The Jetsetters

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  REGAN HAD STAYED UP until almost dawn, drinking tea and working on her scrapbook, laying out tiny watercolor paintings on the floor of the cabin, pasting tickets and menus and pages ripped from tour brochures. Sometime toward morning, she ordered a pot of coffee and a plate of croissants with butter and jam. As much as Regan yearned to visit France and sip an actual café au lait, she decided she would spend the day in her cabin with her art supplies. She had missed the way the hours slipped past as she transferred images from her brain to paper.

  * * *

  —

  TAKING A BREAK TO stretch her legs, Regan opened the cabin closet to see that it was bare of Matt’s clothes.

  Her plan had worked. But as she touched the empty hangers, she felt a wave of fear. What had she done? She imagined the girls’ faces when she told them and felt nauseous. Was she selfish for wanting a second chance? She was, surely she was.

  * * *

  —

  HER MORNING MARVELOSO NEWSLETTER featured a Slimming Ionithermie Super Detox Treatment “created by a French biochemist” and available in the spa. After the detox, proclaimed the leaflet, “You will return home looking refreshed and rejuvenated and 8 to 10 Years Younger!”

  Eight years ago, Regan mused, she had been the mother of a one-year-old, happily ensconced in her suburban lair, her days filled with endless lists of easily accomplished tasks. Essentially, her job each morning was to feed her small family and make sure that the house looked the same at 5:00 P.M. as it had at 6:30 A.M., when Matt had left for work. Also blow jobs, which she’d read in a magazine would keep Matt faithful and fulfilled. Every few days, Regan dutifully yanked down his boxers in bed, performed fellatio, and swallowed. When he’d fallen asleep, she went to town with the Listerine. In the morning, she made coffee and eggs and even pancakes, for the love of God. She’d thought she was happy.

  But now, it was hard to look back at those days and see them as anything but pathetic. If Regan hadn’t been creating the perfect house and happy marriage, what had been the point of all that effortful action? In retrospect, she seemed a cog in an assembly line, sucking and swallowing and scrubbing and sautéing, doing her part to make…what? Younger Regan seemed so energetic, so dumb.

  Regan pulled on her pale pink robe, feeling sympathy for her younger, tender self. She remembered her rehearsal dinner at Elizabeth on 37th, when Lee had cornered her in the ladies’ room, proclaiming that Matt was not the one for Regan, that she should call off the wedding. Now, Regan understood that her sister had been right.

  Regan stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was tangled, pulled into a topknot and secured with a number two pencil. Her fingertips were stained with color. Her skin was lined. She was going to be a single mother. She was going to need a job, a new place to live.

  Regan opened her sliding doors. Standing on her balcony, the port of Marseilles before her, Regan felt as if she were inhabiting—just for a moment—the person she’d once dreamed she’d become.

  LEE’S BLEEDING HAD BEGUN in the evening. After she had emailed the files to Francine, Lee had gone into her bathroom to change and noticed scarlet stains. She got back into bed, curled up on her side, and prayed fiercely, understanding too late that this baby was all she wanted, all she’d ever wanted. Please oh please don’t leave me, she told her baby. Please oh please. I’ll change.

  Waves of pain and so much blood. Lee grew scared and called Regan, then Cord. When neither answered, she called the ship’s doctor, who came to her room and confirmed she had miscarried. He gave her pain pills and a sleeping pill, telling her it seemed the worst was over. She could check into the Medical Center, the doctor said, or simply rest in her cabin. Lee told him she would stay in her room, wanting to mourn in peace. When he had left, she changed her sheets and climbed into bed. She didn’t take any of the medicine, feeling somehow that she deserved this pain, that it was punishment for being selfish and afraid. When the cramping eased, she fell asleep.

  Upon waking, Lee saw that she’d missed a call. She could scarcely believe it as she listened to the recording. It was Jason, his message brief and kinder than she would have expected from someone she’d swindled. She could imagine him rubbing his eyes as he spoke: “Lee, it’s me. I’m not going to call the cops, okay? I’m afraid and I’m worried. Who are these plane tickets for? Are you on the European cruise I guess I’m paying for? With three friends? I’m going to cancel the card, Lee. I’m not mad—you can find a way to pay me back. I’m worried, Lee, I really am. And I just…I just wanted you to know the card won’t work anymore.”

