Cruel Beautiful World

by Caroline Leavitt

  Iris’s smile grew. “Honey,” she said to Charlotte, “this is a special night.”

  “I think so, too,” Charlotte said.

  “Not just this wonderful dinner. Honey—” She paused. “Joe and I—we’re getting married.”

  Charlotte started. Joe nuzzled Iris, who shut her eyes in pleasure.

  “What?”

  “November ninth, so save the date,” Iris said. She yawned and rested her head on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s getting late for us, honey.”

  Charlotte leaped up and hugged and kissed both of them, over and over, ignoring their laughter. Imagine that. They were getting married. Just last week, one of Iris’s friends had been moved to a nursing home by her family because she could no longer remember who she was or why she shouldn’t come down to dinner wearing nothing but a pair of blue floral socks. Another man, two days after he had arrived, had been found dead in his apartment, the TV blaring a game show. But here was Iris, stubborn as a ray of light, and Charlotte hoped beyond hope that she might be just like her.

  “Let me drive you two lovebirds home,” Charlotte said.

  AFTER CHARLOTTE DROPPED Joe and Iris off, she stood outside before getting back into her car. It was dusk, the air milky with stars. When Charlotte was little, she and Lucy used to wish on them all the time. They’d squint their eyes so the stars would look as if they were spangling across the sky, making the wish stronger. Charlotte always said her wish out loud because she thought it gave it more power: you never knew who might be listening, and you could use all the help you could get. Sometimes, too, even though it had never happened, she thought Iris might be listening and could get her what she yearned for. Charlotte never asked for anything impossible. Charlotte wanted to pass her math test. She wanted Bobby Adams, the boy who lived down the street, to know she existed. Her dearest wish was to own a big white dog she would call Larry. But Charlotte only wished for things that might actually happen. Lucy’s dreams were wild. She wanted to travel all over China. She wanted to be a movie star and live in a palace and have a pet zebra. But Lucy didn’t just dream. She went out and tried to make her life happen, no matter the cost, like running away with William. She wanted to write something that would change people, and she had, because look at Charlotte now, not knowing what direction to go in or whom to hold on to.

  Every way that Charlotte had known to live her life felt like a sweater she couldn’t pull over her head anymore. Maybe Lucy had acted dangerously, but at least she had acted, jumping at life, taking chances. If Lucy had lived, she’d have come back to Waltham and gone to school, but Charlotte bet it wouldn’t have been Katie Gibbs. No, Lucy would have found a writing program. She would have turned herself inside out every night to write, and she might even have published a book. She might have found love, too, but with the right person this time, a man who might have looked at Lucy and blessed the universe for giving him the great luck of knowing her. And maybe, too, Lucy and Charlotte could have been friends again, the way they used to be. Us against the world.

  Charlotte would never know what had really happened to Lucy, whether William had been telling the truth. She’d never know whether she could have saved her sister. She might still have gotten there too late even if she’d left right away. Or she might have brought Lucy home and Lucy might have run off again. Charlotte had tried so hard to control everything, but she knew now how wrong she had been. Control wasn’t freedom. It didn’t protect anyone, not you or the ones you loved, and if anything, it kept you from living.

  Sometimes you couldn’t fix things, you couldn’t make them better, and you had to live with that. It didn’t make you a bad person, the way she had thought. It made you human.

  Charlotte got into her car and drove, following the highway, burning with restlessness. She tore off her heavy earrings and flung them to the backseat. She rolled all the windows down so that the crush of honeysuckle came into the car. The land began to look familiar—the green hills, the thick trees—and soon she knew she was headed for Patrick’s, and maybe it was a stupid idea and maybe it wasn’t, but it was what she felt like doing right now. It was what Lucy would have done. She wanted to see him, if only to apologize for the way she had left, so furious she couldn’t speak. She didn’t expect anything from him now, not even for him to be glad to see her, and she wasn’t sure how she’d feel seeing him, either, but seeing Iris so happy had made her yearn for a deeper connection to someone, even if it was messy. Even if it was just for half an hour.

