Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 18
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I said 'No, I made a few mistakes.'
— Steven Wright
I didn't sleep well Saturday night, knowing that Sunday I had to meet with Charlotte.
Anticipation gnawed at me, like a hyena worrying the flesh from my bones. I couldn't chase it away or ignore it. Tossing and turning didn't help. I tried lying on my back, lying on my side, lying on my other side. I tried lying on my belly with my pillow scrunched under my chin, but couldn't figure out which way to turn my head. Nothing worked. I couldn't switch off my brain or silence the alarm.
My memory was churning. When was the last time I'd been one-on-one with Charlotte? Had I ever? It was hard to remember... High school, maybe? No — back then, there were always other kids or teachers around. At family events, there was... well, family.
I began to think I'd never been alone with her. There was always a group, a collective human buffer to mitigate her wild vibe, her sense of impending crisis.
There were a few flashes of her and me — moments in passing, where we briefly intersected; just long enough for her to drop a crazy bomb before I escaped or she ran off to unsettle someone else.
Tomorrow would be an escalation of my relationship with Charlotte. A move to a whole new level: Charlotte and me, alone, with no one else to cushion her impact. Talking with her, listening to her, would mean slipping the moorings, drifting away from the shore. Leaving my solid, tactile contact with reason, with hard reality.
The image in my mind — the feeling — was of wild swimming: me, loose in a cold torrent, a powerful current carrying me away to God knows where. Hopefully there'd be no rocks to crash into or falls to slide over.
It would be all about survival: about keeping my head up. About not falling into her world, her maelstrom, where the connected becomes disconnected, and the disjoint becomes the rule.
My only salvation was time. At some point I'd have to leave. Aunt Hanna told me that Charlotte worked the night shift, and that (obviously) she sleeps during the day. She didn't tell me what time Charlotte goes to bed, but whenever it was, it would be a hard stop. For my part, I had to check into my hotel. I could make that a hard stop as well. Whichever happened first.
Good: Now I had an exit strategy. That helped my nerves a little.
Unfortunately, Charlotte wasn't the only issue. The whole "investigation" business bothered me. It bothered me a lot. The idea of taking money from my aunt — money and a car! — to pretend to investigate something utterly nonsensical? It was wrong. It couldn't be more wrong.
Mom's rationalization didn't sit well with me. Her idea, that I'd do less harm by taking less of Hanna's money than a professional would charge... it made some kind of sense, but I didn't relish the idea of being the lesser of two evils. The lesser evil is still evil.
I couldn't lie still. Hours passed. I lay on my back and put my pillow over my face. I tried sleeping without a pillow. I tried putting my pillow under my knees.
I don't know how long it took, but eventually I fell asleep.
It wasn't the most restful sleep. It ended abruptly when Charlotte sent a text at 4:30 in the morning. It was utterly disorienting. Emerging confused from the tangled world of sleep, it took me a full minute before I recognized the ping of my phone. A text. At 4:30 in the morning. Charlotte must be at work, I told myself. The message read:
MEET ME AT 11
All caps. Imperative. In the middle of the night.
I shook my head, yawned uncontrollably, blinked half a dozen times, and then, without thinking, responded
I'll be there.
As soon as I hit SEND, I was wide awake and kicking myself.
Eleven AM?
Robbins and Duxbridge are roughly 300 miles from Amsterholt. If I left at 5, I'd get there around 10.
Stupid, stupid, me. I meant to leave yesterday! If I had, I could have taken my time. If it weren't for yesterday's torrential rain...
The obvious solution was to tell Charlotte to meet me later. I picked up my phone and texted back:
Could we meet this afternoon?
Say, three o'clock?
I got up to use the bathroom. She answered while I was washing my hands.
NO WILL BE ASLEEP BY THEN
"I'm awake now," I said to myself. "Might as well get it over with."
I texted back:
See you at 11, then.
My bag was already packed. I added my toothbrush, got dressed, locked up the house, and started the car.
I don't drive much, so five hours behind the wheel is a lot for me. Luckily most of the roads are well paved, and traffic at that hour is almost nonexistent, so I made good time.
