Night Swimming Read online

  “Don’t be afraid, Charlotte. Don’t let life slip through your fingers as it did with me. Don’t let it get away. In the end all we have are our memories. So have wonderful memories, Charlotte. If you don’t have wonderful memories to look back on, then you’ll have your regrets. Do you understand, my sweet daughter?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Good. That’s all I wanted to tell you.”

  Charlotte wanted to go on talking, to find out down to the last detail what else her mother had wished for herself, but she was looking away, exhausted and lost again in her regrets.

  Charlotte slipped the necklace on in front of the mirror and turned around to show her mother. “Look, Mama, look how beautiful . . .” But her mother had already closed her eyes. Charlotte stared down at her, one shade paler than snow and cool to the touch. At that moment, she looked like Snow White. Eggshell frail, old and powdery, but still beautiful.

  “Mama,” Charlotte whispered. “Mama, take some water before you sleep. You have to stay hydrated.”

  Charlotte helped lift her up a bit, and her mother’s knotty arthritic fingers, knuckles thick and twisted like the branches of an apple tree in winter, reached out tenuously for the glass of water. Charlotte raised the cool, clear liquid to her mother’s lips. But she could not take any of it in. Not one drop. And yet she looked up at Charlotte and said, “That’s better, that’s much better. Thank you, honey. Now you should go rest.”

  Charlotte clutched the necklace resting against her chest: a single diamond on the thinnest chain. It was all her mother had to give her. But no, there was more. It was that last conversation they ever had together that became the greatest gift of all. Less than an hour later her mother was gone, leaving behind words that would linger for years at the back of Charlotte’s mind.

  But now her mother’s words pulled at her like an undertow. Charlotte had a year left to live. Dr. Jennings had been quite clear about that. He said she should go about living her life as she normally would, that it might be several months before she would begin to notice symptoms. Hadn’t that been true for her mother, too? One day she seemed fine, and the next, well... Charlotte knew how that went.

  And now it seemed that there wasn’t enough time left for the one and only thing she had ever truly wanted: to love and to be loved in return. A happy, pleasant existence complete with a garden, lace curtains, and conjugal visits.

  But perhaps her moment had finally come to be brave. Brave enough simply to go up to handsome strangers and engage them in conversation, ask them to dinner and inquire if they would be amenable to a brief but affable affair, no strings attached, of course— just for the night, perhaps, or an hour, or less. Charlotte would take anything. She was dying—what was to stop her from asking such candid questions of strangers now?

  But who on earth could love me? I’m fat, boring, and dying. Not a great calling card, by my own admission.

  Maybe if Charlotte were rich, none of this would feel quite so oppressive, so thoroughly depressing. She could stuff herself with buttered lobster and twice-baked potatoes until she burst. She could say whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted, and sound amusing, as only the rich do. But Charlotte couldn’t afford fancy meals that came with toast points. And she couldn’t say whatever she felt. She would come off as rude and inappropriate. No, she wasn’t rich or rude. She was just Charlotte Clapp, living on Middle Street, with middle-class savings and middle-class dreams.

  Nobody in particular.

  Someone simply passing through.

  Simply Charlotte.

  What could she possibly do now? Eat. Yes, she could eat. She rushed to the cupboard and opened every door, pulling down chips and dip, Oreos, Cheez Doodles, Pinwheels, cashews, Pringles, peanut butter cookies, trail mix, chocolate-covered cherries, and frosted cupcakes.

  She’d been trying to limit her consumption lately, but the thought of dieting disappeared with her diagnosis. She dove into this smorgasbord like a last supper. She cracked open a bottle of wine, brought down one of her mother’s fine and fancy crystal glasses that hadn’t been used in years, and, after rinsing the dust off, filled the wineglass to the top, finishing it off in one swallow. She was almost dangerous in her consumption. No one would have dared put their hand in for a cookie—not if they wanted to see it again. One Krispy Kreme after another, until she resembled a cardboard clown with a ring of white powder around its mouth, begging to have a ball thrown into it—or at least more food. She moved on to the freezer, microwaving pizzas, blintzes, cheese ravioli. Soon it was back to the wine, opening a second bottle. She was on her way to drunkenness; that much became clear when she decided to forego the glass and drink directly from the bottle.

