by Keziah Frost
After two hours of pouring over the past and sifting through to separate the wheat from the chaff (and what was “chaff,” she wondered, parenthetically), she was exhausted.
How would she ever organize all of this into a book?
Why, oh why, had she not begun this magnum opus the morning after dancing the Hully Gully?
Carlotta, going back to her blue paper, wrote down the names of her current supporting cast, leaving a space of a couple of inches after each name. Characters of the past (such as her late and disappointing husband, Ed) could be woven in as flashbacks later on. If necessary. For the present, she would concern herself with the people who filled her current daily life: Lorraine, Margaret and Birdie—her Club. Her niece Hope and her granddaughter Summer. And, she supposed, Norbert. One needs a male character, for contrast. There might be a cameo role for her white miniature poodle, Toutou, she reflected, as Toutou approached her with her red leash and dropped it at Carlotta’s feet.
“No one is to know about it,” Carlotta told Toutou, who wagged her tail encouragingly.
Carlotta had read that a writer must not dissipate her creative energy by discussing her work-in-progress with others. For the moment, her literary labors would remain a precious secret. Although her friends would be atingle to know she was writing about them, she must wait for the right moment to make the reveal.
The Golden Bonds of Friendship would be all about Carlotta’s Club and their cultural pursuits in the lovely little town of Gibbons Corner. It would touch on the storms of her youth which were all, thankfully, behind her now. She would present those gusts and squalls in a way to add excitement and interest, while framing them to show her in her very best light. Her friends would be impressed with her writing talent and thrilled to see themselves brought to life on the page.
Carlotta saw, in her mind’s eye, a display of her volume in the window of Butler’s Books downtown. She would humbly agree to do a book signing there. She would accept an invitation from the library to speak to admiring groups of would-be writers. She would graciously encourage them. She might even mentor one or two of them. She would wear her black sheath dress and her emerald green scarf. She did enjoy her green scarf. She would speak into a microphone. The applause would be thrilling.
Would her friends mind being featured in a bestselling book that would be read all around the country—and perhaps be translated into several languages? Of course not. There is only one thing worse than being written about, and that is not being written about. Carlotta wondered if she could use that sentence. It was really good. Or was that plagiarism?
If plagiarism is unconscious, does it count? Is it still plagiarism if you change the verbs? Anyway, Oscar Wilde is dead; what would he care?
No, her friends would be tickled to find themselves, under different names, of course, in The Golden Bonds of Friendship. It would be a roman à clef—a book about real people and real events, with only the names invented. What fun she could have creating new names for everyone. She could base their names on their outstanding characteristics.
Let’s see: Birdie could be something ethereal like—Misty. Misty Seeker. That is a real possibility. What about Margaret? She should have “little” or “tiny” in her name. And the root of Margaret means daisy…. Daisy Little. Excellent! And as for Lorraine? Lorraine, bless her, is funny. She’d like to have a last name like “Witt,” probably. But she’s also tough. What is a good, tough name for a woman? Brunhilda? Very nice: Brunhilda Witt will be Lorraine’s fictional name. And now for Norbert Zelenka. Near-sighted, stubborn man. Stubborn, because after Carlotta and her Club launched him in the fortune-telling business, he refused to be supervised by them. It was vexing. Carlotta flipped through a book of name meanings. Cecil meant “blind.” And Giles meant “small goat.” She was unsure why “small goat” seemed to fit Norbert. However, as soon as she saw the name “Giles,” it snapped into place alongside “Cecil.” Cecil Giles would be Norbert’s new identity. And as for Carlotta herself?
Carlotta bit her pen. As the writer, it was her prerogative to choose the nicest name for herself. After all, she was the one doing all the work here. She would like a name that signified leadership. And also one that would communicate her selflessness and high intelligence. Now, Regina was a name that meant “queen.” Carlotta had always liked the sound of it, as well. As for a last name…. Good? Goodman? ….No, on second thought, if it were a choice between good and intelligent, she would rather the world know she was intelligent. A quick search on the internet for “names that mean intelligent” yielded a list of possibilities. Carlotta’s eye went immediately to the euphonious and dactylic name, Cassidy. In her writings, Carlotta would veil herself (lightly) under the name Regina Cassidy—translating to “brilliant queen.”
After the gratifying morning’s work of getting some of the important names in order, Carlotta brewed a cup of English Breakfast Tea, and then, working from her outline, launched into her prose.
As she wrote, Carlotta entered that “zone” that is the natural realm of writers and artists. It was similar to the happiness of painting, and yet different. She enjoyed the music of her own words, attuned as she was to their rhythms and cadences as they fell into her graceful sentences. She read over her work and smiled with satisfaction. There was very little to edit, really. She was reminded of Shakespeare, who, she had read, “never blotted out a line.”
She dragged her writing table (it didn’t weigh much) so that it would be in line with the window. People walking their dogs on Clarence Avenue might glance up and see her frowning over her blue paper and wonder what she could be working on with such intensity. She said to herself, I am in such a deep artistic trance that I have lost all awareness of myself.
-13-
It was a fresh and cool summer evening, and fireflies were flickering their lights. The sky was just fading into darkness. Inside Carlotta’s tastefully decorated home, she and Toutou were greeting Carlotta’s dear ones: her twenty-six-year-old granddaughter, Summer, and her forty-six-year-old niece, Hope. Summer was a Spanish teacher at the high school, and Hope was the owner and manager of the Good Fortune Café downtown, where Norbert told fortunes.
Carlotta fretted about both of her “girls.” Summer seemed to be coming out of a long depression at last, but Carlotta still worried that she wasn’t getting out enough and making the most of her youth. And then there was dear Hope who had the most frustrating habit of getting involved with unsuitable men. Between the two of them, they drove her to distraction. Hope, always with the wrong partner, and Summer, always with no partner at all. Not that partners were all they were cracked up to be, as she knew from her own experience with her philandering late husband. But still. She’d love to see both girls happily “settled” in some way.
They had brought in their favorite vegan sandwiches from The Green Buddha Diner.
Summer was slipping off her shoes and petting Toutou, alternately. Summer was short and thin, and no amount of makeup would make her freckled face look her age. Her appearance was too youthful, and it held her back socially, Carlotta feared. She tried not to mention it too often.
“Come to the table, girls. Let’s get settled for a nice dinner.”
This really was enchanting, to have her lovely ones come over to share dinner and listen to her. Margaret was in New Jersey, visiting her daughter. That made Carlotta want to remind herself that she still had family, too. Carlotta unwrapped the sandwiches and set them on china plates. Jasmine tea bags were already steeping in the tea pot.
Carlotta knew she would do most of the talking, but she would put the spotlight on her dear girls first.
“Now, I want to hear your news. Summer? Anything—or anyone—on the horizon?”
Summer rolled her eyes at Hope. They both hated when Carlotta did this, and Carlotta knew it. She just couldn’t help herself.
Carlotta attempted to smooth over her intrusion with a compliment. “You’ve stopped biting your lip, dear! Oh, it looks much
better. That scab was so unsightly. Yes, much better!” This didn’t seem to please Summer either, so she turned her attention to her niece.
“Or you, Hope? Any—.”
“Actually, there is someone on the horizon for me,” said Hope.
-14-
Hope took in a deep breath, as if preparing to tell Carlotta something she wasn’t going to like. But she was about to announce a young man! Was he somehow unsuitable? Or was she about to announce a young woman, instead? Carlotta was more enlightened than Hope thought, if she was worried about how Carlotta would receive that news. Or—surely it wasn’t that slouch, Rudy. Hope had had a years-long relationship with a sluggard of a married man and had finally seen—after having her cards read by Norbert—the weasel’s true nature, and had cut that unhealthy cord. Oh, Lord, let this announcement be anything but that. Not the return of Rudy. He had made Hope so unhappy.
Carlotta looked to Summer to see if she knew what was coming.
“Well who is it, Hope?” asked Summer, smiling. “Anyone we know?”
“No. It’s no one you know. It’s no one I know, as a matter of fact.”
“You mean you’re on an online dating site?” asked Summer.
“No,” laughed Hope. “Been there, done that! As you know!” Hope smiled conspiratorially at Summer, and Carlotta felt the bite of being left out.
“Hope, dear, you’re being mysterious,” said Carlotta, trying not to betray the suspense she was in.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be. It’s just—okay. I don’t know how you guys are going to take this, and I really, really need your support.”
Carlotta would never get used to being called a “guy.”
“Spill it!” commanded Summer.
Carlotta braced herself.
“I’m going to become a mother.”
“You’re pregnant?” asked Carlotta, with a hand on her chest.
“No, Aunty. I’m forty-six. I don’t think I would be a stellar candidate for pregnancy at this point, do you?”
“No, I do not,” said Carlotta emphatically. Where was this going?
“But I always wanted to have children.”
Hope rested her elbows on the table. Carlotta, due to the circumstances, didn’t even object.
Hope went on, “Some women long for kids, and some don’t. I’m the kind that longs. So I went on this website, Adopt US Kids, and saw all these children across the country who are ‘in the system.’ They’re all waiting for a family. Some just wait there forever until they ‘age out.’ Something just clicked. Like destiny or something. I just knew. I have to do this. I need to bring one of those children into my home, and make a family for myself.”
Ah, the tyranny of hormones. The impetuosity of youth. The imprudence of inexperience.
“Hope, dear. This idea is… well. It’s very high-minded of you, that’s for sure. It’s so… altruistic.”
“No, Aunty, it’s not. I’m doing it as much for me as I am for my child.”
Hope stopped and turned her head to the window, regarding the darkness outside. She turned back to her aunt, and Carlotta saw the tear trembling on Hope’s cheek.
“My child,” she repeated. “It means so much to me to be able to say, ‘my child.’”
“Of course!” said Summer with warmth. “You’re the most motherly woman I know. Of course you would want a child of your own!”
Carlotta, not to be outdone, said, “Yes, dear, I understand completely. It’s quite natural.”
Her true opinion was that if childless women knew how hard motherhood was, it wouldn’t be such a popular choice. Of course it was fun to dress up little people in precious clothes. But all the rest of it? It took so much out of a person. She often wondered if she had missed something important in raising her own sons. She didn’t remember it as a jolly experience. She recalled feeling worn out with the relentless labor involved. Keeping them clean was a full-time job. Then, when they grew tall and were no longer sticky and tearful, when they were at last capable of holding an interesting conversation, well, then, they moved across the country, or--. But she was getting herself side-tracked.
Carlotta fixed Hope with her sternest look: “I don’t think you realize that those children are bound to have all kinds of… issues. It will complicate your life so.”
“I need my life complicated, Aunty, I do. Complicated in a good way, that is. Goodness knows I’ve had enough bad complications. And I know all about foster kids’ issues. I’ve been reading and reading on this for months. I’m ready.”
“But, Hope, some of these children might be angry. They might, I don’t know, swear and act up, that sort of thing.”
Summer burst out laughing. “Hell, yeah, they might be angry, Gramma. Just a little bit. Being shuffled from place to place and feeling like no one wants them. Damn right, they might swear. And we might survive that. They’re children. God, Gramma you are funny!”
“When you say, ‘they,’” said Carlotta, refusing to show how she was smarting from Summer’s condescension, “how many are you going to take, Hope?”
Summer mocked, “Gramma, when you say, ‘How many are you going to take,’ you make it sound like Hope is adopting kittens.”