God help me, I did *not* want to talk with Charlotte. Conversations with her always hurt my brain. Charlotte is a lot of work. A lot of heavy lifting. I don't know how that poor Ross guy could have put up with her. And yet, it was clear from the pictures that they'd dated for months. Months! And he smiled! In *every* picture! He looked sincerely happy with Charlotte. Those photos were real, too: not photoshopped, not fakes.
Maybe THAT was something I could investigate. Their relationship. Find out how on earth they stayed together for as long as they did. There was a *real* mystery, at least in my mind.
My nerves kept me awake as I drove; tension, anticipation: If I had strings like a violin, you'd feel and hear those strings tightening up: their fibers straining, stretching dangerously, farther than they're ever meant to go. The pitch would keep rising, higher and higher, and with it the certitude that any second, those strings are going to pop. They'd break like a gun shot.
I drove on, mile after mile without stopping, shaking my head to keep clear. I didn't stop at all until I came to Aldusville. Last stop before Robbins and Duxbridge. I fueled the car, ate some breakfast, stretched, walked a bit, and then climbed back behind the wheel for the last hour and a half. It wasn't evident from the map, but the stretch from Aldusville to Robbins is a desert, with nowhere to stop: no food, no gas, no services of any kind. The man in the service station warned me, once he knew where I was headed.
"Good thing I'm filling up, then!" I laughed. "Wouldn't want to get stuck out there!"
He shrugged. "Eh, don't worry. Eventually one of the State Troopers would find you. Just make sure you carry plenty of water."
Speak of the devil! I met a group of troopers as I was leaving Aldusville, where the town ends and the desert begins. They'd set up a roadblock, a serious roadblock, a formidible one, with concrete barriers. They were stopping everyone. They photographed every license plate, checked everyone's documents.
There were four adults in the car ahead of me, and I noticed that all four occupants were asked for their IDs. That's some serious checking.
I never found out what it was about, but I could guess: When I pulled up, the trooper observed to his colleague, "Single white male, early twenties, traveling alone." The other answered, "Tell him to pull over there," pointing to the shoulder. Clearly I fit a profile.
They gave me a breathylizer (early in the day!), asked me who I was, where I was going, where was I staying. I had to show them my hotel reservation on my phone. While one questioned me, a second checked my license and registration, and a third searched my car. It was a pretty thorough search.
"What's this about?" I asked.
The trooper handed my documents back to me and said, "You're free to go."
"I'm just curious," I said.
"You're free to go," he repeated. He turned and walked back to the roadblock.
Irritated at not getting an answer, I started my engine, pulled off the shoulder, and took off down that long desert highway. I still had plenty of time, but didn't want to be late for my appointment with Charlotte.
About a half hour past the checkpoint, a sudden doubt hit me. I pulled off onto the shoulder and got out of the car. Did I bring the documents? The manila envelope my mother gave me? It wasn't on the front seat. I opened my suitcase and shoved my clothes this way and that. I felt the bottom and the sides. No envelope there. It wasn't in the back seat, the seat pockets, or the door pockets. Even though I was sure it wasn't there, I checked the trunk. I looked in the glove comparment. No joy.
Clearly I'd left the pack of papers at home.
If Charlotte hadn't woken me so early... if she hadn't insisted on meeting at 11... I would have double-checked myself. I wouldn't have forgotten the papers.
Mentally I kicked myself. Then I realized it was fine. It wasn't a problem. It really didn't matter. I'd read all the pages, and there wasn't much point in lugging them around Robbins. In spite of the volume of paper and ink, there was precious little information there. Once you say that Ross and Mayda went into the desert, but only Mayda returned, you've said it all.
Then again, maybe leaving the documents at home was a good thing: it gave me a handy, credible excuse if I needed to get away from Robbins and head for home.
And I had notes. In a little hand-sized notebook, the kind that cops use. I copied all the relevant information into the little book, and the little book was in my pocket. So I was all set.
Incidentally, I did find out who collected all those papers. It was the investigator Aunt Hanna hired. He made a great collection of clippings, of police reports (yes, thank you, the police reports were in there as well!), and he wrote a very thorough final report. I was impressed with his work. In fact, he'd done so much, there was very little left for me to look into. I'd be walking in his footsteps for a good long while.
Along with his report, he also presented his bill, for $5000. It referred to a list of itemized expenses, but that sheet was missing. Aunt Hanna or my mother must have taken it. I'd ask them for it; it could be useful. At the very least it would make interesting reading.
