Charley's Web

by Joy Fielding

  My mother was the peacemaker in our family, Charley read now, returning her attention to Jill’s letter.

  She was always trying to calm things down, keep us from killing one another. It couldn’t have been easy, and I’ve always suspected it’s one of the things that eventually made her sick.

  Do you believe that? Do you believe our mental state can affect our physical well-being? I think it can. I remember I always used to get terrible stomachaches whenever I got nervous or upset. Like before a big test or exam. And after little Tammy Barnet died, I was so sick I could hardly get out of bed.

  Anyway, ours wasn’t the easiest house to grow up in. My father had an awful temper. He was constantly flying off the handle about something. Mom used to say he was a perfectionist, and that he was harder on himself than he was on anybody else, but I never bought that. As far as I could see, we were the ones who suffered, and he got off scot-free. (What does that mean—scot-free?) And I think that’s a pretty lame excuse anyway. I mean, if you want to be a perfectionist, be one. Leave everybody else alone. Think what a great world this would be if we just followed the philosophy of live and let live.

  I guess that sounds pretty ironic, coming from someone like me. But it’s what I believe. In spite of everything.

  My mother believed in trying to keep everybody happy. Whenever I think about her, and I think about her a lot, I picture her in her orange-and-brown-flowered apron, leaning over the stove, stirring a large pot of homemade soup. My mom’s not very tall, even shorter than I am, and she only weighs about ninety pounds. At least she did. Since she’s been in her wheelchair, I think she weighs even less. But I bet her hair’s still the same style, curly and reddish brown, tied into a bun at the back of her head, the bun covered by a brown net, like the kind you see on food handlers at the supermarket. I remember getting my fingers trapped inside it when I was a little girl, and the netting caught on one of my nails and ripped, and my dad got angry and cut off all my nails with big scissors, right down to the quick, so that my fingers bled.

  My mother didn’t like it when my dad got physical with any of us. She tried to stop him, but he didn’t listen. Sometimes her pleading only made things worse. Sometimes he’d hit her, too. One time, she overcooked the pork chops, and he got really angry and pushed her face into the mashed potatoes. When I started crying, he threw my plate down, then made me eat the food off the floor, like a dog.

  We had a dog once. His name was Sam. My father and brother used to torture him something awful. They’d chain him up in the backyard and put his food dish just out of his reach. And the poor dog would scratch at the ground and try to get at that dish, but he couldn’t. And he’d whine, sometimes for days, and Ethan would go out and kick him. It was really sad. My mother used to feed him scraps whenever she could, but my father caught her one day and beat her pretty bad. Then he shot the dog in front of us. We never had any pets after that.

  “Dear God,” Charley whispered, almost afraid to keep reading.

  I’m probably making it sound much worse than it was. My mother always said I had a tendency to exaggerate. And I wouldn’t want you to think there weren’t good times, too. We had lots of those. Like the time my father took us all to Disney World. It was Pammy’s tenth birthday, and he decided, just spur of the moment, to take us all there to celebrate. We took the car. I don’t know if I mentioned that we’re from a little town outside Fort Lauderdale—just past the airport—called Dania. Are you familiar with it? It’s really small, and getting smaller all the time. It used to be quite a center for antiques, but it’s becoming something of a ghost town. The main street is one creepy old store after another. People used to come from all over Florida to shop there. But things have pretty much dried up in recent years, probably because of the Internet and eBay, and a lot of the stores have closed. Too bad. Now there’s nothing.

  But, back to Disney World. We had the best time. We stayed at some motel with purple drapes and red walls. It was in Kissimee, which I used to pronounce Kiss-a-me, instead of Kiss-ee-me. Anyway, we couldn’t afford to stay right in Disney World, but that was okay. We loved our tacky little motel, and we had two rooms, one room for my parents, the other for Ethan, Pam, and me. Our room had two double beds. One bed was supposed to be for Ethan, the other one for Pam and me. Except that in the middle of the night, Ethan carried me over to his bed and crawled in beside Pam. Then I saw him climb on top of her. Soon I heard her crying and telling him to stop. I thought he was tickling her, and I didn’t want him to come over and tickle me, ’cause he tickled pretty hard, so I pretended to be asleep. The next day there was blood on the sheets, and I heard Ethan tell Pam that if she said anything, it would be worse the next time. I didn’t know how you could get blood from tickling, and I guess I didn’t want to know. At any rate, I learned soon enough. So we went off to Disney World, and I have to confess I had the best time. I forgot all about Pammy and the bloody sheets. We went on all the rides, and this time when I screamed, my father hugged me and called me his little cupcake. And that was really nice. I liked being his little cupcake.

  There were other good times, too. Good times, bad times. Same as with every family, I guess. But I’m getting kind of tired, and my wrist is cramping, so I think I’ll sign off for now. I’ll write you another letter tomorrow, and look forward to seeing you on Wednesday. Two whole hours. Wow!

  Anyway, I’m sure I’ve given you lots to think about, and I know you’ll have plenty of questions. Try not to be too judgmental. Nobody’s all good or all bad, and I’ve forgiven my family their imperfections. What is it they say in the Bible? “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us”?

