Cruel Beautiful World

by Caroline Leavitt

  She kept driving.

  What would she do if she found him? He would have answers, and she needed answers. But then what? Did she really think she could just grab his arm and he would willingly go right to the police with her? If he even spotted her, wouldn’t he just take off again? Or hurt her, the way he had Lucy?

  BY THE TIME she got to Dennisport, it was nearly evening. Despite having grown up in Boston, she had never been to Cape Cod before. Charlotte had imagined it was all going to be sand dunes and weathered wood fences, with tall marsh grasses and gulls. Instead there were all these tawdry stores, with beach chairs and flip-flops festooned in the window, right next door to all-you-can-eat greasy spoons. Everyone seemed to be tanned too darkly, and the air was drenched in suntan lotion and salt and fried food. Summer people came in and out like tides, but she bet the people who lived here year-round would know one another. That could be a plus.

  She wasn’t sure whom to ask for information. She concocted a story to make inquiries: she was his old student, he had been a great teacher, she was vacationing on the Cape and realized he was here and she wanted to find him to say hello. It sounded innocent and boring enough to be believable.

  But he could be anyone here. He could have shaved his head, or dyed his hair, or grown fat or thin, and she wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe she had walked past him already and hadn’t even known it. She turned around, blindly. A man, his face hidden by a straw fedora, strode past her. Another man was hunched in his coat, and it wasn’t until he turned that Charlotte saw the wrinkles etching his face, the shock of white hair.

  She tried the diners and the bars, but most of the people glanced at the photo and then shrugged. “Doesn’t look familiar to me,” a waitress at a steak house told her. “And we pretty much get all the regulars, so I’d know.”

  Eventually she got tired and hungry. No one seemed to know anything. She had talked to managers and a hostess, and a few had even asked the customers who were still eating if they knew him. Maybe this was a fool’s errand, Charlotte thought. Maybe people who didn’t want to be found always escaped and there was nothing you could do about it. She went to the first motel she could find that had a vacancy sign, the Candy Cane, which had a small room on the second floor that overlooked the parking lot.

  BY THE END of the second day, she was worn out. She had walked around Dennisport so often some of the shop owners now nodded at her as if they knew her. “Gorgeous day,” they said to her. At the Busy Bee Coffee Shop, the waitress had Charlotte’s coffee with cream and two sugars on the table before she even sat down and asked for it. Charlotte told herself that if they knew her after two days, surely they would know William.

  She had gotten into the habit of cutting her eyes from side to side before she stepped into a place. What if William was in there? What if he wasn’t? One night she stopped at Jackie’s, a local bar. It was cool and dark and nearly empty, with a pool table standing in the back and a dartboard on the wall in the shape of a mermaid. No William, but you could never be sure. She sat at the bar. She was just going to order a Coke, but looking around, she could see there were some serious drinkers here already, and she thought she’d have more luck if she fit in. “Rum and Coke,” she said. The bartender was younger than she was, with a high brown ponytail and too much blue eye shadow, and when she smiled at Charlotte, Charlotte saw a flash of braces. “You’re here early,” the girl said.

  “Pardon?”

  The waitress wiped the counter. “Most folks don’t come here until past nine usually. That’s why it’s so quiet.” She folded the rag over to the clean side and wiped the counter down again.

  Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and then brought out the photo and put it on the table. “Do you know this person?” Her voice cracked. “Does he come in here?”

  The waitress frowned. “Doesn’t look familiar to me,” she said. “Sorry.” She held the photo closer to her face, as if she were nearsighted. “What do you want with this one?”

  He murdered my sister. She could say that, and if she did, the waitress would definitely be on the lookout for him. But what if she didn’t believe Charlotte? What if she thought she was crazy? Then if she saw William, she might tell him. Charlotte drained her glass. She never drank. She had no tolerance, and now her brain felt fuzzy. “I just want to find him,” she finally said.

  She was on her second glass, a little tipsy, when a man sat next to her. She smelled him first, tobacco and wet wool, and she could feel his stare.

  “My name’s Jack. Where you from?” His voice was polite, with a soft accent, and she turned. He was in his fifties, his hair long and curly, a blue watch cap pulled over his forehead, casting a shadow across his cheeks.

  “Boston,” she said. “And I’m married.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, his smile widening. He tapped her finger. “No ring.”

  “Not everyone wears one.”

  “Yes, they do. Especially women. They want to show the world they belong to someone. And if they don’t, you can see the white line where the ring was.”

  “Got me,” she said. His grin widened. She pulled out the photo to show him the picture of William. And then she saw it, a flicker that came over his face, but he stayed silent.

  “You know this guy,” she said, trying to steady her voice. She put one hand on top of the other to keep it from shaking.

  “He your boyfriend?”

  “Him? Not a chance.”

  “Then why are you looking for him?” He readjusted himself in his seat so he was closer to her.

  “He was an old friend. Haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  The guy tilted his head at her, as if he were trying to figure her out. He leaned his shoulder against hers, and though everything in her wanted to jerk her body away, she stayed still. Maybe if she were friendlier, he’d tell her more. She leaned toward him. He smelled like cigarettes and whiskey, but she let her mouth graze his cheek, heard his intake of breath.

