Chapter Twenty: Thicker Than Water

---1---

Everyone—including the Eppes family and the authorities—anticipated further calls from Jacobi and prepared to intercept them but there were none in the weeks after her single call. The phone number itself—which Charlie had so quickly noted—was tracked by the experts and had turned out to belong to a woman whose purse had been stolen along with her cellular.

Jacobi's silence did not disappoint Charlie. If she had continued to contact him, it would've meant a Reylott would have continued to harass him and he'd had enough of them and the damage they'd inflicted upon his household. Don and Megan speculated, telling him that Jacobi might have unintentionally fallen in love with him and had to have one last chat...or, she hadn't given up playing badminton with his head, unable to resist one last slap. It was also possible her silence had something to do with her son John, her desire to keep the boy's whereabouts secret.

As for Robert Altintop, he did them a favor, pleading no contest which meant he would be sentenced without trial. There would be no court appearances for the Eppes.

In the sleep department, Charlie's dreams had gradually quieted into strange but innocuous scenarios. In one, he appears in the FBI office, walking amongst the cubicles toward Don's workspace. It's empty, the lights set low. In the conference room, Volkov's emerald couch is perched atop the table and there are two Dr.Volkovs, one sitting at each end. The one on the left holds a notepad, the other the black baseball bat. Through smoky glass, a human shadow lurks outside the room, curious to see what will happen, his nose against the pane.

The twin Volkovs motion for Charlie to climb up and sit, tapping the space between them. He grabs a chair, steps up but suddenly the table is higher, over his head, and he reaches for it. As he pulls up, the edge rises even higher and his feet come off the chair, legs dangling. Charlie is angered, looks down to gage the height and lets himself drop. He peers up, sees the table has been lowered again to normal height, which angers him more. The Volkov on the left makes notes, the other has fallen asleep. Fed up, Charlie leaves, pausing to watch the human come out of lurking, and sees himself.

Although the dreams were vivid, they didn't bother him; he felt strong, knew he could deal with them. They were a vast improvement over nightmares and his screaming wake-ups had ceased.

What he did worry about was Don. His stalwart brother had procrastinated, delaying the appointment for the psychological evaluation. I'll go when I'm ready to go, he'd told Charlie, not when they tell me I have to. To his credit, on his own, Don had rescheduled the appointment and when the time came he stoically attended, swallowing his pride and emerging all the tougher for having dealt with it squarely as far as Charlie could tell. He didn't want to ask and risk ruffling his feathers.

Thereafter, the psychiatrist's report remained pending and Charlie grew nervous, eager to know what the report's recommendations would mean for his sibling, asking Don to call him as soon as he found out.

To which Don had casually replied: How about going to the batting range with me this afternoon? Charlie declined, said he'd have to take a rain check.

At home, the sundial sphere project was on course. Charlie had redrawn the schematic on his chalkboard—making a variation on the scale—and set about researching the availability of materials, intending to commission an artist to create it to his specifications. It would be magnificent. Now, it was a matter of actually acquiring those materials and getting them to an artist for cutting and assembly. Another hurdle, easy in comparison to the trials of the last few weeks. No hurry. He enjoyed the opportunity to do a normal activity normally.

In his garage study, he tied up loose ends, wondering where Jacobi might have discarded the door key. She had obviously discovered it tucked inside the toad in the plantar as Larry had predicted "any half-witted criminal" would know where to look. No one had been able to locate it and it was possible the key was in her possession, kept as a souvenir of spite. It bothered him she'd trespassed into his territory to steal from him and his family, that there were people out there who would take advantage of trust, sympathy, and love.

While searching for the key near the hockey table, Charlie heard a car door slam shut. He'd checked amongst the cartons and was on the floor feeling under the desk when Don walked in.

"Lose something?" he said. He wore jeans, brown button-down and running shoes.

"The key." Charlie crawled to the couch and peeked under, lying on his belly and sweeping his hand beneath it. On his side, he felt a sudden jab where the stitches had been, where the deep tissue was still healing, and he stopped a moment.

