Joanna was taken aback. “What?”
“You don’t know how to hang pants on a hanger. You don’t know how to set a table. You always put the knives on the wrong side of the plate.”
Joanna had stood up, walked to the bathroom, and inspected her reflection, looking for … well, she wasn’t sure what. A blemish? Some visible ugliness? She looked the same as she always did: her thick dark hair past her shoulders, her gray, almond-shaped eyes bright and alert, and straight teeth from years of treatments from the right orthodontist. For a moment she thought worriedly about Charles’s old girlfriend, Bronwyn, whom he’d told her about by then. The thought of Bronwyn had made Joanna very nervous and cagey, but Charles assured her that Bronwyn didn’t matter and that he wouldn’t bring her up again. But Bronwyn would know how to put knives on the right side of the plate, certainly. She sounded so perfect, the daughter of a brilliant physician and a professor, the girl whose parents gave her every opportunity in the world. In fact, Joanna could easily imagine Bronwyn standing beside Charles in those old, dusty Main Line Times photographs that were still in a box at her mother’s house. Was her mother on to something? Should Charles be with someone like Bronwyn instead?
And then she’d snapped out of it. Who the hell cared about knives and plates? She emerged from the bathroom, her composure regained. “Charles likes me,” she insisted.
“Okay,” her mother said suspiciously, not letting down her guard. Why wasn’t she happy? Wasn’t this what Catherine was attempting to groom her for?
“He does,” Joanna protested. “And I like him, too.” She hated how hard she was trying.
She did like Charles. He was just what she’d imagined he’d be and much more. He took her to great places in the city for dinner. He had season tickets, courtesy of his parents, to the Philadelphia Orchestra. He enjoyed going to plays and museums. When they went shopping, he didn’t sit sullenly on the couches put out for bored husbands and boyfriends but instead helped Joanna pick out items that fit her best. Whatever she liked, he bought for her. Whenever they went out to dinner, he paid. His apartment in Rittenhouse Square was clean but not generic. He read Civil War biographies and Vanity Fair. He had square ceramic plates and a collection of old Star Wars toys. He saved his old baseball and concert ticket stubs in a leather-bound black book. Once, when he was taking a shower, she’d found a lined notebook full of original poetry. In that same book, she’d found a creased flyer that said, Redemption Is Near. Repent! A man had shoved it at them on their first date; they’d laughed about it in the restaurant, making a jokey second date to attend the prepare-for-the-apocalypse meeting advertised. They’d gone to a bar instead of that meeting and then back to Joanna’s apartment. But Charles had saved that flyer. It meant something to him.
After Joanna found that flyer, she gave herself over to Charles. He became more than just the boy in the magazines she had saved; he became someone real. The first time she cried in front of him—recounting an old argument her parents had had that culminated in her dad throwing a plate and her mom sobbing on the kitchen floor—she felt safe and protected. Charles unburdened himself to her, too, telling her about his stilted relationships with his father and brother, recounting memories of being ostracized at summer camps, and sadly wishing he was better with his hands. He had flaws, which she liked. It drew her closer to him, made him more attractive. When he came over, she would tear off his clothes. She liked the way he kissed her all over, and she liked the way he stared at her as if she was beautiful and unique. When Charles asked her to marry him at their favorite Italian restaurant in Philadelphia, the one with the homemade pastas and the exuberantly touchy-feely proprietor, Joanna had been rendered speechless. All those pictures she’d saved of Charles’s family, all that wanting. But what made it even sweeter was that where Charles came from didn’t matter anymore. She would have chosen him out of anyone. And she’d thought he’d chosen her out of everyone, too.