Cruel Beautiful World

by Caroline Leavitt

  CHARLOTTE FINALLY MANAGED to make a few friends. Sandy, who sat beside her in history class and wore a T-shirt with the letter N on it (“For nihilism, nothingness,” Sandy said cheerfully), could always be talked into hitching into Boston to see movies every once in a while. Charlotte hung out sometimes with her old high school friend Birdie, who was going to Emerson. But more often than not, Charlotte had to cancel plans in order to study, to catch up, and Birdie was getting annoyed. Sex at Brandeis was as plentiful and casual as the acid that was readily available, but Charlotte got neither. She wasn’t interested in drugs, and she had never been good at dating. Lucy was the one who always got attention from boys, including the ones Charlotte wanted. All junior year of high school, she had been in love with Bobby Morton, who sat opposite her in study hall every day, always wearing the same fringed suede boots, his long, dark hair falling to his shoulders. He was like a fever that raged through her body. He was always friendly to her, but one day Lucy came home with him, and Charlotte retreated to her room and closed the door. Lucy didn’t see him or talk about him after that day, but Charlotte couldn’t even look at him after that.

  Charlotte tried as best she could. She trailed after boys from class, making herself strike up conversations that never went anywhere. She went to a few Brandeis dances and ended up leaning against a wall, until one day a blond, lanky boy from California named Teddy Roth took her hand and danced with her. When the dance was over, he tapped her nose. “I’m premed and I have just the prescription for you—dinner with me,” he said. When he said “dinner,” she thought he meant Kutz Hall and the disgusting chicken livers and rice they kept serving, but instead he had a car and he drove them into Boston to Legal Sea Foods and insisted they both have lobster and wine.

  She fell in love quickly. She and Teddy spent all their time together. He unlocked her math and science classes for her, helping her bring up her grades. They walked around campus holding hands. In the middle of the cafeteria, he tilted her face up and put his lips to hers. Nights, they studied some more in his room and went to movies. She loved that he called her when he said he would, that he showed up when he was supposed to, and that he didn’t push her into having sex. At night he just held her, stroking her hair, while they talked. When she told him about Lucy and Iris, his face was grave, and then he told her about his four younger brothers in Los Angeles, all of them runners. “You’ll meet them,” he said, and Charlotte felt a thrill. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  The first time they made love, Teddy made it an event, with candles in his dorm room, one of the few singles on the floor, and a bottle of real wine, not the Ripple stuff or the cheap Mateus everyone was drinking. He undressed her quietly, kissing her shoulder, the small of her back. She shut her eyes and sighed. “I love you,” she said, and he held her closer.

  But in the morning, he prodded her up. “Wakey, wakey,” he said. He picked up his shirt and threw it on. She stood up and reached to kiss him, and he gave her a loose smile. “Later, you,” he said, kissing her. She didn’t think anything of it until right before dinner, when she saw him making out with another girl in front of Kutz Hall. She waited for the girl to leave and then stumbled toward him.

  “You kissed that girl,” she said, dumbfounded.

  He laughed. “Come on, Charlotte. It’s nothing.”

  She leaned forward. “It’s something. I thought—”

  He smiled. “Charlotte, you need to lighten up.”

  “I told you I loved you last night.”

  “Of course you did. Everyone says that during sex.”

  She pulled back as if he had struck her.

  “Charlotte, don’t be like that,” he said. “Come on. It’s not the nineteen fifties anymore. You don’t have to marry everyone you sleep with. I don’t own you. You don’t own me. We’re here to have fun.”

  She blinked at him. “What we had was fun?”

  “Well, wasn’t it?” he said. “Come on, I dare you to say it wasn’t.” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “Okay, I’ll catch you later, then,” he said, leaning forward and kissing her.

  She waited one day, and then two, but he never called her or came by. Well, she had studying to worry about. Love could come later.

