---1---
Sparrow's nest, tucked high under the eave. The bird fluttered as Charlie hit the ground, flat on his back. It fled upwards and a fist flew downwards, then another. He lifted his arms over his head and started to yell. The call was cut off, his breath forced out. They grabbed at his clothes, pulled at his pockets. Dust clouded the air and he twisted to his side towards the building, made himself smaller. In the window glass, their reflections towered, blurred and fast. He squeezed his eyes shut, buried his face. They tugged again. A shuffle of feet and rustle of branches, foot thuds on the sidewalk. Quiet.
Morning wind swooped through the leaves. He coughed, opened his eyes, rolled away from the wall and blinked over and over to clear his sight. Listening, he sat up, heard cars along the boulevard, knew there wouldn't be many people out this early. He tried to get on his feet, found he needed help and used the building's concrete base ledge for support. He stood, dazed and breathless. There were footprints on his white T-shirt, speckles of red, his forearms stained.
They hadn't said a word. A swift ambush, a shove into a hidden space, tripped hard to the earth. He brushed off his clothes. Mud smears dotted his pants. He fumbled with his pockets. Nothing left. His backpack, cell phone and PDA were gone. He wiped his lips, saw blood on his knuckles. There was a bump on his tongue and he spit out the culprit. A tiny feather, coated with soil.
Bushes were overgrown-high as the roof, criss-crossing the pathway. He snuck out from behind them, looked around. He'd never used the emergency call boxes, all of them yellow. There was a first time for most things, even the unpleasant ones.
College security was prompt. In the campus medical center, they questioned him, as did the city police, and examined the crime scene, finding no witnesses. Not yet, they said. The doctor on duty cleared him, advised him to take it easy a couple of days, relax. Afterwards, the officers escorted him to his office to regroup when Larry showed up. He'd heard through the grapevine. Because as the day progressed, news traveled. But Larry-and this was unusual--didn't have many words, and kept repeating the same ones: Oh my God.
"You can stop saying that. I'm all right." Charlie thanked the last officer and closed the door, cradling an ice pack below his left eye.
Larry stared, his arms crossed tightly. "Oh my God. Charles."
"It's not that bad." Charlie got rid of the ice-the thing had a smiley face on it and he didn't feel like smiling. He touched his cheekbone and went to the wall. In a tiny walnut-framed mirror, he looked himself over. "I need to clean up," he said, sizing up the losses. By tomorrow, the red blotches would be bruises but for now, he was grateful to be alive. Dried leaf bits dotted his hair and he picked them out, let them trickle to the tiles. He'd come to school to tie up loose ends on a project. So much for manmade plans, thoroughly unraveled.
"Have you called Don?" Larry said. "Your father?"
"Don's on his way. He already knew. Friend on the force." Charlie eased into his desk chair. The adrenaline was wearing off, pain setting in. His hands trembled and he gripped the armrests. "We'll tell Dad when we get home."
"Now don't worry about anything, take the week off."
"I don't think that'll be necessary." He swiveled round and gazed out past the blinds, watched a girl cross the lawn carrying a carton with open flaps. He had an urge to rush out and warn her. "I didn't even see them coming."
"Acceptance is the key," Larry said, blocking Charlie's view. "Or they'll be stealing more of your life from you."
Charlie turned toward the door, shaking his head. "I'd settle for starting this day all over again."
---2---
When Don arrived, he rushed in without knocking, and, upon seeing Charlie, stalled at the door with a grip on the knob. Unlike Larry, he said nothing at all.
Larry broke the silence between the two. "Don? We're glad you're here."
"I got here as fast as I could." His eyes were set on Charlie. "Tell me you slipped a couple of punches in," he said, closing the door.
Charlie had to disappoint him.
After a short update, they bid Larry good-bye. Charlie wasn't up to going back but before he could protest, Don had detoured to the crime scene and disappeared into the bushes. Charlie remained on the sidewalk, inspected the area. More people were about, a fraction of the weekday population.