  It seemed as if doors were closing along a hallway. First, Jason leaving, then her career narrowing to one sad possibility. Finally, the door that led to a life as a mother had slammed shut.

  Lee had spent her life trying to shield her family from pain. Using Jason’s credit card and purchasing a vacation package had been her last gasp, she saw now. Even Lee, the ultimate fixer, couldn’t keep Charlotte from growing old. She couldn’t save her sister’s marriage. And, she realized, she wasn’t going to be able to change—to become a mother, to become an actress. She’d tried her best, she truly had. But even thousands of dollars of plane tickets and excursion passes and fun days at sea hadn’t been good enough.

  She understood, as her father had, that there was only one answer. It suddenly seemed so clear. She had considered suicide before—swimming into fantasies of everything ending—but had always been able to pull her mind back from the idea. Now, it was obvious she needed a way out.

  Lee’s hands shook as she applied her makeup. For some reason, it seemed important that she look her best on her last day. She was, after all, the Beautiful One. Lee slipped into her gold sheath, put her hands on her empty body.

  On her balcony, she considered the sea. As she had since she was a child, back when she believed she could be one, Lee admired the dazzling stars. But instead of a list of wishes, she had only one: for the unrelenting pain of wanting and never getting—of aching with no relief, of life—to end.

  CHARLOTTE’S SPLENDIDO EVENING NEWSLETTER announced the Passenger Talent Show. Charlotte thought it was odd that no one had contacted her about reading her essay, but when she checked the contest website again, there it was, clear as day: The winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest will read his or her prizewinning story aloud at the Passenger Talent Show on the final night of the cruise of a lifetime!

  Charlotte dreaded returning to Savannah. She no longer wanted to do her own laundry, slice her own cheese, or pour her own Chardonnay. Sure, life aboard the Marveloso was like living in a bubble: four thousand people making a mutual decision to disregard the possibility of sinking. There were no choices or grocery shopping; there was no painful or difficult news. There was the thrill of waking each morning and finding a new view from her balcony. Oh, how she would miss the horn sounding, champagne glasses ringing together when the Marveloso pulled from shore.

  Sadly, the trip had only reinforced the distance between Charlotte and her children. She didn’t even know where they were—when she ate supper in her room, she’d expected a flurry of concerned calls but her phone had remained silent. There was a certain amount of relief knowing they probably wouldn’t be in the audience during her performance, however, so Charlotte decided to get in touch with everyone in the morning, when it was all over and they could enjoy a last day of sightseeing after disembarking in Barcelona and before flying home to their separate lives.

  The Teatro Fabuloso backstage area was smaller than she’d imagined. One wall was crammed with costumes on hangers—Charlotte could see tantalizing strips of leather and sheer black shirts. Such magic burst forth from these cramped quarters! She could almost smell the dancers’ perspiration. Charlotte borrowed a can of hairspray and misted her coiffure, peering into a circular mirror surrounded by lights, cupping the ends of her hair, patting the curls into place.

  Bryso
n approached with a clipboard. “Are you here for the talent show?” he asked.

  “Of course I’m here for the talent show!” said Charlotte.

  “Put your name right here,” he said.

  Charlotte was puzzled: Bryson didn’t seem to know that she was the winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest. Before Charlotte could allay her fears, however, he took the clipboard and walked toward another woman, who was even older than Charlotte. “I’m singing show tunes,” the woman said. “A medley from Guys and Dolls and Carousel.”

  “Fantastic,” said Bryson.

  After eight other passengers who apparently had talent, or thought they did, which maybe (thought Charlotte) was the deciding factor, Bryson took to the stage with a few lame jokes about the ship’s toilets (small) and his male member (large—ew, but also, hmm). Charlotte sighed and reapplied her lipstick. She cleared her throat, felt her heart pound as Bryson said, “And for the last act of the evening, please welcome Charlotte Perkins, reading an essay she calls”—he peered at the clipboard—“ ‘The Painter and Me’!”

