by Meg Wolfe
you’re holding is the last one. They are in order. I don’t remember exactly where the first ones are anymore, some upstairs, some in the basement; it’ll come back to me as we find them. I’ll show you when you come over. I can’t lift things much or go up and down those stairs. But I know they are in order and that there are nine or ten of them.”
Once Charlotte found all the notebooks, she was then to work with Olivia to transcribe, edit and prepare them for publication.
Charlotte’s Internet search for Olivia Bernadin yielded a single paragraph in an article about “Women of the Beat Generation,” in which she was described as having written a well-received book of poetry and a few short stories in The New Yorker, and was briefly an editor of the literary journal Sibylline. From there Charlotte searched Sibylline and learned much the same, along with the fact that Olivia was commissioned to co-write a screenplay for a French New Wave film, but then “disappeared.”
The prospect of editing and publishing the novel/memoir of a writer presumed missing for half a century was irresistible, and an incredible bit of luck. Charlotte’s enthusiasm for the project grew as she realized this was no mere indulging the bucket list of an elderly eccentric, but a potentially important contribution to the literary world, depending on the quality of the notebooks. It would be good to work on a project different than the articles on trends in the design industry that had been her bread-and-butter for years, a fresh start that might even lead to a completely different path as she rebuilt her career.
Her enthusiasm for the project, in fact, made up for her reluctance to spend so much time back in Elm Grove, a picturesque college town with well-preserved brick storefronts, an ornate 19th-century courthouse, and several streets of stately old houses. It was also graced with many large, shady trees, although, as in most communities these days, few of them were elms. At one time she loved its quaint, almost story-book appearance, before it came to represent everything she hated once her marriage was no longer happily-ever-after. Her cell phone beeped as she turned off the highway onto winding Sheffield Street, which led to the downtown area, and a quick glance showed it was Diane. When the traffic slowed to stop-go, she called back.
Diane’s near-tenor voice was both mellow and chipper, as usual. “Good morning, glory.”
“Hi Diane. What’s up?”
“I ran through your numbers again and created a budget for you, if you’d like to come by and pick it up. It’ll give you a better idea of how much you should downsize.”
“Downsize. Is that what they call hitting the skids now?”
Diane chuckled. “You knew the risk, Charlotte, when you moved there.”
“I know, I know. It’s okay. I don’t have any regrets; it’s just that it’s all happening so suddenly. I’m on my way to a client’s, so can’t stop by for a while yet. Give it to me now. How much can I afford a month?”
Diane paused. “Twenty percent of what you have been living on.”
“A fifth?” The sun glared off the back window of the car in front, flattening the world around her. Her ears rang with the noise of cars, the chatter of young mothers pushing strollers to the park, the music playing from speakers attached to the streetlights, the breeze through the maples and oaks around the courthouse square. She remembered pushing Ellis in a stroller down these sidewalks, too, and buying hot dogs and sweet, quickly-melting vanilla cones from the vendors setting up on the corners.
Her hands were cold and clammy on the steering wheel. To live on a fifth of what she was accustomed to meant not only no house, but no new car, no manicures, no hair salon or massages, no good wine or gym membership, no food deliveries, no eating out, and no shopping whatsoever. No new shoes, new coats, not even a bandana. No cleaning lady. No laundry service or dry cleaning. No lawn service, gutter cleaning, guy to plow the driveway in the winter. Most of all, no trip to Paris to see Ellis. “So I’m supposed to, what, live in a tent?”
“Hopefully, no. But you need to eliminate as many expenses as possible right away. Cancel memberships and subscriptions, cable, all that kind of stuff. Watch the eating out and clothes shopping. Minimize, minimize, minimize. Get everything you can down to zero, and of course get that house on the market a.s.a.p. Cut up your credit cards like, now, and pay off anything you owe on them, though thank god that doesn’t look too bad. You’ll want to avoid accumulating debt. That way, after selling your house, you’ll have enough to live on while you get your career back on track.”