But five thousand dollars! The date on the final report and bill was May 15, 2017 — just two weeks ago. I was stunned. I know my aunt isn't rich. She's not the kind of person who can fork over that kind of money without batting an eye. And yet here she was, not two weeks later, ready to throw more money onto the fire. To throw money at me! Me, as if I were some big-time investigator.
All in the service of Charlotte's delusion.
I had the investigator's contact info in my notebook. Name: Ambrose Candelario. Location: Aldusville. I drove by his office on the way through town this morning.
I doubted that I'd call him, but you never know.
It was a relief to arrive in Robbins after such a long drive, particularly after the ninety endless minutes through the desert. Even though I was driving, the desert left my mouth dry.
My GPS directed me through the outskirts, guiding me to the Robbins River, which was surprisingly scenic. It looked like a nice place for a walk.
The river cut through Robbins and led directly to Duxbridge. Charlotte's building was right there, just past the Robbins/Duxbridge line, near to the river, at the foot of a long steep hill.
It was a six-story building. A building without much character. It was functional, plain, resembling nothing so much as a college dorm. The entrance was a long walkway covered by a corrugated metal roof. A bike rack ran all the way from the sidewalk to the building's entrance.
Four steps led to a glass-enclosed entryway and all the tenants' buzzers. Charlotte's was easy to find: in big black letters the label read RAFFLYAN, all caps, as in her texts to me.
The moment I touched her bell, she buzzed the door open and called out: "319. 319. When you get off the elevator it's left, left again, all the way to the end, last door on the left. 319."
I took the elevator up. Left, left again, all the way to the end... the last door on the left stood open. Charlotte was waiting for me.
Her apartment was much nicer than I expected. I'm not sure what I expected exactly, but I didn't expect normal.
What does a crazy person's apartment look like? I suppose there'd have to be something weird. Something unsettling, like a severed hand in a fishtank. I don't know.
I didn't see anything like that. The place was sparkling clean. It even smelled clean. There was no clutter. No disorder. She didn't have much furniture, but what she did have was tasteful and appeared new. There were photographs. nicely framed, normal photographs, here and there. I saw a photo of Charlotte and her mother, with Aunt Hanna's house in the background. The rest were pictures of Ross and Charlotte: smiling, cheek to cheek. On the mantle, a larger one showed Ross carrying Charlotte in his arms. It was sweet. They were beaming. I can't believe I'm saying it, or even seeing it, but yes, it was a sweet picture. Honestly romantic. Hard to believe, but there it was.
Charlotte really did have a boyfriend. At one time.
Here, now, the Charlotte who stood in the room with me looked different. Different from the Charlotte in the photographs. Different from any way I'd ever seen her in all the years I've known her. She appeared haggard, drawn, world-weary. Sure, I had to take into account the fact that she just finished a night shift at the hospital. Add to that the fact that I haven't seen her for two years. A lot can happen in a year or two, but the Charlotte I knew was always lively. Way too lively. Animated. Always talking. Nonstop.
A silent Charlotte was a good change, in a way. I found myself feeling sorry for her, but at the same time, her brooding demeanor seemed so unnatural, so out of character, it simply unnerved me. I couldn't help but wonder whether she wanted me there at all.
"Your mother showed me these photos on her phone," I said, gesturing around the room, trying to make conversation. "And loads more."
So far she hadn't spoken, and — apart from one sullen glance — she hadn't looked at me. Now, all she said was a taciturn, "I have coffee and croissants, if you'd like some."
"Yes, I would, thanks," I replied, and the two of us sat at the table.
It was very civilized. Her low mood made me wonder whether I'd underestimated Charlotte, or misunderstood her. Maybe she was capable of more depth of feeling than I ever knew. Maybe she'd finally grown up.
Then, of course, all the pity and fellow-feeling disappeared the moment she began to talk, as soon as she dipped into the well of her outlandish, disconnected illusions.
I took a bite of croissant and a sip of coffee.
Charlotte spoke.
"So you think you're a detective?"
"No," I said. "Good point. I'm not."
"Then what are you?"
"I'm a sympathetic man with time on his hands and an interest in this case." I'd come up with that on the drive down. I felt pretty proud of it.
