piercing the quiet with a voice that carried the clarity of conviction. “You are a fraud.”
A collective gasp surged through the room, and from somewhere she could hear the angry shouts of Freddy demanding that this moron be removed.
Charlotte stared back into the piercing dark eyes that silenced her. No words came for her response. She had no lines, no script. She was rendered mute with confusion, struck dumb by her blinding hatred for this man. And more. Oh, yes. That other, deeper, more excruciating pain. For she loved no man more than Michael Mondragon.
Vicki was talking now, rapidly closing the show, promising the gaping audience that she would schedule a follow-up. Freddy was being forcibly held back, but she could hear his garbled shouts rise up over the din. Mustering dignity, Charlotte stood up, catching hold of the chair to steady herself. Then, turning on her heel, she walked with her chin high, away from the blinding lights, away from the shouts of Freddy, and most of all, away from the tangible pull of Michael Mondragon. He called after her, more a demand, but she ignored him. Faster she walked, almost a trot, back to the seclusion of the green room.
“Don’t let anyone in,” she ordered the guard. He nodded and straightened his shoulders as she filed past him, locking the door behind her.
What should she do now? she asked herself as she paced the floor, holding her flushed and fevered face in her hands. Run? But where could she go?
“Charlotte!” Michael roared outside her door. He pounded, shaking the wood. “Open the door. We need to talk. I won’t let you die!” The door shook. “Charlotte!”
Then Freddy’s voice. Now both of them were calling her name. She threw herself on the sofa, covering her ears. Outside, they took to shouting at each other, like two territorial dogs defending what was theirs. Oh, God, were they fighting? She heard the muffled sounds of fists against muscle, grunts, followed by shouts of alarm from Vicki.
“Go away,” Charlotte screamed at the two men. “Please just leave me alone!”
She curled up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest, shivering. Each bone in her body ached, every muscle trembled. “Go away,” she moaned, over and over, crooning as the chills and fever racked her. She couldn’t go on like this. She wouldn’t. No more listening to Michael or Freddy.
Wasn’t it her face, her life that was at issue here? She had to make this decision alone. She had to think, to remember, to go back to where it all began.
Her eyelids felt like heavy weights and she could no longer fight off closing them. As soon as she relinquished resistance, she felt blanketed by a languid, drifting blackness. Her mind called out to the ghost of the child evoked earlier during the interview. As she slipped deeper into the darkness, from somewhere she heard the high-pitched, singsong voice of a little girl saying over and over, “I told you so….”
September 1976
Charlotte sat on the periphery of the playground. Her yellow dress hung limply around her knees as her feet dangled over the bleachers. Humming a nameless tune, she watched the other kindergarten children cover the ground, laughing, playing the many silly, exciting games that she knew by heart: hopscotch, jump-rope, cat’s cradle. But no one invited her to join, so she sat, swinging her legs, and watched.
Suddenly two young girls she knew well darted past her to hide behind the bleachers. Charlotte sat up, tense with anticipation. She marveled at how their pretty cheeks were pink with excitement. Their voices were shrill with feigned alarm.
“Come back here, Charlotte,” one of them whispered.
“They’ll see you and guess our hiding place. Hurry!”
Charlotte jumped up with a rush of joy to join them.
“Me? You want me to play?” No one ever wanted her to play.
“Hurry up!”
They were playing with her! Charlotte scurried around the green wooden bleacher and huddled with the other girls, her hands tight against her chest in excitement. She imagined her own cheeks were as pretty and pink as theirs. When the group of young boys spotted them, they pointed and charged. The girls took off, squealing in the chase.
Charlotte’s heart pounded gleefully as her little feet soared across the hard-packed grass of the playing field. She was running with them and, oh, she was fast! She could feel the wind kiss her smile and flap her dress hem against her thighs as she sprinted. Behind her she heard heavy footfall, and, feeling cocky, she looked over her shoulder teasingly. She knew she was smarter in school, and now she knew she was faster, too. The boy who chased her flushed and frowned furiously.
Charlotte’s laughter pealed and she ran harder. As she began to tire, she sensed a subtle shift in attitude. Them against her. Instead of one boy chasing her, now there were three, and they were frustrated and closing ranks. Where were the other girls?
“Hey, you’re fast,” one boy shouted with resentment.
“Like a horse,” called out another.
“Yeah, she does look like a horse.”
“Hey—Charley Horse!”
The boys burst out laughing, holding their sides and bumping shoulders as their pace slackened. They used the spontaneous nickname as a rallying call.
“Get Charley Horse!”
Little Charlotte Godowski ran hard then, as far as she could from the sound of the cruel nickname that poked fun at her face. It was hateful to be so mean. Mean, mean, mean.
Charley wasn’t her name. Her name was Charlotte. A beautiful name. Did she look like a horse? She couldn’t help how she looked…why would they say that? The name hurt and they knew it. They kept hurling it at her like stones as they chased. Charlotte felt a little afraid now, but she dug deep and ran faster. When she spotted the bleachers, she made a beeline for them. She would hide like before.
It was a dumb thing to do. She knew it the moment she ran behind them and saw that she was trapped by the chain-link fence. Like a pack of dogs they came after her, one from around the left side of the bleachers, two from the right. With cunning, they cornered her.
Charlotte moved away from the fence, instinctively allowing herself space. The boys clustered together, their young chests heaving, panting like dogs after the chase. As they stared, she saw conceit gleaming in their eyes.
The boys gathered closer. She could smell the candy on their breaths. Billy’s Keds were smeared; he had stepped in dog manure. The wind gusted, hurling the foul scent toward her. Charlotte shivered, wrinkling her nose, and searched through the slats of the bleachers to where the other schoolchildren were playing. Their high-pitched voices soared in the sky like birdcalls. They seemed so very far away. Suddenly, she felt very alone. She wanted her mother, her teacher. Where were the other girls? She didn’t like this game anymore. She didn’t want to play.
“Okay,” she said, putting out her palms. “You guys win.” She laughed, but it sounded queer, too high.
The boys looked at one another, nervously shifting their weight. Then one boy, Billy again, spoke. “If we catch you we get to pull down your pants.”
Charlotte paled and she sucked in her breath. She hadn’t heard this rule. She’d never have played the game if she’d heard