  “Come on. I told you the truth about not being married,” she said. Then she pulled away.

  “Well, now that we’re getting closer, I’ll tell you. I don’t know him that well,” he said. “But I know that’s Eddie. Works at the food kitchen down on Central Avenue in Harwich Port.”

  Charlotte took the photo back. A food kitchen. It was the best way to stay hidden, because who would see you there except for people worse off than you were? “Do you know where he lives?”

  “We aren’t that close. I just know him to say hi.”

  “Well, if you see him, don’t mention I was asking for him. I want to surprise him.” She forced herself to smile and hoped it didn’t look like a grimace. The guy gave her an oily grin. “You do like him,” he said. “Just my luck. But I bet I could change your mind.” He stroked a finger along Charlotte’s cheek, and she willed herself to stay still for a moment.

  Then she dug in her pocket, spread a few bills on the counter, and got up.

  “You’re going? After I helped you and all?” He clamped his hand around her arm. “That’s not friendly.”

  “Neither is this.” She nodded at his hand and he let her go. “You did help me,” she said. “And I said thank you. But yeah, I’m going.”

  “I’m here every night,” the guy said. He held up his hand and showed his bare finger. “I’m single,” he called after her. “No white lie, either. Tell me your name at least. A beautiful woman like you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll see you again,” she said.

  “Yeah, you will,” he said, winking at her. She waved to him. She made herself move. When she turned around, she pushed out her breath. She saw he wasn’t following her. She’d never come into this bar again.

  THE NEXT MORNING, she found the food kitchen at the end of a quiet block, a mix of houses and businesses. The food kitchen was a one-story brick building, set off with pine trees, and there was already a queue of people waiting outside. The air was hazy, or maybe it was just because she hadn’t been able
to sleep the night before. All that rum had made her queasy.

  When she tried to get to the door, a woman shoved her. “There’s a line here,” she said.

  Charlotte brushed herself off. “I’m not here for food,” she said. “I want to find someone—”

  “There’s a line,” the woman repeated.

  Charlotte went to the back of the line. It was a wet day, and she wasn’t dressed warmly enough and she was shivering. “Stamp your feet, it helps,” the man in back of her said, and she did, grateful. By the time she got inside, her hands were pink from the cold. The room smelled like eggs and toast and forced heat. There were long wood communal tables and chairs, already filling up with people carrying trays, and at the front of the room was a serving station with four people in aprons ladling out food, too far away for her to see their faces.

  Someone nudged her. “Take a tray,” a woman ordered, and Charlotte picked up a blue plastic tray, which was still wet.

  The smell of the food nauseated her. The tables, as she passed them, looked greasy. The line was moving quickly, and the closer she got to the servers, the more anxious she became. What if he was there? What would she say and do? She took another step closer and she could make out the servers, all four of them. A woman with a long gray braid down her back. A man who was so fat his apron wouldn’t tie around him, and two teenage boys in rock-and-roll T-shirts. None of them was William. A man ladled scrambled eggs onto a plate and handed it to her, and she didn’t know what else to do, so she took it. “Is Eddie here today?” she blurted out. Her voice sounded strange and foreign to her.

  The guy looked at her, surprised. “Eddie? Didn’t come in today.”

  She thought, He knows William. She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she looked down at the eggs, the specks of parsley on the top like a Morse code she couldn’t decipher. “Is he coming tomorrow?” Charlotte said.

  “Beats me. Hope so. We’re always shorthanded.”

  She couldn’t wait any longer. “Please,” she said. “Do you know where he lives? I really need to find him.” She set the tray back on the counter.

  “You don’t want food?”

  She shouldn’t be taking food from someone who needed it. “Not really,” she said. “Eddie’s just an old friend and he told me he worked here.”

  The guy studied her and then sighed. “All I know is he was camping at some guy Buzzard’s house, and now he’s not. They had some falling out, but maybe Buzzard would know.”

  “Do you have Buzzard’s phone number?”

  “I don’t even know his last name.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  He looked past her at the people waiting for food. “You got a good memory?” he asked. “Because I don’t have a pen or paper and I’m too busy to get one. Anyway, all I know is it’s the one place on the six hundred block of Mott Street that has a porch. At least that’s what Eddie told me.”

  She nodded and got out of the line. Who knew whether Eddie was even telling the truth? Plus, Buzzard’s name made her nervous. She could imagine the type. Tattoos. Beer bottles stacked up in the dining room. What if he refused to talk to her? What if he was dangerous?

  But William might be there. If she could just glimpse him and then get to the cops. If she could just know he was alive.

  IT DIDN’T TAKE her long to find Mott Street. The houses streamed into one another. The ground under the car seemed spongy, as if her tires were sinking. The street seemed endless, but at least it was busy with people, a few sitting on their front steps, two women with coffee cups in their hands talking. There. There was the porch. She squinted—number 600—and then she jerked the car to a stop. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. Nobody knew she was there except the guy at the food pantry. If anything happened to her, at least he would know whom she had come to find.