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, she was cramming for an exam when the phone down the hall rang, startling her, and then she heard her name being called out. Maybe it was Teddy. Maybe he had changed his mind. She ran outside to the pay phone in the hall, and a girl handed her the receiver. “Hello,” she said.

  “Can you shoot home with your key? I locked myself out of the house,” Iris said.

  “How did you do that?” Charlotte asked.

  “I thought I heard something, and then when I went out, the door slammed shut on me. Please, honey, I’d drive to you to get the keys, but the car keys are locked in the house. Please just take a cab, and I’ll pay for it both ways. I’m so embarrassed.”

  Charlotte glanced at her watch, her mind racing. She had five more chapters to get through. She worried about this class, but she worried about Iris, too.

  “Be right there,” she said.

  AS SOON AS the cab dropped Charlotte off, she saw Iris on the porch in her nightgown and bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Her hair was sloppily braided, wisps falling out. She stood up slowly, grabbing the banister for support. “Are you OK?” Charlotte asked, and Iris nodded.

  “Why didn’t you stay inside a neighbor’s house until I got here?” She rubbed her hands along Iris’s arms, trying to warm her up.

  “I didn’t want to be a bother. And I figured you’d be here soon.”

  “Well, I’m here,” Charlotte said, hugging Iris. She had seen her just two weeks ago, but Iris suddenly looked older. When had her hair thinned so that a line of pink scalp showed through?

  Charlotte fit her key into the lock and opened the door, and as soon as she stepped into the house, something felt wrong. Newspapers were spread on the couch. There was laundry piled on a chair. The house smelled funny, like something was spoiling in one of the rooms. “Iris—” she said. “I’ll get to it,” Iris said.

  Charlotte saw a silver package, tied with a bow, sitting on a table in the foyer. “Today’s Lucy’s birthday,” Iris said quietly. “It’s a silver locket.”

  Charlotte was quiet for a moment. When she had got up that morning, she had known it was Lucy’s birthday, but it hurt to think about it, so she had pushed it away. “But Lucy’s not here.”

  “I thought she might come home for her birthday. Or at least call. There’s still no news from the police. How can that be?” Iris sighed. “I didn’t want her to think we forgot.”

  “Let me take care of all this mess for you,” Charlotte said, gathering up newspapers. She glanced at her watch. She had so much more to read tonight.

  Charlotte did two loads of laundry. She did the dishes and vacuumed the living room. When she came back into the kitchen, Iris was making a cheese omelet. Two cups with tea bags in them were sitting on the table. “Eat with me, honey,” Iris said. “Tell me about your week before you go.” Charlotte hesitated. “Come on, I made it with that sharp cheddar you like,” Iris said. “And the tea is decaf.”

  Charlotte sat. All through school, whenever she couldn’t sleep, Iris had always made tea and sat up with her. Charlotte didn’t even like tea that much, but she had always loved the way the warmth of the cup spread through her hands, the way Iris would intently listen to whatever Charlotte would tell her about. As soon as the eggs were in front of her, her stomach roiled with hunger. She had been studying so hard she had forgotten to eat. She wolfed down a bite, and Iris sat beside her, smiling. “I knew you’d be hungry,” she said.

  They talked about Charlotte’s classes, about a book Iris was reading. After they finished eating, Charlotte called a cab. “I’ll see you soon,” Iris said. When she walked Charlotte to the door, she stumbled, and Charlotte grabbed her arm to steady her, alarmed. “Are you okay?” Charlotte asked. “I’m worried about you.”r />
  “I’m fine,” Iris said, peering out the window. “Oh, there’s your cab!”

  Chapter 9

  By March, Lucy’s cabin fever was more like a never-ending flu. All that winter, the snow had been so heavy she sometimes couldn’t open the front door. William would have to heat up water and splash it out the window, gradually making a path. Everything seemed eerily quiet, as if the world had been erased, turned white, brown, and the washed-out blue of the sky. The insects and the birds were gone. Just making her way to check on the chickens took her an hour, the air so frigid it made her gasp, the high snow soaking her jeans, getting into her boots. But she didn’t mind so much, because at least it ate up part of her day.