  THERE IT WAS, the road to Patrick’s. It was late and she knew the stand would be closed. She didn’t know anymore what she’d say. Hello. I’m sorry about the way I left. Hello, my mother got engaged. She’s actually my sister, too. Hello, William killed himself, and I’ll never know if he really killed Lucy. Hello, I’m sorry I said you had a little life. So did I, really.

  She pulled into the driveway, trying to imagine what Patrick would be doing. Having coffee. Reading. Then she saw the new sign. DAVE’S, it said.

  She got out of the car, her legs trembling, and walked over to the house, climbing the porch, peering in. The floors were swept clean. The walls newly painted a soft white. There was a box in the center of the room, with a name she didn’t recognize. She leaned against the house.

  Was there anything left of him here? Fred, the big coleus, was gone. The chairs on the porch had vanished, but the porch swing was still there. He hadn’t taken that, and to her surprise, he hadn’t taken the funny-ugly macramé hanging either. She stood to look closer at it, and then she noticed something white hooked among the ropes. She pulled it out, a square little envelope with her name on it. He had left her something, just in case. She smoothed the paper with her fingers and then opened it up.

  By the time you read this, I will be back at school in Ann Arbor. I wanted to thank you. You pushed me into having a life and living it. If I never hear from you again, I will know you’re happy. That you are out there doing what you are doing, living a full, big life. And that would make me happy. I wish that for you. Wish the same for me.

  Love,

  Patrick

  Charlotte’s hands shook. He had given her love and attention when she felt so alone in the world, and she had given him that, too. That would have to be enough.

  There was something else in the envelope, and she teased it out. A small color photo. Lucy, sitting in a field—a picture she had never seen before. Charlotte started to cry.

  She carefully put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it into her pocket. Then she got back into the car and put Lucy’s photo on the visor. How beautiful her sister had been. How alive.

  SHE PULLED OUT onto the road. The air had a filmy cast, and then for a moment she felt dizzy. It was just hunger, she thought. But there, in the dusk, she swore she saw Lucy, like a mirage, running toward her across the lawn, her hair like a marigold against the blue of her nightgown, a glow inside her body. Charlotte lurched the car to a stop, so that her head whipped back, but she didn’t take her eyes off Lucy, whose mouth was curving now. “You came for me! You really came!” Lucy cried. Then the radiance dimmed, and just like that, Lucy was gone.

  Charlotte blinked hard, searching. She sat there in the car for ten minutes, waiting, but there was nothing but grass and night sky and a dog barking in the distance. The whole wide, alive world.

  For the first time, she had no real idea what might happen next for her, how she’d now manage to live her life. She only knew that she’d go back to her apartment and study. She’d do better. She had it in her, and she had Iris and Joe, too. She’d try to get to know more people this year, to let them know her. She would hear from Patrick or she wouldn’t, or she could track him down, and when he asked, What are we doing? Where are we going? she’d tell him that for the first time she didn’t know. That sounded like a good start. She’d have to be patient to see what might come next for her, but somewhere, when she didn’t expect anything, she’d find her answers.

  She started the car ag
ain, taking one last look back, where Lucy had been, and then she turned her focus to the road stretching ahead of her, shining in the moonlight.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m so lucky and so blessed to have the incredible, warm, funny, and smart Gail Hochman as my agent, cheerleader, adviser, first editor, and friend. And huge undying thanks to the rest of the agency, too.

  I can’t say enough about Algonquin Books, because they literally saved my life, in addition to being the best, most revolutionary publisher on the planet. Huge thanks to all the gods and goddesses: Elisabeth Scharlatt, Craig Popelars, Brunson Hoole, Michael McKenzie, Carol Schneider, Katie Ford, Lauren Moseley, Emma Boyer, Ina Stern, Debra Linn, and every other person there.

  And I think I would be totally lost if not for the brilliance and warmth of my editor, Andra Miller, who turned this novel inside out and unlocked it, who kept me centered through the hours of work, when I was so overwhelmed I was hallucinating between the story world and the real world and couldn’t tell the difference.