“And,” said Carlotta, “I think it is important that we all realize that this is nothing like adopting kittens. This is going to be very, very hard, Hope. Do you realize what you are getting into?”
“Yes, I think I do. You’re the one that taught me that anything worth doing is going to be hard. I want a family. There’s nothing I want more. There are thousands of kids who want a family, too.”
Summer asked, “So you might really foster more than one?” There was excitement in her voice, as if this were a good thing that Hope was contemplating. If Carlotta were afflicted with a suspicious nature, she might almost think that Summer was toying with her.
Hope said, “I’ve told the caseworkers that I’m open to sibling groups, so a family could be kept together. I’m open to a boy or a girl, any race, and any age from six to seventeen. Since I have to work full-time, I thought school-age would be best. I’ve filled out reams of paperwork and had interviews and a home inspection.”
Summer, smiling, shook her head. “Hope! How long have you been doing all of this without telling anyone? Why so secretive?”
“I applied about six or seven months ago. And why so secretive? I guess this is so important, so-precious to me. And I guess I didn’t want anyone to doubt or judge or try to talk me out of it.”
Carlotta, who was now holding her hand to her throat, took this opportunity to doubt, judge and try to talk her out of it. “So this child—these children—they might be from different backgrounds?”
“Oh, Gramma!” snickered Summer. “Your white privilege is showing.”
Carlotta waved at Summer as if swatting a fly away. “Do you really think you’re prepared for everything this will entail? Do you understand what you are committing to?”
Hope went on, “I’m taking a course for foster parents. It’s called ‘Parents as Healing Hearts.’ Maybe I’m more prepared than most parents ever are.”
“Hope, I think this is wonderful!” said Summer.
Seeing Summer squeeze Hope’s hand and Hope’s look of gratitude toward Summer, Carlotta pivoted and pushed in.
“Oh! We’re both happy for you, Hope. We’ll both support you, if this is what you really want. And I’m sure I can speak for the Club when I say that they will support you, too. Your child—or children—will have lots of love. And so forth.” She had stopped clutching her throat and turned on the charm. If there was no way to stop this bad idea from moving forward, then she would need to get out in front of it.
“Oh, good,” said Hope, wiping away her tears and returning to her calm and business-like manner. “Because I’m going to need babysitters, after school and on the weekends, while I’m working at the café.”
Carlotta pulled back as she envisioned herself, babysitting.
“Certainly
. Just—do check on those issues the child might have.”
“Of course, Aunty. I’ve already filled out a checklist on which issues I will and won’t accept. There were some surprising ones, I’ll say. Fire-setting, cruelty to animals, bed-wetting, rages, sexual acting out, developmental delays, self-injury, and medical issues like blindness, missing a limb, and juvenile diabetes. There must have been sixty items on that list. It went on for pages. It’s really something to think of, all the troubles a kid might have.”
As Summer and Hope stood at the front door, they wrapped each other in a long and warm embrace. Then Carlotta, not to be left out, embraced each of them in turn. Longer. And more warmly.
When Carlotta closed the door, she stood with her hand on the doorknob for a moment. She was lost in a vision of a mob of angry, swearing children burning down her house.
-15-
Butler’s Books had been a Gibbons Corner institution since it was opened by a Butler ancestor in 1927. Arnie Butler’s Aunt Edith owned it, and paid Arnie a handsome salary to run it, unconcerned about profit (she was an heiress) and more interested in offering Gibbons Corner an intellectual smorgasbord.
As such, an entire wall was taken up with religion and philosophy, and the subsections were labeled: Western Philosophy, Eastern Philosophy, New Age, Occult & Metaphysics, Christian Studies, Jewish Studies, World Religion, and Atheism. Customers stood in the aisle with one another, some of them casting sideways glances and wondering how on earth people could choose to believe outlandish and even dangerous things, while others hoped that neighboring customers were noticing the books they were browsing, and judging them to be either very bright, very pious or very evil.
