Night Swimming

by Robin Schwarz

  “Charlotte,” Makley said, adjusting his whole body toward her so that he could see her face. This was not news you delivered while looking away.

  “Yes?”

  “Your doctor was Jennings, as I recall. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It seems he made a very large and serious mistake.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When you went in for your routine physical, somehow, someway, your chart got mixed up with another woman’s, whose name was, coincidentally, Charlotte Clapp as well. She was from Durham, New Hampshire. It was this other Charlotte Clapp who was actually dying. Not you. So in fact, you’re okay... you’re going to live.”

  Charlotte sat flabbergasted in the backseat. “I’m what?”

  “Going to live,” Makley said again. “We thought you might have actually gone over with your car after hearing such awful news. We combed the river for months.”

  This couldn’t be right. She’d robbed the bank because she believed she was going to die, and now she was going to live? Was this some sort of cosmic joke the gods were playing on her? Was this . . . destiny?

  “Dr. Jennings tried to call you immediately when he was informed about this awful mix-up. He told me he rang you at four in the morning but there was no answer. We thought the worst.”

  No, Makley. This is the worst.

  “That’s impossible. I...I didn’t plan on this. I mean, I was feeling better and I thought maybe my good attitude was helping me beat it, but I never thought I’d actually live. Now what am I going to do?”

  “Go to jail,” the mean-spirited FBI agent said, lashing out, her claws exacting their strike. “So are we still guilty?” Charlotte didn’t say anything. She had fifteen minutes to decide what she would say as they made their way to the police station.

  A year. A whole year had gone by, and every day of it she had believed she was dying. How odd. How this had changed everything for her. If she had known the truth, she probably wouldn’t have left the safety of Gorham, and her lackluster life there. She’d probably still be sitting at her desk in the bank with some states calendar over her head, drinking coffee from an employee-of-the-month cup. No regrets. Yes, this is what Skip had said, what her mother said, and she knew they were right. She ruminated about something that Dolly had told her on more than one occasion. Dying helps people live well. It was so true, truer than she could ever have imagined. But now she was going to live, and she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  She stood in front of the judge at the federal court and was formally charged with bank larceny. When the judge asked her if she wanted a hearing to contest her identity, it seemed like an obvious choice.

  “No, Your Honor,” was all Charlotte said.

  “Well, Ms. Clapp, since there seems to be no contest here, I am submitting an order that you be taken back to New Hampshire, where you will be formally arraigned and charged with this crime. However, for the time being, I am going to hold you here without bail until you can be moved.”

  Makley, along with the two agents, escorted Charlotte down to a cell, where she would change her clothes, be fingerprinted, and pose for a mug shot.

  “Can I see it?” Charlotte asked after it was taken.

  “Sure,” Makley said, and showed her the picture.

  “Not bad,” Charlotte gloated, her confidence returning by degrees. She just looked so good these days. Even if there was a number across her chest...

  There were other people in different cells around her. She had never seen an actual jail cell before, especially not from the inside. It was nothing short of bizarre.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow, Charlotte, just to see how you’re doing,” Makley promised.

  Makley was nice, Charlotte thought. Nicer than that female FBI agent, certainly.

  “Bring a cake with a file in it,” she joked. The situation called for humor or hysteria.

  “Is there any money left, Charlotte?” Makley asked before turning to leave.

  “No. It’s pretty much all gone now. How many consecutive lifetimes do I get for that?”

  “Don’t know...Try and get some sleep.”

  “Why? Will this all look brighter in the morning?”

  Makley smiled as he turned to leave, but Charlotte had one more question.

  “What did Jennings say about all this?”

  “Jennings? Jennings could barely speak. He no longer practices in Gorham. In fact, we wondered if he was practicing at all. Before he left, he said something about becoming a golf pro. Probably figured he couldn’t kill anyone with a putter.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Charlotte said. “Young, single, handsome Dr. Jennings. What a putz.”