"This case," she repeated, as though I'd minimized it. Or worse, gotten it entirely wrong. After a grim, flat smile, she caught me off guard by asking, "Do you know what a red notice is?"
"A red notice? No."
She scoffed, disappointed, and shook her head. "It's when Interpol—" she paused and gave me a doubtful look— "Do you at least know what Interpol is?"
"Yes, of course I do. It's the International Police Organization."
"The International Criminal Police Organization," she corrected.
"Okay," I conceded. (I checked it later; turns out she was right.)
"A red notice is an international request from Interpol for the arrest and extradition of a criminal. Do you think you can get one?"
"I can try," I said. "Are you saying you want a red notice sent for Mayda Zakaryan?"
"Yes of course for Mayda Zakaryan!" She spat the name from her mouth with distaste. "I've tried. God knows I've tried. I've called Interpol I don't know how many times, but they won't do it for me. They won't listen to reason." She touched her coffee cup, turning it slightly, still not looking at me. "I asked that stupid Candelario to do it, but he said it wasn't possible."
"He's the investigator your mother hired, right?"
"Stupid useless moron," she muttered. "He didn't do anything! He didn't even try!"
"Did he say *why* Interpol wouldn't do it?"
"He said there has to be an arrest warrant issued in the requesting country."
"And there's no warrant for Mayda."
"No, but there should be. Obviously."
"Okay, so that's step one," I said, playing along, humoring her. "Getting an arrest warrant issued."
"Also, of course," she went on, "I did something else that Candelario couldn't or wouldn't do: I called the Spanish Embassy. You know that Mayda's in Barcelona."
"Right. Let me guess: you wanted Mayda extradicted, but the embassy wouldn't do it. They also wanted an arrest warrant."
"Right!" she relaxed a bit, now that I was following along. "That idiot of a PI, he wouldn't even *ask*! He didn't even TRY to get Mayda arrested! He had no idea what he was doing. I've made complaints to the state and national boards. I'm trying to get that incompetent asshole's license revoked."
"Really?" I was taken aback. I knew from long experience that Charlotte is always extreme, but her vindictive streak is always a surprise. It's not something you ever get used to. Honestly, I was seriously shocked, and felt obliged to say something in the man's defense. "Charlotte, I have to tell you: I've read Candelario's report, and as far as I can see he was very thorough. Of course, I'm going to—"
"No, no, no! He wasn't thorough! He wasn't thorough at all! He doesn't even know the meaning of the word! He spent all his time — wasted all his time — trying to find out what happened. We know what happened! Mayda killed Ross!"
"Isn't it important to know exactly what happened? Details are important. I mean, if you want Mayda arrested, you have to gather evidence and—"
"NO!" she exclaimed, smacking the table, making the cutlery and china jump. "I just told you! We KNOW what happened. We don't need to go over all that!" Her blood was up. She was getting more and more animated. "All of that — all of it — is done, settled! What's important is getting that woman locked up! In jail! Indicted for murder! On trial for murder! In prison for murder! THAT is what's important."
"Okay," I said in a softer, walking-on-eggshells tone.
"All you have to do is prove that she's a liar. It's simple. She claims that she and Ross had a fight, and then she turned up here the next morning to gloat! Mayda has no conscience! She came here hoping to see me cry, to see me hurt."
"And the police!" she went on. "Oh my God, the Robbins police! They are worse than useless. They make the Keystone Cops look like the frickin' CIA! The so-called Robbins police were too lazy to even look — at anything! Mayda was smart, killing Ross out in the desert. The cops never bothered to go out there. The desert is vast. It's endless. It's so big, no one will ever find anything out there — especially if they're NOT LOOKING! Jesus Christ! For all we know Jimmy Hoffa's skeleton is lying in the sun out there, just a few feet from the road."
"Jimmy Hoffa," I repeated. I wasn't sure who he was, but I was afraid to ask.
"The police said that Ross ran away because he was 'afraid of success'. What a load of bullshit! Ross wasn't afraid of anything. He *should* have been afraid of Mayda, but no."
I felt that for appearance sake I ought to be asking her questions, but Charlotte had completely knocked me off my game. I didn't dare talk. Anything I could say was liable to set her off.
