AU novella. Herded by circumstance, Chuck falls on hard times and into a life of crime. But his new job does not go according to his plan.
Dying to Death
CHAPTER TWO
Bathing Beauty?
For a breathless few seconds, Chuck stood, unmoving, as the woman's blonde hair spread itself out on the surface of the bath water.
All at once, he grasped the situation: he pushed the curtain completely out of the way and, in the same motion, he plunged his arms into the water, putting his hands under the woman's arms, and lifting her up out of the water. He knocked the wine glass over, but it landed on the bath mat, spilling its remaining contents but not shattering. Water splashed the shiny gun still on the tub's side.
The woman did not respond; Chuck panicked. He slid the gun along the tub side, then pulled the woman over the side, her body still in the tub, but her head and shoulders over the edge. Grimacing, he opened her mouth and put his fingers down her throat. She gagged, then vomited red wine and pills, the vomit splashing on the already wine-darkened bath mat.
For a moment, her eyes opened, and she turned her head, both blue eyes affixed to Chuck. Pain and anger showed in those blue eyes-overpowering even in her weakness-but a question showed too. She started to speak, then her head dropped again. Chuck dragged her from the water and holding her close against him, her body cool and wet, he grabbed one of the decorative towels hanging from the towel rack. Keeping her against him with one arm, he used the other to towel her off, drying her somewhat. Her skin seemed to pink a bit, and he took that as a good sign. He could feel her against him, feel her breathing, regular, deep. He dropped the towel and walked her into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers and gently laid her back on the bed. He quickly retrieved the towel he dropped and located another in a cabinet. He returned to her and dried her off more carefully.
He started to remove the wet underwear but then he blushed and he could not get himself to do it. Trying not to think about what he felt beneath his hands, he pressed the towel gently against her chest, then moved it down and pressed it below her waist. He stepped around the bed and went into the huge walk-in closet. Women's clothes lined one side, men's the other.
Chuck found a blue cotton nightgown and took it back to the woman. He sat her up and clumsily put the nightgown on her. When he had covered her with it, and when her still-exposed skin felt warm and dry, he pulled up the blankets and covered her. After a moment, she sighed and rolled over, curling herself into a question mark beneath the blankets.
He stood there looking at her. As his panic subsided, the last few moments slowed down and past him in a review. The woman had been in the process of killing herself. The pills, the gun, the water. He wasn't sure how it all fit together but the point was clear enough. Still looking at her, he wondered at her face, so peaceful and so lovely resting on the pillow, framed by her damp hair. While he was toweling her dry, he had noticed that her body was marked by scars, most not easily visible: one on her calf, one on her thigh, two or three on her abdomen, one on her shoulder. Even on her lips, when he dried her face, he had seen a couple of ghostly white scars. Clearly, she had been given expert medical attention; the scars were not easily visible. But Chuck had studied with Ellie enough to know a bit about wounds. Some of the scars were the traces of once-serious injury.
But that made little sense. The woman was beautiful, stop-and-stare-if-you-have-no-manners beautiful. She lived in this house, this amazing if tastelessly decorated house. Why she would be covered with scars, obscured scars, was puzzling. It seemed fitting that her body had made a question mark beneath the blankets.
Chuck shook himself, trying to focus.
What am I doing? I am stealing from this woman, and now I am saving her?
He had no answer to his question. He had just done what he did. He walked back into the bathroom and cleaned it, just to have something to do, the bodily action quieting his mind. He put the bath mat in a towel and gathered up the damp towels. He took the pile to the washroom downstairs and put it in the washing machine. He added detergent and choose a setting. He punched the 'start' button and the machine began to fill with water. He headed back upstairs.
Checking the woman, he found her still sleeping, still breathing regularly. As far as he could tell, she was fine. He thought about calling an ambulance anonymously and then leaving, but, standing there, near her, he couldn't get himself to do it. He was almost certain that she was no longer in danger from the pills she had taken and then vomited up: the pills had not dissolved, their active ingredients were still encased, kept inactive. Still not sure why he was doing it, Chuck reached down to snug the covers closer around her, then he walked to the tv on the wall opposite the bed's end and turned it on manually. He sat down on the foot of the bed, careful not to disturb the woman. He saw the remote on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He got up, grabbed it and resumed his position on the foot of the bed.