  She tried to hold back the tears of lost time and lost chances. But a terrible grief grabbed her by the throat. She struggled to remember every moment of meaning floating somewhere in the alcoholic blur of her brain. Memories. That’s what her mother had said, Have your memories. So in a haze of Muscatel she began sorting all the sad and silly incidentals of her life. Memories stored away in the inner recesses of what was still good and what had made this little town meaningful. Benny Sanaswaso claiming that Ernie Pinkwater got a big part in Hamlet.

  “Oh, really, Benny? Which part is he playing?”

  “Macbeth.”

  She almost couldn’t breathe for the laughter he caused.

  Then there was Jimmy Swenson, who, on a bet, stuck his tongue out against a frozen bike rack, forcing the fire department to come and get him unglued. There was her mother forever poised at the sewing machine, making all of Charlotte’s school dresses. The heavy Singer sat in the sunroom, its peddle worn from wear. She could hear the rat-tat-tat of the needle repeating itself along the hems of her cotton skirts, silver thimbles clinking like castanets, and scissors that sang like a song through the cloth. When her mother sewed, the house was filled with music. She could smell the sweet color of crayons, the nostalgic musk of store-bought Halloween costumes, the subtle Scotch tape from distant Christmases. Oh yes, these were the good memories, the sweet used-to-be memories before she was fat and dying.

  Dying. Just the thought brought her crashing back to earth like a rocket reentering the atmosphere. And there she sat, shaking, short of breath, trying to regroup. Dying. What did that mean? Unbidden, a scene long forgotten lodged itself into her consciousness.

  It was a Saturday afternoon and overcast; the day seemed to have a certain sadness built into it. Charlotte was at the vet’s with her hamster. Everyone else sat in the waiting room with their giant Labrador retrievers, Great Danes, Clydesdales. Charlotte sat with a little shoe box, holes punched at the top so that poor Jasper could breathe. Jasper, the center of the universe, her first pet, who was unceremoniously bathed by the veterinarian in some antiseptic grease and died the next day despite her efforts to keep him alive. Charlotte could barely contain her grief, positive it was the vet who killed him by lathering poor Jasper in brilliantine. A proper burial and service was prepared the following day, and Charlotte was comforted by MaryAnn, who reminded her that two years was a long time for a hamster to live and that Jasper was two and a half.

  But that first introduction to death did nothing to prepare her for the next. Timmy LeBlanc sat in front of her in first grade and had a disease she couldn’t pronounce. “C.F.” was what he called it for short. They would pass notes and draw funny pictures of Mrs. Kleem, the meanest teacher this side of hoosierdom. And then one day Timmy didn’t come in, and a day stretched to a week, then two. No one was talking, so Charlotte finally asked Mrs. Kleem where Timmy was.

  “He transferred,” was all she said, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes like an accident you try to look away from. That’s when Charlotte knew Mrs. Kleem was lying. Mrs. Kleem always looked directly at Charlotte. It was her own unique way of driving daggers into the hearts and souls of ill-behaved children. She couldn’t hit them but she could stare them down into submission, or so she thought. And so Charlotte called Timmy’s house
and learned that he had died.

  Charlotte was shocked. Hamsters died. Ants died when you stepped on them. But children didn’t die. She wept for weeks. There was nothing sadder than this, not even Jasper’s passing. And from that moment on, her perspective regarding life took on a different view forever.

  And now Charlotte would find out for herself what it was like to die. She would finally meet up with Jasper—that was if animals didn’t have their own separate heaven. A special heaven. However, she would certainly see her mother and Timmy LeBlanc again... and maybe even some people she preferred not to bump into. What could she do? If the Catholics were right, this was inevitable.

  Charlotte puzzled over Heaven, hell, and holy ghosts for a minute before falling into a complete stupor on the sofa.