  For research help beyond the call: To Bonni Miller, for telling me everything she knows about chickens and farming, and to Ross and Brigid Ferkett, Cathy Segedy, and Lucine Sihelnik, and the wonderful folks at Gravel Farm Road and Four Season Farm. Lee Breslow, Elliot Maggin, and Ted Diamandopoulos talked me through the student strike at Brandeis in the early seventies. Kate Mallow, Paula Feria, and Kristi Holmes Espineira gave me their free school experiences and much more.

  For help about forensics and guns and the law, multi thanks to Emily Hammerl, Gail Knowles, Chris Henson, Sherri Koster, Joseph Clark, Jill Goodman, and Matt Bayan. John McDonough willingly spent hours on the phone with me to tell me everything I needed to know about police procedure. Natashia Deón not only helped me with legal issues but is also helping me with my next novel—she has my undying love.

  Cooper Gallegos and Christine Valenza shared their Manson Family stories with me.

  To my tough and loving first readers, I can never thank you enough: Gina Sorell, Rochelle Jewell Shapiro, Jeff Lyons, Leora Skolkin-Smith, Victoria Zackheim, Linda Corcoran, and Jeff Tamarkin.

  And for help and support, thanks to my beloved tribe of writers and friends: Clea Simon, B. A. Shapiro, Jo Fisher, Dawn Tripp, Jessica Brilliant Keener, Yona McDonough, Gina Frangello, Litsa Dremousis, Suzanne Finnamore Luckenbach, Meg Waite Clayton, Robb Forman Dew, John Truby, Leslie Lehr, Jenna Blum, Ann O’Brien, Kathy L. Murphy and the fabulous Pulpwood Queens, Lisa Cron, Julia Fierro, Nick Belardes, Ron Rice, Mary Morris, Anne Lamott, Sarah McCoy, Gayle Brandeis, Laura Strachen, Larry Ely, Wendy Orange, David Henry Sterry, Arielle Eckstut, Regina Joskow, Holly Cara Price, Jane Praeger, Michael Taeckens, Yvonne Prinz, Nancy Lattanzi, Peter Salzano, Eileen Oliver, Carolyn Zeytoonian, Cindy Smith Bokma, Julianna Baggott, Jordan Rosenfield, Robin Kall Homonoff, Ilie Ruby, John Valerie, Suzanne Simonetti, Alice Eve Cohen, Ann O’Brien, David Marks, Susan Henderson, Tracey Becker, Sonia Taitz, Maxine Leighton, and Susan O’Doherty.

  Thanks to my mom, Helen Leavitt, who fell in love for the first time at ninety-three; my supportive and loving sister, Ruth Rogers; and the amazing, wonderful Strongs: Hillary, Cotie, Charlotte, and Owen. And thanks to everyone who followed my agonies and exhilarations on Facebook and Twitter and gave me hope, cheer, and support.

  Thanks, too, to Stanford and to UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, the brilliant naming company Eat My Words and Alexandra Watkins, and to every indie bookstore on the planet.

  And finally, with love from here to Jupiter, to my son, Max Tamarkin, who is truly the funniest, smartest, and most talented and interesting young actor I know. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next.

  And for Jeff, my partner in crime and my everything, who sings me silly songs, makes me laugh, and always cheerfully shares his Mallomars. How could I possibly love you more?

  CAROLINE LEAVITT is the author of eleven novels, including the New York Times and USA Today bestsellers Is This Tomorrow and Pictures of You. A book critic for People and the San Francisco Chronicle, Leavitt teaches writing online for Stanford and UCLA. Her work has appeared in the New York Times’s “Modern Love” column, Salon, Redbook, More, the Boston Globe, and other publications. Visit her online at www.carolineleavitt.com. (Author photo by Jeff Tamarkin.)

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  © 2016 by Caroline Leavitt.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  eISBN 978-1-61620-605-5