Beetle Boy (15 page)

“What is it, Charlie?” she cries. “Did you have a fall?”

“No, I'm good. I was moving a little too fast because I was just … I'm just so glad to see you, that's all. C'mere.”

She is carrying a plastic bag of groceries, and she sets it down and comes close and lets me hug her. “Was it a good day? Do you want to take a little walk?”

“Let's take a drive,” I say. “I want to show you something.”

“Really? Something important?”

“Something important.”

“Okay, great. Just let me put these few groceries away. Then we'll go. But, Charlie, I don't think you should drive yet.”

“I want you to drive. I want to talk. I want to show you where I was living last year.”

“I've seen the motel, remember? I moved you out of it.”

“No, before that. When I lived with Mrs. M.”

“You mean … Martha Manning?” she asks, thrilled. “Her house? Will we be able to go inside?”

I don't answer this question. I am thinking I'll decide what to do when we get there.

Clara and I are standing beside the For Sale sign in front of Mrs. M.'s single-story ranch house. The windows are dark; the green exterior is freshly painted; there are still two white Adirondack chairs on the porch—our chairs. I have not been in this neighborhood since the day I ruptured my Achilles tendon running away from what I had learned inside the house, collapsing curbside into a puddle of mush. Mrs. M.'s next-door neighbor saw me fall and called 911 on his cell phone; he kept calling me Chris and telling me to calm down. I was trying to get up, but I couldn't get my leg to stop screaming. I think I also might have been screaming, literally, just a little, until an ambulance came and two guys put me on a gurney. I remember telling the doctor in the emergency room that I am apparently a person who is not supposed to run, ever. He said, “Now, now, this could have happened to anyone.”

Wrong. It could have only happened to me. On that day, in that neighborhood, in that terribly public way, it could only have happened to me because I am Charlie Porter. Something good was happening to me (Clara), and balance was needed quickly. When I entered Mrs. M.'s house, after she was long gone, I got my comeuppance.

The realtor's sign says, “Recently Reduced.” I am glad the house hasn't sold yet, glad it is technically still the house I briefly shared with Mrs. M. I find myself watching the living room picture window for movement, the shadow of a woman in a purple bathrobe crossing the room to greet me at the door.

“It looks nice, Charlie. I wish I could see the inside. At least the little room where you slept.”

“It was in the basement.”

“Oh no—really? Was it okay for you, living in somebody's basement?”

I reply with a sigh, “It was wonderful.”

She studies my face to see if I am being sarcastic. “At least it wasn't a motel room,” she says. “I couldn't believe you actually lived in a motel. That was like a place where a criminal would live.”

I had gone to a lot of trouble to keep her from seeing the motel, constantly avoiding the subject of my address, always meeting her after work or on the doorstep of her house. In fact, nobody else in my life ever saw the Grand Stand Motel, room 11, home, sweet home of Charlie Porter, moving on up in the world.

But eventually there came the fateful day, the day after my outpatient surgery, when Clara had to drive me to the motel and help me gather up my stuff so I could convalesce at her house. It was a defining moment for us, the first indication that I was not the normal eighteen-year-old male I had earlier pretended to be. She already knew I had no functioning parents. That was confusing enough for her. But living in Grand Stand Motel, room 11?

I was in the car, still pretty out of it from the anesthesia, and I watched her unlock the door, push it open, and take in the sight of my room. Even without being able to see her face, I could tell she was freaked out; she stayed frozen in the door-frame and kept her hand on the knob. I managed to get out of the car and move past her on my shiny-new metal crutches.

“I'm good. I'm good. I'll take over from here,” I said.

Most of my clothes were still in a plastic trash bag—very convenient. In the bathroom, I rounded up my shaving supplies, my toothbrush, and a bottle of generic shampoo. I was in a phase of reading murder mysteries from a used bookstore; a small stack of them was beside the bed—I tossed them into the plastic bag. I took my bike lock—my bike was at the shop. The laptop Mrs. M. had given me, a dead cell phone, an iPod, and half a dozen cords and chargers. These went into my raggedy backpack. Three small lidded boxes of mementos—those I would keep on my lap. The whole process took about ten minutes. I was leaving behind my dirty bedding, my faded towels, a few food items, my biking magazines, and my generally miserable single life.

“All set,” I said, keeping my voice normal with a huge effort, “Wow, I'm really going to need a nap soon.”

I left the key in the room, put my few belongings and my crutches in the back of her car, and somehow got myself back in on the passenger side with my three boxes. Clara was still standing frozen at the door to number 11. Maybe it was dawning on her that she would be seriously taking care of me for a while and she didn't even know me. I could be a vagrant. I could be a pathological liar. I could be a murderer. Well, the first two were right.

As we drove back to her house in silence, I was actually feeling sorry for her. She was understandably upset. She was in over her head with Charlie. My leg was starting to throb, the first inkling of the pain I was in for in the nights ahead.

“Say something, Clara,” I said.

She asked me why I lived in a motel.

“I'm saving money to buy a condo,” I said. She didn't laugh. Not even nervously. I remember that she said something worriedly about me not owning a suitcase.

