They were silent. Charlotte felt nervous, saying emphatically to try to smooth things over, “You were excellent in that Tampax commercial.”
Lee looked at her sadly. “Thanks, Mom,” she said.
“Things don’t always work out,” said Regan.
“Yup,” said Lee. She exhaled. “It feels good just to tell you guys,” she said. “So I don’t know what’s next. I don’t. I need to figure out what the heck I want, I guess.”
“I wish I had,” said Regan.
“Regan!” cried Charlotte. “What does that mean? And where’s Matt?”
“Yeah,” said Cord, sipping a Perrier. “Where’s ol’ Matt?”
“You’re always making fun of me,” said Regan. “I don’t know where Matt is. He’s not in our cabin. I can’t find him anywhere!”
“Calm down,” said Charlotte, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. She could hear her mother’s voice in her ear: Do not cause a scene and humiliate yourself. Her brain skittered helplessly, searching for words that would erase Regan’s unpleasant outburst. Charlotte had taught her children to look on the bright side! Or at least to be cheery in public spaces.
“I’m not making fun of you,” said Cord.
“You are,” said Regan. “You don’t even know you’re doing it. Everybody thinks my life is a joke!”
“You’re hysterical, dear,” said Charlotte, patting Regan’s hand. “Keep it down, now.”
“I AM NOT HYSTERICAL!” cried Regan.
“Regan!” cried Charlotte, aghast.
The Perkins Family Meltdown was interrupted by the entrance of the Fun Times Dance Squad. The lead singer held a microphone and wore red sequined pants. He stood by the salad bar and waited for the dancers to assume position. Music began to play from unseen speakers, a hush fell over Shells Restaurant, and the singer brought the microphone to his lips. He threw his head back. “You’re simply the best!” he sang. “Better than all the rest!”
The waitstaff joined the dancers, creating a herky-jerky show. The singer intoned, “Stand up! Everybody stand up! It’s time for the Dinner Napkin Twirl!”
Rule-followers to the end, the Perkinses stood.
“Simply the best!” sang Lee, hoisting her napkin. “Better than all the rest!” It occurred to Charlotte that Lee might belong on a cruise ship.
Cord looked ill, his hand raised at half-mast. Regan mournfully mouthed the lyrics. The lights in Shells dimmed, strobes flashing on and off.
“Ooooh, you’re the best!” the ship’s performers sang as they paraded around the circular tables nimbly. “I’m stuck on your heart, baby!”
The Fun Times Dance Squad finished the Tina Turner tune with panache, falling to their knees and crying out, “You’re the best!”
The music faded and Charlotte sank, spent, into her seat. She picked up her menu. “Regan,” said Cord. “I’m really sorry you think I’m making fun of you. I think you’re amazing. I really do.”
“What?” said Regan.
Cord nodded.
“You know what feels great,” said Lee. “Is telling the truth.” She was staring at Cord for some reason, really staring. “We all love you, Cord,” she said.
“What are you talking about, Lee?” said Charlotte. “Of course we love Cord!” But her body knew: her stomach seized.
“Yeah,” said Regan. “What are you talking about?”
“Cord?” said Lee.
“What?” said Cord.
“Don’t you think everyone should tell the truth?” said Lee.
Cord made a weird, strangled sound. “Is something the matter?” said Charlotte. Lee’s words made her very nervous. Speaking of truth, Charlotte needed to tell her children about her pornographic essay before she read it aloud in the Teatro Fabuloso.
“Is someone sick?” said Charlotte. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sick,” said Cord. “But honestly? Lee? I’d appreciate you shutting the fuck up, is what I’d appreciate.”
“Cord!” Charlotte felt as if she’d been struck.
“Actually, I feel sick,” said Cord, standing up. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you guys in the morning.” He strode out of Shells, and there was silence. Charlotte’s gut churned, but she knew how to spackle over confusion and pain. She’d been doing it all her life. “Will you look at this bread?” she said, her voice high and strained in her ears. “Look at this bread! It’s so delicious!”
