by Riley Sager
Josh notices, because of course he does. Although not a compact car by any means, the front seat of the Grand Am keeps the two of them in close proximity. All that separates them is the center console, inside of which comes the rattle of loose change and plastic tapping plastic. Josh steers with his left hand and shifts with right, his forearm coming within inches of Charlie’s.
“Sorry about the air freshener,” he says. “It’s, uh, potent. I can take it down, if you want.”
“It’s fine,” Charlie says, even though she’s not entirely sure it is. Normally, she loves the smell of pine. As a kid, she’d bring her face close to each freshly cut Christmas tree and inhale its scent in lung-filling gulps. But this is something different. Chemicals pretending to be nature. It makes Charlie want to crack open the window. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
It’s a good enough answer for Josh, who nods while staring out the windshield. “I did the math, and I think the drive should take us about six hours, not counting pit stops.”
Charlie already knows this, thanks to similar trips home. It takes a half hour to reach Interstate 80, all of it on a local road lined with hobby shops, dentist offices, and travel agencies. Once on the highway, it’s about another thirty minutes until they cross the Delaware Water Gap into Pennsylvania. After that comes the Poconos, followed by hours of nothing. Just fields and forests and monotony until they hit Ohio and, soon after that, the exit for Youngstown. When Josh told her they couldn’t leave until nine, she resigned herself to not getting home until three a.m. or later. She didn’t have much of a choice.
“You’re welcome to sleep the whole way, if you want,” Josh says.
Sleeping through the drive is not on the table. Josh might seem friendly and nice, but Charlie plans to be conscious during the entire trip.
Always remain alert. Another piece of advice on that Take Back the Night flyer.
“I’ll be all right,” she says. “I don’t mind keeping you company.”
“Then I’ll be sure to make a coffee stop before we hit the highway.”
“Sounds good,” Charlie says.
“Good,” Josh replies.
And just like that, they run out of things to say. It only took two minutes. Sitting awkwardly in the newfound silence, Charlie wonders if she should say something—anything—to keep the conversation rolling. It’s something she’s fretted over since Josh agreed to give her a ride—the etiquette of being in a car with an almost stranger.
She knows it’s not the same as in the movies, where two strangers confined together in a car find endless things to talk about, usually leading to either romance or murder. But in real life, if you talk too much, you’re annoying. If you don’t talk enough, you’re rude.
The same standards apply to Josh. As she packed, Charlie was both worried he’d be too chatty and worried he’d say nothing at all. Silence between strangers is different from the long periods of quiet she’d experienced with Maddy or Robbie. With someone you know and trust, silence doesn’t matter. With a stranger, it could mean anything.
A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet, Maddy used to say. Ironic, seeing how she was the more judgmental of the two of them. Charlie was merely awkward and shy. It took tenacious prodding to coax her out of her shell. Maddy was the complete opposite. Outgoing and theatrical, which made her quick to tire of those who either didn’t share her flair for the dramatic or failed to appreciate it. It’s why they were a perfect combo: Maddy performed, and Charlie watched with adoration.
“You’re not her friend,” Robbie once said in a huff after Maddy had shrugged off plans with them in order to go to a kegger with her theater major friends. “You’re her audience.”
What Robbie didn’t understand—what he couldn’t understand—was that Charlie knew and didn’t care. She was a willing audience to Maddy’s antics. It gave her quiet life the drama it otherwise would have lacked, and Charlie loved her for that.
But that’s all over now. Maddy’s dead. Charlie’s retreated from the world. And since she’ll never lay eyes on Josh again once they reach Youngstown, she sees no point in turning him from stranger to friend.
Just as she resigns herself to spending the next six hours in awkward, pine-scented silence, Josh pipes up from behind the wheel, suddenly chatty.
“So what’s in Youngstown that you’re so eager to get back to?”
“My grandmother.”
“Neat,” Josh says with an amiable nod. “Family visit?”
“I live with her.”
Over the years, she’s learned that answer requires less explaining than the truth. Telling people that her grandmother technically lives in the house Charlie inherited from her dead parents usually leads to follow-up questions.
“I gotta say, I didn’t expect to find someone to share the drive with me,” Josh says. “Not many people are leaving campus. Not this time of year. And everyone there seems to own a car. You ever notice that? The parking lots are filled. I’m surprised you don’t have a car.”
“I don’t drive,” Charlie says, knowing it sounds like she doesn’t know how.
In truth, she doesn’t want to drive. Not since her parents’ accident. The last time she was behind the wheel of a car was the day before they died. When her license expired three months ago, she never bothered to renew it.
Charlie’s okay with being a passenger. She has to be. She knows that riding in a car is unavoidable, just like she knows something bad could happen regardless of whether she’s behind the wheel or not. Just look at her mother. She was simply along for the ride when Charlie’s father steered the car off the highway and into the woods, killing them both instantly.
No one knows what prompted him to drive off the road, even though theories abound. He swerved to miss a deer. He had a heart attack behind the wheel. Something went tragically awry with the steering column.
