Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (14 page)

A woman in green came in for my dinner tray. “You not like?” She eyed the untouched chicken.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Maybe tomorrow. You feel better, missus. God bless.” She smiled, took the tray, waltzed out of the room.

I looked up. Pat Sajak was saying goodnight. Wheel of Fortune was over. We’d been talking for a whole half hour.

Susan stood. “Look, I’ve got to go—Emily’s bedtime. But I don’t want you lying here thinking you’re Jekyll and Hyde. You’re not a serial killer and you don’t have a multiple personality. What happened today was that your survival instincts kicked in. If Bradley hadn’t attacked you, he’d be alive. You are a beautiful, kind woman and good-hearted, generous friend who has always been there for me.”

“Susan, please—”

“No. Who took me to the hospital when Tim was away and Emily came early? You. Who helped me breathe through labor? You. Who drove me to my father’s when my mom had her stroke? Who stayed with Julie when Lisa’s camp bus—”

“Okay, Susan. Enough.”

“Point is you’ve always been there for me, Elle. You’re not some murderer—you have gerbils in your classroom, for God’s sakes.”

Hamsters, actually. Romeo and Juliet. But Susan’s voice was husky, impassioned. Reassuring. I smiled. I thanked her. We hugged.

“They’re going to keep waking you up all night, so don’t expect to get much sleep.” Like a mom, she tucked me in and kissed my forehead, near my lump.

I lay there after she left, in and out of sleep. The nurse came in sometime later, checking my vitals. And asked me about the envelope I was clutching in my hand.

Becky showed up, carrying a dry cleaning bag, just as breakfast arrived. I’d already been up, and I’d managed to get around all by myself. Feeling much less wobbly, I’d stepped into the shower. Washed my hair. Scrubbed my body. Wondered how I would make it through the day. And the next.

She examined my so-called food. “Yum.”

I was actually hungry. Held a forkful of scrambled eggs in my hand.

“I guess you’re better.”

I chewed, nodded. Regretted the nod when the walls kept bobbing after I’d stopped.

“Good.” Becky sat on the foot of the bed, watching me eat.

“Want some?” I offered her a pancake.

She shook her head. “Already ate.” But she kept watching me.

Never mind. I shoveled eggs into my mouth, chugged the juice. Wanted comfort, settled for eggs.

“So I have your clothes. The black suit, like you said.”

I didn’t remember telling her what I wanted to wear, or asking her to bring it. But the suit is what I would have chosen, perfect for a viewing. Why didn’t I remember? Another memory lapse? No. It was normal. I had a head injury, after all. Had been groggy.

I swallowed fruit cocktail. “Thanks, Becky.”

“So,” she pointed at the table, “was that anything interesting?”

I followed her gaze.

“Love letters? Or a wad of hundred dollar bills?” She was looking at the envelope.

Oh, the envelope. I tried to sound indifferent. “Just some travel documents.”

“Charlie was going somewhere?”

I chewed, swallowed. Told myself the itineraries were nothing. “No. They’re actually not his. They’re for Derek and some
other people.” Other people like Somerset Bradley. Whom, in fact, I’d just killed. But I didn’t want to talk about that.

“Must be business.”

“I guess.” Except Charlie and Derek had never done business anywhere near where the flights had been going. As far as I knew, Somerset Bradley hadn’t built any malls in Moscow. Or condos in Kiev. I remembered Charlie telling me that Derek had wooed his new client with a fancy travel package. But the travel plans didn’t matter. Not any more.

“Wow, Becky—” Jen whooshed in, decked out in black Gucci. Dismayed. “Elle’s still eating? She’s got to get ready. We need to get her to the—”

“Relax. She’ll be fine.”

“Are you kidding? Look at her. Her forehead is purple. And her hair—”

“Jen, please.” Why did my friends so often talk about me as if I were inanimate? “Let me eat. Then I’ll do some makeup and fix my hair. We have time.”

Jen huffed, pouted, crossed her arms, tapped her foot. Looked at Becky, eyed her deep-purple floral dress. “Ann Taylor?”

Becky reddened. “On sale. Forty off.”

“Nice.” Jen’s fingernails tapped the wall. She watched me and the clock, waiting. Impatient.

I hurried. Wolfed down a wad of pancakes, gulped some tea. And sat passively while Jen and Becky swirled around me, styling my hair, understating my makeup, covering my bruises. They doted on me, pampering, fussing as if they were preparing a bride for her wedding.

But, that day, there would be no wedding. That day, I’d dress in black.

Edward greeted us at the family entrance, guided us into the comfortable waiting room for the bereaved. Several plump leather sofas and easy chairs. Lots of tissue boxes. Hard candies.
Coffee, tea. A private bath, stocked with soft towels, mouthwash, amenities. Soft-green walls, a few innocuous paintings. A plush carpet. No windows. It was a room where people whispered, if they spoke at all.

Edward asked how I was doing, took my hands in both of his. I introduced Becky and Jen, told him to let Susan in when she arrived. Hesitated when he asked if I wanted to see Charlie alone before doors opened for the viewing, which would go on from noon until four.

