A/N: My dear fellow HP fans, please note that this is not one of my typical stories. Far from it...

If you haven't seen the Oscar nominated movie August: Osage County, please know that the following story contains major spoilers.

I was bewitched by the amazing acting of the all-star cast: Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Chris Cooper, Benedict Cumberbatch, Ewan McGregor... After not being able to get the movie out of my mind after three days, I've decided there is only one way to get it out of my system. So here it is... A dark and slightly (could be an understatement) unsettling one-shot. If you haven't seen the movie but are curious about the characters in the story, this link may give you some idea about the four characters in the follow story: www . youtube watch? v = xI35CFxRldE (remove all spaces)

Beta'ed by the lovely Luna de Papel.

Tracy Letts won a Pulitzer Prize for this play. I'm only grateful that I get to borrow his amazing creation. Not mine.

Rated R for language and adult situations.

Beverly's Secret

I'm a simple man; and this is far too complicated for me.

This should be the complicated kind of shit that only guys like Beverly Weston could handle; or maybe not. Was that why he killed himself? Hmmm, now that makes me wonder.

I always respected the man, ever since he came home one year from college and got a summer job at my uncle's farm. We got real close real quick. I was just so impressed by the guy - he was so damn smart. He got even smarter when he got done with college. No wonder he wrote a book. Hanging out with him made me feel kind of smart, too. For the longest time I wished I had a brother like him. So when it turned out that I got to be his brother-in-law, it really felt like an added bonus to marrying the cute girl next door.

The guy never talked much. But when he did talk, he talked like those poetry books that he read. I always said Beverly had depth, like he was hiding some kind of mystery behind his quiet demeanor.

Well, apparently he did. He did hide a secret all these years. He fucked my wife.

Or maybe she wasn't my wife when he fucked her, now that I'm thinking about it. Little Charles is 37 this year. And Mattie Fae just baked that big fancy cake for our thirty-eighth anniversary . . . .

Does that mean that she married me because she knew . . . that she was carrying her brother-in-law's kid? Did she just luck out when I happened to ask her to marry me?

Fuck! That can't be. That just can't be! I was supposed to be the lucky one. I was! Mattie Fae could have done better, yes she could, if she wanted. She could have found a guy better than me. She's a good woman. She's good to me. Or is she? Did she really want to marry me or did she use me? See, this is getting too complicated for me. I can't figure this out . . . .

It's one-o'clock in the afternoon. I've been sitting here by the lake for hours. Why does it have to be so damn hot! At least another month of heat . . . I guess that's Oklahoma for you. What can you do? No matter how miserable the weather can be, this is home. Maybe it'll be better to find a shady spot under the tree. Or maybe I should really get going. But somehow my body just doesn't want to move.

It all started at the breakfast table this morning. That's when she told me.

"We need to talk to Little Charles," Mattie Fae said to me when I took the last bite of the sausage. "He can't be together with Ivy."

See, I wasn't that surprised when my wife first said that. I'm not blind. I knew our boy had a soft spot for his cousin ever since they were kids. They got even closer when she was sick last year, some kind of treatable cancer, as I understand. Whatever it was, it's something that she didn't want many others to know. But I know that he helped her out when she was recovering from a hysterectomy. That's probably when it started. Well, I knew it was problematic. After all, they are first cousins, or so I thought.

"That ain't right," I frowned at the empty plate before me and took a sip of the coffee. "They're cousins. But then again . . ." The cogs were turning in my head. Ivy won't be able to have kids . . . and I've only seen Little Charles smile these days when she's around. It hasn't been easy for the boy. Mattie Fae has always been hard on him. Sometimes I wish she could just say one little nice thing to her own son. The boy never has many friends. Only Ivy knows him well. "Well ..." I thought out loud. "If they don't have any kids . . ."

"No! They aren't cousins!" That was when Mattie Fae began to sob. "Ivy is his sister!"

"Wha . . .?!" I almost choked on the coffee. "Ivy is not my kid!" It was the first thing that came out of my mouth. But then her words sunk in. "What are you saying?" I watched my wife of thirty-eight years cry across the table. I couldn't believe my ears. "You? And Beverly . . .?"

"Yes," she said between her tears. "I made a mistake. Little Charles is his. I asked Barb to talk to Ivy. And I want to tell you myself, so that at least you'll hear it from me."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just sat there, staring at my coffee mug. And then she spoke again, "Barb told me they are planning on running away to New York. They can't. We'll have to stop them."

I probably sat there in silence for too long, because she thought I'd lost it.

"Charlie . . ." She came to my side, but she was afraid to touch me. "Are you okay? Would you please say something?"

What was there to say, really? So I just asked, "Who else knows?"

"Just Barb. Probably Ivy by now. I thought it'd be easier for Ivy to hear it from her sister. And maybe Ivy will tell Little Charles," she said quietly. "And Beverly . . . he knew. No one else."

"How could you not tell me?!" I still couldn't believe what she just dumped on me. "Thirty eight years! You never said a word!"

"You would have known if you hadn't been smoking so much pot!" She began to cry again. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm not proud of it. It's my mistake! And I'm paying for it!"

That was when I got up from the table and walked out the door. I wasn't sure what she meant by paying for it. I just can't see how she's paying for it now. Was I supposed to make her pay for it?

"Where are you going?" She cried from the house.

"I'm going to see Little Charles." I didn't even look back. "I need to see my son."

So that's how I ended up here by the lake.

