Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy) (13 page)

“Yes, Leopold. You got that one. That’s how the expression
goes.”

“Even though it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Some of them just don’t.”

“Yes. We have some like that in Poland. Like, we say
something is ‘a roll with butter’ instead of saying that it is easy, and we say
‘what has gingerbread to do with a windmill?’ when we mean ‘what does that have
to do with anything?’”

“Really? I like that. I might steal that one.”

“But, Miss Charlotte. Maybe you can help me with one I never
get right. Is it ‘piece of cake’ or is it ‘easy as pie,’ or is it ‘piece of
pie’ or is it ‘easy as cake.’”

“It’s ‘easy as pie’ and ‘piece of cake.’”

“What’s so easy about pie and cake?”

“They are easy to bake.”

“Are they?”

Actually, she had always found pies to be extraordinarily
difficult to get just right. She shrugged.

“I just want you to see how confusing these…how you say?
idiots
would be, if you weren’t so familiar with them.”

“I think you mean idioms.”

“Yes, how confusing these idioms would be if you were new in
the country. I want you to know that I am trying very hard. People think I
don’t like Americanisms, so I am trying really very hard.”

“Of course. I think you are doing great, Leopold.”

“And I ask that you try really very hard at what I ask you
to do. Even though it is not always easy and even though you might sound or
look foolish while you are learning.”

“I understand. Okay.”

 “And Miss Charlotte, you really are doing great, too.”

She nodded and wiggled in her wet pants.

“Now,” he said, turning into Fiona’s driveway, “We need to
go back to morning workouts tomorrow. Something is coming up for me in the
afternoon. You have the first appointment.”

“As in…just a few hours?”

“Yes. Is that going to be a piece of cake for you?”

Charlotte nodded. “That will be a piece of cake, Leopold.”

Leopold was leaning against the reception desk when she
arrived the following morning. He kept throwing his arms wide and punching
Slicky on the arm. Slicky waggled his eyebrows at Charlotte and grinned, making
it fairly clear that Leopold was telling the tale of his now famous Heineken
Remover. 

Leopold handed Charlotte a paper cup as she approached the
desk. White with the familiar green fish-girl logo. Hallelujah and Praise the Lord.
Knowing Leopold, there wasn’t likely to be any cream or sugar inside, but she
would manage her way through it just the same.

She knocked back a sip. “Oh!” She scowled. “Leopold, what is
this?”  

“Coffee. Does it not taste like coffee?”

“It’s sort of like coffee. The aftertaste is coffee-ish, but
it’s also salty and well, slimy. Like it has clots.”

“What is ‘clots’”?

“Never mind, just…what is this?”

“I add egg yolk to my coffee. So it is healthy for you.”  

“Why? Why do you do this?”
Of all things to ruin…

“Eggs, they give us everything we need to build a baby bird.
All the vitamins and proteins.”

“I get that, but why in your coffee? Why in
my
coffee?”

“Do you not find it creamy?”

“No. I do not find it creamy.”

“Do you not find it…how you say…like pudding? Like custard?”

Charlotte shook her head.

“I thought, because you like the creamy fatty foods…”

“Ah. I see.”

Leopold lowered his eyes. “You said you liked coffee. I
thought you might like Leopold’s Coffee. I thought you might like the coffee I
make for you.”

“I’m sorry, Leopold, it really was thoughtful.”

He looked at the floor, shrugging slightly. He took another
sip from his cup.

“Have you ever gotten, you know, worms, from this kind of
special coffee?”  Charlotte asked, in what she hoped was a bright and cheery
tone.

“Worms?”

“Yeah, you know. Intestinal parasites. From raw eggs. Or
Salmonella maybe.”

“No, it’s hot, right? It’s perfect. I do not put worms in
it.”

“Okay. Perfect.” Yum. She raised her paper cup and held her
breath while she pretended to take another sip.

Leopold plunked his hand on her shoulder. “I had an amazing
time last night. I have been smiling all the morning long.”

Charlotte covered his hand with hers and looked for a place
to set the paper cup. Was it worth it? The caffeine. Just a quick guzzle? She
could just toss it back. No, she decided. It really wasn’t. She bugged her eyes
out at Slicky, who smiled and flicked his eyes toward the reception desk. He
would take care of it. She set it where his quick glance had indicated and
stepped back toward Leopold, who was beaming at her. This was new.

 “Okay,” she announced, “we should get started.”
So we
can get finished,
she wanted to say.

Charlotte was having one of her “quiet mornings”; one of
those days when she didn’t much feel like saying anything. A shot of caffeine
would have helped. But, after last night, she knew that if she didn’t want to
talk, all she had to do was ask Leopold a question or two and he’d be off and
dominating the conversation anyway.  