Accidents happen.
That’s what Charlie was told in the weeks following the crash, when it became clear she had no intention of ever driving again. Accidents happen and people die and it’s a tragedy, but she shouldn’t live in fear of getting behind the wheel of a car.
What no one understood was that dying in a car crash wasn’t what frightened Charlie. Culpability—that was her big fear. She didn’t want to cause the same pain her father had. If there was an accident and people died, including her, she didn’t want to be the one responsible.
The irony is that someone has died and Charlie is responsible and it didn’t involve a car at all.
“Lucky we found each other, I guess,” Josh says. “You ever use the ride board before?”
Charlie shakes her head. “First time.”
She’s never had to before. Nana Norma used to drive her to campus at the start of a semester and pick her up when it was over. After her eyesight started going bad last fall and she, too, stopped driving, Robbie took over. The only reason Charlie’s not in his Volvo right now is because he couldn’t find someone to cover his TA and coaching duties for the two days it would take for him to drive to Youngstown and back.
“Mine, too,” Josh says. “I went to the board thinking it would be a waste of time, and there you were, just putting up your flyer. Charlie. Interesting name you’ve got there, by the way. Is that short for something?”
“Yes. Charles.”
Maddy had loved that answer. Whenever Charlie used it—usually at whatever loud, intimidating mixer she’d been dragged to—Maddy would let out a wicked cackle that made her feel pleased with herself for coming up with it. It was sassy, for Charlie. Like something Barbara Stanwyck would have said in a screwball comedy.
“Your real name is Charles?” Josh says.
“It was a joke,” Charlie says, bummed that she’s forced to explain it. Barbara Stanwyck never explained things. “Not my name. That really is Charlie, although it’s not short for anyth
ing. I was named after a character in a movie.”
“A boy character?”
“A girl. Who, incidentally, was named after her uncle.”
“What’s the movie?”
“Shadow of a Doubt.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Alfred Hitchcock,” Charlie says. “Released in 1943. Starring Joseph Cotten and Teresa Wright.”
“Is it good?” Josh asks.
“It’s very good. Which is lucky for me, because who wants to be named after a character in a shitty movie, right?”
Josh gives her a glance, one brow arched, looking either impressed or surprised by her enthusiasm. That raised brow tells Charlie she’s talking too much, which only happens when the subject is movies. She could be mute for hours, but if someone mentions a film title, the words pour out. Maddy had once told her that movies were her version of wine coolers. They really loosen you up, she said.
Charlie knows it’s true, which is why asking people about their favorite movie is the only icebreaker she has. It instantly tells her how much time and energy she should spend on a person. If someone mentions Hitchcock or Ford or Altman or even Argento, they’re probably worth talking to. On the flip side, if someone brings up The Sound of Music, Charlie knows it’s best to just walk away.
But Josh seems okay with her chattiness. Giving a slight nod of agreement, he says, “Not me. It would be like being named after a serial killer or something.”
“That’s what the movie’s about,” Charlie says. “There’s this girl named Charlie.”
“Who’s named after her uncle and you’re named after her.”
“Right. And she idolizes Uncle Charlie, which is why she’s so happy when he comes to visit for a few weeks. But Uncle Charlie is acting suspicious, and one thing leads to another until Charlie begins to suspect her uncle is really a serial killer.”
“Is he?”
“Yes,” Charlie says. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be much of a movie.”
“Who does he kill?” Josh asks.
“Wealthy widows of a certain age.”
“Sounds like one bad dude.”
“He is.”
“Does he get away with it?”
“No. Charlie stops him.”
“I thought so,” Josh says. “From the way you talk about her, I assumed she was plucky.”
Charlie feels a minor jolt at the word, mostly because she’s not sure she’s ever heard someone say it in conversation before. She’s certain no one has ever used it to describe her. She’s been called a lot of things in her life. Weird? Yes. Shy? Yes. Standoffish? Sad, but true. But never plucky. And knowing she’s not plucky now makes Charlie feel oddly guilty for not living up to the reputation set by her namesake.
“Is that your thing?” Josh says. “Movies?”
“They’re more than just my thing,” Charlie says. “Movies are my life. And my major. Film theory.”
“Like, learning how to make them?”
“Studying them. Learning how they tick. Understanding what works and what doesn’t. Appreciating them.”
She’s said all this before, at one time or another. To Maddy, when they were thrust together in the same dorm room the first day of their freshman year. To Robbie, the night they met in the library. To anyone who would listen, really. Charlie is a disciple, preaching the gospel of cinema.
“But why movies?” Josh asks.
“Because they take our world and improve upon it,” Charlie says. “Movies are magical that way. Everything is magnified. The colors are brighter. The shadows are darker. The action more violent and the love affairs more passionate. People break out into song. Or they used to. The emotions—love, hate, fear, laughter—are all bigger. And the people! All those beautiful faces in full close-up. So beautiful it’s hard to look away.”