  The first day that the snow really cleared, she grabbed the house keys and set out on a walk down the road.

  The world was desolate. The only sound was the skip of her breathing. She suddenly thought, what if something happened to William? What if he crashed the car and died and she was left here all alone?

  She began to run, her legs pumping through the melting slush. She was coming alive with speed. She thought of all the stories Iris had told her when she first found out that Lucy hitched everywhere. Men carried shears and they would cut off your nipples and keep them in a jam jar like a souvenir. Iris told stories about girls who were captured and put into white slavery. There had been rapes, broken bodies left by the side of the road. Lucy had laughed back then, but she didn’t feel like laughing now.

  Lucy heard a car coming and felt a pull of fear, but the car whizzed past her.

  She kept walking. Soon, she told herself, there’d be a house or at least a store, but all that happened was the road curved.

  She had been walking for an hour and had nearly given up. The weather wasn’t as warm as she thought it would be, and she was shivering a little. This had been a mistake. She was tired and she felt like crying, because now she had to get it together to make the long walk back. She’d have to figure out something in time for dinner. And what if William came home and she wasn’t there? He’d be so worried. And then he’d be mad because they had agreed that she’d stay home during the day.

  She swallowed. She was just walking. She had a right to do that, didn’t she? No one knew who she was. There was no danger. And she’d make it home before William, the way she always did.

  She made another turn, and there were more cars on the road, and a gas station.

  And a pay phone.

  She hadn’t called home yet. William had told her to wait and certainly not to call home on their phone because even though it was unlisted, it could be traced. But the other night she had woken up to hear him on the phone, and when she got up and padded to the door, she heard him talking. “It’s wonderful out here, Mom,” he said, which confused her. Why could he call his mother if she couldn’t call Iris? Weren’t they supposed to be invisible for a while? She walked out into the living room, and William, lean and handsome in just his pajama bottoms, beckoned her over. He wrapped an arm around her. “Me, too,” William said, and he hung up the phone. “She won’t tell anyone where we are.”

  “Does she know I’m here?”

  William kissed the top of her head, then her forehead, then her mouth. “Of course she doesn’t.”

  Lucy knew that William was the child of a broken home. Diana had divorced when William was ten, and William’s father cut all contact, barely paying child support. “You have no idea how much she loved me and needed me,” he told Lucy. Lucy remembered seeing Diana once. Lucy had snuck out to surprise William, but Diana was outside his building, talking to him, her voice like water pouring. “You don’t think, William,” Diana had said, but then she had given him a hug.

  “If you can call your mom, why can’t I call Iris and Charlotte?”

  “I’m not a minor like you are, Lucy. We could get into big trouble here.”

  “But you told your mother where you are. What if she just shows up?”

  “Do we have to talk about my mother?” William switched on the radio. Gary Puckett was singing “Young Girl,” a song Lucy always liked, but William was frowning. “Jesus.” He turned the radio off.

  “What? I like that song,” she said.

  “Are you hearing the words? Do you realize what it’s about? He’s telling this young girl that his love for her is way out of line, that she’s a baby under her makeup. Then he tells her she’d better run because he can’t control himself.”

  “It’s just about desire,” she said. She leaned against William, tracing a hand along his back, but he pushed her away.

  “No, no, it’s not.” His mouth tightened.

  Another evening, William had asked her to iron a shirt for him because the next day the parents were coming to watch the kids at school. He looked so distraught that she didn’t want to tell him she had never ironed before. She got the board out and the iron and did the best she could, but then she smelled something burning, and when she looked down, there was a scorch mark on the sleeve. Horrified, she touched it. “William!”

  He walked over. “Lucy!” He looked at the shirt, dismayed. “How did this happen?”

  She hung her head. “I’ve never ironed before.”