Today, she knew, they would be working legs and back.
Hundreds of squats and lunges. Then her lame attempt at pull-ups. Then running
around the track. This day, as she remained relatively silent, Leopold regaled
her with stories of the races he had competed in as a young man. The rigorous
training he had undertaken as a child, leaving his family at a young age to train
on the national team.

Toward the end of the session, their conversation began to lull
and she very nearly asked, “When did you decide to have sex with women for
money?” And then she thought better of it. In truth, she didn’t really want to
know. That was his deal, she had decided, and his deal would never come very
near her deal.

“So,” Leopold began, brightly. “Let us talk about this race
you are going to be doing.”

She pressed her lips together.

 “I know what you are thinking, but trust in me, your
Confidence Coach.” He placed a fist on each hip and turned slightly to the
side. “There is nothing like a race to motivate you. To push yourself harder,
harder.”

“But I really don’t see the point. I like to work out. I am
starting to feel my new strength. Already. And I like it. Really. I don’t have
anything to prove to anyone.”

“It’s not about proving anything to anyone. It is about
having a goal to work toward. It is about having a reason to work hard.”

“I have all kinds of reasons. Already.”

“Yes, yes, but this is the next leg for you. The next
segment of your training. You must do it. You must. You have no choice.”

“All I’m saying is that I know myself, and this is going to
end badly,” Charlotte said. “Very badly.”  

 “You are capable of more than you know, Miss Charlotte.” He
winked and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I have made for you a special
t-shirt to wear. A jersey. For you to wear while you run in your race.”

“Oh, that is sweet. Does it have one of those funny fake
sponsors? Like, you know, ‘MuscleBar’ or something? Because I think mine should
say ‘Dunkin’ Donuts’ or “Body by Kit Kat.’”

“I never know what you are talking about, Miss Charlotte.
Especially when you are trying to be funny.”

“Sorry,” she lowered her head. “Can I just see the t-shirt?”

“It’s here.”

It was white as toothpaste. Across the front, in red block
letters were the words, “Leopold’s Confidence Brigade.”

“And I wear this when I race?” she asked.

“Yes. And you can wear it all the time if you like. I am
trying to brand myself. My marketing coach says I need to do this. It is nice,
no?”

“It’s nice, Leopold. It’s nice.” 

“It’s the cat’s meow, yes?”

“Yes, Leopold. It’s the cat’s meow.”

***

Twice a week, Charlotte ducked out of work early so she
could make her three-thirty painting class, but today the blond boy with the
tan skin and chocolate puddles for eyes didn’t want her to leave.  

“But you
teach
art,” he said. “You don’t
learn
art.”
He placed his hand on the glittery macaroni necklace they had fashioned
together earlier that day.

“I teach art, and I learn art. There are many things that I
do well, but that I would like to learn how to do better. And art is something
you can always learn more about. And so that is what I am going to do today.”

She liked the soft tone this boy had when he spoke. 

 “Could I come with you?”

“Sorry, this class is only for grownups.”

“I wouldn’t make any noise.”

“Oh, I know, Matthew. It’s just that your day is almost done
and you’ll get to go home to your mommy and your daddy.”

He kicked at the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I would
really like to stay with you.”

“I’ll be with you here tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. And we’ll read the story again. That one with the
pirate and the worm.”

His eyes got bigger and rounder and more watery.

“Okay,” he whispered, nodding slowly.

She patted his hand, and then removed her artsy apron and
signed herself out for the day, which meant she jotted the nearest hour on a
clipboard buried under snack wrappers on Tabitha’s desk. Then she pushed out
into the bright sunshine, yanked open the door to the minivan and slid into its
soft and smelly embrace. She turned the key in the ignition and popped the
gearshift into reverse.

Her brakes had begun to squeak and there was a moaning noise
coming from the rear of the van whenever she backed up. She would need to get
that looked at, and this thought actually made her brighten. She would be
earning a paycheck now, and it would be nice not having to explain to Caleb
when she needed money and what she needed it for.

Even though she worked full time for him, she had never
drawn a salary for herself. Helping Caleb with his editing and his travel
arrangements and his scheduling and his paperwork were just part of what she
did to help the family. After all, if she didn’t do it, he would need to pay
someone else to do it, and she already knew him so well. She was always there
when he needed her because, well, she was always at home, doing something that
either Caleb or the girls needed her to do. The arrangement had just made
sense.

But now, here, she would have money of her own, which would
accumulate, albeit slowly, in her bank account, and since Fiona absolutely
refused to let her pay for any food or living expenses, she would be able to
keep it all. It was hers. Her money.

And now she was going to painting class, where she was going
to see Breadman. She felt a flutter in her chest.

Her cell phone rang then, and she fumbled in her handbag, keeping
her eyes mostly on the road. How did some people manage to do this so
seamlessly? Talk on the phone. Dial. Think. Answer. Speak. All while driving
along. She grasped the phone, finally, and glanced at the display. Caleb. She
felt a lift, a tiny leaping, and then she remembered. Funny how sometimes, she
could forget, as though it had never happened. She let the call go to voicemail.
But then he called again. And then again. Oh, alright.

“Charlotte?” his voice was small and kind and sad. Before
they had split, he had never used her actual name, and it sounded strange now. They
had dozens of pet names for one another. She remembered where it all started,
on their honeymoon road trip. They were outstandingly broke, so they had spent
some time camping in odd spots across the countryside until their money ran out
entirely. Along the way, Caleb had called her “Buttercup,” after a field of flowers
they had passed, and Charlotte had remarked that some of the lovey-dovey names
people had for one another were so random, that nearly any word would qualify
if you said it with enough affection.

They began looking around the car, then, mostly at their selection
of snacks. “I love you so my little Corn Nut.’” she had said, and he had said,
“Right back at you, Jellybean.” This went on until they got to such names as “Bits-of-Dorito-at-the-Bottom-of-the-Bag-That-Are-Too-Small-to-Eat.”
 They had called one another random objects for the duration of the trip,
eventually settling on a few, which stuck. Up until the very day she walked in
on him with that woman, she still called him “Java to Go” and “Cheesy Cracker”
from time to time.

But now he was calling her Charlotte, and she would call him
Caleb.  

“Hi Caleb,” she said, all at once imagining him curled in
front of a fire with that busty waitress, laughing about the scene she had made
at Arturo’s the night before.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said.

She was silent, but she felt a pull and a lift in the center
of her.  

“Please,” Caleb continued. “ I have some things I need to
talk with you about. Important things. Very. Very important things. Please.”  

“I can’t. I have painting class.”

“Till when?”

She thought about lying but then realized he was probably at
the college right now. “It goes until five-thirty tonight, I think.”

“Perfect. I’ll make reservations for six. Okay?”  

“I really can’t, Caleb. I haven’t seen the girls. In days.”

“This concerns the girls. C’mon. They would want you to have
dinner with their dad.”

They probably would. No, they most certainly would. And he
was not the type to make reservations. This probably classified as wooing. And
it would give her the opportunity to confront him about that waitress at
Arturo’s. 

“Okay,” she said, finally.

“I’ll just be working in my office at the college, and I’ll
swing by your room at five-thirty.  You’re in Rachael’s class, right?”

“Um, yeah, I am. You know her?”

“Of course, we’ve met. It’s a small faculty, and they
recently hosted a meet-and-greet for me. Truth is, she’s a little bit star struck.”

“Over you?”

“It’s been known to happen, Charlotte. Don’t sound so
surprised.” His voice dropped. “And I couldn’t have done what I’ve done—I
couldn’t be the success I am—without you. You know that, right? That’s part of
what I want to talk to you about. Over dinner. Tonight.”

“You don’t have to phone woo, you know.”

“Okay. I’ll save it up for tonight, then.”

After Charlotte hung up, she began thinking how Rachael
didn’t seem the type to be star struck over anyone. Except perhaps herself.

She was still puzzling this out when she arrived in Room
104. Breadman was already there.  

Charlotte smiled and set down her supplies, careful not to
knock anything over this time. Something about Breadman’s nature, his way, made
her feel comfortable. Maybe it was his soft-spokenness. It was unusual for her
to be the outgoing and talkative one, and, when she was, a temporary confidence
would sometimes take over, mostly to help the other person feel more at ease.
Not the false confidence she sometimes had to adopt to get along in the world,
but a warm and loving one. The one she had when she was with her kids. A
comfortable confidence.  And he did smell so delightful. She took a slow, deep
breath. It was faint but undeniable.

Rachael sashayed into the room at just that moment, scoffing
in Charlotte’s general direction and then exiting again. 

“I think our fair teacher has it in for me,” Charlotte confided.

 “Ah. Don’t let her bother you. She’s just a Mean Girl,”
Breadman said. 

She turned to look at him. “Is she now?”

“Oh yes, I teach seventh grade. Trust me. I know ‘em when I
see ‘em. And they don’t outgrow it. They just get better at hiding it.”

“Yeah, I know ‘em when I see ‘em, too. Doesn’t mean I’m
immune to them. I mean, where do they learn that look they give?”

“You mean this one?” Breadman smirked and lifted his chin in
just the right way. Very subtly, as though he were smelling something rotten,
and then he gave a half squint.