She pauses, aware she’s been swept up in movie talk. But there’s still one more thing she wants to say. She needs to say it, because it’s true.
“Movies are like life,” she finally says. “Only better.”
She leaves out another truth, which is that you can get lost in movies. Charlie learned that the day her parents died, when Nana Norma came to stay for good.
The wreck happened on a Saturday morning in mid-July. Her parents had left early to go to the lawn and garden place two towns over, waking her long enough to say they’d be back by ten.
Charlie didn’t think much of it when ten came and went and they still weren’t home. Same thing when the grandfather clock in the living room struck eleven. Fifteen minutes later, a cop came to the door. Deputy Anderson. Her friend Katie’s dad. She’d slept over at Katie’s house once when she was ten, and Mr. Anderson made them pancakes the next morning. It was the first thing Charlie thought of when she saw him on the doorstep. Mr. Anderson standing over the stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes as wide as dinner plates.
But then she saw the hat in his hands. And the gray tint to his face. And the uncertain half shuffle he did on the welcome mat, as if forcing his legs not to run away.
Seeing all of that, Charlie knew something horrible had happened.
Deputy Anderson cleared his throat and said, “I’m afraid I have bad news, Charlie.”
She barely heard the rest, registering only the most important snippets. Accident. Highway. Killed instantly.
By that time, Mrs. Anderson was there, no doubt brought as backup, pulling Charlie into her arms and saying, “Is there someone we can call, honey? Family?”
Charlie whimpered yes. There was Nana Norma. And then she broke down crying and didn’t stop until hours had passed and Nana Norma was there.
Nana Norma used to be an actress. Or had tried to be. As soon as she turned eighteen, she did the whole hop-on-a-bus-to-Hollywood cliché, like a million other small-town girls who’d been told they were pretty or had talent. Nana Norma had both. Charlie’s seen the pictures of the beautiful brunette with the Rita Hayworth figure, and she’s heard her grandmother singing in the kitchen when she thought no one else was around to hear it.
What young Norma Harrison didn’t have was luck. After a year of checking coats, going on auditions, and not getting even a millimeter past the dream stage, she hopped back on that bus and returned to Ohio a little harder and a lot humbled.
But it didn’t diminish her love of movies. Or pictures, as she still calls them, like she’s a walking, talking Variety headline.
“Let’s watch a picture,” she said to Charlie that first, awkward night, both of them too bowled over with grief to do anything but sit there, silent and shell-shocked.
Charlie hadn’t wanted to. At the time, she wasn’t much of a movie fan, despite always knowing how she got her name. That was Nana Norma’s doing. She had a thing for Hitchcock and instilled that love in Charlie’s mother.
“It’ll make you feel better,” Nana Norma told her. “Trust me.”
Charlie relented and joined her on the couch, where they watched old movies all night and into the dawn. The characters talked tough and smoked and drank glass after glass of whiskey. Even the women. There were murders and double-crosses and stolen glances so scorched with lust it made Charlie’s cheeks turn red.
Even better was Nana Norma’s running commentary, in which Charlie got glimpses of her Hollywood days.
“Nice guy,” she said of one actor. “Drank too much.”
“Went on a date with him once,” she said of another. “Got too handsy for my taste.”
When early-morning sun started trickling through the living room blinds, Charlie realized Nana Norma was right. She did feel better. All those churning emotions—the pain, the rage, the sadness so thick she’d thought she’d sink right into it like quicksand—had momentarily left her.
They watched movies until dawn the next night.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
By the time Charlie realized they were using cinematic fantasy to escape their horrible reality, it was too late. She was hooked.
On the day her parents were buried, everything felt larger than life. The closed coffins side by side at the front of the church sat in a patch of sunlight colored by stained-glass windows. The flowers behind them burst out of their vases in rainbow brightness, contrasting perfectly with the black-clad mourners who fanned themselves in the July heat. When they gathered graveside, the sky was piercingly blue. There was a light breeze, too, on which traveled the sound of a gospel choir. It was all so beautiful, in a way that made Charlie sad but also comforted. She knew that as hard as this was, she was going to get through it.
After the funeral, she asked Nana Norma if she knew the name of the hymn the choir had been singing as her parents’ coffins were lowered into the ground.
“What hymn?” Nana Norma had asked. “And what choir?”
That was the moment Charlie knew the reality of her parents’ funeral was far different from the one she had experienced. She understood then that her brain had embellished it, turning it into a mental movie. Images on film churning through reels, telling someone else’s sad tale, which was how she was able to endure it.
“Have you ever thought about making movies?” Josh says, bringing her back to the moment. “Since you love them so much.”
“Not really.”
Charlie had considered it only briefly, back when she was trying to decide which schools she should apply to. She suspected there was more gratification in creating something as opposed to taking it apart. But she also feared that knowing the nitty-gritty of making films would ruin the magic of watching them, and since there was already so little magic in her life, she didn’t want to risk it. That’s especially true now that Maddy’s gone.