  It was dark when she woke, and she felt around for the light. Her head pounded like a toy drum as she lay anchored to her seat, amazed. Somewhere between sobriety and sleep, a plan had formed. Had she dreamed it? She believed in destiny, and this seemed so serendipitous, like a vision a saint might have. However, there was nothing saintly about her plan. On the contrary, it bordered on blasphemy.

  She had one year to live and two thousand dollars in savings. She certainly couldn’t make up for all the time she’d lost on two thousand dollars. How could she seize the day and throw caution to the wind on funds so meager they could be stuffed into a cookie jar? No, she needed more money, but how? The plan came to her as simply as bending down and finding cash at a carnival, fallen from the pocket of some unlucky fair-goer. She would rob the bank.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE FIRST SAVINGS AND LOAN of New Hampshire was located in the center of Gorham. Low brown brick buildings that once signified industry now meant depression. Gorham was a town of hardworking middle- and lower-middle-class people. Middle —there it was again.

  Charlotte spent her last morning there going through her file cabinets and desk drawers, much the way one would rifle through the crevices of a couch searching for loose change. Reaching back into the deep cubbyhole she discovered discarded candy wrappers and Gummi Bears covered in lint, a buffalo head nickel, rubber bands, paper clips, nail polish that had hardened to a solid mass, and a stick of gum, so old now it could be snapped in two like a tongue depressor. Going through her things felt no less than an archaeological dig of a life utterly disposable, of no importance at all, a life that had been buried in the back of a cabinet for fifteen years.

  A hastily arranged going-away party was planned for Charlotte and would occupy much of her lunch break. Finally, a party that would signify closure and put a period at the end of this unmercifully long sentence.

  “So why are you leaving, Charlotte?” Happy Turner inquired. Happy worked at the bank with Charlotte and lived on Middle Street as well.

  “I’ve been doing this for so long, I just need a break,” Charlotte lied, nervous in her own story.

  “Maybe this is a wonderful opportunity, Charlotte,” Sara Cabot added. “After all, one never knows what’s around the corner.”

  “And Gorham isn’t getting any bigger,” Dottie Spencer concluded, suddenly embarrassed by the implications of the word “bigger.” She moved away as quickly as her clumsy legs could take her. It didn’t matter. Charlotte could hear the hushed buzzing coming from a hive of coworkers in the corner:

  “Oh, Charlotte, if she only lost that weight. She has such a pretty face.”

  “You know, if you can see past all that chubbiness, she’s actually very attractive.”

  And “Charlotte? I knew her when she was thin, and she was beautiful.”

  Charlotte was tired, tired of overhearing the judgments passed upon her, and she wanted out. She wanted to be some other person in some other place. She could not hear, taste, touch, feel, or see anything anymore. She was removed from the world, removed from the living. If she felt any hesitation up to this point, it was gone now.

  Everyone was at Bickfords by noon, so they could safely return to work by one. Charlotte hated Bickfords, a dull, antiseptic restaurant chain whose greatest business came from its 25-percent-off special for senior citizens who ate dinner at three o’clock. It seemed somehow appropriate, though, that cheese rollups and weak punch be her send-off.

  Charlotte desperately wanted to make a speech. If she were ever to have her fifteen minutes, this was it. But a rush of fear ran through her. She hated public speaking. She had even tried hypnotism to overcome her anxiety at speaking in front of groups. She’d asked MaryAnn to come with her and simply sit in the room, worried she’d be raped under the doctor’s spell. She’d read in the tabloids about things like that happening.

  Halfway through, the hypnotist had asked Charlotte to raise her hand if she felt it was working. Charlotte squinted, opening her eyes ever so slightly to see if MaryAnn was still there. She was indeed, lifting her arm so high in the air it looked as if she were hailing a taxi. MaryAnn became an exceptional public speaker after that.

  Yet, on this particular afternoon, she was determined: By hook or by crook she would make her speech. What did she have to lose? Absolutely nothing.

  Today the room was filled with the usual suspects. She looked around at them recalling some anecdote they’d each shared with her. Bittersweet moments flashed like photographs against the walls of her heart. And she remembered.