  Buzzard lived in a small blue clapboard house with two metal chairs on the porch. She got out of her car and rang the bell, two brief chimes, and then she banged on the door and it opened and there was William, staring at her.

  Her heart seized up.

  His head was shaved and he had a beard, but the eyes were the same. He was in an old flannel shirt and jeans and sneakers that looked as if they were on the far side of new. There were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, even on his throat. And then she noticed that he didn’t even look shocked to see her. He just stood there, looking at her. “Charlotte,” he finally said. His face was flat, like a penny under the wheels of a train. He opened the door wider. “You might as well come in.”

  She felt herself gathering, ready to spring into a run. Down the street, over to the two women. She would clutch their arms and tell them to call the cops, that a murderer lived on their block. She put one hand on the railing to give herself leeway, and then he sighed.

  “You want to call the police on me, go ahead. But why don’t you listen to me first.”

  Her grip loosened. Every word out of his mouth was poison. How would she even know if he was lying? “Why should I?”

  He nodded to the house again. “Come on inside. I’ll make coffee.”

  “I’d rather stay here,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and he came out and sat on one of the metal chairs, and then she did, too, feeling the cold through her jeans.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” she said.

  “Jack told me a woman was asking about me. He described you, but I wasn’t sure because he mentioned long hair, no bangs, but then he talked about your eyes, so I knew.”

  Jack. She should have known he’d tell William. “And you stayed, anyway.”

  “Where would I go?” He shrugged. “How did you know to look for me?” he asked. “Everyone else thinks I’m dead.” He gave a sharp laugh. “I am dead.”

  “Lucy. Her journal.”

  Something lit up in his eyes. “You have her journal?” He leaned toward her.

  Charlotte nodded. “It was her journal that made me think you were alive. Lucy wrote all these things about how you were terrified of the water, that you’d never go near it. So I thought you wouldn’t have jumped. You must have staged it, or gotten scared and left. Then I went to visit your mother, and she said Lucy had lied, that you loved the water. She showed me photos. So I wasn’t sure anymore.”

  He stood up, his face darkening, and for a second, Charlotte readied herself to move fast.

  “You went to my mother’s?”

  “She said you were always asking to go to the beach. Was she lying for you, covering up that you were alive?”

  He shook his head. “She told you the truth. I did clamor to go, but it doesn’t mean I really wanted to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What Lucy wrote was true. My father saw I was afraid of the water, and he insisted I conquer my fear. He’d drag me deep into the ocean and leave me flailing in the water, swallowing the salt, terrified. Sink or swim. That was my dad. I’d manage to get to shore, or someone else would help me, and my father would say, ‘Next time.’ I knew what that meant. So I began to thwart him. I’d run into the water as if I loved it. I’d splash around for ten minutes, completely terrified, and then I’d race out. I knew my limits, how much I could stand. If I could control it, it was easier for me. And then he’d leave me alone.”

  Charlotte stared at him.

  “So how did you find me?” he asked.

  “I went to the food kitchen. Someone told me Buzzard would know where you were.”

  He laughed. “There’s no Buzzard. I made that name up. I had too much to drink one night and by mistake I gave out the street, so I said I was staying with this guy Buzzard, that I was moving the next week. I didn’t want people dropping by.” He laughed. “But here you are.”

  He looked down at his hands. “So, is this it? Did you call the cops already? Am I just waiting to be picked up now?”

  “What do you think?” Something prickled along the back of her collar. She had been so incredibly stupid. She s
hould have called the police before she came over here. Even if they didn’t take her seriously, at least they’d know where she was. She should have told someone she would be here, called Iris to fill her in. She hadn’t thought it out, and now here she was. If she left to find a phone, he could leave, too, and she might never find him again. If she screamed, would a neighbor help her?

  “Charlotte, I didn’t do it,” he said.

  “That’s what guilty people always say, right?”

  “I loved Lucy. You can’t imagine how much I loved her. I never would have hurt her.”

  Anger flamed in her chest. How dare he talk about love? “You killed her.”

  “I didn’t. I swear that I didn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Would you just listen to me for a moment?” he said. He put one hand to his face and then let it drop to his lap. “Please,” he said. “I know I don’t have the right, but I’m begging you.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Tell me some lies.”

  Chapter 26

  Everything had died months before Lucy did. William knew it when he began to wake up alone in their bed. He was used to her unfurling beside him, her arms stretching out over her lovely head, her feet twisting against his, her breath against his neck. He loved the sound of her hair rustling on the pillowcase. Mornings were his favorite time to make love, too, when he could see her in the light, and she could see him. One morning—months ago—he put one hand on her side of the sheets, still warm from her body, and then got up to find her. There she was, pale and beautiful in the kitchen, still in her nightgown, her feet bare, hunched over the table, scribbling. She must have been up for a while, because there was a red plate, dotted with crumbs, with half an English muffin on it, and a teacup pushed to the side. She was so involved that at first she didn’t see him, not until he stepped on a creaky wood plank and she started. He saw the fear swim across her face. Why would she be afraid of him? He loved her, he would have done anything for her.