At the top was her most critical task: passing the CPA exam. Carlotta intended to face Herb and the others on equal footing, as an accountant. But the moment she opened the test booklet that morning, her hopes plummeted. She had trouble interpreting the questions. Basic facts eluded her. She kept checking to be sure she was in the proper room.
Back home, Carlotta groped with demons of despair. She wallowed for a while, weeping and moaning, until her leafy friends clamoured for their evening care. She misted the plants with her special mixture of Evian, lime juice, and a bit of Smirnoff vodka. “There, there, my darling Ficus benjamina. Here you are, sweet Dracaena marginatu, that should perk you right up.”
Carlotta drank some of the mix and perked up a bit herself. Perhaps she had not done as poorly as she imagined on the exam. In any case, the official results would not be in for months. Why worry now about failing? She could jump off that bridge when she came to it.
Instead, she resolved to focus on the plans for her trip to Herb’s retreat. Rockville Centre only had one hotel. Couldn’t hurt to call now and reserve a room.
That impulse proved most fortunate. The reservations clerk informed Carlotta that the place was nearly booked for the holiday weekend. “We have two weddings and a family reunion scheduled. But I still have one nice single available with a fabulous view of the Toys R Us.”
“Great. I’ll take it,” Carlotta said.
“Fine. Let me get a bit of information. Name?”
“Carlotta Little.”
“Not the Carlotta Little who went to Southside High?”
The clerk identified herself as Toby Cornet, a redheaded pufball who had grunted beside Carlotta in remedial physical education.
“My, it has been an age,” said Toby. “What brings you back to town after all these years?”
Knowing that Toby had not likely been invited, Carlotta hesitated to mention Herb Lattimore’s retreat. Instead, she muttered something about a visit to console Herb after all the poor man’s travail.
Toby whooped. “Drowned kid? Dead wife? Business on the skids? Who fed you such a bunch of horse plop?”
“It’s not true?”
“No way. Herb Lattimore’s never been married. He comes to the hotel two, three times a week for dinner, always with a different bimbo on his arm. They’re all about twelve years old with huge gabongas and brains the size of chickpeas.”
Carlotta bristled with disbelief. There was no baby son. No suicide. No house fire. No business reverses of any sort. The “healing” retreat was a phoney. Herb was setting her up for another of his monstrous games.
“That guy is some practical joker.” Toby chuckled. “Last Easter, he had two thousand baby chicks delivered to the hotel as a gag. But we showed him. Next day, we had two thousand painted eggs delivered to him. You’ve simply got to take a bullshitter like Herb by the horns. Beat him at his own game.”
“Yes, Toby. I believe you’re right.”
“So, I guess you won’t be needing that room after all.”
“I most certainly will. Put it on my AmEx. Mark the room guaranteed.”
Seething, Carlotta recalled every one of Herb Lattimore’s slights and insults. She would never forget standing on the sidelines at the sixth-grade prom, aching in desolation as the others frugged to ‘At the Hop.’ Why didn’t anyone want her? Wasn’t there some way she could stand or smile or cock her head just so to attract one of the boys? Dear Lord, send me someone. Anyone. Please!
As if in answer, Herb had sauntered across the gym floor. “Hey, Carlotta. Want to dance?”
Flustered with delight, Carlotta took several moments to find her tongue. “Why, yes,” she said at last. “That would be lovely.”
Then, as she approached, Herb cringed and backed away. “You want to dance? Go find yourself a partner.”
For years after that, Carlotta had avoided him. Then, when they were seniors in high school, Herb started calling the house. He’d charmed her parents as he did all adults. Rose and Sam could not understand Carlotta’s refusal to go out with him. “Every night, you sit around like a bump on a log,” Sam observed. “It’s not like you’re such a raving beauty, Carlotta. It’s not like the boys are beating down your door.”
“I’m not interested, Daddy. Okay?”
“But he seems like such a nice young man,” Rose cajoled. “What do you have to lose?”
Eventually, they wore her down. Carlotta was pleasantly surprised on their first movie date, when Herb acted the perfect gentleman. The following month passed in a haze of romantic bliss: bowling, Skee Ball, Nathan’s hot dogs, miniature golf. Perfection.
One magical night, they were alone in the Lattimores’ rec room. The lights were dim, and Johnny Mathis’s honeyed voice oozed from the hi fi: ‘Chances are…’
Herb asked Carlotta to wear his ring around her neck. He kissed her and confessed his undying love. When Carlotta admitted she felt the same, Herb implored her to express her affection in a physical way. He explained that he might suffer grave medical consequences if she did not. This would be their secret, he assured. A sacred trust.
Carlotta had believed him without reservation. For weeks, she hadn’t the vaguest idea why people at school kept snickering and whispering as she passed. Then, after lunch one day, she went to the girls’ room. Inside the door to the third stall, someone had scrawled the entire sordid story. Herb had pursued her on a ten-dollar bet. When Carlotta submitted to his advances, Herb’s best friend, Googie Nathanson, had been hiding in the closet with a tape recorder. By now, virtually every student at Southside High had heard Carlotta in the throes of passion, shouting, “Hoooo, baby. Yes!”
The incident brought Carlotta to her emotional knees. She was unable to show her face at the high school. She missed several weeks of classes and nearly failed to graduate. Hiding at home, she became bitter and reclusive and terribly depressed. She found herself unable to trust men or much of anything. From then on, aside from her plants and the occasional Sara Lee chocolate swirl poundcake, Carlotta’s life held precious little pleasure.
But that was about to end. At long last, she knew how to beat Herb Lattimore at his own game.
Irwin Draper noticed the change immediately. When Carlotta strode into the bookkeeping office the following morning, dumpy Irwin popped his thumb from his nose like a champagne cork and frowned. “What’s up, Carlotta? You look different.”
“Why, nothing at all.”
“Oh, yes, there is. You’ve changed. I can see it. You look-I don’t know-taller somehow.”
“Is that so, Irwin? Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ve grown.” Irwin had certainly not grown, she noted smugly. The man was positively potbound.
“She can’t grow, you big ninny.” Martha Siwicki guffawed. “She’s a middle-aged spinster, for Chrissakes.”
Carlotta squinted at the brown spots on Martha’s ham-sized hands. Definite sign of root rot. “Forgive me for being blunt, Martha, but you could benefit from less moisture and a hoe.”
At their next session, Dr. Hume probed for the reasons behind her improved frame of mind. “Frankly, Carlotta, I’m surprised you’re not upset about this latest development with Herb.”
“I’ve told you, Dr. Hume. I can handle this.”
“And I’ve told you, the only way to handle it is to be rid of the Herb issue, once and for all. You need to get done with him, Carlotta. You should have been rid of this long ago.”
“I hear you, Dr. Hume, and I could not agree more.”
“Why go to this so-called retreat, then? What can you possibly hope to gain?”
Carlotta smiled. “I think the better question is, ‘What do I have to lose?’”
The next months passed with striking calm. Nothing fazed Carlotta, not even the letter from the state board stating that she would have scored several points higher on the CPA exam had she decided to stay at home.