moment and not to be worried would be clinically insane. And she’s always worried, no matter what her therapist says.
She produces her portfolio, and they riffle through the sketches that look like what they are: drawings she made in a taxi. Charlotte sees the sketches through their eyes: palm trees drawn by insomniac toddlers.
The man and More Makeup nod. Their faces are masks of pure nothing. Less Makeup (Charlotte wishes she’d registered their names—how will they stay in contact if she gets this job, which she probably won’t) says, “Well . . . I guess we can work with these.”
Charlotte says, “I was thinking about long black and red stems, vaguely . . . ikebana. Though no one will think ikebana unless they’re thinking harder than anyone’s ever thinking when they walk into a party space.”
“Not me,” says the man. “Me, I’m thinking like crazy. I’m thinking, How soon can I blow this clam shack and get home in time to watch the game?”
“Now that’s inappropriate,” says More Makeup. “And not funny.”
Less Makeup mimes being deep in thought. “You know, the ikebana meme might not be so bad. Let’s not forget the tsunami. Not a major tsunami this time, not a headline grabber. But a wall of water, nonetheless.”
The man says, “I’m going to guess that no one has forgotten the tsunami.”
The women turn back to Charlotte. It’s the women against the man now, three against one, though it’s just a game. At the end of the day—this is the end of the day, Charlotte thinks, fighting down a mini-surge of panic—he’s the boss.
Charlotte says, “We’ll keep with just a few red leaves and blackened palm trees, a combination of real and artificial, ghostly and vital. I know a guy who can do wonders with bare branches. I’m thinking something . . .” (Charlotte also hates that phrase, I’m thinking something, so much that she says it twice.) “I’m thinking something . . . a little Halloweenish, post-apocalyptic, not ugly or depressing but still perfect for this time of catastrophic weather events.”
“Now we’re heating up,” says the man. “I’m beginning to get excited. Am I even allowed to say that these days? That I’m getting . . . excited?”
“You can’t be too careful,” Less Makeup says mirthlessly.
Eager, helpless Charlotte smiles. She steals another glance at her watch.
Four thirty.
This is taking forever. She’d assumed they were busy people. But they (the guy, anyway) are enjoying this. As if they have all the time in the world.
Just then she gets two texts in a row. Bing bing.
“I need to check this.” Her voice is almost a moan.
“Kids?” says Less Makeup, with a patient little frown.
“One child,” Charlotte corrects her, sounding like the grade school teacher she has no desire to sound like.
First text from Eli: Stuck in theater.
Second, from Eli again: Can’t get Daisy. Sorry.
So at least Eli’s alive. That’s good news. The bad news: He can’t pick up Daisy.
Now he decides to tell her.
Pick up. Charlotte thinks of a news clip she saw last night in which a pickup truck was being swept by water down a California street. Wall of water. This is not that! She’s just worried and feeling sorry for herself because there’s no one to help her. Everyone’s told her to hire a nanny. This is the price she pays for her ridiculous pride in being a hands-on mom. But why must the buck always stop with her? She could write a book entitled Mommy Buckstop. Who would read it? Lots of women. Mothers. They’d understand right away.
She texts Eli back: I CAN’T! HELP!
He doesn’t answer. Infuriating. It’s up to Mommy Buckstop to figure out what to do next.
More Makeup says, “We’ll send you a slide show of images of the hurricane. We just want you to see what we’re thinking. Just for inspiration.”
“Not just ‘thinking’ but ‘doing,’” the man corrects her, hanging air quotes around her mistake. “This is what we’re doing here. What gets us out of bed in the morning.”
“That’s what I mean,” says the woman. “What we are thinking and doing.”
The man presses a button, then a switch. The lights dim, a screen descends behind him, and Charlotte sees destroyed homes, floating vehicles, anguished children, people waiting on food lines, Red Cross workers distributing water. It’s obscene to use these people’s suffering for inspiration, but she’s not going to say that. And they’re raising money for them. Good cause, good cause, good cause. She thinks those two words, like a mantra, until she