“Yeah,” said Regan. “Yum.”
Lee looked deflated. Whatever she’d been doing, it had failed.
“Well, hello there!” said Matt, appearing tableside in a fresh shirt, his face sunburned and relaxed. “How was Sicily?” He sat down and gave Regan a showy kiss on the cheek.
“Where have you been, Matt?” said Regan evenly.
“I’ve been in the room all day,” said Matt, grinning. “Very refreshing,” he added. His lie sat, an extra loaf in the middle of the table.
Lee observed her first love as if he were a strange exhibit at the zoo. “Oh, Matt,” she said. “What’s happened to you?”
“What does that mean?” said Matt.
“Let’s eat some bread,” said Charlotte, forcefully. No one moved. “Lee!” cried Charlotte. “Regan! Eat some delicious bread!”
“I’ll eat some delicious bread,” said Matt.
CHARLOTTE WAS SO UPSET about her family’s dysfunction that she could barely sit through the Michael Jackson musical revue. Cord had told her how much he’d been looking forward to the show, but though she called his cabin and even went to knock on his door, he did not reappear. So much for the idea that he couldn’t absent himself on a ship!
As they entered the theater, Regan made sure to seat herself between Charlotte and Lee, leaving Lee next to Matt on her other side and Charlotte next to a fat man wearing a Yankees baseball cap to the theater. Charlotte had known that “cruisers” (as they called themselves on the Internet) weren’t the most refined—the vast majority of their web conversations were about how to smuggle booze onboard—but honestly, a baseball cap? Charlotte flared her nostrils in distaste and scooched herself as far as possible toward Regan.
As the lights dimmed and the stage exploded to life, Matt appeared to be having a fine time, shaking his shoulders to “Billie Jean,” oohing and aahing as a lithe woman in a red zippered jacket hurled herself around a gold cage–like apparatus that hovered midair. But it was hard for Charlotte to enjoy herself with her baby girl, Regan, so clearly distraught. Regan’s face was impassive, but Charlotte could see her hands balled into fists in her lap.
A man in a tuxedo and a lovely woman in white took the stage and began singing a slow song called “You Are Not Alone.” Regan appeared to be transfixed, her face a mask of pain. Lee sang along, her voice low and lovely. The baseball cap man brought a hoagie sandwich from a bag and unwrapped it, taking a bite. As the smell of meatballs reached her, Charlotte was horrified and also hungry. Cord was gone.
Charlotte sighed audibly, but no one seemed to hear her. The show went on. The Splendido Marveloso moved through the night, engines buzzing, heading for Naples. For a moment, Charlotte wished she had never come on this cruise. She ached for Godiva, a plate of Triscuits, a few slices of plain old American cheddar. Her children, it seemed, were irredeemably messed up. It was her fault, and furthermore.
THE VIEW FROM CORD’S balcony was gritty: a row of red-brick buildings, trucks idling in a parking lot, a hill stretching toward a smoggy horizon. A few dinghies were anchored along the Molo Beverello dock. To the right, he could see passengers walking off the ship already, filing toward the blocky blue Stazione Marittima, the passageway to the city of Naples.
Cord felt a primal thrill. He wanted to run into the city—grab a slice or three of pizza, shove that crisp crust and hot cheese into his mouth—he could taste it—kiss a str
anger on one of these dirty streets with his oily lips. He was aroused just thinking of it.
He had slept well because he had taken three Benadryl tablets. He didn’t have any Ambien, and thank God he’d asked the porter to clear out his minibar, because when he’d returned to his cabin the night before, he would have started unscrewing those tiny caps. Being with his family was making him anguished. That was the word—anguish. There was nothing to do. There was nothing that could be fixed. He just wanted not to feel the anguish. That was all. He should have called Handy, or found a meeting onboard. But he took bright pink pills and lay in bed and waited and fortunately, sleep came.
As the sun rose, Cord felt shaky but okay. He just needed to get through four more days—Naples, Rome, Florence, and Marseilles—and then they would dock in Barcelona and he could go home. A small, true voice in his brain said, You can’t do this. Get off the ship or tell her who you are and accept what comes.