  “What?”

  “Charlotte or Iris always did it.”

  She waited for the flicker in his cheek that signaled he was mad, but instead he was just deflated. “Of course you don’t know how to iron. How could I expect you to?” he said, but he wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll wear another shirt.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and was quiet for the rest of the evening.

  Now, she hesitated in front of the pay phone, remembering William’s words: Minor. That meant big trouble with a capital T. No, she couldn’t call her family. Not now. Not yet. She turned and then began the long walk home.

  AS THE DAYS dragged on, Lucy began to take longer and longer walks. She would leave earlier in the day, right after breakfast, so she would be back before William would get home. “What did you do today?” he asked, and when she said she took a walk, he frowned.

  “You did what?” He wanted to know where she walked, who she saw, and who saw her. “Lucy,” he said, “when you’re eighteen, you can walk the world.”

  “OK, I’ll stay put.”

  But the next day, after reading a bit, writing, and trying to figure out how to make a buckwheat burger, she felt stir-crazy again. She didn’t want to lie to William—they never lied to each other—but she would just not mention it. She would tell him everything else. She grabbed her jacket and headed outside.

  She began taking walks more and more. She felt her legs growing stronger. She saw a slight muscle building in her calves, hard under her touch. She loved seeing the stark trees taking on green leaves and filling up the sky, the shy poke of a wildflower along the road. Even the cars that passed her seemed more cheerful, and sometimes a window was even opened, and she could hear a smear of music. When she got home, she fed the chickens, and even they seemed livelier, happier to see her. “It’s a great day, isn’t it?” she said to Dorothy, who pecked at her feet.

  IT WAS THE beginning of May, and Lucy picked up the newspaper William had brought home the night before. There was a big photo, a girl with a bandanna tied around her neck, screaming over a dead body. Lucy held the paper closer to her face. Kent State. Four killed, nine injured, in a riot over Nixon’s invasion of Cambodia. The National Guard was shooting kids. Lucy dropped the paper, her hands flying to her mouth. Kids at New York University hung out a banner proclaiming, THEY CAN’T KILL US ALL. Lucy started to cry. She grabbed at her arms, her legs, making sure she was all there. She had to get out of the house.

  She did what she always did: she walked, only this time she half ran, trying to chase the fear and tension out of her legs. The greenery was sprouting everywhere. Tiger lilies and Queen Anne’s lace dotted the road.

  She tried a new route today, heading down a road budding with crops. Eventually she saw a sign for a farm stand, which meant people. She q
uickened her pace. The stand blazed with color; indoors, it seemed filled with fruits and vegetables. Behind it stretched a long greenhouse. Even from here she could see how huge and lush the tulips were, how flashy the pansies. She could hear the chatter of the people, the laughter. There were a few men, but older men, probably retired, trailing after women who must be their wives. The only man under fifty was at the register. He had long hair and dark sunglasses and wore a black T-shirt with black jeans. Who did he think he was, Johnny Cash? He was ringing up jars of some kind of jam, talking with customers. He squinted at Lucy as if he were sizing her up, and she looked away. She strolled down the aisles of produce and let one hand drift along a row of fiddlehead ferns, parsnips, and pea greens. Then she felt a grip handcuffing her wrist. It was the man from the cash register, his eyes on her like a laser.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he said.

  “Nothing. I’m just looking.”

  He let go of her wrist. She stepped back from him, her breath narrowing.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “I was just trying to figure out what you’re doing here, touching all my fruits and vegetables.”

  “I won’t do it again. They were just so pretty—”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  She chewed her lip. “Twenty.”

  “Right. More like sixteen.”

  “I just turned eighteen. I look young. How old are you, thirty?”

  “Twenty-nine, though what difference does that make?”

  She looked around the farm stand, seeing the people. “You could make your displays prettier,” she said.

  “Oh, I could, could I?”

  “And those plants over there are drooping. They need water. People notice things like that.”