Don was taking too long. Charlie parted the branches and watched his brother scrutinize the grounds on one knee, saying there wasn't much to go on. The space appeared untouched except for clustered twigs and leaves which civilians might dismiss as natural. He came in close this time, slipping past Don, and noticed fingerprints on the window glass. They were his, left when he'd hauled himself up. The lights were off inside. He could barely see in. Sprinkler water from the flowerbeds had seeped over, formed a snaking puddle. Above, a row of nests spilled out from under the eaves. Strange that before he'd observed only one.
The drive home was familiar, yet surreal. Charlie searched the streets, wondering if the assailants could be in the vicinity. My brother's got a gun-I should get one. Though the ride was brief, Don managed to shoot out a barrage of questions until Charlie began to sigh between each one. He didn't want to answer, especially since he'd answered them already, twice.
Don was adamant. Bear with me, he said, we're going to snag these punks, stop them from mugging anyone else.
Invalidate them, thought Charlie, before they kill somebody. Leaning back, he stuck his hand under his shirt, rubbed his sides. "Don't let Dad freak."
"I won't. He can see you're okay," Don said. "You are okay?"
Charlie quit testing his ribs and sat up straight. "It's a couple of bumps, really, I didn't..."
Don had driven up the driveway and Charlie shut up. He remembered he hadn't had breakfast and had hoped for a leisurely lunch. He wasn't hungry now. Their father would probably be in his chair with coffee and the Times. Charlie wished he could hide his face, forget it all happened. What had they gotten away with anyway? Your ordinary cell phone; wrinkled wallet with a handful of cash and credit cards, already on alert; a PDA containing cryptic information beyond the comprehension of morons; and a backpack holding books, papers and granola bars. And his notebook-a tough loss. Data would have to be loaded into a new machine.
When they entered, Alan was in the kitchen. He called hello to them but didn't come out. Charlie melted into the big leather chair.
"You've got a cut. It's bleeding," Don said. He handed Charlie his handkerchief. "Under your chin."
He took it and pressed it to the scratch. "Thanks."
Alan walked in, nursing another cup of coffee. "What are you two..." He had come around, then saw Charlie. "Oh my God."
"Dad." Charlie rose, carefully steadying himself. He waved his hands in the air as if they could somehow minimize his father's reaction. "I had a little incident this morning."
"Oh my God. It's that bad."
"You're sounding like Larry. One's sufficient."
Alan passed his coffee to Don and wrapped a hand around his younger son's neck. "Charlie," he said, squinting at the scrapes. "What was it, car accident?"
Don took a seat. "He was mugged. He's all right."
Charlie explained, leaving out the part where he didn't fight back but folded like a sissy. Alan was upset he hadn't been notified right away.
"There was nothing you could do. It all went by very fast," Charlie said. He paused for a few seconds, not knowing quite what to do, then sat back down. At this moment, he would have preferred to climb up to bed, lay inert for a long time and pretend it was a regular day, escape the sudden limelight. Instead, he stared at the floor while Don provided their father with additional details about the crime.
It was difficult to concentrate and Charlie drifted back to the bushes, Don's voice fading. From there, he tuned into the grunts of his attackers as they struck him, the smell of mulch. He tore his mind from the memory and scanned the house, thinking someone else had arrived. But no one had.
Don asked what he was looking for.
"Nothing," Charlie said. "Must be the neighbors."
Gradually, Alan calmed and insisted his sons eat. Soon Charlie was nibbling dry toast accompanied by a lecture from Don about being aware of his surroundings at all times, no matter how serene the environment seemed. Bad guys are looking for guys like you, he said.
Charlie swallowed, jarred to attention. "What do you mean guys like me?"
"Guys that feel safe. That don't give it a second thought."
He put down the rest of his toast, set the plate on the coffee table. "That are soft?"
"Charlie," Alan said. "Donny doesn't-"
Don picked off a piece of bread. "Not soft, just...protected."
"I need protection?"
"You don't need protection. This could happen to anybody-anytime, anywhere. Even me." He brought out his cell, read a message as he spoke. "Dad, clue in your son," he said, and got up, went to the door. "I'll be back later. If you need anything, give me a ring."
Charlie sat like a board.
"Come on," Don said. "Don't take it personally. This has been a rough day. Do what the doc ordered."