Then again, it didn't matter whether I said anything at all. Charlotte was on a tear. "Those same lazy, Robbins police, they say that I'm high strung. Me? High strung? I'll show *them* high strung! Do you know that they issued a restraining order against me?"
I nodded. "Hard to believe," I whispered. She grunted in assent.
"What about the FBI?" I offered, lamely.
She chewed her lip for a moment. "I've spoken with them. Extensively." She heaved a heavy sigh. "They said they can't do anything about Mayda. Jurisdictional issues. Apparently murder isn't enough for them. They told me that if Mayda had kidnapped Ross, or forced him to cross state lines..."
Knowing Charlotte, I'm sure she tried to claim that Mayda had done one or both of those things.
We sat in silence for a few moments. She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead. "This is giving me another brain tumor," she informed me, in all seriousness. "I can feel it growing every day, pushing my eyes out of my head." She breathed a series of deep, melodramatic sighs.
While her eyes were closed. I looked at her hand, the hand touching her forehead. Her left hand. There, on her ring finger was my grandmother's ring, the ugly ring: a gold filigree band with a tiny diamond between two tiny emeralds. Exactly like the photo Mom showed me.
"That ring," I said, pointing, "That's a beautiful ring. It must be worth a lot of money." I spoke as if I'd never seen it before.
"Yes," she said, proudly, showing it off, "This is my engagement ring. Ross gave it to me when he asked me to marry him."
"When was that?" I didn't mean to ask. It was automatic, the question. It just slipped out of my mouth.
"What?" she shot me a suspicious look.
"When did he ask you to marry him? What was the date? If might be important..."
"Of course it's important!" she retorted with anger.
"I mean, to Mayda's motive."
Charlotte shook her head. "Mayda is a bad person. She's evil. Some people are born evil. Everybody knows that. People go on and on about motive." She shook her head decisively. "As if that mattered! Motive is just so much bullshit."
She got up, opened a drawer in her desk and took out a printed card. "This is something I give to reporters, to news people, to interested parties." She handed one to me. It was a single paragraph, nicely printed on stiff paper. It read as follows:
Charlotte Rafflyan had a boyfriend. His name was Ross Ghulyan. It was a very serious thing. They loved each other, deeply and purely. They were engaged to be married, with a ring. And then, in the midst of this happiness, a terrible thing befell them: Mayda Zakaryan, a wicked, cunning woman of low morals corrupted his heart and led him astray. She insinuated herself between Charlotte and Ross. Mayda seduced Ross with her feminine wiles. She bewitched him and stole his heart. But soon, the spell began to lift. His heart yearned once again for Charlotte. He was ready to leave the wicked Mayda. He vowed to throw himself at Charlotte's feet and beg for her forgiveness.
I looked up at that point and asked, "Did he?"
"Did he what?"
"Throw himself at your feet and ask forgiveness."
Charlotte frowned. "No! He didn't! He never had the chance! Mayda lured him into the desert. She took off all her clothes and killed him."
Startled, I reacted. "What? I thought she got rid of her clothes because they were blood-stained. So why—"
Charlotte huffed impatiently. "These are facts," she insisted. "She drove a knife through his heart and buried him in the desert. Then she drove his truck into the river and it was never seen again."
The river? That was new. Killing him while naked? That was new as well. Of course I didn't believe it. It didn't surprise me that Charlotte would change her story. I'd make a note of it later.
Right now, though, I could feel it was time to leave. I needed to get out of that apartment. I'd had enough. Trying to wind up the conversation, I told her, "I have to be straight with you, Charlotte: I'm not a detective, or a private eye. I'm not a licensed investigator."
She gave me a look that drilled deep into me. "You just graduated though, didn't you?" she challenged. "With some kind of law degree?"
"Well, not law," I said. "Not law, exactly. I got an associate degree in Criminal Justice, but—"
"That's what we want," she insisted. "Criminal Justice. That's exactly what I need."
"Okay," I said. "I wanted to make sure you understood where I am, in terms of qualifications, or the lack thereof. Anyway, for now, I guess that's all. I should get going."
"You know," she said, trying to sound hospitable, "You can crash on my couch if you like. I do have funny hours, though — I work at night." It was clear from her tone that she felt obliged to offer, but hoped that I'd say no.
