Charley's Web

by Joy Fielding

  “I don’t know.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Lynn exclaimed, waving the morning paper in Charley’s face. “According to little Miss Know-It-All, I was supposed to stand up to the injustice I was witness to, forget about the fact I’m crammed into a confined space thirty-seven thousand feet above sea level, and nobody else on the damn plane has witnessed the abuse.”

  “I wasn’t specifically referring to you,” Charley hedged.

  “You most certainly were. Who else told you that story?”

  “I was trying to make a point.”

  “Oh, you made it all right. ‘As bystanders, we have a choice. To stand up for injustice or just change seats and do nothing.’ Tell me, don’t you ever get tired of passing judgment on people?”

  “I wasn’t trying to pass judgment.”

  “No, you don’t have to try. It comes naturally to you. You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

  “Mommy?” a frightened voice said from behind her.

  Charley turned around to see Franny swaying unsteadily in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide with trepidation. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mrs. Moore’s just upset.”

  “At you?”

  “It’s all right, Franny,” Lynn told the child. “I’m going now. Just do me a favor,” she said to Charley. “Stop using my life as fodder for your column.”

  “Thanks for coming by,” Charley whispered, echoing Bram’s words as she closed the door, then turned back toward her daughter.

  “Why doesn’t anybody like you?” Franny asked.

  “What? Who says nobody likes me?”

  “Everybody’s always yelling at you.”

  “No, they aren’t.”

  Franny looked unconvinced. “I heard Elise talking to Daddy.”

  Charley knelt down in front of her daughter, smoothed some stray hairs away from her forehead. “What did she say?”

  “She said that the only person you care about is yourself.” Tears began forming in the corners of Franny’s eyes, as if she sensed she was being disloyal to her mother merely by repeating the things Ray’s wife had said.

  “What else did she say?”

  “That you were ‘selfish beyond words.’”

  “Wow. Beyond words.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Charley gave the expression a moment’s thought. “It means there are no words to describe how selfish she thinks I am.”

  “But you aren’t. Are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” Charley agreed. Was she?

  “Are you a real piece of work?”

  Charley laughed. “Let’s just say I’m a work-in-progress.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I still haven’t got all the kinks out. But I’m trying my best.”

  “I don’t think you’re selfish beyond words.”

  “Thank you, darling. I appreciate that.”

  “What do you ’preciate?” James asked, running into the hallway and throwing himself against his mother and sister with such force, it knocked all three of them over.

  Charley quickly scooped her two children into her lap. “I ’preciate my two beautiful angels.”

  “I’m not an angel, silly,” James said, laughing.

  “He’s a work-in-progress,” Franny proclaimed with a shy smile.

  “I love you both so much,” Charley told them, kissing them repeatedly until they’d had enough and squirmed out of her reach.

  “How much?” James squealed, running down the hall backward.

  Charley threw her arms out to her sides, stretched her fingers out as far as they would go. “This much.” Laughing and crying at the same time, she watched her children disappear inside the bedroom. Beyond words, she thought.

  An hour later, the doorbell rang. “Dear God,” Charley muttered. “What now?” She approached the front door cautiously. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Glen McLaren.”

  Charley pulled open the door. He really does look like a gangster, she couldn’t help but think. Had he come to collect on the debt of gratitude she owed him? What exactly was he expecting? “Well, this is a surprise.”

  “A not unpleasant one, I hope. Is this a bad time?”

  Correct use of the double negative, she thought, stepping aside to let him enter. “Coffee?” she asked, although it meant making a fresh pot. After Lynn’s visit, she’d downed three hot cups in quick succession, burning the roof of her mouth.

  “No, thanks.” He made no attempt to move farther inside than the foyer, his eyes flitting between the interior of the house and his silver Mercedes on the street. “Where’s James?”

  “Playing Monopoly with his sister,” Charley said, signaling toward the bedrooms. “You want me to get him?”

  “No. It’s you I came to see.” He glanced back at his car. Was he afraid someone might vandalize it?

  “Oh?”

  “I was hoping to collect on that debt you owe me.”

  Charley glanced nervously toward the bedrooms. “Now?”

  “Now seems like a good time to me.”

  “What exactly is it you have in mind?”

  “Do you like dogs?” Glen asked.

  “Dogs?”

  “Specifically, little white mutts named Bandit that don’t shed and aren’t yappy, but are housebroken, and will be heartbroken, if they have to stay in a kennel for the next three weeks.”

  “You have a little white dog named Bandit?”

  “He was a gift from a rather misguided former girlfriend.”

  “Of course he was.”

  “But I promise you he’s fully trained, and he won’t be any trouble.”

  “You’re asking me to look after your dog for three weeks?”

  “I’m going to North Carolina to be with my son while his mother takes her belated honeymoon, and the person who was supposed to be looking after Bandit, well, let’s just say we had a slight disagreement, and she never wants to see me or my dog again.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It isn’t really. But Bandit is. Trust me, you’ll love him so much you won’t want to give him back.”