  So, bye for now. Can’t wait to see you.

  Much love,

  Jill.

  P.S.: Any bites from publishers? Let me know the minute you get a nibble.

  Charley folded up the letter and tucked it inside her purse. Then she got up from her chair, exited her cubicle, walked into the women’s washroom at the end of a long hall, locked herself into the nearest stall, and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 12

  The worker in the yellow hard hat was watching from her neighbor’s roof when Charley pulled her car into her driveway. She smiled up at him as she got out of the car, and he smiled back. “How’s it going?” he called out.

  “Okay,” Charley called back. “What about you?”

  “It’s going. Looking forward to the weekend.”

  “Well, have a good one.” Charley cast a wary eye around the premises. The last thing she was in the mood for was another set-to with Gabe Lopez. She was still smarting from her encounter with Mitch Johnson.

  How dare he use her column to get back at her for turning down his advances, she thought as she unlocked her front door. The truth was that her upcoming column was one of her strongest in months. Maybe not as sexy as some of her more recent efforts, but her semi-serious suggestion that one way to stop people from driving drunk would be to drag them from their cars and shoot them on the spot was bound to be both controversial and provocative. It might even get her brother to sit up and take notice, maybe even persuade him to return some of her calls. Where was he anyway? She hadn’t heard from him all week.

  Yet another man who seemed to be avoiding her, she realized as she closed the door behind her and headed for her bedroom, feeling vaguely queasy.

  Do you believe our mental state can affect our physical well-being?

  I don’t know what I believe anymore, Charley thought, entering her bedroom and exchanging the white T-shirt she was wearing for another one exactly like it. I believe that children have the right to grow up in a household where their pets aren’t slaughtered before their eyes, where they aren’t forced to eat off the floor, where they aren’t beaten and sexually abused.

  Was Jill telling her the truth? And even if everything she said or hinted at was gospel, could that excuse her behavior? Was the fact that Jill Rohmer had been hideously abused as a child any justif
ication for her inhuman treatment of other children later on?

  We’re products of our childhood, after all. Everything we become as adults springs from who we were as children, how we were treated, who and what shaped our ideas and values. We are who we were.

  “Just taller,” Charley said aloud.

  Except how did that explain the thousands of children who were abused every year, and still grew up to be caring and responsible adults? Conversely, how did it account for the offspring of loving and attentive parents, who went on to kill without conscience or remorse? What made one sister dream of joining the Peace Corps, while the other conjured up murderous fantasies regarding the slaughter of innocents?

  We may be shaped by our childhood, Charley decided as she headed for the kitchen, but there was such a thing as choice. We are what we do. “It’s not just a matter of height.” She opened the fridge and took out a ginger ale, drinking it straight from the can. Look at her own family, she was thinking. Then, no. Don’t.

  But it was too late. Her siblings were already lining up beside her: Emily with her neat blond bob and mellifluous TV reporter’s voice; Anne with her soft auburn hair piled loosely atop her head; Bram with his elastic limbs and long lashes. We’re all so different, Charley thought, trying to push them out of her sight line. And yet, not so different really. The sisters were ambitious and successful, all in related fields. Each had children from multiple failed relationships. They all nursed invisible wounds.

  It was the way they dealt with those wounds that made them different.

  And Bram?

  He was more sensitive than his sisters, to be sure, more prone to self-destructive acts, more likely to give up without a fight.

  Just…more.

  And less.

  We’re products of our childhood, after all.

  Was that why she was so determined to make sure her own children had the best childhood possible, why she was always there to greet them when they came home from school, why she’d never been away from them for more than two days? Was it also why she recoiled at the very idea of marriage, why she’d never had a relationship with a man that lasted more than two months, why she’d never allowed herself the luxury of falling in love?

  “Or maybe I just haven’t met the right person,” Charley said, finishing the last of her ginger ale and checking her watch. The kids would be home any minute now, she knew, opening her front door and sitting down on the step to wait. She loved these few minutes of anticipation, moments spent picturing her children’s faces, and the automatic way those faces lit up when they saw her. She wondered if her mother had ever felt the same thing. But whenever Charley tried to imagine her mother waiting for her by the front door, she saw only a blank space. Charley’s strongest childhood memory of her mother was her absence.

  And then suddenly, twenty years after she’d gone away, she was back. Charley still remembered that initial phone call word for word.

  “Charlotte?” the woman had asked tentatively.

  Charley had known instantly it was her mother. She’d been imagining this moment, preparing for it all her life. Where are you? Where have you been? Do you think you can just come waltzing back into my life after all these years? And yet when it had finally come, she was struck dumb. No words would form. No sounds were possible. She could barely breathe.

  “Charlotte, darling, is that you? Please don’t hang up,” she’d added, as Charley was contemplating doing just that. “It’s your mother, darling. You know that, don’t you? Please say something, sweetheart. I know I don’t deserve it, but please say something.”

  Where are you? Where have you been? Do you think you can just come waltzing back into my life after all these years?