"Oh," I said, "Thanks! That's very kind of you! But you know, I already booked a hotel close to the Robbins Police Station. I'm going there first thing tomorrow."
She shook her head. "Those assholes won't talk to me. They don't even want to see me."
"I'm not you," I pointed out. "I've got a fresh face. We'll see how far I can take it."
She shrugged. "Worth a try!" She even smiled! The first time I'd seen her smile today.
I should have quit while I was ahead. Instead, a thought occurred to me, so I put it out there. "Oh, hey, Charlotte: one last thing. Your mother mentioned something... I tried to look it up, but couldn't find it."
She raised her eyes, listening.
"She said something about The Iodine Story. Do you know what that is?"
Her face stiffened into an angry, stony mask. Her lips closed in a tight straight line. "I want you to leave, right now," she growled. "I worked last night, all night, and now I need to sleep. Good bye."
She literally pushed me out the door and slammed it shut behind me.
I took the stairs down. Trudged past the long, covered bike rack and stood still for a minute, trying to come to terms with what just happened.
Obviously, the Iodine Story was a sore point for Charlotte. Obviously I needed to find out what it was, and what was in it.
It was clear to me that Charlotte hadn't changed: she was high-strung, high maintenance, and completely unmoored from reality.
At that point, under normal circumstances, I could have gone for lunch. The single croissant I ate a few moments ago did nothing to blunt my hunger, but right now I had zero appetite. Talking with Charlotte can have that effect. The way she distorts reality is bewildering — it practically qualifies as a psychotic break. Somehow she's able to plow through your mindscape, leaving a swath of broken earth. It's worse than unsettling. It's disturbing. It left me shaken.
It would have been nice if I could have gone right then and checked into my hotel. A shower and a sleep would do me a world of good. Unfortunately, check-in wasn't until 4 PM.
I basically pissed away the next four hours, wandering, dozing in my car. At last, I drove to the Good Old Inn at 4 PM precisely. When I saw the place, my heart sank. It looked like hell. The photos online did not do the place justice. The facade was exactly that: a facade, a cover-up. Very modern, very flat. A bunch of straight lines at right angles. Color blocking. Metal. The problem, though, wasn't that it's modern. I can live with the industrial look. This was just plain ugly. The design looked childishly simple, and the execution so cheap, you got the impression that they'd built it out of scraps discarded by other builders. You could call their school of design "What's in the dumpster today?" There was no telling what the building itself looked like, but the ratty, haphazard exterior suggested that it was nothing more than an abandoned warehouse.
It must look crap on the inside.
The Good Old Inn was the economical choice. Even so, I wouldn't have chosen it if the online pictures correctly reflected the Erector Set reality. I pulled up my reservation on my phone to see whether I was in time to cancel without penalty. Instead, I accidentally clicked on the reviews, and scrolled up and down trying find my way out, to get back to my reservation. The predominant message, I found, was that the Good Old Inn looked far better on the inside than it did outside. "Don't be put off by the facade!" was the top comment.
So I gave it a shot.
It turned out to be true, not that it was such a big win. But I was tired, and now I had a bed. A clean bed in a quiet room. So I crashed at the Good Old Inn.
I took the precaution of silencing my phone so that Charlotte couldn't wake me again.
Before I closed my eyes to sleep, I remembered my mother, and gave her a call.
She became quite animated when I told her about the ring. "I knew it!" she exclaimed several times. "I knew it! My sister is so sweet and kind, but she can be devious! Do you see that?"
"Mom, there's something else," I told her. "I'm not 100% sure that Charlotte wants me here. Not that she wishes it was someone else; that's not what I mean. I think she's realized that she won't get what she wants from an investigation. Or — I mean, what she wants isn't an investigation. I don't think she wants an investigation at all."
"What are you saying? What *does* she want, then?"
"She wants attention. She wants somebody to play along, to take the things she says seriously."
"Isn't that what an investigation gives her?"
"No. For Charlotte, the problem with an investigation is that it's going to keep butting up against reality. You can't take two steps without arriving at a fact she doesn't want to see. Charlotte doesn't want somebody digging, someone showing her the truth. She wants someone to agree with her, someone to go along with her sense of being offended and betrayed."
"That's very psychological of you."
