of the television or the soft crashing of ocean waves from my sound machine. My mind is too tired to dream, and I sleep well.

  The anxiety I avoided last night due to the auction hits me hard this morning. My first thought is that today is Jim’s funeral. While I ready myself, my mind escapes into the memories of Jim in our better times, our happier times. He was always considered a catch, even before I met him at Brown University five years ago. We were in the same history class and sat alphabetically next to each other. He was different then, dynamic when he spoke and charming to a fault. His charisma made him popular with students on campus, and he was genuine in his interactions.

  I didn’t allow myself to fall for him right away. I was caught up in self-doubt, wondering why he would want to date me. Like most girls at nineteen, I was uncomfortable with all of the changes in my body. I was becoming a woman and still trying to identify with this new me. He was a sweet boy, who gave me endless attention and compliments—maybe he sensed I needed it. What I didn’t expect was how much I would come to rely on him for his thoughtful words.

  Just before graduation, he asked me to marry him. That’s when everything in my world should have been blissful; instead, that’s when the dreams we once shared started to shatter.

  These days, I find it ironic that, no matter how much I try, I can’t even remember the actual turning point that led to the end. I clearly remember the big stuff, but not the little signs that everyone says are there all along. I sigh and return to my work.

  Hours into my workday, I look down and realize I’m dressed in black. I don’t remember making a conscious decision to wear black, but with no recollection of choosing it, I assume it chose me. Maybe beige would’ve been better. I debate in my head, but don’t have time to change my clothes even if I want to.

  Lunch consists of a sandwich and chips from the deli downstairs. I brush my teeth afterward because I have to face his family and friends, most of whom I haven’t seen since we broke up six months ago.

  I let the time after lunch escape me, because I don’t want to think about the funeral. So, as was typical with my old s
elf—Jim’s girl—I lose track of time completely until my phone alarm sounds, signaling it’s time to leave. Taking a final deep breath, I close my eyes and remember the good times—the I love yous, the gentle kisses, and the hand-holding he did simply because I loved to hold hands.

  When I stand, Rachel appears behind me. “You going?”

  “Mmhm.”

  “You want me to go with you?” She leans against the wall, concern on her face.

  I slip on my jacket and think about her offer. “Nah, I’ll be fine.” I don’t know if I will, but I don’t want to drag her into the mess with his family. “Anyway, you have his estate now, so that might be crossing some line or something.”

  She looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Rachel, it’s the Bennett property. James, Jim. That’s him.”

  She’s mortified. “Oh, Charlie. I didn’t put two and two toge—”

  “You didn’t know. You met him one time, so I understand. Don’t feel bad.”

  I hear her gulp, the awkwardness heavy around us. “I’m so sorry. I don’t care about the estate. I’ll hand it off to someone else if you want me to go with you. I will.”

  I hug her because she needs it as much as I do. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” When I lean back, I reassure her. “I’ll be fine.”

  She analyzes me, searching for the truth in my eyes. “Okay, but call me if you want to talk.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Riding the elevator down to the lobby, I realize it’s all been a ruse, a careful charade I’ve put on since the breakup. I do want someone with me. I want someone there who is on my side, who has my back, but I refuse to put my friends in the middle of this chaotic nonsense with Jim’s family.

  I stop one more time on the sidewalk, gathering my strength, and then walk with determination to the funeral.

  Chapter 4