Charlie mumbled: Whatever you say, then slowly climbed upstairs with his father trailing him. He assured him he was fine and once Alan had gone, he washed up, changed into sweats, and hit the bed.
---3---
Charlie couldn't relax, took an analgesic from the doc which threatened drowsiness. When he'd finally fallen asleep, his father unintentionally woke him up, checking on him. Don't worry, Charlie said, I'm safe.
Of course I'm safe, he thought, I rely on others to keep it that way. But when it's hunting hour, bad guys love me. I didn't give them an iota of trouble, my nose planted in a glowing box. An easy target, a man built as structurally sound as a house of cards. I can handle a hike but not a hijack. Desk jockey, chalk chaser, weekend would-be golfer, racer, player. Guided by my assumptions, my deductions, 24/7. Skipping through campus like it's Disneyland. Happy and healthy. Weak.
A weakling. He had the marks to prove it. He folded back his shirt. It was good Dad and Don weren't seeing these, his archipelago of boot licks, growing darker by the hour, spread from chest to navel, maybe a tad farther. His back was worse.
He awoke at five-fifteen by the wall clock, groggy from the pill, stiff and sore when he moved. Who stretched me out on a rack? He hesitated, reluctant to shift an arm or leg. Paper and pencil lay beside him where he'd scribbled equations, on and off, working on his own problem. The drug must be strong, he reasoned, because these figures aren't making sense. He crumpled up the paper and pitched it toward the trashcan although he couldn't see it from the bed. Don's voice carried in from downstairs.
Charlie ignored it and dozed, into a dream:
On the beach, he counted, measuring grains of sand into a pile three meters tall. Fifteen grains per linear inch. And entering a "1" for each on his computer. Fifteen cubed per cubic inch. A wave washed up, spilling over his head, the pile flattened, notebook ruined. He was soaked. Larry appeared, strolling down shore, and said calmly, "Start over, Charles," and gave him a stick. Charlie crawled to his knees and began, making tally marks on the sand. Another calculation sprung up. Four-thirds times pi times the cube of the radius times fifteen cubed times twelve...et seq., et cetera...ad infinitum. There's an easier way; I have the knowledge.
"How's he doing?"
The voices floated in from the hallway this time, out of sight. His father was telling Don that Charlie had been napping without complaint and that Amita, who was out of town, had called. Don said the campus cops reported a second mugging, a woman near the north end. They had caps and sunglasses, too, like Charlie's robbers, but she'd shouted bloody murder and they ran off.
Charlie scrunched the covers, up on an elbow. "She's okay?" he asked.
Don walked in, carrying something. "Yeah, she wasn't hurt. Here's your backpack." He tossed it on the bed. "They found it in the bin behind the business school."
"Sorry," Alan said. "Not much left."
Braving the aches, Charlie propped himself up and released a drawn-out breath. "Oh, man," he said, pushing a strand off his forehead. "I'm full of surprises." His knee hurt, his neck, along with almost everything else, in varying degrees. In a very short interval, in a very small space, he'd aged a hundred years.
"Take it slow," Don said. "You're going to be this way 'til mid-week at least. Trust me, I know."
The pack contained his books and papers. Charlie zipped it up, dropped it to the floor. "I'm helping you find these guys."
"When you're better." Don claimed a comfy spot at the foot of the bed. "Right now my involvement's strictly a favor from the PD. This is their case. They'll contact you when you're ready."
"I'm ready now." He slid his legs over the sheets, making a face. His dad stepped forward, eager to help.
"I'm good," Charlie said, and stood, bent like a boomerang. "Excuse me," he said, aiming for the bathroom. The phone rang and Alan hurried out to answer it. When Charlie returned, Don was pacing the room, talking on his phone.
"Everyone's been calling." He hung up, reclaimed his comfy spot. "Larry says he'll come by later. You need anything?"
Declining, Charlie glanced at his bed, decided not to crawl back in. Wiser to stretch his limbs before they really tightened up.
"You'll feel worse tomorrow. Careful when you shave." Don pointed to his brother's cheekbone. "Nice shiner there."
Charlie could feel the swollen skin just by blinking. "I deserve it."
"What?"
"They didn't have knives, they didn't have anything."