"Mom, I have to tell you: I'd be happy to give the car and the money back to Aunt Hanna. I'd do it in a minute."
She was silent for a few moments, then said, "Do me a favor and hang in there for a bit, Mason. Let me think about what you said." She sighed. "I'll see if I can get your Aunt Hanna to back off, to give it up." After a pause, she added, "Or maybe find some other kind of person to help her. I don't know who or what that person would be."
"That would be great," I said.
We spoke a little more. We said our goodnights, then I remembered something else.
"Hey, Mom! Wait a sec... there's this thing that's come up twice already... I think it might be important. Even if it's not, I need to chase it down. Do you know what the Iodine Story is?"
"The Iodine Story? Didn't you ask me that already? No, I don't know what it is. Not the faintest idea. Does it matter?"
"It seems like it *does* matter. When Aunt Hanna mentioned it, she expected me to know what it was—"
"Why didn't you ask your Aunt Hanna about it while you were there? Right when she said it?"
"I tried! But she got all flustered. She threw up her hands and said she didn't know. She told me to look it up, which I guess means it's on the internet."
"I can try asking her again," Mom promised, "but if she doesn't know, she doesn't know. But, hey— when you were talking to Charlotte, why didn't you ask *her* about it?"
I laughed. "Hoo, boy! I did ask her! It didn't go very well. It didn't go well at all. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Charlotte's face went all dark and she threw me out of her apartment!"
"She threw you out?"
"Literally. Bodily. And she slammed the door behind me."
Mom clicked her tongue in disapproval.
I observed, "That tells me that there's something there. If there's one thing Charlotte can't stand, it's the truth."
"That's a little strong," Mom objected. "Okay. I doubt that I can be of any help with this Iodine thing, but I'll keep my ears open. Remember, Hanna's my only source. And if she doesn't know, she doesn't know."
"Okay. Well, don't worry about it. If it's important, it will crop up again."
Comments
Wow!
The severed hand in a fish tank line had me howling. But the chapter as a whole was a great character study. Of Charlotte, of course -- she is who Mason is thinking about the whole time, the black hole at the center of the drama. But also, of Mason's own character. The way his mind works, and how he deals with and comprehends Charlotte's forcefield of crazy. The reaction everyone has to Charlotte makes more and more sense, and Mason seems to have her dead to rights.
Emma
Next, the view of the police
Mason is on tiptoe with his cousin... in the next chapter we'll see how the police are handling her.
thanks,
- iolanthe
Amazing prose
You've outdone yourself, Io, with this chapter. So well written.
The mastery of the English language demonstrated herein makes me green with envy. I don't want to hear that you ripped this off in a matter of hours. That would destroy me!
My only excuse for my own shortcomings is that English is actually my second language. My first language was a series of gurgles, burps, and squeals.
Seriously, Io, this was a marvelous read. Looking forward to the conclusion where Paul Drake tries to inveigle himself into a free dinner with Perry and Della.
Hugs,
Sammy
Not quick work
My fastest time for a chapter was eight hours. It usually takes longer. The first draft usually takes 2-4 hours. Once the draft is complete, I read it through once a day, revising as I go, and that takes 60-90 minutes (I'm not a fast reader). I do that each day until I'm able to read it through without making any changes.
Luckily my job is not too demanding at the moment, so I often spend my entire "workday" writing. I start by re-reading the chapter to be posted next (as I said above), and then I work on the "current" chapter, the one that isn't finished. When I get tired of that, I move to organizing the notes for subsequent chapters.
Right now, chapter 19 is ready to post except for a little thing I have to fix in the last paragraph -- I just have to look something up.
Chapter 20 is the "current" chapter. It's still only notes, which is a bit scary.
I'm glad you think I'm good... thanks for that. I feel fairly limited, to tell the truth, but I'm happy with what I can do.
hugs and thanks,
- iolanthe
If there's one thing Charlotte can't stand, it's the truth."
yikes!
The truth, and nothing but the truth
I've known people like Charlotte -- not many -- and I've wondered whether they do, internally, quietly, without admitting to anyone -- that they DO know what's true, even as they lie.
thanks for reading,
- iolanthe
Then we have those
who knows very well what's true and what's not but think it's completely irrelevant.
The important question is: What is best for me, right now?