I wonder if Beverly was thinking about his son when he took the boat out and jumped into the water. Did Little Charles even cross his mind? All along I thought he was just fed up by that grumpy wife of his.

Or maybe I've always been right, maybe that was why he killed himself. Violet must be pretty darn hard to live with. Hell! I can only imagine. Mattie Fae can be mean with her words, but she's nowhere near how nasty her sister can be.

So, maybe in the end Beverly never really thought about Little Charles. Why should he, I suppose? Little Charles is my son, not his.

I can hear Ivy crying before I get to the top of the stairs. It's just starting to get dark. Folks are all home getting ready for dinner. It feels strangely comforting hearing the sound of TV and rowdy kids coming from the apartments on my way up the steps.

I can see them from the window. He's sitting at the table, his face buried in his hands. Ivy is sitting across from him, holding a box of tissue, sniffling. She looks up and I see her bloodshot eyes.

The door's already open when I make it up to the top of the stairs.

"Uncle Charlie," Ivy nods. "Um . . . I'm just leaving." She tries to walk around me.

"Not just yet . . . just wait a minute." I stop her on her way out. Over her shoulder I see Little Charles looking back at me. He's been crying too.

The three of us sit in the room in silence for a long while. "Dad . . ." My boy makes a small sound, but he probably doesn't know what to say, either.

"Look," I decide it's better to get it over with before I change my mind. "I know. I know everything. And that's why I'm here." I draw a deep breath. This is not going to be easy. "I just want you two to know what I think about all this." I can feel their eyes on me. "I think you two deserve to be happy. I think you should go to New York, together."

"But dad . . ."

"Uncle Charlie!" Ivy shakes her head desperately. She's starting to cry again. "But it's . . . it's wrong."

I take a good look at my niece before me. I never really pay much attention to the girl when she's around. She's always been the quiet one, taking her mom's jabs in complete silence. Poor kid, when did she get so skinny? "Wrong?" I ask her. "Is it more wrong than cheating with your best friend's girlfriend? Is it more wrong than having an affair with your sister's husband? Is it more wrong to hide the truth from everyone for thirty-eight years? Really? What is wrong and what is right? Who's there to judge?"

They both fall silent. And I'm starting to second guess myself. All of a sudden the grey line between right and wrong is getting even blurrier.

"You wouldn't have a problem leaving if you didn't know about the secret that they kept from you." It may sound like I'm trying to convince them. But really I think I'm trying to convince myself. "You wouldn't have done anything differently if this thirty-eight-year-old secret had been kept from you for a while longer. You won't be having any kids. And no one will know about this in New York." Suddenly I remember the envelope in my pocket.

"What's this dad?" Little Charles frowns at the white envelope that I set before him.

"It's expensive in New York," I shrug. "And I still want you to have a few dollars left in your pocket to call me when you want to talk."

"What about mom?" He sounds really worried. "She's going to have a fit if she finds out that. . ."

"Leave your mom with me." I try to sound calm. "Just write us a letter or something after you guys settle down, alright?"

I need to get out of here, before I change my mind about right and wrong.

"Dad," my boy calls from behind. "I love you."

"I love you, too, son." I don't think I sound very much like myself anymore.

Mattie Fae is waiting at the front porch when I drive up to the house. She looks upset. I hope she didn't think I'd gone to kill myself like Beverly did. I'm a simple man, probably too simple to end my own life.

"Where did you go?" She runs to my side.

"I told you," I let her pull on my arm. "I went to see Little Charles."

"Did you tell him?" Her hands tightened around my arm.

"He knew already." I walk up toward the house, with her hurrying by my side. "Ivy was there before I did."

"Oh . . ." She's still not letting go of me. "And did you . . .?"

"Talk to them? Yeah, I did." I said to her. "I told them to go to New York."

"Charlie! But . . ." She bursts into tears. "They can't!"

For thirty-eight years, I've never made my wife cry, not even once. I'm going to make her cry now. Yet for whatever reason, I'm not even feeling half guilty. "Says who?" I pull my arm out of her hands and look her straight in the eye. "You?"

I found the book Beverly gave me years ago at the bottom of the drawer in the bedroom: Poetry by W. B. Yeats. I remember trying to read it when he first gave it to me, but just couldn't get it. I thought to myself back then, maybe poetry is for complicated people, complicated and smart people like Bev. And I'd probably never be good enough to understand a poet, or a word of poetry.

Now I'm here alone, staring at the cover of the book. That's when I start to wonder - is it really a good thing to be that complicated?

There's a knock on the bedroom door. I look up and there is my wife.

"I made you your favorite casserole," she says. "Will you come down to eat?"

I look back at the book. Bev once told me that he liked to escape into books, into the world of poetry. He never explained to me what he was trying to escape from. Was he trying to escape from his wife, or was he trying to escape from his own mistakes? I probably made a very big mistake today. But then again, I don't think I'm going to escape to anywhere anytime soon.

"Okay." I turn out the light and follow her out to the kitchen.

Are You Content

By W.B. Yeats

I call on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words
Spoilt what old loins have sent?
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,
I cannot, but I am not content.

He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross,
That red-headed rector in County Down
A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man
Old William Pollexfen,
The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,
Half legendary men.

Infirm and aged I might stay
In some good company,
I who have always hated work,
Smiling at the sea,
Or demonstrate in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content.

The End

It's a strange one... I warned you... Now I'll be good and go back to my HG/SS story. =)