The Charlotte Chronicles

Part 4

Nathan

Getting into Charlotte’s bedroom isn’t exactly easy but it’s doable. Both penthouse condos have security but it’s outwardly focused meaning that the cameras are on the elevators and the entrances as are the alarms. When Uncle Bo built the Randolph Towers, he built a long hallway between the kitchens of the two condos. There’s a service elevator there but it shut down every night at 7 pm. Anything sent up after that would set off an alarm.

Dad explained this to Nick and I when I was ten and Nick was eight when he caught us trying to pry open the elevator doors to see if we could climb down the shaft and pretend we were Woody and Buzz from Toy Story.  Shortly after we found ourselves enrolled in a rock climbing classes so we’d have harnesses for the time we thought about rappelling down the inside of an elevator shaft.

Nick and I’ve had some dumbass ideas over the years. Mom says it’s a miracle we’re still alive so there’s some kind of sick ass irony over Charlotte being the one so sick, her health so fragile that she has to move away. She never tried to climb down the rooftop terrace onto the balcony and she covered her eyes on the sidewalk when Nick and I played Frogger on Michigan Avenue.

But of all the stupid ideas that Nick and I had come up with over the years, not one of them came close to Charlotte’s belief that leaving me—us—would make her better. Which is why I’m creeping down the service hallway between our two homes and into her bedroom at midnight.

Earlier today I’d been in Charlotte’s kitchen, ostensibly because we were out of milk or at least that’s what I told Donna, the Randolph’s housekeeper.  She rolled her eyes, handed me a carton and kicked me out. I stuffed some putty into the lock when she wasn’t looking and sure enough the door opens soundlessly, lock unengaged. Score.

There is little light over the stove, but I’ve been in Charlotte’s home enough to walk through it blindfolded.  Silently moving over the marble tile and then on down the hall to the bedrooms, the darkness hides the figure leaning against the wall right past the entrance of the living room.

“You got a death wish boy?” rumbles Uncle Bo’s voice. My heart stutters and then I trip on the smooth surface nearly falling on my face.  A hand passes over my mouth and I’m jerked upright.

Blood pounding in my ears, I look up into the shadowed face of Charlotte’s Dad. He looks like he can see every dirty thought I’d had about his fifteen year old daughter. Almost sixteen though, well, in May or so and that’s only like five months away.  As the silence lengthens between us, I remind myself that Uncle Bo loves me. I’m like his firstborn son, really.

“Hey Uncle Bo,” I mumble into his hand.

His hand drops from my face to my shoulder and he turns so that we are looking straight at each other. I’m an inch taller than him but not as bulked out. I wonder briefly whether I could take him and that must show on my face because he busts out a huge grin. “No, you can’t take me, son.”

“In a couple of years,” I say only half in jest, still wondering if my nuts are in danger of being chopped off because there’s really only one reason I could be standing in this hallway.

Whatever Bo is thinking, he doesn’t let on. Instead his hands fall away and he turns on his heel and walks toward his own bedroom. Over his shoulder he says, “She needs her sleep.”

I’m momentarily paralyzed. I think he’s given me permission to enter Charlotte’s bedroom but it could also be a trap. The darkness at the end of the hall swallowed him up and I quickly dart into Charlotte’s room before Bo can come back.

Charlotte isn’t asleep. She’s lying on top of her covers listening to something, no doubt a female artist. Charlotte says she doesn’t like to hear male voices or maybe she just doesn’t like what male’s sing about. Who knows. I’ve never given it much thought. The lamp on her nightstand is the only illumination in the room.