Don asked if he'd shaken out the bushes, perhaps she'd disposed of it there or in the flowerbeds.

"I guess she could have." He straightened up, kneeling on his heels. "Have you heard anything?"

He'd wandered over to the drawing of the sundial. "Yeah, I think I heard a flute."

"Not funny. You know what I mean." Charlie stood, brushed his jeans of cobwebs. "The report."

"Report?" he said. "This sundial's a nice stretch for you, Charlie. Got an artist yet?"

"Don, the evaluation."

"Where's Dad today?" At the couch, he dropped onto the cushions and leaned back, his body language unveiling a man not in a hurry. "I didn't see his car."

"He's catching up on some work." Charlie noticed Don's injury had been mending nicely, reduced to fuzzy bruises and a well-sealed scratch. "Are you going to say or not?"

"Say or not what?"

"If you're gonna' play games, I have things to do." He opened the door. "Bushes, flowers…"

"Okay okay. I heard today," he said, and Charlie joined him on the couch, holding his breath for the news. "Doc says I'm competent, I'll be all right. Recommends I go back to work on the condition I attend six months minimum weekly therapy with my shrink of choice. Preapproved of course."

Charlie exhaled, clasped Don's forearm. "Excellent news."

"You kidding? Once a week, Charlie."

"I find that reasonable." And a relief.

"Reasonable?" Don said. "You get out of therapy, I have to go?"

"I'm glad for you. I was concerned they'd be unaccommodating."

"You were, weren't you? My job that important to you?"

"Yes," Charlie said. "Because you are."

"I'm weeping, bro."

He rolled his eyes, realized Don wouldn't be going mushy on him. "Just being honest with you," he said, and resumed his search, stepping onto a stool.

"I can appreciate that, so…" he said, "the night you were in the cave, I loitered a little."

From a top shelf, Charlie slid out a bulky cardboard box, thinking Jacobi might have disposed of the key by tossing it off haphazardly.

"I turned back," Don said. "I camped under the outcropping, out of sight."

Charlie was struggling with the box and had barely digested what Don was saying before the flimsy crate burst open. The bottom flaps had long ago come unglued, spilling Lincoln Logs, golf balls and other miscellany down his chest. "Ouch!" he said, "that smarts," and looked below. A large glob of magnets he and Don had played with as children had clipped his bent knee and split apart on the floor. "The whole time?" he said, holding his leg. "You saw me climbing down? By the tree?"

Don rose. "Oops, let me help you," he said, gathering up mini-logs. They'd scattered everywhere, rolling left and right. "Yeah, I watched you. What's so wrong with that? It's a high cave, steep incline."

Balancing the box, Charlie put it on the rickety table. "I didn't want anyone there."

"I prepare for every possibility. I'm trained to do that."

"Don't shove it off on your training." He snatched up a glob. "You should've gone back like you said you would."

Near the hockey table, Don had procured a plastic pail to place things in. "It's all the same—you didn't even know I was there."

Charlie collected magnets, using a large one to attract the smaller. "You didn't think I could do it, did you?" Why didn't you tell me this when we were up there? "Or were you avoiding the cabin?"

"Absolutely not," Don said. "After I saw you go back up, I left."

"That straight?"

"Damn straight." Don offered Charlie the pail. "I stayed because I was worried, okay?"

Accepting it, Charlie dropped the magnets in. Isn't that what I'd whined about, insisting Don walk me through it? I'm the one who changed my mind. He's always been sincere with me, even if it was a product of his own confusion. He couldn't foresee he'd have his own problems. There've been no easy outs for either of us, no magic cures. We've made mistakes, but we can meet halfway. We'll only sustain our peace of mind if we sustain our peace as brothers.

Charlie placed the pail on the floor. "Thanks for being there," he said, meeting Don's eyes. "We don't have to be together all the time to be on the same wavelength."

Don agreed and let out a throaty howl, accented by his mischievous eyes, lines crinkling round them. "Great fire, huh?" he said, and they both laughed, turning to the door at once.