He told the voice to shut the fuck up.
* * *
—
FILLED WITH APPREHENSION, CORD returned to his family’s table at Shells for breakfast. Regan looked puffy-faced and miserable sitting next to her husband’s empty chair; Charlotte looked peaked but game; and Lee looked about sixteen years old with no makeup and her hair pulled into a high ponytail. No one said a word about the previous night’s dinnertime theatrics.
“Good morning,” said Cord.
“Oh, hello, dear!” said Charlotte. “How did you sleep? Well? I slept well. I slept beautifully. And now we’re in Naples! Can you believe it? I can’t believe it. Can you?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Cord. He hated to see her trying so hard! It brought to mind the days after their father’s heart attack, when Charlotte continued to make dinner for Winston and get dolled up, as if he might somehow rise from the dead. Cord thought of the night when he saw his mother pause before setting out Winston’s plate on the table. She stood by the cabinet, as if frozen. And then she put the plate back.
Cord leaned down to give Charlotte a hug. “It’s the birthplace of pizza, Cord!” she chirped. “Did you know that? The birthplace of pizza!”
“Is that right?” said Cord.
“Yes!”
Cord sat down, attempting to plaster on his “Holiday Cord” face. “What bus tour awaits us today?” he asked.
“Lee, I’m going to ask you a question,” said Regan. “Okay? And I just need you to be honest.”
Lee looked up, her cheeks coloring. “Be honest about what?” she asked, her voice a bit high. Cord’s radar went off: Lee was definitely acting suspicious.
“Matt didn’t come back to our cabin last night,” said Regan, her voice low, resigned. “Was he with you?”
“What?” said Lee. “Oh my God, what are you talking about?”
“Regan, what’s the matter with you?” said Charlotte. “Seasick,” she whispered to Cord. Cord closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“What’s the matter with Lee, is the question,” said Regan evenly.
“Jesus,” said Lee, examining her laminated menu with great concentration. “I’m going to just forget you said that.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Regan, putting her napkin on her plate and standing. “I’ll see you guys on the excursion line at ten.” She walked out of Shells, and the table was momentarily quiet.
“I’m having an omelet!” cried Charlotte.
“We should talk about Regan and Matt,” said Cord. “Obviously, she needs our help.”
“I love omelets!” Charlotte insisted. Cord gripped his thighs with his hands. Ah, his mother. She smelled of Chanel No. 5. Her love was so heavy. As a child, he’d yearned for her to take care of him, and as an adult, he’d felt he had to deny who he was to keep from breaking her. But he was fragile, too! Though he wanted to run from the table, Cord didn’t move. He was going to have to have just one limoncello to get through the day. Just one, and maybe two.
A YOUNG WOMAN IN a tight red tank top was talking about how old her family’s olive press was. It was very old. Regan touched the giant limestone circle, which rolled around a big tub to squash the olives. She’d never wondered where olive oil came from. People asked insipid questions:
How many times a year do you press the olives?
What do you do with the olive fruit after extracting the oil?
Can I buy some of your olive oil?
Do you live here at the farm?
Exactly how many years has this exact stone been in use?
Could I press olive oil in my apartment?
And on and on. Did people really care about the answers to these questions, or were they all just trying to impress the woman in the tank top? Or impress one another?
Regan tried to focus on the mechanics of an olive press, but her mind wandered. Had Matt received the telegram? Where had he spent the night? After the Michael Jackson musical revue, he’d gone to the Galaxy Bar “for a nightcap” and he’d never returned to their cabin. For the first time in years, she didn’t know what he was having for breakfast. Regan felt angry, sure, but also sorrowful. She hadn’t realized how sad it would feel to burn her life down. She’d imagined feeling triumphant.