Don said, "Doesn't make them girl scouts."
Charlie wouldn't hear of it. "I could've done something. Even that woman did something."
"You were outnumbered. For once in you life."
"I am soft."
"It's a clash of worlds, buddy."
"Your world."
"Sort of. More their world," Don said. "My job's keeping it under control. You wouldn't want to live like them."
From the shelf over his bed, Charlie picked up a hematite stone he'd saved since he was a kid. He flipped it in the air, then turned to Don. "What would you have done?"
"Not fair. Every situation's different."
"You would've fought them."
"Or run," Don said.
"No chance to run. I didn't even get a shout in. Odds were against me."
"There you go. The lady's lucky, she has witnesses."
With a thumb, Charlie kneaded the stone into his palm. "They picked the right person. Me, and a woman. What does that tell you?"
"You're overreacting," Don said. "Look, you're the one who's always telling me not to personalize anomalous events."
"You know why the odds were against me?"
"Because there were three of them."
"Yes...no. And it isn't that stuff about wrong place, wrong time either-statistically the campus is safe. It's because I've failed to make an effort to learn how to defend myself in an environment where events like this are a real possibility, no matter how improbable. Next time, I'm not letting them stomp all over me like a...a marshmallow."
"You didn't fight back, and you survived. If they'd had a gun...I don't need to go there, do I?"
Charlie squeezed the stone. "Teach me to fight."
"Is a gun next?"
"I considered it. My opinion on weapons hasn't changed."
"Wow," Don said. "And Dad told me you were napping."
"I was. Then I got-"
"Nervous?"
Charlie nodded. "And wiser. Teach me to fight."
"Listen-resistance usually escalates a confrontation, it's a bad move. Those guys'll be in jail in a month or two, I hope, maybe less. Crime rate goes down, back to normal."
"Normal? I want to be able to defend myself."
"I think when they rattled your brain they rattled your logic."
"So I'm illogical. The pain makes me illogical, all right?" Charlie lifted his shirt and showed off his archipelago, front and back. "It's my turn. First you don't want me to fire a rifle now you won't teach me to fight?"
Don seemed startled. "Holy mack...," he said, and looked away. "Put your shirt down." He reached for a spare pillow and crushed it to his body. "I know it bothers you in more ways than one, but it's not that simple. Why am I telling you this? You know this."
"I know it," Charlie said. "I hate it."
Their father hailed them from downstairs. Larry had arrived.
"Do me a favor," Don said. "Chill. Let everything heal. Sleep on it a few days."
"I am sure about this."
"If you still want to learn, I'll recommend someone."
Charlie tossed him the stone. "I'm sure."
Don caught it and launched it high. It smacked the ceiling and landed firmly in his fist. "I can tell you, today-I never want to see you like this again. I'm all for you feeling confident, but not impulsive. Do you understand?"
"I get it," he said. "Discretion."
"Stop blaming yourself. It's not your fault, it's theirs. If I could arrest them myself I'd ring their gutless necks. Pay 'em back for those bruises."
"That won't be necessary," Charlie said.
"Sure about that, too?" Don got up and replaced the stone on its shelf. "You know," he said, patting Charlie on the shoulder. "You're handling this like a pro. Better than some."
"Ouch, careful." He slipped away, sensitive to touch. "I don't have much choice."
"Darn it. You up for dinner?" Don waited in the doorway. "Dad's been cooking. I think he'd like to make it all go away."
"I'm coming," he said, and followed, rubbing his palm. The stone had left a jagged indentation, resembling a triangle. At the top of the stairs, he froze, wondering when they'd grown longer, steeper, and began a cautious descent, stepping deliberately. He hugged the banister, arm across his middle. Halfway down, he stopped dead and looked to his brother.
"Need an elevator?" Don said, already at the bottom.
Charlie grumbled, then continued. "I miscalculated," he said, letting out a little moan. "I should've slept in this morning."
---4---
Larry brought apple pie and a black hole full of free advice, said he'd been keeping an eye out for suspicious persons and had spoken to the grounds keeper about providing the flora with an intensive seasonal trim. The fewer hiding places for thugs, the better they could all go about their business in harmony.
While the others dined at the table, Charlie sipped soup from a mug in the big chair. He was not up to much food. Alan was patient, said there'd be plenty of leftovers. How he'd manage without dad, well, Charlie hadn't come to that road. Things were hard enough without mom.
Lingering jitters dogged his bones, a feeling that another terrible event lurked around the corner, lying in wait. Intellectually, he knew it was unlikely and he struggled to curtail the bad vibes, hitching his mind on the solid fact that there was no permanent damage, that he would recover and go back to work.
He finished and turned off the TV, pried himself from the seat. He hobbled to the dining table where Alan was busy serving up the pie. Larry told him he didn't have to get up.
"Yes I do," Charlie said. He moved to join them and Don popped up and drew a chair out for him, scooted it back in. Other than his brother's helpfulness, everything at this table was wonderfully normal. Charlie took a deep breath, felt less shaky for the first time since he'd come home. The only thing lying in wait was anxiety. "I had a dream with you in it, Larry," he said, asking for a glass of water. "You weren't much help."
"Then I must have had a previous commitment to which I was dutifully engaged."
"I was counting grains of sand," Charlie said. "In my jacket-the one they took."
Larry accepted dessert, saying pensively, "Were it merely in our dreams wherein we'd undertake such futile endeavors."
Charlie sipped his water. "Forget the sand-that jacket was one of my favorites," he said. "Always fit to the millimeter."
Alan handed Don a slice of pie. "I don't see what they'd want with that thing. I was tired of it five years ago."
Charlie leaned in, avoided stressing his ribs. "Guess they figured it was their size," he said, and they laughed.
Don smiled, digging into his pie. "I'll give you one of mine. I got a million of 'em."
"Will it fit?" Alan said. "Charlie's a stitch fuller round the middle."
Charlie flicked a crumb his father's way. "Thanks, Pop."
"No sweat," Don said. "Charlie's thinking about self-defense class. He'll be in the best shape of his life if he does it."
Larry seemed skeptical, indicated by his wrinkling forehead (a clear sign to Charlie), and said he could certainly understand why Charles was exploring his options after this latest, extremely unfortunate, adventure.
"I'm going to follow through," Charlie said. "Maybe then I'll be able to keep up with Don."
Don poked at the pie crust. "How 'bout me keeping up with you?"
Alan broke in, crumpling a napkin and tossing it aside. "Let's just be happy you're both here to argue about it," he said. "Sometimes life cuts a little too close."
--Epilogue--
Days later, the pain had lessoned and Charlie returned to work, steering clear of the crime scene and sticking to his office and classroom, cheered by good wishes from colleagues. Still uneasy, he'd pass strangers on the sidewalk who reminded him of the robbers and veered away, scanning the area and expecting to see his jacket everywhere. Not the suspects, he told himself, slim chance. Finally, after his last class, he'd had enough of headgames and proceeded toward the scene to test his nerves, alone.
The bushes had been trimmed. The branches no longer crossed one another and he could see in, the grounds recently raked, debris collected. He stepped into the space. Someone in the building saw him and gave a wave. Charlie waved back as she disappeared into the next room with a file. She probably thought he was nuts.
Definitely, you could get a bit nutty after being mugged. He peeked at the nests as nonchalantly as possible, felt an inkling of anxiety, distinct yet controllable. It gave him hope. This space was losing its power, had become less scary. He was getting better. In time.
Don was right. Being robbed once didn't mean it would happen again tomorrow, or the next day or next year. I do know this, I do. However, the experience had shed light on a truth, no denying it, and he would not be returning to that period of innocence, skipping through Disneyland. Larry also had a point: Every second pushing his emotions away would steal more of his life from him. The solution was to make adjustments-a logical conclusion.
He retreated and started for home, aware of his surroundings, of what could happen in an instant. With this new knowledge, he could then perhaps be aware of how to keep it from happening, for himself and for others as well. Don understood this-from seeing it, working with it everyday. Tough job, a real balancing act. Live aware, not afraid.
One other thing Charlie was certain he could find peace with and ultimately accept: To the bad guys he may have looked like a weakling, but he had never been weak.
--the end--