He idly rotated through channels until he found an episode of I Dream of Jeannie. It was part of a marathon of the show. Smiling to himself unconsciously, and then turning to look at the woman as he did, he settled in to watch the show while also keeping watch over her.
ooOoo
The afternoon passed. Chuck checked the woman often, but indications of her condition all continued good. He watched several episodes of Jeannie. He went downstairs and made himself some microwave popcorn. He carried the steaming, freshly opened bag upstairs and sat back down; another episode of the show began. He hadn't eaten since the sandwich that morning. He crunched away on the popcorn, wishing for some milk duds to drop into it, and thought of Morgan. He checked his phone. Still nothing.
"Are you gonna share, or what?"
Chuck whirled around. The woman was sitting up in bed, looking at him. Her gaze was unreadable. She seemed to be-to have been-studying him.
Chuck got up and walked to the head of the bed. Without saying a word, he held out his popcorn. She plunged her hand into the bag, knocking a few kernels onto the floor, and then began to force-feed herself the fistful of popcorn with obvious hunger. Chuck just watched. When she had finished the fistful, she smirked slightly at him and plunged her hand into the bag again. Chuck pushed it to her.
"You can have it," he said softly.
She glanced up and her eyes softened for a second before returning to inscrutability: "Thanks."
Chuck gave a small shrug. "I can make more."
Still eating, she shook her head. "No, this will do. It's all I need."
She looked at him again, another studious look. She looked down at herself, the nightgown. "Did you...dress...me?"
Chuck nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I was worried about you being cold and I found what you were wearing...not wearing...um, anyway, your...outfit...was distracting."
She re-commenced studying him. She gestured to the tv, to Jeannie in her Arabian Nights costume. "My...outfit...distracted you but hers didn't?" Her tone was flat, neutral. He wasn't sure what her point was.
"Well," Chuck began but then realized he had no idea what to say.
The woman stared at him, waiting. Then she smiled. The smile seemed reluctant in a way but more genuine for that. "My name is Sarah."
"Chuck."
"No, really?"
"Really. It's a name."
"That it is...Chuck."
Chuck felt his ears redden when she said his name. He felt like he had never heard it until she just said it. When she said it, she seemed to caress it and it sounded like a call to arms. He had never been galvanized by hearing his own name before.
"How are you feeling, Sarah?"
She looked down for a minute, her first display of self-consciousness. "Shitty. But then, I felt shitty...you know, before...but just in a different way."
"About that...I couldn't just leave you...there," he gestured with his head toward the bathroom.
She blushed. "Right. I get it. I would have done the same in your…" She paused and took a long hard look at him. "Wait a minute, what are you doing here? In the house?" Chuck did not immediately respond and she continued. "Were you...cleaning the bathroom?"
Chuck grinned against his wish. "Well, yes. But I am not, you know, the maid," she blinked at him when he said that, "I was actually here to rob you."
She took this in with no visible reaction. After a moment of silence, she spoke. "Okay. But you were cleaning the bathroom, right? I wasn't so far under I was hallucinating…"
"No," Chuck said, shifting on his feet, "I...um...it's sort of my trademark. I always do some cleaning in any house I rob."
She laughed, then seemed surprised-at herself, not him. "That's weird, you know."
Chuck just shrugged. He changed the topic. "So, you are okay?"
"I'll live." She gave him a flat look. The words, pronounced softly enough, seemed to fill the room, to crowd them both.
Sarah threw the covers back and stood up. She wobbled for a second and Chuck reached out to steady her. She allowed him to do it although he could tell she found it...unnatural. After a moment, she gently pushed him away and stood on her own.
She shook her head. "What did I do to deserve you? Only I could manage to have my suicide stolen from me…"
The word, now spoken, made Chuck's chest tighten. Sarah took a step toward the bathroom and Chuck followed. She stopped and gave him an annoyed look. "I need to pee."
"Fine, and I need to be with you." He forced himself to match the intensity of her look. "Suicide watch. I don't plan to leave you alone."
Sarah's look grew less annoyed but more complicated. Chuck did not understand it. She seemed to size him up, physically. For a moment, he felt like he was in imminent physical danger, but the moment passed. Sarah went on into the bathroom. She got to the toilet, turned, and began to hike up her nightgown, all the while with the same complicated look on her face.
Chuck suddenly realized what was happening, and he turned around so that his back was to Sarah. He heard her laugh again. "Really? I mean, thanks. I admit, despite how you found me, I'm really not...not when myself anyway..um...immodest. But I thought you were on suicide watch?"
Chuck answered her: "I am...but that doesn't mean I am on...pee watch. I can give you a...modicum of privacy."
"'Modicum', Chuck? So you aren't just a burglar, you're an articulate burglar?"
"Stanford man, sort of."
"Impressive. But…'sort of'?"
"It's complicated."
"Everything is. Tell me. I am finding it sort of hard to go with you standing there. Maybe if you talk it'll help."
"Okay...So, I was in my senior year at Stanford-computer engineering-when the guy I thought was my best friend, one of my frat brothers, accused me of cheating, got me thrown out of school…" Chuck stalled for a second but then heard the sound of Sarah peeing behind him.
"Thanks, Chuck, and...um...sorry if it seems like I'm...well...peeing on your story or something. You have a nice voice, soothing. I like to listen to it. But that, that Stanford thing, that sure sucks. I assume, despite your current means of livelihood, you were innocent?" Chuck heard her stand and then heard the toilet flush.
The timing of the flush and his story struck him as ironic, and he laughed softly but there was an edge to his laughter. "Yes, burglar I may be, but a cheater I was not."
He turned around and watched as Sarah washed her hands. He laughed again. She gave him a puzzled look. "Awfully hygienic for a woman with a death wish."
Chuck had no more than gotten the words out that he wanted to call them back. But Sarah gave him a rueful smile. "Habits are hard to break, Chuck." She turned and then seemed to notice for the first time the silver gun still on the side of the tub. She stole a quick glance at Chuck. "So you cleaned up the pills but left the gun?"
Chuck pursed his lips and then pulled them to one side of his face. "I don't do guns. They scare me. Never carried one, never will."
She responded while staring at the gun. "Not even when embarked on your life of crime, Chuck?"
"Nope."
She stepped toward the gun, then glanced at him. Chuck made no move to stop her. She picked up the gun, removed the magazine, ejected the chambered cartridge, and handed both to Chuck. He looked at her, unsure of what she was doing.
"Despite its...placement, I never intended to shoot myself, Chuck. The gun was there as...as a reminder." A look of deep pain crossed her face, and Chuck decided not to ask. He put the cartridge and magazine into his pocket. She put the gun on the bathroom counter. She walked back into the bedroom. She got in the bed, seated, not prone, and pulled the covers over her long legs. She peered intently at the tv. She patted the bed beside her. "Sit. Tell me about the blond in the skimpy outfit."
Chuck gave her a deliberate smirk. "Which one?"
Sarah punched him in the shoulder. It hurt a surprising amount. "Ouch!"
"Big baby."
"I have a condition," he said, in a solemn tone. She looked at him, waiting. "I have a pain allergy." She punched him again in the same spot.
"Again, ouch!"
"Stop whining and start explaining, Professor."
"Wrong show. No island."
She gave him a dumbfounded look. "Huh?"
"Nevermind, Ginger."Sarah blinked in incomprehension. Chuck went on. "So, this show is called I Dream of Jeannie…"
"Oh, a genie! Magic!"
"Right, but J-e-a-n-n-i-e. It's her name and...her job."
Sarah gave him a funny look. "Okay. And are those...astronauts? What do astronauts have to do with ancient Arabia?"
Chuck took a deep breath. This was going to take a while. At least Sarah was smiling.
ooOoo
The closing credits were playing.
As they had watched episodes of the show, Sarah slowly allowed herself to close the distance between Chuck and herself. Eventually, she was against him, her head on his shoulder. When she first put it there, he reached out and took her hand for a second, giving it a warm squeeze. She smiled at that and relaxed even more.
