Chapter 2: Now

They had never been religious, not really. Don couldn't think of the last time he'd observed Shabbat or checked the label at the grocery store for the little K to indicate that something was kosher. The last time they'd made a big deal over Passover had been the year that Charlie had turned eleven. Their mother had insisted, but now, standing in the bathroom doorway with his sleeves rolled up, Don couldn't remember why.

"Dad," he said.

Alan turned. "Mm?"

Don paused. It occurred to him that this might not be the best time to bring this up. "That one year, when we kept kosher for Passover… why did we do that? What was special about that year?"

Alan's face was blank. "I, uh… I don't remember." His next thought came to Don like an arrow: Charlie would know. With a small smile, he turned back toward the crowded living room, leaving Don standing in the doorway and wondering what he was doing there in the first place.

With nothing better to do, he turned on the water in the sink and splashed some onto his face. It felt good, cold – it had been hot that day, and Don could feel the sweat drying on his temples from standing outside in the sun. He looked up, expecting to see his own dark eyes and narrow nose, but instead saw nothing but blackness. Of course.

He reached out and touched the cloth covering the mirror, thinking he'd twitch it aside for a moment, then withdrew his hand. He knew what he'd see. A face flushed from the sun and starting to look a little ragged from the stubble that was growing on his chin. He'd see eyes that were clear and bright without a trace of redness. He'd had no crying jags since his breakdown in the hallways of Cal Sci, and he'd wondered about that. The tears were there, the pain was there, and it made Don think of that old Led Zeppelin song, the one with the driving blues beat, pounding like a hurricane: If it keeps on raining, levee's going to break.

He patted his face with a towel and leaned against the bathroom door. The living room was full of people, family members and friends, all there to comfort and talk and, if the occasion arose, laugh. Little by little the grief would come out, and little by little, it would diminish. Shared grief is a blessing, a balm, and Don wanted none of it. But it was expected of him. All of those people in there wanted him to grieve with them, for them, to them. It was… unfair.

As quietly as possible, he made his way into the midst of the crowd. Most everyone was sitting in small clumps, talking animatedly in hushed tones. Some of them looked up as he passed, and one or two touched his arm, but they did not attempt to draw him into conversation. He moved like a ghost through the living room and through the kitchen, not paying attention as his feet carried him on autopilot.

Don looked at his destination with no real surprise. He had not meant to come here, but now that he had, it seemed the most natural place in the world to be. It was where his brother had gone to be alone, and now, all unknowing, Don had done the same.

Except that he wasn't alone. Blinking against the dimness of the garage in contrast to the brightness of the kitchen (it seemed to Don that every bulb in the house was on, as if the light could keep the tragedy at bay), his eyes could just make out a solitary figure crouching by the far wall. It stood, turning to him with the sharp motions of surprise. "Don?"

"Larry? That you?"

It was indeed. He was standing near a chalkboard that had been propped against the wall, covered in the somehow runic symbols of calculus. A few more of the boards were hanging at various spots around the wall, but Don could see most of his brother's collection in a small, haphazard stack halfway behind a long-disused bookcase. "What are you doing in here?" Don asked.

"I'm looking at some of Charles's work. I believe this," and here he gestured to the board on the floor, "was part of your most recent case?"

Don peered at it dubiously. "Damned if I can tell," he said. "All of that stuff is… it's not just Greek to me, it's Martian. But it made sense to him, so…" He swiped a hand through his hair. "Tell me something, Larry, you always call him Charles. Almost never Charlie. Why is that?" There was an old, rickety picnic bench tipped on its side; Don righted it and perched on it.

Larry joined him. "I tend to remember names with greater consistency if I use the ones with which people introduce themselves to me. In Charles's case, that's how it was on my roll sheet: Charles Eppes. Not that he would have been hard to remember." Larry's eyes were far away now, no doubt remembering the first day he'd met Charlie. Don could imagine it in his mind's eye, and felt a sudden wave of affection for the man sitting next to him.

"What was your first impression of him?" Don asked. He wanted this memory; he wanted to turn it over in his mind. He could see it, but hazily; he had a hard time remembering what Charlie looked like when he was that young.

The faraway look persisted. "His youth, of course, stuck out. I knew right away that I was dealing with an extraordinary young man.

"What I remember most is how shy he was that first day. He sat alone in the second row, no one on either side of him, and while I know comparatively little about the complexities of sociology, I could see that this was a situation both sad and typical. He came into my classroom ready to learn, but he seemed so intimidated by the other students that he barely raised his hand in the first week."

"No kidding."