  Makley tried to hold back his laughter, but he couldn’t; he just couldn’t. And as he left, Charlotte could hear a trail of titters.

  Suddenly, she was alone, looking through the bars of her new world at another woman locked up in a cell across from hers.

  “What are you in here for?” Charlotte asked.

  “Murder. But I didn’t do it. And you?”

  “Trying to live my life as well as I possibly could. But I got caught.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Yes, I can happily say I did.”

  CHAPTER 61

  CHARLOTTE HAD BEEN IN CUSTODY for three days, and three times Dolly and Skip tried to visit with her, but they had not been allowed in. She appealed to Makley to let her friends visit. He explained that he didn’t make the rules here, but promised he would see what he could do.

  “At least tell Skip I’m not dying, Makley.”

  “All right. I’ll make sure to get to him and let him know.”

  “Not that it matters anymore, but I want him to know something of the truth.” “I promise you, Charlotte, I’ll let him know.”

  Charlotte was asleep when a familiar voice called out to her from the freedom beyond. It was Dolly.

  “Oh, my God, they let you in.”

  “Yes, darling. I pulled some strings. But they won’t let me stay long.”

  The guard opened the door, and Dolly entered, arms outstretched. It was a much-needed hug, and Charlotte devoured the affection.

  “Is Skip okay?”

  “Yes. You know he’s come every day. He is so worried, honey. He had to do something about closing or selling his house. I can’t remember exactly what he had to do, but he’s coming over directly after. You’ll see him.”

  “God, what must he think? First I tell him I’m dying; then I’m not. Then I’m arrested for robbery. Then he finds out I’m not Blossom McBeal from New Orleans but Charlotte Clapp from Gorham, New Hampshire. I can’t believe he’d even want to see me.”

  “He fell in love with you. You,” Dolly said again, pointing to her heart. “The real you. It’s not about anything but that. That’s who he’s come to know, and he knows he’s not wrong about what he feels and what he sees in you. However, about the dying...I told you to get a second opinion.”

  Charlotte sighed. “Don’t even go there. Luckily, they removed everything I can use to hang myself. But you know what the best part is, Dolly? I mean about Skip?”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t see me as the enormous bridesmaid in the purple chiffon dress. He didn’t see me as fat or ugly, Dolly. I was pretty and interesting and kind. I was funny and loving. I was someone, Dolly, and he saw that I was someone.”

  “You are someone. This was the year you set out to find her. And you did. And I did. And he did.”

  “And now it’s over.”

  “Do you know what they have planned for you?”

  “I go back to New Hampshire to stand trial.”

  Dolly shook her head. “We’ve got to do something. Somehow, we’ll get you through this.”

  “Thank you, Dolly. You know, I think I feel better already. So tell me, how are we going to do this?”

  “I have no idea, darling.”

  Charlotte looked at her as if she had just
taken back the keys to the kingdom. Dolly saw her expression and punctuated her plan with a final positive. “Yet, darling, I have no idea yet. But we will; I know we will.”

  The guard appeared at the cell door like an evil stepsister. “Time’s up.”

  “But I just got here,” Dolly argued.

  “And now you have to go,” the guard croaked sarcastically. Dolly gave Charlotte a mournful look. “I’m sorry, honey, but I’ll be back.” She exited the cell, looking back at her joyless friend.

  “Dolly,” Charlotte piped up, “I almost forgot. How’s Dr. Cohen?”

  “Fine,” Dolly said, not wanting to make it seem as if life was good for everyone else beyond the bars. But Charlotte knew better. “Oh, come on, Dolly. Just fine?” “Okay. Wonderful.” And they parted company with smiles upon both their faces.

  Dolly had left before Skip arrived, and the guard would not let him in. Charlotte’s allotted time for having visitors was over. Charlotte was in anguish.

  “Please. Just let him in for a minute. Thirty seconds. Please.”