Sarah roused herself but did not move her head. "So, they got married after all? Despite all the troubles and interference, all the difficulties?"
Chuck nodded. "Yep. We just watched it."
"But she couldn't be photographed? Jeannie?"
"Right. Genies don't photograph-at least on the show."
"I thought that was vampires?"
"No, vampires don't reflect. I mean, you know, in mirrors. But maybe they reflect, you know, think about stuff, blood, and stakes..."
"Oh, yeah, and there's the crosses and the garlic thing."
"Right."
Sarah seemed lost in thought for a minute. "So, Jeannie used a mannequin to be her body double…"
"Yeah...and?"
"So, did Tony marry her-or the mannequin-or no one?"
Chuck gave her a good-natured shrug. "Jeannie, I guess, but it's a good question. The show says he married Jeannie, and she was standing beside him for the vows, although it was the mannequin standing-in in the some of wedding photographs. And even though it seemed no one was standing beside Tony during the vows, at least in the film taken of the vows."
Sarah's mood seemed to dip. "It's hard-not being present in your own life. Living through stand-ins...Fakery"
Chuck did not react to these words. He let them come and go, but he pondered them, and what they might mean. Sarah left her head on his shoulder for a while longer, even after Chuck clicked off the tv.
The room was silent for a while. "You know, Chuck," Sarah began in a whisper, "you really can't stop me. If I want to do it, I'll do it."
Chuck sat for a moment before he answered. "Look, why don't we make dinner? I'm starved. As you said, habits are hard to break, and dinner, that's almost everyone's habit, so...dinner?"
Sarah picked her head up and gazed at him, a tinge of wonder in her eyes. "I'm not much of a cook."
"That's okay. We can do something easy. How about eggs, maybe scrambled, or an omelet?"
Sarah held his gaze for a moment. "Actually, I'm good with eggs. But I'm not sure I feel up to facing a skillet…"
"That's okay. You can just give me instructions and I will do it for you."
"Like Jeannie's mannequin?" Her tone was funny, sad and happy all at once.
"Um...Sure. Let's go." Chuck stood and offered Sarah his hand. She hesitated for a moment, then she reached out and let him help her up. Her hand was warm in his, yielding. He let it go carefully once she was up; he did not want to transgress against her boundaries. They seemed to have reached some at least temporary understanding.
Chuck started downstairs and he heard her bare feet padding behind him. But he did not turn around, did nothing to suggest he did not fully expect her to follow. He stepped off the stairs and walked across to the kitchen. He opened the massive refrigerator. "Say, where do you keep the eggs?"
Sarah did not answer. She walked up beside him and opened the door alcove on the interior of the door marked 'Eggs'. A carton was there. Chuck opened it; there were five eggs. Enough. He checked the expiration date-still good. He hunted around and found a stick of butter and a few vegetables in a drawer that looked reasonably fresh. He handed the vegetables to Sarah. "Can you cut these? It's all I'll ask you to do. I'm just clumsy with knives. I tend to bleed on the vegetables."
She nodded. She crossed to the large island, put the vegetables on the cutting board stationed on it, and then pulled a knife from the knife block beside the cutting board. She spun the knife in her hand like a Western fast-draw might spin his pistol. She noticed that Chuck saw it. "I'm surprised," she said as she began to make short work of the slicing and dicing, "that you would let the suicidal woman use a knife…"
Chuck gave her a steady look. He was melting butter in a skillet. He had found it while Sarah had gotten started on the vegetables. He had also found a bowl, and he was cracking the eggs and putting them in it. "Here's the thing, Sarah. We have eggs-but most importantly, we have butter and…" he reached past her to the center of the island, "...we have salt." He gave the shaker a gentle shake, careful not to actually shake any salt out.
"No one wants to leave a world in which there's butter and salt." When Sarah smirked, Chuck continued. "Don't forget, I saw you stuffing your face with fistfuls of buttery, salty popcorn a little while ago…"
Sarah blushed and looked away. When she looked back, Chuck had finished salting the eggs and was whisking them in the bowl with a fork. "Don't whisk them too much, Chuck. After all that salt, they'll be tough."