“You don’t have to, of course—”

“No. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

And then, he led me through the double doors into the viewing room. To the walnut box I’d selected. And the floral arrangements I’d picked out. And Charlie. Wearing his pinstriped suit.

Edward left us. He closed the door to the family room, blocking Jen’s and Becky’s views. Leaving Charlie and me alone.

He didn’t look dead.

Then again, he didn’t look alive. Cheeks were noticeably, artificially rouged. Lips shut too tight. Had they sewn them closed? It looked like maybe they had. Or glued them? Charlie smelled of heavy makeup, sweet and unnatural. And the skin on his forehead was too pale, too still. No blood running through it, massaging it from within.

“Charlie?” I whispered, lest someone hear me talking to a dead man. “Charlie.” His name was all I could think of to say. I put my fingertips on his cheek, tried to rub away some of the makeup. Gave up. Let my palm rest on his face. Felt the absolute quiet of his skin. His coolness. Empty as a rock.

Well, obviously, he felt empty. Charlie was gone. Not in his body. I remembered his body, its weight on me, its heat. Oh God, Charlie. I could almost feel his breath on my face, half expected him to open his eyes and profess his love again. Or accuse me of killing him. But Charlie just lay there, looking almost, but not quite, like Charlie. Doing nothing.

“I don’t understand,” I told him. “What happened? Why are you dead? Who killed you?” I stroked his stony forehead, as if it might soothe him. I asked questions he couldn’t answer. I apologized for my part of our problems, promised that I’d loved him and probably always would. I was leaning over the casket, kissing him goodbye, when the double doors swung open, and children barreled over, surrounding me.

Emma and her family had arrived.

“I’ve brought Mother,” Emma announced, brushing past me, dabbing a tissue at her eyes, peering with what looked like disappointment at her dead brother. Two of her children wriggled in front of her, pressing against the coffin, gaping at Charlie’s body. “She thinks she’s at church. Has no idea what’s going on. She thinks I’m her sister. It’s just as well. This would kill her. Is Ted here?”

I said, no, I hadn’t seen him. Didn’t think he was coming.

“Because it’s time for us to line up for the viewing. People are in the lobby waiting to come in. There’s quite a crowd. We ought to get started—I’ll tell the director to open the doors. Kids, say goodbye to your Uncle Charlie.”

The kids looked at each other, wide-eyed. “Goodbye, Uncle Charlie.”

Emma gazed at him for a moment. Dried a tear. Sniffed. “We’re closing this, aren’t we?” She meant the casket.

Were we? I hadn’t thought about it.

“We don’t want people gawking, considering how he died.” Emma met my eyes, squinting slightly, as if to intimidate. “I’ll go get Mother.” And, taking her children by the hands, wordlessly stomped away.

Edward joined me shortly after Emma left, asked me if I was ready. My head throbbed as I nodded that, yes, I was, and I watched Charlie’s profile until the lid went down, forever sealing him in.

Susan stood close by, near the reception line. With Becky and Jen. My shoes pinched, and I wondered how I’d bear standing in them for the next two or three hours. I greeted Florence, who called me by her dead sister’s name and asked where I’d been for so long. I took a spot in line as far from Emma as possible, putting Florence and her wheelchair, Herb and the children Gavin, Ashley, and Liam between us. Emma, however, moved at the last minute, stepping right beside me with an air of entitlement. As if she thought proximity to the coffin was an indication of rank.

Edward opened the doors, unleashing a throng. Like a mall opening the day after Christmas. The parlor filled with Charlie’s people, all greeting each other, mixing, talking. Like a party. Florence apparently assumed it was a wedding, asking repeatedly, “What’s taking the bride so long?” and, “Maybe she’s not coming. Maybe she’s had second thoughts.”

I glanced around, still a bit unsteady, recognizing only a few people. Derek, of course, was at the head of the line, red-eyed and gaunt. And Mort and Andy, from tennis, looked bereft. Andy quipped that Charlie had only died so he wouldn’t have to lose to them in the upcoming tournament. Mort leaned close, whispered, “No matter what they say, I know you didn’t do it, sweetie,” and then he moved on.

The principal of my school was there, and a bunch of my fellow teachers. Even a big cluster of my students’ mothers—including Benjy’s. Oh, dear. I hoped she wasn’t mad about the cupcake memo.

The line kept moving, a convention of everyone Charlie had ever known. And some he hadn’t, like Detectives Stiles and Swenson, who stood near the entrance, observing, all but snapping photos. People stopped at the casket, some talking or praying, some silently touching it. Tons of strangers, leaning over to hug me, leaving traces of their scents. Chanel N
^o
5. Burberry.
Opium. Some of the faces belonged to old friends—like Charlie’s college roommate, Jake. He’d gotten fat. And our neighbors from our first apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Shannon. They’d aged well. Mike, the guy who worked on Charlie’s car, was there. And Sophie and Lauren and a woman whose name I didn’t know from my spinning class at the Y.