  She remembered the time she insisted that a bunch of the girls go on a skiing weekend. “We live in New Hampshire, for God’s sake. People come from all over to ski here, and we don’t let our feet touch snow.” And so Dottie, Happy, MaryAnn, and Charlotte all headed to North Conway for their big ski outing.

  When they arrived at the top of the hill, MaryAnn had to go to the bathroom. But seeing there was no bathroom up there, she contented herself by hiding behind a tree.

  She undid her pants until they rested around her ankles, and squatted down as low as she could. Unfortunately, her skis were pointed downhill, and they lost their grip on the snow. There she was, screaming at the top of her lungs as she headed bare-assed toward the lodge.

  The ski patrol picked her up, no worse for wear, just painfully embarrassed by the whole episode. On their way down the hill, they stopped to pick up an injured skier. He looked as if he’d been attacked by a dozen angry trees, and they brought him into the vehicle on a stretcher.

  “What happened to you?” MaryAnn inquired, eyeing the twigs caught on his coat.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I was skiing away when I spotted this woman, buck naked from the waist down, flying toward the lodge. Watching her, I skied smack into a tree. Never saw it coming. And you? What happened to you?”

  MaryAnn went red with the question. “Exposure,” she said, and then, realizing what this implied, quickly added, “to the cold— exposure to the cold.” But it was too late. The man recognized her, and even his pain couldn’t dampen his laughter.

  Afterward, MaryAnn failed to see the humor of the situation.

  “What’s so damn funny, Charlotte?” she demanded.

  “No denying it—you skied your ass off.”

  “Are you done yet?”

  “Done?” Charlotte asked, perplexed.

  “Laughing your ass off,” MaryAnn fumed. It would be months before she could laugh about it herself, and some even wondered if it was that incident that had served to sever Charlotte and MaryAnn’s friendship.

  Charlotte continued conjuring the slow, backward curve of her past.

  Cal Vincent Clay’s daughter was there, poor thing, endlessly forced to endure the stigma her father had created by shooting at her mother. Fortunately, he missed, though no one could figure out how. The kitchen wasn’t that big.

  Edgar Halfpenny was there, the only self-made millionaire in Gorham. No one could ever figure out why he settled in the town, but he showed up at every local event, whether he was invited or not. Halfpenny held a special place in Charlotte’s heart, for he had come to her aid when Charlotte was trying to raise some money for children with cystic f
ibrosis—a cause she adopted soon after Timmy LeBlanc’s death.

  When Halfpenny heard about the shortage of funds to complete a neighboring medical center three towns over, he anonymously donated the deficit. He never uttered a word about it, but because Charlotte handled the day-to-day operations of his funds, she knew damn well it was Halfpenny who made the wing possible. She respected his wish to remain anonymous, so she never mentioned it. But a simple glance between them at the ribbon-cutting ceremony had said it all.

  And then there was Al, Charlotte’s assistant. Al was so tall and skinny that when he walked next to Charlotte, people whispered that they looked like the number 10. Another hurt she would work hard to forget.

  Charlotte watched Al in the corner, being chastised by Kelly, the bank president, for God knows what. Sadly, this exchange was nothing new; Charlotte had seen it at the bank all too many times. The abuse had become routine for Kelly. He was a bully when it came to the meek, the fearful... Al. And still, Charlotte didn’t understand why Al put up with it. “Just kick him where the sun doesn’t shine, Al,” she advised under her breath. Her muttering drew MaryAnn’s attention. “One swift kick, then just walk away,” Charlotte continued. MaryAnn sidled closer to Charlotte and surprised her from the rear like an enemy plane flying below the radar. Charlotte immediately pretended she had been chewing on a cheese roll-up. Wouldn’t MaryAnn just love it if I were now reduced to talking to myself? Hell, one thing’s for sure—it would be more interesting than the conversation I’m about to have.

  “Well, good luck, Charlotte,” MaryAnn said, lifting her cup of watery punch up toward the fluorescent lighting that sibilated like an incessant insect.

  “Was Bickfords”—the most depressing place on earth —“your choice, MaryAnn?” Charlotte asked, knowing the answer.

  “It most certainly was.”