  But her words fell on deaf ears. Skip was somewhere upstairs less than a hundred feet away, but he might as well have been on the moon for the terrible feeling it gave her not to be able to see him.

  If only she hadn’t opened the door that morning. If only she had stayed in bed with him and made love again. If only she had had some prior warning so they could have slipped away in the night. If only, if only, if only... She wanted to explain everything. It didn’t matter that he already knew, that Dolly had told him. She wanted to do it herself, to make him understand why she had done it. She needed to look him in the eye, take his hand in hers. She needed to kiss him. One night—they’d had only one night together. How could their joyous song end on such a sad note?

  She lay back down on her small cot. Everything good was slipping away, as if the earth had slipped off its axis overnight. She would end up going back to New Hampshire without even seeing him. She would ask for the death penalty, she thought; it was easier than living with this loss.

  She tried to think of other things to ease the pain of thinking about him. Like Tony Bennett songs. Skip. Like Jigsy and Pip. Skip. Like swimming at night in the rain. Skip. But with every distraction she could summon, her mind always seemed to wander back to the one thing that had made her richer than she’d ever thought possible. Skip.

  The day had come to go back to Gorham, New Hampshire. Charlotte sat in her cell, waiting for Makley and the two FBI agents. Finally, they arrived.

  “Time to go,” Makley said. “The plane leaves in an hour.” She still hadn’t seen Skip. They refused to let him visit her.

  “You can’t take a felon on a plane,” Charlotte said. “I saw Midnight Run. Robert DeNiro couldn’t take Charles Grodin on a plane.”

  This made Makley laugh. “It’s a special plane, Charlotte. A JPAT.”

  “A what?”

  “A JPAT. Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System. It’s a jet, a seven-forty-seven or seven-thirty-seven, depending, but it’s used for transporting prisoners.”

  “You’ll be in good company,” the female FBI agent snarled. “There’ll be about thirty other felons on the plane.”

  The harsh reality of that statement startled Charlotte. What she had done had suddenly hit home as it never had before. She was a criminal. She had committed a crime, a bad one. But she wasn’t a criminal. Not really. She hadn’t killed anyone for chrissakes. She had just gone off to live the last year of her life somewhere new, somewhere different, somewhere exciting. And now what? Now she was going to live, which was the worst possible news of all, because now she would spend the rest of eternity in jail. What a cruel turn of events, a hoax of the worst kind. A life sentence.

  “Can I have a word with Mr. Makley?” Charlotte asked.

  The female agent stood there, not moving.

  “Privately?”

  Makley and Charlotte stepped to the side. “I know this might sound ridiculous in the light of things, Mr. Makley, but I’m scared of flying. I’ve never been on a plane before.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s safer than driving.”

  “I know, I know... but nonetheless, I’m still freaked out.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll sit next to you. You can hold my hand if you need to.”

  All this was of little comfort to Charlotte, but it was clear she had no choice in the matter.

  She looked at what the policeman carried in his hands: shackles and handcuffs. He’d brought shackles and handcuffs with him. He gave them to the female agent to put on Charlotte.

  “Is this really necessary?” Makley asked. It was, after all, just Charlotte Clapp.

  “Yes, it is,” the agent hissed. “It’s regulation.”

  How odd, how incongruous, Charlotte thought, walking down the corridor in chains. All she could think of was that movie with Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon. Dead man walking; stand clear; dead man walking...

  “I feel like Jacob Marley in these things.”

  “Who?” the mean agent asked.

  “You know, Jacob Marley, the ghost of Christmas past.”

  The woman didn’t say anything, and Charlotte figured she probably didn’t know what Christmas was, either. Joy to the world? Goodwill toward men? No? Halloween’s probably your big holiday. You’ll probably be flying beside the plane on a broom.

  “Don’t worry, Charlotte,” Makely said, trying to comfort her. “It’s a short trip if the tailwinds are behind us.”