I think some lie to themselves
they are their own victims.
Unh, Mom, maybe there's a
Unh, Mom, maybe there's a more obvious candidate for the theft of your ring.
Fascinating chapter
Have to admit this one was a bit on the slow side, but it is background. And I really got a more positive picture of Mason. He really saw through Charlotte. In the real world they need evidence to move forward on a criminal, but Charlotte wants to skip that all-important step; definitely not batting 1000. Not trying to rain on your writing Iolanthe, part of the issue is this format, post, wait, post again. When completed maybe publish the book. I'd buy that.
>>> Kay
Waiting...
This chapter was slow going for me as well. I felt that it dwells too much on Mason's whining, but I couldn't see another way forward. I do understand what you're saying: you have to wait a week for the next installment, and if it doesn't deliver... it would be nice to just turn the page to the next episode.
Even so, as far as waiting: If waiting is an issue for you, there's nothing I can or will do about that.
I've been working on this story for at least two years. There is a creative pleasure in working alone, I'll admit. But after a while, when *I* am my only reader, it gets tiresome.
I'm doing what I can, posting regularly. And we're near the end.
I don't have it in me to finish the whole thing before I post. That's just too hard. Working alone is not a lot of fun.
- iolanthe
Don't feel pressured Iolanthe...
We are reading! Keep your quality up, post when you can, and HAVE FUN! :) Writing should be fun!!!!
creating
exploring
developing
We would like to enjoy that with you :)
Sephrena
Thanks for the boost
... much appreciated!
- iolanthe
Process and Segments
Thanks for the insight into your writing process, Iolanthe. I like how you slowly build the story which is very suited to the serial format. Suspense and waiting are intrinsic to that. Of course some chapters are bridges (say the Judith episode) and some are just necessary like this week's meeting with Charlotte. I came along too late for the hey day of serialized fiction but I do remember tuning into a radio serial as a kid (my family was very late to the television age). It was a mystery/noir tale called "The Voice of the Snake". I don't think it was meant for kids but, since it came on after The Lone Ranger and a circus show my parents may not have noticed.
The story is so good that, like Kay, I'd be happy to buy the book.
Lastly, the tease - Chapter 19 is almost ready. Now I'll be checking in daily!
Thanks -- I dropped chapter 19
Chapter 19 is up now. I don't know what impact this will have on my posting schedule, but I'll do what I can.
thanks,
- iolanthe
Fun Story, just 2 questions
What’s with the weird Armenian names?
I assume you are aware that Mayda is a non existent crescent shaped island?
I’m just guessing, but it seems likely that the aliens took Mayda back home to Titan.
Two answers and a question
1. Armenian names aren't weird.
2. The word "Mayda" may mean many things, but it is also a girl's name. I wasn't aware of the "nonexistent island," though, so thanks for that.
3. Wherever the aliens come from, yes, they did take Mayda away with them. Why do you say Titan?
- iolanthe
A Small Package of Value Will Come to You, Shortly
No man is an island!
He's a peninsula
Mayda insula is not an island! It’s a peninsula.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mayda_Insula
OK maybe I hit a nerve, but seriously? My mouth can’t shape them
Mea culpa, here is my remedial work
Ross Ghulyan aka little wolf, that one I get
Mayda Zakaryan, aka Zachariah “God remembers”, ok as well
But Rafflyan? Must be anglicized Rafayelyan. Also a tongue twister.
Fencely is clearly Irish or perhaps English.
Portmanteaux is a lovely surname and Iolanthe was a beautiful fairy and together they make a lovely nom de plume
Armenians are a proud nation. And yes I believe the genocide was real.
No nerves, just names
No, you didn't hit a nerve, but it was nice of you to check.
It's been a long time since I came up with those names.
I think the names aren't hard to say: GOOLY-an, zah-carry-an, raff-lee-an. I think that for some (many?) of the surnames, I took an existing name and altered it until google got no results. I didn't want to name a character with a real person's name.
For some stories (maybe this one, but definitely in other stories) I have searched for things like "unusual breton surnames" or "rare irish surnames" or something like that. I was only trying to not bump into names actually in use.
There's a story I've been working on in which many of the names are Turkish. It's all more-or-less accidental noodling at the computer.
thanks,
- iolanthe