Alan entered, sidestepping golf balls and logs. "What fire? I miss something?"

What keen Eppes ears. Although they hadn't done so intentionally, Charlie and Don had been mum about the bonfire ceremony. It was highly conceivable, Charlie had surmised, that their father might never let them live it down if he found out about it. Or worse yet, share the fire story with their future girlfriends and wives—with embellishments. In any case, it had remained between brothers as an unspoken pact.

"We took a little liberty," Don said, "with our campfire permit."

Charlie confirmed, savoring their shared adventure.

Don pointed. "It was Charlie. His idea, his test."

"Test?" Alan said. "And pray tell, what was this test?"

"It was my theory…" Charlie scrunched down, fetching a tiny bear charm from under the hockey table. "…that Don needed a fire."

Alan said, "A campfire."

Don interjected. "Bigger."

"In a national forest?"

Charlie said yes, coming out to the couch. "By the cabin. Don't worry. We took every precaution."

"I see." With a foot, Alan coaxed a toy away from the chalkboard's wheels. "And you did this for Don?"

"Correct." Charlie grabbed a log entangled in cobwebs. "It was a power event."

Alan admitted he was confused and Charlie explained further.

"Don needed to build his own fire," he said. "To feel in charge."

Going to the box, Alan peered in. "I think I get it, stop feeling like a victim."

Charlie said, "Essentially."

"And how big was this fire?"

Don sat down. "About ten by ten."

Alan said, "Inches?"

"Feet—wide." Impressive. "With leeway around the perimeter, three feet." More or less…with an inclination toward less.

"At its tallest…" Don lifted his hands upwards, unaware of his brother's attempts to get his attention. "It was over our heads at least—"

Charlie interrupted, warned him with a you've said enough kind of look. He didn't want their father to know exactly how tall it had risen lest Alan worry his sons had retained a bit of their instabilities. "A couple of feet," he said. "We wouldn't have wanted to burn the park down or anything."

"I certainly hope that's the case. So you made a bonfire. Don't tell me—you stripped to your waists and pranced around the trees, lords of the forest."

Don said, "No, 'course not. No naked prancing."

No howling like beasts. No wishing we'd brought beer. "Just pure expression, Dad. It was a hell of a heat factory. I wish you'd been with us."

"I suppose I should be glad you're not in jail."

Don yawned; he seemed pensive but serene, the ends of his mouth turned up slightly. "There was never any danger."

Alan asked Don if it had helped with his problem.

"As of that day," he replied, "I'm in charge."

"Appears you both are." Alan chucked a golf ball into the box. "I believe I might have my sons back."

"And I have my job back," Don said. He was beaming now. "Received notice today."

Alan was pleased to hear the news, announced it was a great weight off his shoulders.

Charlie moved a board back against the wall. "You said it'd be over someday, Dad."

"I keep my promises," he said, and politely excused himself to prepare a dinner celebration for later, maybe invite a few friends over to share it, including Mrs. Lenns.

As soon as he left, Don got up, eased up to Charlie as though he were about to whisper a secret then locked an elbow snugly round his neck. "Why don't we sneak in a few fastballs, for you a few curves?"

Awkwardly, Charlie threw the last of the junk they'd gathered into the box but missed completely. He pictured the last time they were at the batting range, how much pain Don had endured when the ball smacked him at fifty miles an hour. "Now?" he said. He still felt guilty he'd caused it.

"Sure, I feel like celebrating. Unwinding. I'll give you a few pointers and you can give me a few."

Charlie said, "You said you don't like to think about your swing too much."

"I don't. But you, brother, can always find room for improvement."

"The ball that hit you last time. I didn't mean to—"

"I'm over it. Was only sore a couple of days." He hadn't released Charlie and doggedly pushed him toward the door. "I forgive you."

Don's in a good mood. "You do?" Seems these days everyone was in for a shot of forgiveness.