Regan vividly remembered her childhood days in a rental apartment with a bathroom off the dining room. She could visualize Lee, her hair wrapped up in one towel, her body in another, standing by Charlotte’s china cabinet, yammering into the wall phone. She could see Cord, his long legs sprawled out in his cramped room, comic books surrounding him, Depeche Mode blasting from his boom box. Somehow she’d labeled those days a humiliation. She’d based her choices—her giant house, her daughters’ schools, her constant attention to family life—on erecting a wall between her grim childhood and her bright future. But she was beginning to see that the camaraderie with her brother and sister, the yummy microwaved dinners, the way they’d crowd around the small TV to watch Family Feud, yelling out answers—in some ways, those days had been wonderful. She promised herself now: it will be okay.
Matt must have received the telegram. He’d be getting ready to go. And as soon as that domino fell, Regan was going to need money.
After the olive press demonstration, their group was seated before an outdoor stage. A piece of driftwood had been painted with the words FURMAGG E MILLICENT. The crowd buzzed in anticipation.
On one side of the stage was a stove with a huge metal tub of water coming to a boil. Four bowls were arranged on the table, as well as a display of bottled oils and honeys. Dried peppers, onions, and three stuffed cows were suspended from the driftwood. Two heavyset women appeared, one in a yellow T-shirt and the other in a shapeless, sleeveless housedress. An American kid in a fedora began videotaping.
“Welcome to the making of the cheese!” cried the woman in yellow. The older woman (Millicent?) began stirring the pot on the stove. “This on the side, it is not boiling water, but boiling whey, ya?” said the woman in yellow. “And believe me, this is really hot now. When the whey boils, raise up on top of it another type of cheese, like white cream that she have to skim off.”
The older woman plunged her arms into one of the bowls on the table, and her cohort detailed the process of mixing in the curds, of kneading and the hours it took to create a braided round. “You can have a nice picture with Millicent if you just wait,” she said. “She doesn’t speak English, but…get your cameras ready.”
Obediently, everyone raised their phones. Millicent lifted her fresh cheese out of the bowl, her face sweet and ruddy.
“You ready? Now Millicent has something she say to you.”
Millicent said, “Cheese!”
At the cheese tasting afterward, a young man brought around trays of limoncello. The liquid tasted like medicinal cleaning fluid, but Regan’s shoulders unfurled, just a bit. Regan saw Cord staring at her drink. His desirous gaze made her worried. “C
ord, are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, standing and striding toward the farm animal petting area. Lee stood and followed him. Pigs rushed toward the siblings, grunting.
“This really is delicious,” noted Charlotte. Regan longed to join her siblings, but she stayed next to Charlotte. She looked at her mother, both frail and mean. It was time.
“Mom,” she said.
“Mmm?” said Charlotte, not looking up from the cheese platter.
“I’m going to need money,” said Regan, balling her fists in her lap.
“Mmm?” said Charlotte, lifting her gaze.
“Matt has, um,” said Regan. Charlotte was looking fully at her now. “I guess it’s pretty clear that Matt and I are having trouble,” said Regan. “I think…well, we might not make it. I might…be on my own. The girls and I will need help. Financial help. I need a lawyer, for one thing. Right away.”
Regan waited for her mother to speak, to make her feel disgraced. She swallowed.
But Charlotte’s face grew soft. When she spoke, her tone was sympathetic, even kind. “I’ve been careful with my savings and I get a pension now,” said Charlotte. “I can help, sweetheart.”
Regan felt relief flood through her limbs. She hugged her mother hard. “Mommy,” she said.
“That’s enough,” said Charlotte, but Regan continued to squeeze her, and Charlotte did not pull away.
MATT HAD, IN FACT, visited Lee’s room the evening before. He’d shown up two hours after the musical revue, just as Lee was settling into bed in pajamas with the Splendido Evening Newsletter. (Lee had charged a pajama set to her mother’s account: it seemed impossible to begin a new, more serious life clad in the filmy negligees of her old one.) “Oh,” she’d said, when she opened her door to find Matt, his face flushed. “What is it, Matt? What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” he had answered miserably. “Lee, I honestly don’t know. Something’s wrong with me. With us. I don’t know how to fix it, and I just want to go home.”
The Jetsetters Page 16