He stopped whisking and raised an eyebrow. "Really? Is that true?"
Sarah nodded, glad that he had not commented on or acknowledged her blush. "Yes, I learned it from a Basque cook in Spain."
Chuck's other eyebrow rose. "Spain? Wow! I've never been anywhere. Other than my doomed time in Palo Alto, I really haven't ever left LA. Did you travel a lot?"
Sarah chewed her bottom lip for a second. "At one time, it was almost all I did. But my travel was all verb if you know what I mean. I never exactly went anywhere or vacationed or toured or...you know, whatever."
"Why?"
"Work." She offered no more for a little while and Chuck poured the egg into the melted butter. As he worked the eggs in the skillet, Sarah spoke again. "My only mementos of travel were stamps in my passport. I don't have a single photo...not really. In and out, that's what I did. If I was anyplace for more than a few hours, work kept me from being able to pay attention to anything there."
"What did you do?" Chuck tried to keep his tone light, conversational, but he was curious, very curious. The gun, the scars, the knife. What had she her work been?
"It doesn't matter anymore, Chuck. I quit a year ago or so. I've been trying to find a new job since, but I can't seem to find one that I like."
"None as good as the one you had?" Chuck suggested.
"No," Sarah said with a tone of finality. "Anything would be better than that. No, I just can't seem to find any place I feel at home…"
"You don't feel at home here?" Chuck made a general circular gesture with the wooden spatula he was using to tend the eggs. Before she could answer, he pointed to the cutting board and the vegetables. Sarah handed him the cutting board. He dumped the veggies into the eggs.
Sarah frowned. "What?" Chuck asked.
"We probably should've sauteed the vegetables first. I stopped paying attention."
Chuck laughed. "You sliced these things up so perfectly and so thinly, I don't think it will matter." He stirred the mixture then looked at her. "You never answered me."
"Answered what?"
He gave her a small, gotcha grin. "Do you not feel at home here?"
Sarah looked around, her face blank. She shrugged. "Not really."
There was finality in her tone again and Chuck returned his attention to the eggs. He found a plate and, moving the skillet off the stove and over the counter, he put the plate on top of it and flipped the two together. The eggs moved from the skillet to the plate. Chuck then slid the eggs back into the skillet.
Sarah was watching him closely. "Nicely done, Chuck. Nicely done. That's how the Spanish cook taught me to do it. No folding, just a flip."
"I haven't ever gone anywhere, but I have traveled extensively on YouTube."
Sarah chuckled. "You are one surprising burglar, you know that?'
Chuck shot her a glance. "And, let me guess. You don't like surprises."
Sarah turned her palms up and shrugged. "Normally, no. But today is not normal. This is not a normal dinner. And, Chuck, if you don't mind me saying so, this feels sort of like a date. Not a normal date, but a date…"
Chuck's ears tinged. "It's not a date. Just two...friends...eating eggs."
He slid the eggs from the skillet back onto the plate. He motioned for Sarah to give him the knife, and he cut the puffy eggs into two large pieces. He got another plate and moved one half to it, handing the plate to Sarah. She took it to the small table and sat down. Chuck took his plate and set it down across from hers.
He went back and opened drawers until he found silverware. He came back with a knife and fork for each of them, and with the salt and pepper shakers. He made one more trip, coming back with two glasses (in one hand) and a carton of milk (in the crook of his arm), as well as with two napkins from another drawer (in his other hand). He put the glasses down, and then gave Sarah a napkin and put one beside his own plate. He then poured them both a glass of milk, only then thinking to check the date. He nodded. Still good. Like the eggs, the milk had yet to reach the expiration date.
He looked up to see Sarah studying him again, an abstracted smile on her face. He smiled back. She had her fork in her hand and she pointed it at his empty chair.
"Sit. I hate to eat alone."
Chuck sat. He thought about the morning-it seemed so far away now-and eating Morgan's half of the Chuckster alone in the tiny kitchen of their apartment. He still had not heard from Morgan. He was worried about that, but, for now, Sarah took precedence.
"Me too," he noted.
Sarah took a bite of the eggs and gave him a shy smile. "Good," she said softly, "really good."