  Charley wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s not that I’m saying I won’t do it,” she hedged, “but I’m not exactly a dog person. I’ve actually never had a pet in my entire life. I wouldn’t know the first thing…”

  “The first thing is to remember to feed him every morning and give him fresh water. And then, just repeat the same thing at night. Take him for a few walks in between. He’s still a puppy, so it’s probably a good idea to take him out every few hours to do his business. You just plop him down on a spot of grass and tell him to ‘do busy,’ and he does.”

  “Do busy?”

  “I know it sounds silly….”

  “It really does sound silly.”

  “It also really works.”

  “But I’m not even home most of the day.”

  “When you’re not home, he stays in his crate and sleeps. He sleeps in there at night too, and he never cries. I promise. Honestly, he pretty much takes care of himself.”

  A dog, Charley thought, almost wishing it had been Lynn at her door again, and not Glen. What was she going to do with a dog? For three weeks! Still, he’d taken her son to Lion Country Safari without so much as a grumble…. “Is he okay with children?”

  “Are you kidding? He loves children.”

  “James can be pretty rambunctious.”

  “He loves rambunctious.”

  “Well, all right,” Charley conceded. “I guess we can manage for three weeks.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Glen was already opening the front door. “I’ll go get him.”

  “What?”

  “He’s in the car.”

  “You left him in the car?” Charley followed Glen outside and down the front walk.

  “Don’t worry. I left the windows open. See how good he is?” he asked, as they reached his Mercedes.

  A little, white furr
y head popped into view. A tail began wagging furiously.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Glen said as the dog jumped up and down on the black leather seat. “See? I told you I’d be right back.” He opened the door and lifted the excited furball into his arms. The dog immediately began licking his neck.

  “This is killing your image,” Charley said.

  Glen laughed. “Say hi to Charley, Bandit. She’s gonna look after you for the next three weeks.” He transferred the squirming dog to Charley’s arms. The dog responded by immediately quieting down, burrowing into Charley’s neck, and laying his chin across her shoulder. “Well, well, well. Aren’t you the lucky one.”

  “I’m lucky?”

  “When a dog lays his head on your shoulder like that, it means he’ll bond with you for life.”

  “We’re bonding?”

  “For life.”

  “For three weeks,” Charley stressed as Glen removed a large box of Bandit’s belongings from the trunk. “What’s all this?”

  “His crate, his food, his dish, his leash, his toys—the squeaky hamburger is his favorite—the phone number of the vet….”

  “Oh, God. I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Are you kidding me? Anyone who can handle Jill Rohmer can surely handle a little dog for a few weeks.”

  “Who says I’m handling Jill Rohmer?” Charley followed Glen back up the walkway to her house.

  “You’re not doing the book?”

  Charley shrugged as Glen opened the front door and deposited the box of Bandit’s things in the foyer. “Truthfully, I’m not sure where things stand at the moment. Last time we spoke, she hung up on me.”

  “Nice to see you’re not losing your touch.” A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “What’s she like anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” Charley replied honestly. “I’m not sure what to make of her. One minute she’s like this lost little girl, all soft edges and vulnerability—you literally have to pinch yourself to remember she was involved in the deaths of three innocent children—and the next minute she gets this weird look in her eyes, like she’s measuring you for a casket, and you believe she could be capable of anything.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  “I don’t know. Her lawyer might be right. He doesn’t think I’m the right one for the job.”

  “Then he’s wrong,” Glen said. “And who are you going to believe—some high-priced attorney with a handful of impressive degrees or a gangster-wannabe with an adorable white puppy? The choice is pretty clear, if you ask me.”

  Charley laughed, felt the puppy snuggle in even tighter against her neck. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with this dog?”

  “Are you kidding me? He’s in heaven. What guy wouldn’t be?”

  Charley took a step back, as if to distance herself from the compliment, not to mention the man, who was becoming more attractive each time she saw him. Was this business with the puppy just a ruse to disarm her, a way to seduce and then dump her, to get back at her for the mean things she’d said about him in her column? Just because she wasn’t into revenge fucking didn’t mean he wasn’t. “Well, enjoy your visit with your son.”

  “Thanks. I intend to.”

  “Call me as soon as you get back. About picking up your dog,” she qualified immediately.

  “I’ll do that. Bye, Bandit.” He walked around Charley in order to give Bandit a peck on his forehead. “Take care,” he said to Charley.

  Charley found herself half-anticipating a similar peck on the forehead, and was almost disappointed when Glen merely patted her arm before climbing back into his car and pulling away from the curb, his left hand extended out the window in a prolonged wave good-bye. As he turned the corner at the end of the street, she lowered Bandit to the grass, shrugged, and said, “What the hell. Do busy.”

  The dog sniffed around for several seconds, found a patch of grass to his liking, then lifted his leg and promptly peed.