  “Dolly would suggest these chains don’t work with what I’m wearing. Perhaps something simpler, something more understated, like a chain belt and a matching bracelet.”

  “Shhhhh,” the female FBI agent warned.

  “Is she coming with us?” Charlotte asked Makley.

  “No. There’ll be several female marshals on board.”

  “Pity,” Charlotte mumbled sarcastically, “she’s so much fun.”

  And so Charlotte scuffed her way out of the federal prison, clanking away, trying to remember everything good that had happened during the past year and humming to herself, “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”

  CHAPTER 62

  CHARLOTTE NEVER EXPECTED IT. No one did. And yet there they were, the crowds of women at the airport when she arrived, holding banners and flags welcoming her home. Short of a ticker-tape parade, she was greeted with all the celebrity of a quarterback who had single-handedly led his team to glory. Charlotte Clapp had become a local hero. But why? Because she had done what every woman in Gorham had wanted to do for years: escape the monotony, the dull, relentless throb of the ordinary, the terminal illness of the suburbs that offered nothing but Chef Boyardee and canned peas, corrugated carports and vinyl pools, decorative gnomes and cyclone fences.

  Charlotte had done it. Realized something. Dared to pull down the proverbial wall of boredom, the wall that hermetically sealed in every woman living—or trying to—in Gorham.

  Makley was shocked, as were the marshals. They entered the airport to an ovation of cheers and adulation.

  The women were yelling, “You go, girl!” “Charlotte, you’re our hero.” “Charlotte, tell us all about Hollywood.” Even the local paper had turned out to cover the story. She was front-page news. Placards were held up heralding Charlotte, while the headlines read, CHARLOTTE BREAKS THE BANK, and BETTER CHARLOTTE THAN A CHARLATAN.

  And then the felons who trailed behind her began rattling their chains with abandon, celebrating what, they weren’t sure, but it seemed at least something positive from one of their own.

  “Balls out, baby.” “Kick ass, Charlotte.” “Shake that booty.” “Fucking A.”

  “All right, all right,” Makley yelled, trying to calm the crowd as they walked through. “Hobbs,” he grumbled to himself. “I asked him to do one thing, one thing—keep his mouth shut—and he just couldn’t do it.”

  Charlotte was escorted to a waiting van and whisked away to a federal court, which in this c
ase also housed the jail that would serve as her home while she awaited sentencing.

  She was immediately introduced to the lawyer who’d been appointed to the case. They would have a short time to get to know each other, and he would prepare a statement. The arraignment would be in two days, so there was little time to waste. The lawyer seemed nice enough, though a little untucked and harried: smudged glasses, a pocket protector, but smart-looking, as if he read lawyerly reviews for relaxation. Walter Bloomberg. Even the name sounded right to Charlotte. He was probably on the debate team and got good grades in school. She hoped Jewish lawyers were as good as Jewish doctors. It dawned on her that Jennings was clearly not Jewish—at least not practicing.

  He made plans to meet with her in the morning to go over her case. Charlotte didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, since she had planned to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But she would save all that for tomorrow. In the meantime, Makley escorted Charlotte downstairs to the cell where she was to be incarcerated.

  It was all a blur as she walked with Makley to her new home: the night with Skip, jail, the plane ride, the strange welcome home

  she’d received. And then something occurred to her.

  “Mr. Makley?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m allowed one phone call, am I not? Every movie I’ve ever seen allows one phone call.”

  Makley paused. “That’s right, Charlotte. You are allowed one phone call.”

  “Well, I’d like to make that now, if you don’t mind.”

  Whom was she calling? Makley wondered as he led her down the corridor to find a phone. He spotted one in an empty office.

  “Go ahead, Charlotte,” he said, motioning to the phone. “Make your call.”

  Charlotte dialed the number. She did not need a phone book or information. It was a number that had been indelibly committed to her memory for a long time now. The phone rang. Once. Twice. And then a man answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Charlotte, Tom. I’d like to speak to MaryAnn, please.”