  “How did you find me?” Charley had finally managed to sputter.

  “I hired a private detective. He said I should have just used the Internet, I could have found you myself. But I don’t understand how that damn thing works, and, oh God, I’m just so glad to hear your voice. Are you well, darling? Can we meet? I’m here in Palm Beach. I can come over right now.”

  “Do you think you can just come waltzing back into my life after all these years?” Charley had demanded, finally mustering up the strength to push the words from her mouth.

  “I know you’re angry,” her mother said. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m not expecting it. I’m just hoping for a chance to explain. Please, Charley.”

  Charley’s throat constricted and her eyes filled with tears. “Why did you call me that?”

  “Well, I’ve read all your columns, dear. From your very first one a year ago. The detective found them for me. He had them printed out. So interesting and well written. I’m awfully proud.”

  “You liked them?” Charley heard herself ask.

  “I loved them. And the name of the column, WEBB SITE, and your e-mail address, Charley’sWeb.com, so clever, darling, even if I don’t understand a thing about computers. The detective suggested I contact you via e-mail, rather than risk contacting you directly—he even offered to do it for me when he saw how terrified I was by the whole idea—but really, I just wanted to hear your voice. Please, can we meet?”

  No, we can’t meet. You left us. You’re no longer a part of my life. I hate you.

  “All right.”

  “Oh, darling, thank you. When? I can come right now.”

  “Do you know the fountain in the middle of City Place?”

  “No, but I’m sure I can find it.”

  “I’ll meet you there in one hour.” Charley hung up before she could change her mind.

  Her mother was already waiting when she arrived, even though Charley was twenty minutes early. Both women recognized each other immediately, despite the passage of the years. Elizabeth Webb was every bit as imposing as Charley remembered, her hair as black, her legs as long. And although lines now creased her pale white skin, and her dark eyes were clouded over with tears, she was as beautiful as ever. Charley had made a point of not putting on any makeup or dressing up. She was wearing the same jeans and navy T-shirt she’d been wearing all day.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” her mother had said.

  The soothing sound of her mother’s voice was suddenly overpowered by the harsh sounds of hammers from her neighbor’s roof. Charley looked up, saw the cute worker in the yellow hard hat balanced on one knee next to another worker, not so cute, also in a yellow hard hat, the hammers in both their hands moving rhythmically up and down, although what exactly they were pounding was a mystery. The hammering had been going on for weeks now. The entire neighborhood had undergone extensive renovations in recent years. What had once been an uninteresting collection of small, run-down streets in a largely neglected part of town, populated primarily by the poor and the disaffected, had been given a new lease on life with the arrival on its doorstep of the spectacular outdoor mall known as City Place, the magnificent Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, and lastly, the cavernous Palm Beach Convention Center. Each had brought more business, more tourists, and more money into the area, and with it more and more construction. No longer simply a route one had to drive through—as quickly as possible, with the car windows closed and the doors locked—in order to get to Palm Beach proper, this strip of Okeechobee between Congress and Dixie had now become a prime destination itself.

  As a result, the surrounding area had become increasingly gentrified. Expensive new condominiums had sprung up, and existing homes had been purchased, gutted, and replaced. Charley had moved into her tiny bungalow just after Franny’s birth, renting for the first few years, and then using the money her grandmother had left her as a down payment to buy it, her father having grudgingly given his consent. She’d been there when Lynn and Wally Moore moved in at the corner; she’d witnessed Gabe Lopez carry his then-bride across the threshold; she’d objected to the city council when the Rivers family next door started excavating their backyard pool. She’d watched as, step by step, old shingled roofs were replaced by new Spanish t
iles, second-floor bedrooms were added, and kitchens were overhauled. Someone was always doing something. No sooner did one set of tools stop working, then another set started up. Only Charley’s house looked pretty much as it had the day she’d moved in.

  The school bus rounded the corner, and Charley jumped to her feet. Seconds later, Franny was leading her younger brother across the street, James proudly holding his latest work of art high above his head. “It’s some deer drinking water from a pond in the middle of a forest,” he said of the three oddly shaped brown blobs, a blue circle, and a bunch of straight green lines. “You see?” he asked. “See the deer? See?”

  “Fantastic,” Charley said, thinking it was. She turned toward her daughter. “How about you, sweetie? Anything to show me?”

  “We don’t have art on Friday,” Franny said, with the voice of someone who has said the same thing many times before.

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  “I’m thirsty,” James announced.

  “Did you remember to buy apple juice?” Franny asked. Her tone indicated she suspected this was yet something else her mother had forgotten.

  Shit, Charley thought. “I’m sorry. I’ll go out later and get some.”

  A black Chevrolet rounded the corner and pulled into the driveway of the house next door. Doreen Rivers, an attractive brunette in her late forties, pushed herself out of the car and started unloading groceries from her trunk.

  “Here. Let me help you with that,” Charley offered, walking over and taking a heavy bag of groceries from the surprised woman’s hands.

  “Do you want to see my picture?” James asked loudly, running to their side. “It’s a bunch of deer drinking water from a pond in the middle of a forest.”