  Bryson turned to Charlotte, beckoning her onstage. She blinked.

  “Go on,” said a stagehand, pushing Charlotte’s back.

  “But I won the contest,” said Charlotte. “Why isn’t he saying I won the contest?”

  “Please, it’s time,” said the young woman.

  “Charlotte Perkins?” said Bryson. A spotlight swung toward Charlotte, blinding her.

  “But I’m the winner,” said Charlotte.

  “You are a winner,” said the woman, speaking slowly, as if Charlotte were demented. “You are definitely a winner.”

  “I’m not demented,” said Charlotte.

  The woman took Charlotte’s hand and yanked her toward Bryson.

  “Here she is!” said Bryson.

  “Who won the contest?” said Charlotte.

  Bryson chuckled. “Welcome to the stage!” he said.

  “The Become a Jetsetter contest,” said Charlotte. “I won.”

  “What a comedian!” said Bryson. He leaned toward her, and whispered, “It was canceled. The contest was canceled. Okay? Nobody won. Now please read your essay.”

  He smiled at the audience again and put his arm around Charlotte. Her mind spun. If she hadn’t won the contest, how was she on this ship? Was she dreaming? Was she demented?

  “Are you ready?” said Bryson.

  Charlotte unfolded her computer printout. The stage lights were hot on her skin. She flushed, confused and embarrassed. When she’d written these words, she’d felt as if she was typing up the story of her great love, a historic love, a love that celebrated her beauty and distinction. But something had changed in her since the night when she’d written in a fevered rush. Now the story seemed tawdry, a sad tale of a young girl seduced and abandoned. Her happiness had all derived from being chosen, being admired. The painter had used her, and she had let him.

  Charlotte had once read a novel about the wife of a famous artist. The narrator wrote that she survived because she had never defined herself by the artist’s portraits of her. The women who completely identified with the images her husband had created were destroyed, she wrote, because as soon as he lost interest, they no longer existed. Now, Charlotte gathered her strength to speak, to live long after her famous painter was gone.

  The silence in the Teatro Fabuloso was crushing. “I…” said Charlotte. She closed her eyes and saw Louise’s pinched face, heard her mother saying, What a disappointment.

  “I…” she said, opening her eyes. “I thought I was loved, once,” she began. She pursed her lips. “But love,” she continued, ignoring her crumpled printout, “love is not something you have to wait for. It’s not something someone can give you or not. It’s…”

  There were rumblings of discontent in the audience. Charlotte’s shame curdled to anger, a clean flame. She suddenly tired of caring what everyone—what anyone—thought of her. To hell with her mother and to hell with shame. She raised her chin. “I want to tell you about my first lover!” she cried.

  That quieted things down. Even Bryson looked amazed.

  “If you’ll just sit still and listen,” Charlotte continued, “I’ll tell you all about it.” The room grew silent. Charlotte began, “I was a beautiful girl when I first went to his castle. He was gnome-like, but in an attractive way. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try.” She had the audience in the palm of her hand as she read her entire story. Finally, she concluded with gravitas. “I am quite sure,” she said, “the nude on a couch is…in fact…moi.”

  A booming wave of applause washed over her. Charlotte was beside herself. She imagined Minnie was proud. Charlotte nodded, accepting the audience’s adoration as it bathed her in happiness. She folded her essay.

  Cheering from the audience was interrupted by a cry from the back of the theater. “Man overboard!” someone yelled.

  “It’s a woman!” screamed someone else. “Oh my God!”

  Bryson rushed onto the stage. “Calm down,” he said, pushing Charlotte aside. “We need to calm down.” Audience members, shrieking and jostling for position, filled the aisles and rushed the exits.

