Herb was undone. He developed psoriasis, a cranky colon, and a powerful thirst. In short order, he found himself addicted to cortisone creams, anti-inflammatory pills, Jell-O brand pudding pops, and Jack Daniel’s. Several months ago, he’d hit bottom and enrolled in a twelve-step program.
“It’s difficult for me to believe that more than a year has passed since I buried my beautiful Giselle,” Herb wrote. “I find myself mired in grief, unable to see past the dark clouds that engulf me. Still, my twelve-step sponsor insists that Giselle and little Herb would have wanted me to carry on, which I suppose is true.
“In that spirit, I’ve decided to invite a few special friends for a contemplative, healing retreat this coming Labour Day weekend. I’m asking everyone to bring one special thing to share. It could be a memory, a private thought, a poem-something from the heart.
“Please say you’ll join us, Carlotta. Grant me this priceless opportunity to express my true feelings for you.
“Yours as ever, Chervil (Herb) Lattimore”
Carlotta’s thoughts raced like a gerbil on a wheel. Why should she do anything for Herb Lattimore after all he’d put her through? How could she not after all he’d been through himself? Yes, no? Stay, go? She placed an emergency call to Dr. Hume at the Institute, but the psychiatrist was out of town for the weekend, and could not be reached. Dr. Romanowitz was covering, the receptionist said, but Carlotta declined to speak with him. It would take months to bring a new shrink up to speed.
Carlotta struggled to evict the matter from her mind, but she was unable to focus on anything else, including her studies. Lately, her practice test scores had been ranging in the high eighties to low nineties, but today, she managed a dismal forty-six on the dreaded Auditing section. The exercises she’d learned from Dr. Hume failed to silence the chorus of self-doubts singing in her head. You shall not overcome, Carlotta. You are plain and dumb, Carlotta. Your time hasn’t come-no wa-a-a-a-ay!
The only brief distraction Carlotta found was with her plants. After dinner, she misted, swiped for mealybug, sprayed for white-fly, brushed off scale and mite, and sang her leafy charges’ favourite tunes. The cacti were partial to ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ For the bromeliads, she crooned ‘Aloe, Dolly.’
After her parents died, Carlotta had purchased a couple of plants to ease the gloom. To her delight, she found she had a natural flair for growing things. As her interest bloomed, she subscribed to gardening journals and joined horticultural societies. Soon, the house was awash with greenery and her mailbox brimmed with catalogues and correspondence from plant pals around the globe.
Even rare, exotic foliage flourished in Carlotta’s care. Her reputation grew, and collectors began entrusting her with valuable seeds and hybrids. Her approach was simple. Plants, like people, thrived on consideration and respect. Carlotta took pains to learn each specimen’s proper name and personal preferences. Every one was treated as a dear friend and honoured guest in her home.
“Good afternoon, my darling Phalaenopsis” she crooned. “Tsk, tsk. Look at those overcrowded roots. Time to move to larger quarters, isn’t it, my sweet little Eupatorium rugosutri’.”
Carlotta’s plants could count on thoughtful, consistent care. No gimmicks; no games. From firsthand experience, she knew how damaging games could be and how they tended to grow out of hand. Herb had begun by joking about his name, and people were amused. Somehow, he’d concluded it was fine to make fun of others, to pervert their good names, impugn their characters, subject them to soul-numbing, gut-wrenching, life-altering humiliations.
Carlotta flushed hot, recalling her first day as a second grader at the Wilson School. She was the new kid in Rockville Centre, having moved at midyear from the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. When a little boy approached her during morning recess, Carlotta was overjoyed. His name was Basil, he said, and he wanted to be her friend. First, he needed to use the lavatory. Then, he would save a seat for Carlotta in the lunchroom.
Standing on the cafeteria line, Carlotta could barely contain her excitement. She was going to be accepted in this terrifying new place. She would make lots of friends, perhaps achieve the holy grail of popularity. All was well.
After heaping her tray with macaroni and cheese and ambrosia salad and khaki-coloured green beans and subsidised milk, Carlotta spotted Basil at a table in the rear. As promised, the seat beside him was empty. Carlotta hastened across the room, deposited her tray on the table, and sat.
She would never forget what happened next. She was steeped like a tea bag in warm, fetid slop. Carlotta shrieked and jumped from the chair, drawing all eyes. The mess ran down her legs, soaked her socks, and puddled in her shoes. The teacher in charge, loudmouth Mrs. Fargnioli, rushed over to investigate. “This little girl peed in her pants,” she bellowed at the top of her pipe-organ lungs. “Call her parents. Call the office. Get a mop!”
Everyone pointed and laughed as Carlotta was led from the room. Her new skirt was plastered to her backside like a giant badge of shame. Her wet Mary Janes squeaked like frightened rodents. She was exiled to the nurse’s office, where she waited until her mother arrived. Rose, red and sputtering, took her soggy daughter home. “Look what you’ve done to me, Carlotta. How am I going to hold my head up at canasta after this?”
Despite Carlotta’s protestations of innocence, she was branded with the horrid nickname: Betsy Wetsy. No one believed her assertion that a boy named Basil had planted the offending substance on her chair. There was no Basil registered at the school. Herb Lattimore, whom she identified as the guilty party, was a model student with an unblemished good citizenship record. He, of all children, would never do such a thing. The principal had questioned Carlotta’s grip on reality. Rose and Sam were advised to curtail their daughter’s television viewing and restrict her to non-fiction books.
“Lord, no!” Carlotta shrieked. Absorbed in reverie, she had over-watered her prized helmet flower. Now, she hastened to empty the brimming saucer and aerate the sodden soil. “I’m so sorry, my darling Aconitum napellus. There, now, are you all right? Have I hurt you horribly? Can you ever forgive me?”
Suddenly, Carlotta saw the light. Forgiveness was the only proper course. Herb’s transgressions were ancient history. As Dr. Hume so often advised, she needed to be rid of her anger toward that man. Carlotta had to put the past behind her, where it belonged. Accepting Herb’s invitation would be a step toward that worthy end.
Carlotta had hoped the decision would bring her peace, but she was up all night, tossing and churning. She kept thinking of all the agony poor Herb had suffered. She was haunted by an image of little Herb, a towheaded angel floating facedown beside his purple dinosaur in the pool. She ached for the lovely Giselle, marked for eternity by tread marks from the White Plains express bus to Fifty-ninth Street.
Preparing for Herb’s retreat loomed as a monumental task. Carlotta needed to lose five pounds and buy several new outfits. A change of hairdo was definitely in order, not to mention makeup consultation, colour analysis, and perhaps an eye job. She had to arrange extra time off from work next Labour Day weekend, make travel plans, have her palm read, and hire a plant sitter. All night, she jotted notes to herself on the bedside pad she used to record her dreams for Dr. Hume. By morning, she had compiled a six-page list.