big mistake, she thought, because she saw Billy’s eyes turn mean. “I didn’t mean it, Billy. I’m sorry. I quit this game. Okay? Please?”
Billy took the lead now. “Let’s see if she’s as ugly down there.”
Her breath stilled. Surely she hadn’t heard right. She looked at Billy with uncomprehending eyes. Ugly? How could that be? Her mama told her she was pretty. Just last night, at her bedside, her mama prayed to St. Levan for her to be pretty. No one had ever called her ugly. No! They were just being mean.
And yet…From some as yet unvisited place in her heart, Charlotte heard the whispering that it was true. For the first time in her life, at five years of age, Charlotte came face-to-face with her ugliness. Her arms slipped to her sides and she stared back at them with vulnerable eyes.
Sensing her new weakness, they were on her, pulling her to the dirt. Charlotte was filled with a panic she’d never felt before. She kicked her long, spindly legs blindly, with all her might, satisfied when she heard muffled umphs and grunts of pain. She fought hard but there were too many of them. With their sticky hands they held her down. She began to cry and beg them not to.
“No…Please…No!”
Their short, blunt nails scraped her hips as they pulled the pink flowered cotton down around her thighs. Then they looked, really looked, with their mouths hanging open, surprised that they’d actually gone through with it.
When the school bell pierced the air they all jumped back, startled, frightened by the reality of what they’d imagined. Charlotte instantly curled into a ball, tucking her thin yellow dress tight around her knees. With her face in the dirt, she hiccuped, tasting the salt of tears and the minerals of earth. She hated these boys. In the harshest jargon of a five-year-old, she shouted out, “You’re bad!”
Knowing what they’d done was wrong, the boys scuffed their shoes in the dirt in an embarrassed silence. From her level, Charlotte saw the manure still smeared on Billy’s Keds. When she looked up, she caught Billy’s expression before he turned heel and sped across the field to join the rest of the class as they filed into the school. Charlotte thought Billy had seemed horrified. It didn’t occur to her five-year-old mind that the boy may have been guilt stricken at his own behavior. All Charlotte thought was that maybe she was ugly—even down there.
Mortified, her tears cascaded down her grossly sloping chin to pool in the dirt. She hated boys. They were mean and not to be trusted. And she didn’t like the girls, either. Why didn’t they help her? She would have helped them.
Charlotte didn’t go back to school but stayed behind the bleachers until the teacher came out to fetch her and scold her for not following the bell. Charlotte told the teacher that she was sick and wanted to go home. The teacher looked at her tearstained face and believed her. It wasn’t really a lie, but Charlotte told God that she was sorry for the sin, anyway.
But she wasn’t sorry for hating the boys. She promised herself she was never going to let them hurt her again.
Two
December 1991
Charlotte, weary after a five-hour dress rehearsal of A Christmas Carol, unlocked the door of the four-room apartment she shared with her mother. The paint was chipped around the door handle and the single bulb in the hall cast a seedy pall. A home fit for Scrooge, she thought, with a resigned chuckle. She rubbed her sore throat with her mittened hand. What a hectic day. Her voice was hoarse from shouting replies to the harried director and from prompting lines to the actors, who seemed unable to memorize a single scene of dialogue. Charlotte couldn’t understand how they could be so lazy. She knew everyone’s lines; her memory was razor sharp. Everyone depended on good ol’ Charlotte to deliver. Perhaps that was part of the problem. As the stage manager, it was her job to make things easier for everyone else—and she was very good at her job.
Not that she expected to be cast in a role herself, as much as she would have loved it. She would have to remain behind the scenes. She’d accepted her fate years ago, when she accepted her deformity. The theater was in her blood, however, even if only as part-time stage manager for the local company. She was in charge of all the details no one else liked to do, a satisfying enough position for a detail kind of person like herself. She arranged dressing rooms, kept the scripts in order, stepped in for rehearsals when an actor didn’t show, and generally made nice-nice to keep everybody happy. She didn’t mind being in the background. With her looks, it was her lot in life. Her greatest, most secret thrill, however, came during the actual production when she stood offstage, her face upturned in the lights, and whispered the lines of the play with all the feeling and heart that was lacking on stage.
“Mama, I’m home!” she called out, dropping her coat on the bench by the door. She went first to her room, closed the door behind her and switched on the music, delighted with a few minutes all to herself, with no one calling her name. After undressing, she collapsed on her bed, relishing the soft comfort she had no intention of leaving till it was time to go to Sunday mass the next morning.
“Charlotte, you’re home so late!” Helena called out. The large Polish woman’s broad shoulders, already humped over from years of cleaning other people’s houses, stooped a little more in relief at seeing her only child safely home. At forty-seven, Helena Godowski’s face was as pale, translucent and crackled as a piece of her treasured bone china. But she was strong enough to lift the bulky dark wood armoire that housed the fragile dishes, and her physical strength paled when compared to her stern will.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Charlotte hurried to erase the frown from her mother’s brow. “Rehearsals were crazy today, and I had to stay until everyone had their lines down pat. It’s always like this before an opening.” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking it out. “I’m pooped. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”
“Go to bed? But you can’t!” Helena raised the purple-and-pink plastic container that she carried under her arm. “Tonight there is nice party!” she said, her eyes bright.
“See, I brought my makeup. We will try something pretty, no?”
“Oh, no,” Charlotte groaned, her eyes closed tight in misery. Her stomach did a flip and she lost her appetite.
“The office party. I’d completely forgotten. Mom, I’d rather stay home. A Christmas Carol is on tonight. The old one with Alastair Sim. It’s the best one. And,” she added, thinking fast, “I’m so tired.”
“Movies,” Helena grumbled. “Movies and plays. Always this. You are a watcher. Day and night and never go out, except to that silly theater that doesn’t pay you enough for train fare. This is not good for you. You must live in real world, Charlotte. You can not always hide in your room. You’ll never find a husband like that.” Helena bent to pick up Charlotte’s clothing from the floor and folded the articles into a neat pile on the bed.
“Oh, Mama. I won’t find a husband at the office Christmas party. All I’ll find is a drunk.” She shuddered, rubbing her bare arms at the dismal prospect of another party of long hours sitting alone, enduring snide remarks. “Oh, all right, I’ll go,” she conceded when she saw her mother’s disappointment. “But only because Mr. Kopp sent a memo that implied we all have to show up—or else.”
“Your boss, he won’t let anything be too wild. You’ll have nice time. You’ll see.”
The image of “Fast Hands” Lou Kopp flashed through Charlotte’s mind. Her boss was the very one women worried about most. “I’ll try to have a good time,” she said