“I have a backpack,” I had replied. I was clutching the stacked boxes to my chest, wincing in pain. “I travel light.”

Now, in front of Mrs. M.'s deserted house, I am remembering that strange day, that first openly worried expression, the slightly panicky remark about the suitcase. I look down at Clara, who is still staring at the front of Mrs. M.'s empty house. I think,
Why didn't you call it quits after you found out I lived in a motel? Was it because of the accident? Did you feel too sorry for me to ditch me? But I'm okay now. Why are you still helping me?

Clara looks up at me, tipping her face. “Charlie, why did Martha Manning help you?”

Her question startles me—the coincidence—and I stammer, “I guess … I guess … she couldn't resist me.”

My answer disappoints her. But she is still excited to be at Martha Manning's house. “I just
really
wish I could see the inside!”

I am hesitating. The key to the back door is in my wallet. Abruptly, I leave Clara's side and start to walk along the paved driveway that runs along one side of the house. Clara follows me. I unlock my private entrance and silently lead Clara into the mudroom of the house. Then into the kitchen. The house's total emptiness silences us for a moment; our footsteps are thunderous in the hot, airless rooms. Finally, Clara speaks. “Charlie, where's all her furniture?”

“In storage. Actually, her neighbor took care of the furniture for her after she left. He's acting as her realtor.”

“So where were you when this was all happening?”

“I had already moved out. I left in a huff, actually, the summer after I graduated. I was so mad at her for deciding to leave. I thought it was inconvenient and unfair. I didn't know how sick she was; she didn't tell me.”

We descend the basement stairs. There is nothing to see in my old bedroom but a bare mattress on a metal frame. It looks pathetic, and Clara puts an arm around my waist, sympathetic.

“No, I really liked living down here,” I insist. “It was the best year of my entire life.”

I know I should add, “Besides living with you.” But I can't.

Back in the kitchen, I show her the breakfast nook, the bolted window, and the bird feeders—no feed in them, no birds. The cupboards are empty. The major appliances are unplugged. The counters are blank.

In the living room, there is one solitary piece of furniture in the middle of the room. It had originally been in her small office, a room she spent very little time in during the year I lived with her. The movers had left it behind in a place of prominence. It is a beautifully carved, ornate desk—kind of Asian-looking—and huge. Like two people could comfortably work at it. Maybe three. The top of the desk is leather. There is a note sitting there, addressed to me in her unmistakable cursive:
for Charlie Porter.

I lead Clara to the desk. I want her to read the note. It explains many things. She picks it up and puts it close to her nose; the room is dark, and she is slightly nearsighted. She reads it out loud.

Charlie, I want you to have this desk. It's the only piece of furniture I own with any real value. I want you to know that I have bone cancer. My prognosis is two months without treatment. I may already be dead when you read this. I am sorry that I had to leave you so suddenly. You have certainly had too many people leave you in your short life. Don't be afraid to face the unfairness of this. You are a survivor, and you will be okay. Love, M.M.

Clara puts the note back down on the desk and gasps loudly. “But wait, Charlie,” she asks, “how did she know you'd come back to her house and read this note?”

“I don't know. It sat right here on this desk for over six months.”

“So when
did
you find it?”

“The day of my accident. I read it and ran for the hills. But I didn't get far. I fell into the street right over there.” I pointed to the street through the picture window.

“Oh my God. That was the day? And then you called me from the hospital.”

“And you came right away.”

“Oh, Charlie. What a terrible letter. But she's not dead. And now she's giving you her desk. That's so nice of her. But how in the world are we going to get it out of here?”

“I'm not sure I want it.”

“Leave it to me. I'll get it out of here for you. I'll ask my dad to help.”

“No, please, don't ask your dad.”

“Charlie, my dad loves it when I ask for help. Any sort of help. And he has a truck. Which reminds me—he wants to take us all out to dinner soon. Can you handle another meeting with my parents now that you're feeling better?”

I groan. Clara's cell phone rings in that moment, and she looks at the number and her face clouds.

“Is it your dad?”

“No, it's somebody else. Nothing important.” She slips the phone back into the front pocket of her jeans. “Thank you for bringing me here today, Charlie. Really. Thank you. And for finally telling me about your friend.”

I am proud of myself for finally confiding in her. For showing her the note that had nearly destroyed me. The outing was unprompted by her, and so it seems like something of a turning point. I did it. I chose to tell her. I can tell her things, and she will not run away. I take her hand out of her pocket and hold it a moment and then bring it to my lips. My girlfriend is kind and beautiful. I whisper, “You're welcome.”

Back at the house, we are having a cold pizza lunch and Clara has grown quiet. For once, I actually ask her what she's thinking about.

“Well … I was wondering how you went about asking Martha Manning if you could live with her. That's kind of a big thing to ask a person who's not even related to you.”

“I know. Actually, I made up a contract. A list of all the things that I would do for her in exchange for that room in her basement. I still have the contract.”

“Don't tell me. Is it in one of your boxes?”

I go to the garage and find the right box and untie the string and lift the lid and take out the contract, rolled into a tube, typed and printed long ago on Dad's dinosaur computer. I bring it back to the kitchen table, and Clara reads it with a little smile.