  “Amazing.” Charley scooped the puppy back into her arms just as Gabe Lopez opened his front door and glared in her direction. “Mr. Lopez, good morning,” she called out, determining to make a fresh start while waving hello with her free hand.

  “Just keep the dog off my lawn,” he said, before closing the door and retreating back inside his house.

  CHAPTER 17

  FROM: A new fan

  TO: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

  SUBJECT: Great column!

  DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:06:24–0400

  Dear Charley: Wow! That was some column in yesterday’s paper. Couldn’t wait to get to work this morning to thank you for it. As a social worker, I thought your main points were very well taken. My colleagues and I have spent far too much time debating the issue of nature versus nurture, and our final consensus is, what difference does it make? What’s important isn’t so much causes as results. What’s needed isn’t argument but tolerance. Maybe if we were all more accepting and respectful of one another’s differences, there wouldn’t be any such thing as child abuse.

  Sincerely,

  Kara Stephenson

  FROM: Charley Webb

  TO: Kara Stephenson

  SUBJECT: Thank you

  DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:08:16–0800

  Dear Kara: Thanks so much for your kind note. It’s nice to be appreciated. I hope you continue to read and enjoy my columns.

  Warmly,

  Charley Webb

  FROM: Alarmed

  TO: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

  SUBJECT: Your recent column

  DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:14:02–0500

  Dear Charley Webb,

  I’ve always approached your columns with a mixture of glee and trepidation. Who will you be skewering today and why? What have you done to your body now? What thoughts are swirling through that pretty little head? So, imagine my chagrin at your most recent column, which was not only thought-provoking, but thoughtful as well. I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned your more selfish, pardon me, selfless pursuits, such as Brazilian waxes and Passion Parties—all in the name of research, to be sure—for more important, but far less entertaining subjects, such as child abuse. While I applaud your, no doubt, deep commitment to social justice, I yearn for the shallower Charley of old. Please don’t disappoint me again.

  Arnold Lawrence

  FROM: Charley Webb

  TO: Arnold Lawrence

  SUBJECT: Thanks, but no thanks

  DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:20:20–0800

  Dear Alarmed Arnold,

  I’ve read your letter several times now, and I’m still not sure whether to be flattered or insulted. While it’s always nice to be considered attractive, I’m dismayed you consider me little more than a decorative empty shell. And while I’m delighted you enjoy my columns, I’m disappointed you find them shallow. Just because something is entertaining doesn’t necessarily make it less worthy, any more than the reporting of a serious subject makes the reporter a person of consequence. Rest assured that I will continue to write about subjects that concern and intrigue me. Likely some will be of a serious nature; others will not. All will strive to provide food for thought and discussion. I hope you’ll continue to look forward to them with your usual mixture of glee and trepidation.

  Sincerely,

  Charley Webb

  FROM: Sheryl Volpe

  TO: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

  SUBJECT: A personal pet peeve

  DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:32:59–0400

  Dear Charley—I’ve been reading you ever since you started at the Post, and I find your columns to be insightful, well written, and timely. Surprisingly, one of the things you have yet to address, although you kind of alluded to it in yesterday’s column about the father abusing his son, is my own personal pet peeve: overweight people on airplanes! Is there anything more aggravating than paying full price for a ticket and ending up with only half a seat because somebody who can’t control his appetite is spilling over into your space
? That alone would have prompted me to demand a seat change! I’d love to see your views on this subject.

  Yours truly, Sheryl Volpe

  FROM: An understanding reader

  TO: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

  SUBJECT: Your mother

  DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:42:13–0500

  Poor, dear Charley: Finally we understand what has made you the way you are! Your mother! What a horrible and disgusting woman she is! She truly needs guidance, as do you, the helpless victim of her amoral indoctrination. There is a reason why God-fearing people everywhere vilify those who would pervert the will of the Lord. God himself decreed that these degenerates should be put to death. Your mother must renounce her evil ways, and until she does, you have no choice but to renounce her. I will pray for your souls.

  God be with you,

  An understanding reader

  Charley was trying to come up with clever responses to the last two e-mails when the phone on her desk rang. “Charley Webb.”

  “Hi,” came the clear, semifamiliar voice.

  Charley tried to attach a face to it before the caller spoke again, but was unsuccessful.

  “It’s Emily,” the woman said after a pause. “Your sister,” she added, enunciating each word clearly, as if speaking into a microphone.

  Immediately the image of a beautiful young woman with strong, elegant features and chin-length, straight blond hair pushed itself before Charley’s eyes. “Emily! My God! How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. And you?”

  “I’m great. Well, a little tired, I guess. I agreed to look after a friend’s puppy for a few weeks, and he’s supposed to sleep in his crate, but he was up most of the night crying, until I finally moved him into my bed, where he insisted on squeezing right up against my leg, and I guess I’m just not used to sharing my space….” What was the matter with her? She hadn’t spoken to her sister in almost two years. Why was she rambling on about the damn dog? “How are you?” she asked again.