"Sure," he said. "But you'll have to watch out. Those balls crack hard, sting like wasps. Could happen to anybody, wouldn't want you to get hurt. What do you say? Get your bat."

"They have bats at the range."

"Black one's your favorite, right?"

"Yeah, but not for baseball." Charlie twisted, stole a look over his shoulder. "I haven't found the key."

"Forget the key," Don said. "Life's too choice, living's too short. We have better things to do."

---2---

At the range, under Don's instruction and advice, Charlie tried out a variety of stances and techniques. Initially, he swung too slowly, missing several pitches in a row before he loosened up and merged mercifully into tipping a dozen balls, interspersed with grounders. Next, he chopped up a liberal batch, sent them sailing every which way, misplacing a significant handful against the chain-links, finally lobbing some extraordinary ones into the net and field as he reached his stride, courting Don's approval. He knew he was neither as skilled nor as natural a hitter as his brother, but his mathematical mind was back in form; he had regained his perspective, securing a reliable grip not just on the bat, but on his life.

With each angle, each hit, he began to quantify for himself what felt good about a particular pitch, a particular swing, visualizing the bat as it exchanged its momentum to the ball, the ball flying away and out. As it flew, he saw wind and gravity exert their forces while it traveled its parabolic path across an invisible chalkboard in the sky until the gravity pulled it downward…gliding…and back to earth.

On Charlie's own path back to earth, he saw his father, supportive and patient, doing the best he could in a difficult situation, trapped between his sons' strong personalities. Dad's gentle and not-so-gentle suggestions, meant to help him, had been focused through the lens of Alan's own experience, through the insight of sixty plus years. I'll make it up to you, Dad.

He saw his mother, wished he could hear what she'd say, not just dream it. The stress inherent in Don's work would've worried her; the Reylotts would've frightened her, but she'd be with us—Dad's loneliness would be obsolete. Mrs. Lenns would be your friend, Mom, borrow sugar from you. And I would've bought a different house instead of buying the one I'm so attached to. I'd have visited you the way Don visits me: whenever he pleases. It's as though he has two homes—or only one feels like home. I'll tell my children about you, Mom, what a noble woman you were.

He then saw Jacobi the deceiver, felt a surge of indignation, whacked the next ball harder. It was the stolen money, yes, but also the letdown, that dispirited feeling of shattered expectations, and of being played like a fool. It hadn't taken him long to begin to believe he'd found someone unique. She'd betrayed him, used him; but he would get over it, survive. The money wasn't enough to hurt; the arrow into the heart was. Luckily, it'd merely grazed the corner. I'll be the one who prospers.

He saw Megan—willing to counsel the little brother when the big one wasn't available and who, along with David and Colby, watched out for Don on and off the job, better than Charlie would be able to do in an often dangerous occupation. You're good friends to both of us.I'll rely on you three to keep looking out for him.

He also saw that bonding rituals weren't merely for father and son but for brother and brother as well. He turned round, nodded to Don—he was standing behind the fence, eagerly giving out pointers, smiling as though nothing bad had ever happened, chewing gum enthusiastically. Everything seemed normal again. Charlie pictured him by the bonfire the night he'd courageously challenged the flames, ignoring the heat and stripped to the waist.

I'll use what you've taught me—about facing fear head-on, about facing the fire.

And he saw the wisdom in Larry's words, remembered them clearly, felt them deeply as he belted a ball high and solid, with faith and pluck, and heard a big cheer—just for the younger brother from the older one. He and Don really were like two circles on a sphere. Maybe it was the blood-is-thicker-than-water thing; or that the two of them had only the other for a sibling and could never go too far in taking each other for granted without losing something special; or that they were both decent guys who didn't want to harm anyone, anytime, in any way if they could help it; or that they cared about others, about each other…because they could cross at one point in life then go round and round, scramble all over the world, stray into unknown territory, challenge each other or completely lose sight of one another, yet they would still come round to cross at a second point, meeting at the same exact latitude and longitude of their lives. They had no other way to go.

In Charlieland, it was inevitable.

--The End--