Charlotte could think of nothing to say. The words did not come, just a sensation that life as she knew it had stopped, right there in the middle of a street in a busy village, while she inhaled exhaust from an idled truck. A fifth. The delivery truck started moving again and she drove on through the downtown to the residential area, as if on automatic pilot.
Diane cleared her throat, reminding her that she was still on the phone. “Charlotte, I’ve got another call I should take. If you can, come in this afternoon to pick up the packet I’ve prepared for you, and we can take it from there. I’m really sorry all this is happening. It’s like a perfect storm.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Diane. I’ll see you later.”
She sighed. The news was even worse than expected, but on the whole she felt better knowing. Good news or bad, having the facts gave things shape. With facts, she thought, one can take action. Wondering and worrying about what you didn’t know just led to all kinds of problems. It was actually easier now to give Olivia’s project her full attention. Or so Charlotte told herself as she turned off Sheffield and onto Pierce Street, passing by Helene’s condominium and a row of 1920’s bungalows until she reached Olivia’s house, the last one on the block.
She pulled the Jeep left into the driveway that led to the detached garage, then backed out and turned to park on the street in front of the walk to the front door. It felt strange to be going to someone’s house for a job. She saw that it could use new paint around the door and window trim, the bridal wreath shrubs around the raised foundation were overgrown and covering the windows, and the chain link fence enclosing the yard had dents here and there. A few large branches in the patchy grass looked like they’d been there for a while. The gate squeaked as she went through it, but it worked and latched just fine. Charlotte recalled passing this very house many times when she lived in Elm Grove ten years before, following as Ellis learned to ride her first bike. She might have even seen someone on the old-fashioned swing on the front porch. The breeze carried the cheerful sound of children playing in the schoolyard across the street and up one block.
Olivia did not answer when Charlotte knocked, but the door was unlocked, so she tentatively opened it a crack and called out, “Hello, Mrs. Targman? It’s Charlotte.” Still no answer. “Hello? Olivia?” she inquired again, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the front room after the glare of sun outside. She was sure she’d gotten the appointment time right.
Helene’s description of the house as “heavy on the potpourri” was an understatement, and Charlotte couldn’t help but think of the morbid rose-heavy scent of funeral homes. It was going to take some doing not to feel queasy, and she wished she hadn’t burned that bagel earlier. She rapped on the door again, in case Olivia was asleep, or in the bathroom or simply didn’t hear, but there was still no answer. By this time Charlotte’s eyes had adjusted to the light and she beheld a small living room with a mix of vintage furniture. There was a blue Queen Anne style sofa at the back, facing the front door, a heavily carved mahogany coffee table in front of it, a worn brown leatherette recliner by the sofa, and end tables with mismatched lamps next to the chairs. Near the door there was a tapestry-covered wingback chair and ottoman. A narrow space behind the sofa was filled with glass-fronted oak curio cabinets displaying porcelain and crystal figurines. There was a doorway opposite the front door that led through a dining room and into what was probably the kitchen. On the wall to her right there was a small writing desk with cubbyholes, a lyre-back chair, and a three-shelf bookcase. The entire wall to he
r left was covered with utilitarian board-and-bracket shelving crammed with a mix of new and old books, all surrounding a single window draped with sheer Priscilla curtains. Olivia was certainly a reader, if not much of a decorator.
There were some books scattered across the oriental rug, as if they’d fallen from the shelves or had been thrown, and a few loose pages had separated from the covers. Another step into the room revealed a floor lamp and small round chess table that had fallen over next to the wingback chair, along with a tea-stained cup and a book of crossword puzzles. Then as Charlotte turned, she saw the reason why there was no answer to her knock:
Olivia Targman was lying on the floor between the bookshelves and the coffee table, her limp hand holding a baseball bat.
Charlotte’s heart fluttered as panic set in. Was Olivia dead? There was a nasty bruise on her forehead. Charlotte had never seen a dead person before, at least not outside of a funeral home, so she wasn’t sure if she was looking at an actual dead person. She swallowed hard and stepped over the books to reach Olivia, and was relieved to feel that the “body” was still warm, if barely breathing. Her hands trembled as she struggled to call 911 for an