"Oh, he got used to it eventually. It seems that more than an average portion of Charles's life was spent fielding the unlovely stares of people who found him unsettling." Larry shook his head and rested his chin in both hands. "I am not proud to admit that I did my share of staring, too, but…"

Don looked curiously at Larry, who was still looking straight ahead at the board of Charlie's calculations. He seemed to be struggling with what to say next, and with a deep outward breath, he sat up and met Don's inquisitive gaze. "Don, I don't think that your brother ever realized quite how remarkable he was. Oh, he knew that he was brilliant, a great mathematical mind, but to turn out the way he did?" The physicist shook his head in what seemed like bewilderment. "That he became a doctor, a professor, that's not surprising. But that he was able to rise above the stigmas society places on those who are too exceptional, and become a respected colleague and a… friend…" Larry's voice quavered a bit. "We can lay that at your doorstep, I think."

Don could feel his face flushing, and, unable to help himself, he grinned. "Nah," he said, directing his eyes to Charlie's board. All those strange symbols, the sigmas and deltas, were comforting in some way. "Any credit for Charlie's people skills should go to my mom. She wanted to make sure that he knew that he was normal, even if he wasn't."

Larry stood abruptly, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. He made a slow circuit of the garage, feet moving almost silently as he crossed between the chalkboards and the door and the dryer. "I'm sorry," he said absently. "I find sometimes that spontaneous ambulation allows my thoughts to flow more freely. There've been rather too many of them, I have to say."

"I know what that's like," Don said.

The door opened slowly, as though the person on the other side were of two minds about entering. Don and Larry looked up to see Amita step through, looking almost nervous. Her hair was down, her loose curls tumbling over her shoulders. She stopped just inside the door. For a moment, the only sound Don could hear was the low murmur of conversation from the next room. "Amita," he said.

"I… I don't know how this works," she said quietly. It sounded as though she were confessing to something shameful, a dark secret from childhood. "I tried to do some research, but I couldn't concentrate."

"How what works?" asked Don in bewilderment.

It was Larry who answered, smiling gently at Amita. "May I venture the guess that you've never participated in sitting shiva before?"

She nodded, her eyes downcast. "There's so much to remember… I'm to let you speak first," she said, looking briefly at Don, "and I'm not supposed to ask too many questions, or greet anyone, but…"

Don rose and took her hands. They felt small and cold in his own, and he was startled to see deep circles cut under her dark eyes. She'd barely slept, he guessed, and instead lay awake at night, either crying or staring in stunned silence at the ceiling. And yet, with the weight of grief and sleeplessness, she was still so very lovely. Don was not in the least surprised that his brother had been so taken with her.

"We're not much for rules around here," he said. He wanted her to smile. "Tradition is one thing, but you don't need tradition to remember somebody."

Larry had approached in that silent way he had. Together, the three of them sat back down on the rickety picnic bench. It was a tight fit. Don didn't remember the bench being this small, but on the other hand he couldn't remember the last time he'd sat on it. Ten years ago? Fifteen?

"What are you doing?"

Charlie did not look up. "What's it look like I'm doing?"

Don considered doubtfully. His brother was lying on his back, head hanging off the edge of the picnic bench, his thin hands holding a book up to his eyes. The book, Don noted, was upside-down. He settled for the easy answer. "Something nerdy."

Even in his awkward position, Charlie managed to give him a look that stopped just short of contemptuous. "I am reading," he said archly. "You oughtta try it someday, Donald."

Don had been willing to just pass by, maybe feed the fish or see if his dad wanted to work on helping him learn to pitch. It was a spring Sunday, the weather too perfect, the sky too blue, and he was thirteen years old and bored. Picking on Charlie seemed too easy, but he was willing to give it a try. He sat on the other end of the bench. "What book?"

Charlie let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's called A Brief History of Time, and before you ask, cos I know you're gonna, I'm reading it upside-down because I read an article in Omni that said that you should try to challenge your brain once a day to keep it sharp. Today, I'm reading upside-down. Tomorrow, I'm going to try brushing my teeth left-handed." Sitting the way he was, his voice sounded strained, but he kept his eyes on the page.

"Brushing your teeth left-handed helps keep your brain sharp?" Don mused aloud.

"Yeah. Try it. It can't hurt."

They sat in relative peace for awhile, the breeze ruffling Charlie's pages and Don's hair. Idly, not looking at him, Don reached out one finger and poked Charlie in the shin. He got no response, so he did it again.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" Poke. Poke.

"That. Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything." Poke.

"Cut it out, Don, I'm not kidding."

Poke.

"Fine. Be that way."

Poke.

As Don remembered it, Charlie had won that fight. For a wonder, he had stopped saying anything at all, and Don had finally given up. He grinned at the memory, grinned even as the sorrow resurfaced. And now all the memories were just behind him, as though if he closed his eyes they would play one after another, reminding him over and over again of his brother's life, and worse, his brother's death. Could he feel this way forever? Could he stand that sort of anguish?

Amita's hand crept into his and he gripped it tightly. He was not surprised to see that she had also taken one of Larry's hands, and they sat in a near-reproduction of that day in the halls of Cal Sci.