Chapter 12
When Don called to check on Charlie Saturday, Alan informed him that he was in the garage, grading the finals he had biked to campus to pick up that morning.
"You're kidding."
"He's an adult. What can I do? His cold isn't that bad. What happened to his backpack? He had a new one when he came home."
"It was pretty wet. He probably could have dried it out, but he wouldn't even take it back from me. Told me to throw it away."
"Did you?"
"Yeah. I went through it first, and there wasn't much in it … Dad. It's still in evidence right now, but eventually, they're going to release the gun."
Alan sounded tired. "Well. I guess we'll just deal with that when we have to."
"You're sounding kind-of frazzled yourself, Dad."
"It's hard, doing nothing. No matter how much practice you boys give me."
Don bristled. "Hey. Why am I in trouble, here?"
A soft chuckle. "The two of you. So different. So much alike. Why is it so hard for you to need people?"
Don didn't like the way this conversation was going. "I can't speak for Charlie, Dad."
"So speak for yourself."
"Look, it's a birth-order thing. At least that's what Kim always said. I'm the oldest, I'm the one expected to be strong. Complicated by my choice of career. She took some stupid class."
Alan was silent for so long Don opened his mouth to say something else, but then he heard his father's voice.
"I'm sorry if we made you feel that you couldn't need us. We were wrong to do that."
Don felt himself blush, and was glad his father couldn't see him. "Dad. Don't get all guilty on me. I had great parents. I'll introduce you, sometime."
"I just want both my boys to know. You two are my life."
"We know that, Dad. We always have. I know this is hard for you."
Alan sighed. "Imagine what it is for your brother."
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Don had intended to spend as much time at the house as he could that weekend, but the team was called to a crime scene Saturday afternoon, and it was Monday evening before he actually saw Charlie again.
His father and brother had finished dinner before he arrived, and Alan was just leaving for his book club. After he left, Don stuck a plate for himself in the microwave and sat down at the kitchen table. Charlie was sitting there, a book unopened in front of him. Alan had told Don on the phone yesterday that Charlie wouldn't eat in the dining room, anymore.
"How's work?"
Charlie looked up from the cover of the book. "Fine. Finished all the finals, today. I've decided to teach some classes during summer session, so I'll spend this week working on my syllabi and lesson plans."
Don was surprised. "I didn't know that. You don't usually teach during the summer. I thought you'd work on your … your cognitive thing."
"I'm sure I'll have time for both. And consulting, if you need something."
They sat in silence for a while. Finally, Don cleared his throat. "Charlie … Colby's mother called David today. A service is planned for his hometown in Idaho Friday afternoon. We all talked about it, and Megan, David and I will fly out to Boise Friday morning. We can take the late flight home Friday evening. Megan thinks it will help us all … with 'closure', or some other ten-dollar buzzword. Anyway. She's going to book the flights tomorrow. We … all of us … we wanted to ask if you'd like to go along, before we got the tickets."
Charlie blinked at him a few times, and when he spoke, his demeanor was very polite — as if he were talking to a stranger. "No, thank you. It was very considerate of you all to think of me. But no. No, thank you."
Don waited for the 'ding' of the microwave and decided to lay it all out. "Charlie. Ignoring all of this won't make it go away. You can't work it away, either."
Charlie looked back at the book. He was clutching it as if it were a life preserver. "I wonder…" His voice cracked. He swallowed, grabbed the glass of water still on the table from dinner, took a sip and swallowed once more. When he began again, his voice was steadier. "I wonder," he repeated, "if we could not talk about this." His voice was soft, almost subdued. His eyes met Don's briefly, then fell back to the book. "Is that all right?"
Don didn't want to let it go yet. "You should know that I've had to make the same decision. I mean, training tries to prepare us for it, and I'm not saying shooting someone during a bust is the same thing as your … experience."
"Please." Charlie pushed back his chair, and Don was afraid he'd get up and leave. He put a hand out toward him.
"Okay, stop, I'm sorry." But he still couldn't let it go. "Just so you know."
Charlie hesitated. He was still looking at the book, the table, anywhere but at Don. "It's not…I'm not…I need…" He suddenly slumped back in his chair and sighed, finally looked at Don again. "I'm still processing. I can't articulate a clear thought. Obviously."
Don tried to reassure him. "That's okay. Just remember, whenever you want to talk about it — you know where I live."
Charlie smiled. A little sadly, Don thought, but he made at attempt at normalcy. As the microwave finally sounded, Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You live in my kitchen, I think."
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He was a veteran. A former FBI agent. A hometown hero.
And when the seven uniformed men from the local VFW raised their rifles at the graveside service to fire the traditional 21-gun salute, Don was very glad that Charlie had not come.
As the first report sounded, he felt Megan flinch beside him.
During the second report, out of the corner of his eye, he saw David raise a hand to his own eyes.
When the third report rang out, Don felt it in his own heart.
He remembered the months they had worked together.
He remembered the way that all ended.
He remembered the fight in the hospital.
He had never made it right.
He watched them fold the flag, present it to Colby's mother.
It was not possible to be sorrier than he was. To feel worse.
And it was not possible to know what he did with more certainty. He had let Colby down.
He would not do the same to Charlie.