  “The end,” said Charlotte into the microphone. Bryson led her off the stage, and she found it was easy to disappear into the crowd. But instead of heading to the lido deck to rubberneck at some tawdry disaster, Charlotte returned to her cabin, where she found a handwritten card: I will be finished with work at 10:30 P.M., and would be honored if you would stroll around the deck with me. My cell number is enclosed. Yours, PAROS

  Charlotte sat quietly for a time. She had no idea where her cellphone was—probably in her faux-Gucci purse or her evening clutch—so she lifted her cabin phone and dialed. She was done with waiting for pleasure to come her way. Tonight was her night, and she was ready to seduce a handsome man. She was more than ready.

  AS MINNIE HAD ENCOURAGED her to do, Charlotte greeted Paros in her nightgown. His eyes widened when she opened her cabin door. “Oh, Charlotte,” said Paros.

  “Hello,” said Charlotte.

  “You’re beautiful,” said Paros.

  “Thank you,” said Charlotte. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I would, yes,” said Paros.

  Charlotte pulled the curtains shut, unplugged her phone, and found a soft-jazz station on her bedside radio. “I’d like you to make love to me,” she said, feeling emboldened. Who was this forward creature? It was Charlotte! It was!

  “It would be an honor,” said Paros. He dimmed the lights. “Please lie down,” he said.

  “Oh, my,” said Charlotte, happily following orders. “Do you think we’re moving too fast?”

  “Your wishes are my desires,” said Paros.

  “It’s been a long time,” said Charlotte, suddenly nervous.

  “For me, too,” said Paros.

  “Well, we don’t have forever to waste, now, do we?” said Charlotte.

  “We do not,” said Paros.

  “Then let’s get to the good part,” said Charlotte.

  He climbed into bed beside her and kissed her face, her lips, her neck. “I love your fragrance,” said Paros. Charlotte felt as if she were dreaming. Her fragrance?

  He trailed kisses down her rib cage to her worn-out stomach, her thighs. His lips were hot and each kiss felt like an electric shock.

  “Oh,” said Charlotte.

  Paros raised his head. “No?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Charlotte. And then he pressed his mouth into her most private place. Charlotte was horrified and also deeply thrilled. She felt a stirring that she’d known once or twice, but then the stirring gathered force.

  “Oh, my goodness,” sighed Charlotte. Her brain switched off.

  She felt a swell, a wave, her heart exploding in her chest. She climaxed, and suddenly unders
tood that all of the painter’s poking had been nothing. Winston’s fumblings had had little to do with Charlotte. Those men were only footnotes. But this, from her very own center, this that she had asked for, that she deserved—yes! This!—was just the beginning of Charlotte’s love story.

  IN THE MEDICAL CENTER, lit by fluorescent lights, Cord sat on one side of his older sister, who was not dead. Cord and Regan had kept watch over Lee’s slumbering body all night. “Mom’s still not answering,” said Regan. “Should I go get her?”

  “I guess so,” said Cord.

  “Okay,” said Regan, standing and stretching. She glanced at Cord’s phone on the counter. “You have a million messages, by the way,” she said.

  “Any from Giovanni?” said Cord.

  Regan looked through them. “No,” she said.

  “Then who cares?” said Cord.

  “I’m sorry,” said Regan. Cord shrugged. “Maybe it’s not too late,” said Regan.

  “Maybe,” said Cord.

  “Maybe the kids and I will move in with you in New York,” said Regan. Cord looked up. “It’s a joke,” said Regan. “But I don’t know. It might be nice to leave Savannah. What do you think?”

  “I can see it, Ray Ray,” said Cord, allowing a tiny smile. He looked at Lee’s face—her false eyelashes, faded lips. “She’s so much more than this,” he said. “God, what happened to her out there in Hollywood? Who is this person? Remember when she used to write poetry in that spiral notebook?”

  “She was my hero when we were little,” said Regan.

  “Yeah. She took good care of us.”

  “Until she left,” said Regan.

  Cord exhaled. “She was allowed,” he said.

  “You got away, too,” said Regan. She blinked back tears. “But we couldn’t all leave Mom, could we?”

  Cord sighed. “Oh, Regan,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”