Chapter Eleven: Earth to Charlie

---1---

Charlie's nightmare played out like a film:

Mottled concrete walls enclose a water-stained floor littered with metal debris: half-rings and broken rods—someone's failed attempt at constructing an armillary sphere. Men and women—haggard and thirsty—crowd before a ceiling-high, iron pocket door, desperate to slide it open. Charlie, speaking with authority, entreats them to cease arguing and wasting time, to work together and do as he asks because he can get them out before they all perish.

Tempers flare and an angry man orders him to shut up, to quit acting like he knows everything. Calmly, Charlie insists the man cooperate and turns back to the others, then, as his view changes to that of spectator, he watches the angry man grab a rod and raise it high, striking him across the neck.

Charlie arches backwards, collapsing to the floor where he tips to his back, paralyzed. Reylott appears, bending over him when he hadn't been there before, saying, "You're dying. You can't lift your head, can you?" In the faces around him, Charlie searches for Don but finds no one who can befriend him and wakes up, shouting.

"Calm down. It's one of those dreams, it isn't real."

Someone was speaking, folding blankets off his chest. Not Larry.

"Let's get you to your room, Charlie, you'll be comfortable there."

Dad?

"Dad's right. You should be in the house."

Don? His brother was beside him, on the couch. Delirious in Charlieland, disoriented. He twisted away. "No, he's in there."

"Reylott?" Alan said. "I wish you'd stuck with Dr.Volkov. Come on, up." He took Charlie under the arms, pushed him into a sitting position. "Inside…wow, you're burning."

Unhappy and bothered, he felt too ill to walk. "It's safer here."

Don lowered his brother's leg to the floor. "Just a short trip," he said, and they got him to his feet. "Then you can get your shoes off."

"Run faster if they're on," he said, and started forward. His father had one elbow, Don the other.

"Yeah, well," Don said, "I don't think you'll be competing in any marathons for a while."

"My mouth's dry," Charlie said. Andlegs are four-by-fours, ready to crumble.

Alan led the way. "When you're settled in your room, I'll get you some juice."

"Where's Larry?" He hesitated at the doorway, puzzled. "Was he real?"

"He had to leave," Don said. "One foot in front of the other…that's the way."

Charlie allowed himself to be led out, then halted. "My room?—no no no, my room's a bad place."

"Where's your logic?" Don carried a blanket over his arm. "There isn't anything wrong with your room that hasn't been wrong the last twenty years."

He wants to trick me, thought Charlie, and he fussed, pulling away.

"All right," Alan said. "We'll go to Don's room. Keep going."

Up the now extra-long stairs, Charlie sat at the bed and Alan removed one of his shoes, Don the other, then changed clothes and climbed in. The bed was cool and wide and he found he was indeed comfortable where his limbs weren't slipping to the floor and covers weren't falling away. He listened in a daze, wondering where his juice was, while his father and brother discussed him in the hallway.

Don sounded upset. "Did you see this?" he said. "This was on his desk. It's information on buying a gun, list of most popular models."

"I hadn't," Alan said. "But I don't think he'd actually go through with it."

Don's voice softened, as though he'd realized he were speaking too harshly. "I also found a knife in the bathroom. He isn't thinking clearly."

Alan agreed. "Let him sleep."

Charlie called out to them. "The window…"

Don entered. "It's cool, we know, it's broken. All swept up," he said, and placed bottled water on the nightstand.

Juice?

"I went through every room," Don said, "every closet, didn't see anything that would indicate we had a break-in."

"Bugs?" Charlie said.

"Checked. No sign of electronic surveillance. Neighborhood looks regular. Snooze, don't worry." Don switched off the lamp and Charlie shot up, alarmed, insisting it be left on.

"Charlie, if you keep chickening out you'll never get over it."

"Leave it on."

"Fine. How about I leave the hall light?" Don said. "We'll be here in case anything happens, which it won't."

He lay back on the pillow. "Don't close the door."

---2---

Charlie rolled to his side and squished the comforter, eyes too fiery to unfasten. Damp hair stuck to his forehead and he brushed it back, listening. Somewhere, Greensleeves was playing. Not in my music collection, not in Dad's, I think. On flute. Good quality, lifelike. Neighbors. Radio. My subconscious? What time is it? He squinted at the clock on the wall but his vision blurred with fever, over 103 since nightfall the previous day.

The half-closed door squeaked and Alan appeared. "How's it going?"

He was motionless. The music had departed. All night he'd gone from chill to sizzle and back again. "Beaten."

"Here's your medicine." He put the pills on the stand, wrapped a hand on Charlie's forearm. "Like the music? Your friend came by last night. Told her you were sick and she asked if she could play something for you this morning, make you feel better."

"Nice try," Charlie said. "Didn't mind."

"She brought cookies. Tasty. Hurry and get over this, they'll be gone."

Eating—some other century. Charlie coughed, curled up. For the rest of the day, he forgot anyone was ever in the room.

---3---

Don's face hovered over the bed. "Charlie, take your pills, keeps the fever down."

He rested on his stomach, twisting to flip over. His bones and muscles protested. Silently, he took the water and pills from Don, swallowed and gave back the water. He groaned, became acutely aware of the demands of nature. He'd have to force himself out of bed when he hadn't dared think about being upright.

It can't wait. "I have to go," he said.

"Go where? You're running out of rooms."

Charlie pointed to the bath and propped up. Swaying, he fell back on an elbow, lightheaded. So near, so far.

"Steady as he goes," Don said, and helped him out of bed.

He teetered at the footboard, on the verge of toppling. The movement had aggravated his headache. "I'm all right," he said, and hobbled off to business.

By the time he got back, Don had fluffed up the covers and Charlie gratefully crawled under them.

"There," Don said. "Want anything?"

He denied he did. When the illness had added insult to injury, sadness had overwhelmed him. He felt sorry for himself but wasn't proud of it. His brother's presence was bothersome—after all that had transpired between them, Don was hanging around as if everything were warm and fuzzy.

"You must really be sick, you're really quiet," Don said. He stood at the window, nudged the curtains wider. "Not faking it like when we were kids, to get out of school."

Charlie balled a sheet up in his fists, blinked at the light fixture above.

Don turned around. "Earth to Charlie."

"Why are you here?" he said, and regretted it as soon as he'd asked. The question had come out tinged with anger—because he still was. I haven't chickened out.

Don peeked out below at a spot in the garden, behaving as though he hadn't heard. "Explain the flute. Who was she?"

"Asked her to play, before I got sick."

"Lucky you," he said. "Good eye. And Amita?"

"Bad timing," Charlie said. "Busy. Bored with me. You pick."

"I came over to talk. Didn't know you had the flu."

"Can't think..." He yawned and closed his eyes, his mind drifting off, but he sensed Don had moved away from the window when a shadow fell over his lids.

"Listen," Don said. "I've made a decision…Charlie?"

He felt a light touch on his shoulder, exhaled softly. "Huh?"

"I'm going back to the woods. Up Mean Marmot Trail."

What? Charlie had tuned him out, burying his nose in the pillow, and fallen asleep.

oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo